The song played as we drove. We laced our fingers together, which was way too warm and just right. Tears rolled freely down my face as the passing landscape smeared by.
We’d been invited to lunch with dear friends; we had looked forward to sharing of their warm hospitality and always-wonderful food, but we had to cancel. The raging waves of grief were breaking hard on our first Sunday as “homeless” Christians. We needed to drive, so we drove.
We let the song break right over us, let it pull the grief open for us, and we sang along, downright belting it out. Not sure what the kids thought.
We pulled into the Baltimore Museum of Art; it was free and I needed beauty. Maybe some won’t understand that. Beauty has a way of pulling my soul up from my feet and feeding it. It speaks to that soul laid-low in the language of color and line and strokes of cadmium red.
Van Gogh, Monet, Degas, Matisse, Raphael, Klimt; they all showed up and did my soul a service. 1,700 year-old Antiochian mosaics helped too. And “The Thinker”, stooped over in thought; at least I’m not the only one stumped.
I might be grieving a bit hard. But that is because I love hard. Mildness is not my modus operandi. If you have once worked your way into my heart, it is highly probable that you shall always have a residence there.
The day winds down to a wash of grays growing darker. But I see green coming up, I see green.