I can see the gift of light beams cast on the bed in the refuge of my room. I can see the gift of rainstorm approaching as I stand beside clothes lines with laundry piled high on my shoulders, family safe inside. I can savor the scent of dew on flowers waking to the violet morning sky, for I am alone. In the space of quiet, in the sphere of solitude, the beauty of the moment I can see. I can whisper back to God in thanksgiving for the moment at hand. I can even wrestle with the ugly and ashes and see the first sprouts of beauty and life...as long as I have that space. That time away where my lungs can fill to their utmost capacity, every space air-full. Where my breath can release and move outward, upward, evaporating wistfully unhindered. Here I can hear Truth and see Miracle and taste Good. But if something as small as a fly lands on the moment, the seeing disappears. It buzzes around and distracts me from partaking of the moment of dew jeweled cassava leaf and sonnets of birds. I see the heron take flight, but I see only as an observer. I am an outsider viewing something lovely...nothing more. I see his wings but fail to discern the miracle of flight or the grace with which he floats and tilts on invisible currents of air, magic. It just is. I see. But I do not see.
I shoo away fly and I squint eyes and I want to behold. I ache to be filled with the wonder I know is there but I cannot grasp. And the heron settles on a branch. The miracle moment slips through my fingers. It will never again come to pass, for moments can never be resurrected. Only remembered. And the magic of beholding--the beholding of magic--cannot manifest itself in memory, for it is a thing of the present, the now.
I release my empty hands. I blame the fly. I long for a moment of perfection, when all buzzing ceases. When I can see miracle always and taste nothing but goodness. The aching does not end with the passing of the moment. It persists. I hear it in the music, that all is not right but it should be. I have read and I believe that it will be. When the trumpets sound, I will hear Truth only, see Miracle only, taste Good only. I will, and I rejoice in that. But...
But. I want it today. I’ll even wait until tomorrow. Goodness, I’ve waited entire life-seasons for it. And I experience it. A moment in my day where the veil is removed and I don’t even have to squint. I can see the miracle and hold the wonder. Chocolate boy’s small body dances, exuberant, beneath cold shower streams. Hand holding mud lollipop extends for my tasting pleasure. Steam dances heavenward from a cup of black. Beauty of friendship lingers in the air of conversation and wafts over the peeling, chopping, and dicing of vegetables for dinner.
The wonder shines, but it is always squeezed between distraction. Some miracle moments last longer than others. Some seasons carry more wonder and less distraction. But the buzzing never goes away entirely. Is this the way of the world pre-trumpets? Should I give up fighting for the longing to behold and rather deepen my ache for heralds to play the tune announcing my final escape?
I cannot. The Truth and the Miracle and the Good are not only a hope for someday. They are for today. They must be for today. They are for all moments, because they are the blood of God and God is the I AM. The all and ever Present One. He is always present. In every moment. Every moment, no matter how hidden beneath cacophony and distraction, is laden with magic and ripe for wonder. And if the wonder is at hand, I can grasp it. I was made to grasp it. With I AM present, it does not need to slip through my fingers.
I can carry the wonder.