Thursday, July 8, 2010

Cornflower Blues

If you had told me fifteen years ago that my children would each be a different ethnicity and that they would one day play alongside Amish friends, well, there's a good possibility I would have turned to look behind me, so sure that you weren't speaking to me.

That's the funny thing about God - His thoughts are not our own. His plans are often way different than what we would dream up.

Almost every time I think I know what's around the corner, I am proven wrong. I've learned that being wrong can be the best gift ever.

Today was a cornflower blue kind of day. It wasn't indigo, it wasn't sky. It was somewhere right in the middle of the blue Crayolas. It carried the familiar waxy scent and the point was worn flat. Blue is blue is blue.

I got rained on. Soaked to the bone, in fact. Then I drove Calvey to see his doctor, soggy-britched and searching the sky for just one ray. I didn't find that ray at the hospital, I found more clouds, more rain. Cornflower blue rain.

We cooped ourselves up, along with fussy toddlers and emotional pre-schoolers. Maybe my blue was bleeding out at the edges?

But then, we played Barbies and Legos inside. We chanted "Girls rule, boys drool", and protested when the guys took their turn and flipped it all on its ear.

We happened upon a gas war and filled both tanks.

We had spaghetti for dinner and turned it into a special occasion by adding meat and garden zuchini to the sauce. The littles surprised me by wrapping each fork up in the napkin, restaurant-style.

I got some super fun mail.

I pretended to eat some partially-amphibious toes.

I read my book.

Somewhere through the course of the hum-drum and the rays, I noticed that a cornflower day can still be lemondrop at its core.

I feel looked-out-for tonight. I feel cozy-wrapped in the weight of the knowledge that I am so flawlessly, graciously taken care of.