These bones cry out. These dry bones cry for you.
Dusty dry air fills my lungs as my calloused feet hit the dusty floor of my little cabin in the woods. The door creeks, and there it is: a new day. My limbs feel heavy as I walk down the steps to breakfast–my hair a hot mess upon my head. Today is not any ordinary day. Rain came in the night, and the world is celebrating with us. There is nothing quite like the song of a bird in the morning. The epitome of grace, a little red bird flaps its wings playfully in a puddle that has yet to be dried up by the hot July sun. I sometimes wonder how many birds I miss seeing because I fail to look at the sky. In the same manner, how many signs and wonders do I miss simply because I fail to open my eyes.
As our little ones begin arriving, I watch them run up to the creek bank in astonishment. The bed that has remained dry all summer is ebbing and flowing like a beautiful melody. Later, I splash playfully through it holding the hand of a round, blonde-haired little boy who has won my heart. If only every moment could be as easy as this one–as light and breezy and simple. And yet, without a longing in my bones for nourishment, how would I appreciate the rain when it comes?
I sing them a simple song–a song I once played in recitals and later danced to at prom. Moon River, wider than a mile, I’m crossing you in style some day. Old dream maker, you heart breaker, wherever you’re going I’m going you’re way. They look at me, their glowing faces in wonder. I think back to a night in London, a saxophone and a heartfelt melody echoing the hallways of the Underground. Two drifters, off to see the world, there’s such a lot of world to see. The melody goes on and will continue to go on. Such is a simple song.
And again, I sing, selfishly. The children don’t understand the significance of the song I sing, but perhaps it will encourage them to one day sing their own. It will teach them to cry out when their bones are dry, when their spirit is dry, and to take little gifts and blessings when they come. Even if renewed joy comes in the form of a hard rain or a sweet memory.