Friday the Thirteenth
Sometimes the diverseness of life springs up to surprise me, even on a normal work day like Friday.
In the school year 1954-55, a junior higher took his year book down to the railroad where President Truman and his wife had briefly stopped. Truman signed it, scrawling his name across most of the front cover. And Friday I held that same yearbook in my hands as it's owner explained how he found it sorting through his attic. He flips open to the page that bears his picture, and I imagine what the scene looked like 54 years ago when the skinny boy with great big glasses met Harry Truman.
Later my phone rings and I am asked to come downstairs to talk with a couple who has just walked in off the street. They've never heard of us before, but by the time they leave, they want everything we have to offer and some time in the chapel, too. I can't even pronounce their names, but I suspect I just met two people who are real somebodies in the country they came from.
I run out to my car in the pouring rain to eat my lunch and watch the rain pound on my windshield, enjoying the wetness in a way I haven't in ages. I'm cold, and wet, but it is the perfect day for it.
The sun comes out just in time for me to leave work early for a walk-thru of a condo amazingly in our price range. The owner greets us and chats with our realtor as SOS and I open closets and cupboards, peering in corners and through windows. Framed newspaper clippings and layered cobwebs tell a story I'm not certain I want to read, but maybe this place could be a home.
There is a special sort of weather that is crisp and clear and glorious, which might almost prompt you to spin a circle for sheer wonder of it. But I think there is a special sort of breath a day has when it is filled with moments that are crisp and clear and glorious... and yes, those days can even fall on Friday the Thirteenth.
In the school year 1954-55, a junior higher took his year book down to the railroad where President Truman and his wife had briefly stopped. Truman signed it, scrawling his name across most of the front cover. And Friday I held that same yearbook in my hands as it's owner explained how he found it sorting through his attic. He flips open to the page that bears his picture, and I imagine what the scene looked like 54 years ago when the skinny boy with great big glasses met Harry Truman.
Later my phone rings and I am asked to come downstairs to talk with a couple who has just walked in off the street. They've never heard of us before, but by the time they leave, they want everything we have to offer and some time in the chapel, too. I can't even pronounce their names, but I suspect I just met two people who are real somebodies in the country they came from.
I run out to my car in the pouring rain to eat my lunch and watch the rain pound on my windshield, enjoying the wetness in a way I haven't in ages. I'm cold, and wet, but it is the perfect day for it.
The sun comes out just in time for me to leave work early for a walk-thru of a condo amazingly in our price range. The owner greets us and chats with our realtor as SOS and I open closets and cupboards, peering in corners and through windows. Framed newspaper clippings and layered cobwebs tell a story I'm not certain I want to read, but maybe this place could be a home.
There is a special sort of weather that is crisp and clear and glorious, which might almost prompt you to spin a circle for sheer wonder of it. But I think there is a special sort of breath a day has when it is filled with moments that are crisp and clear and glorious... and yes, those days can even fall on Friday the Thirteenth.
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