Maybe it’s age I thought, except it doesn’t feel like an aged thing to do. I look towards the sky, treetops, moon and sun. I pause in the connection that feels more like settled than sage.
Closer to God, closer to them. I see my father in the tallest of narrow pines, the moon resting there, unpretentious.
If I told you a story of my father, I might have described him as common. I may have told of remembering his scarcity of conversation. I may have told you about his best friend Thomas who looked after my mama after he died.
I may have told you of his intolerance towards the pompous or arrogant or his consistently trying to be more than life and hardship had equipped him to be.
I may even have told you about his love hate relationship with drink, loving the way it numbed his past, hating its angry hold.
Most likely, though I’d tell you he was handsome, neat as a pin and wisely quiet and refined. When he smiled, it was true.
I might tell you that I never saw him read his Bible, nor did I hear him pray out loud. I believe he did.
I believe he believed and he prayed the way he lived, like Paul urged, quiet and not for noticing.
11 and to make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands, just as we told you…I Thessalonians 4:11
Uncommonly quiet and simply uncommon…
We have that in common, I pray.