We park in front of the two-story historic, under the maple shaking yellow mosaics on the sidewalk. Stroll past sideway houses with slanting porches of creeping fig. A blue bowl canopy hangs upside down over bursting camellias and mum busts lining steps. I feel like the Calico hunkering on the lawn, squinting in sun’s morning stretch.
My camera rocks into my hip when we turn the corner to a sea of people flocking around teak and tall sails for the wooden boat show. Pass a little girl with smudged face and wispy browns. Turn around to see where she’s going because her smallness all alone, it feels like the Mona Lisa wearing a frown.
“Where are your mommy and daddy,” H calls out to her. She turns around, lifts her shoulders and says she can’t find her Daddy, doesn’t know where he is, and continues toddling away from the crowds.
Two chubby fingers make a V on one hand when H calls out to her again to ask her age. She says her Daddy is a cop in uniform, so we scour the crowds for black and a badge. How can this tiny bit of innocence walk past hundreds of people alone without notice?
We find the cop rushing beside her Daddy dressed in Hawaiian blue. Five minutes later, he pushes past us huffing, “Now I’ve lost the boy. A little blond-haired boy.” And I’m stunned about how a father can lose two small children in a crowd that fast.
It’s what I think about when the pastor tells the story about Mephibosheth (2 Samuel 9), the crippled son of Jonathan, heir to the throne. He’s outcast in Lo Debar, soil of barren wilderness, the badlands for thieves. The place of what should’ve been, how did I get here, and the silence of God.
And just around the corner, David comes for rescue. Offers a permanent seat at the banquet table because of the covenant he made with Jonathan. A covenant Mephibosheth didn’t know about.
Because sometimes the greatest works of God reveal themselves on the heels of deafening days of saturated silence.
“What is your servant, that you should notice a dead dog like me,” responds Mephibosheth to the kindness of David.
Aren’t we all strays walking heart lame through the world wondering how we got here, where we’re going?
And He’s just around the corner, holding out his hand to take us to the Father. Drips of red on the sidewalk, they lead the way back home.
Do you feel forgotten? I’ve got good news. He will never let go.
Linking with Ann today and counting thanks for fall light and soft breezes. Time on a Saturday with H to meander around boats on shimmering shores. For pansies and snapdragons and full bird feeders swinging low. And crisp morning air drifting through screens. Warm downy blankets and sweatshirts.
This is #22 in the series 31 Days of Letting Go. You can read the collective here. If you are a writer, I invite you to link up any post you’ve written on the theme of letting go in the comments here on Friday. Subscribe to receive the series in your inbox or feed by adding your address in the side bar under Follow Redemptions Beauty.