Every week I tell stories. It evolved as an interlude to the songs I sing in the preschool, and has become like a dessert served before the entree. One little girl asks for it as soon as I sit down. I smile, and invite her to sing first, which seems to thicken the anticipation. 

 

It creates an interesting contrast, in that lyrics are memorized and stay the same, while the storyline is a mystery even to me. I pluck a plot from the unicorn on a child's sweater, or the rainfall pattering outside the window. 

 

One day it was about a child with a white dress. Each day she spread it out beside her cereal bowl, and decorated it with markers while she chewed breakfast. Then after a full throttled day of scooping up mud and chasing butterflies through the tall grass her mother would toss the dress into the washer. The next morning the girl would begin with a clean palette. 

 

Then there was the boy whose birthday wish was to become invisible. He blew across the candles like a North wind, and then.... disappeared. His mother and guests were baffled, and looked all over the house for him. He felt a sense of triumph as he watched his own party, unseen. Yet it is easy to be left out of the festivities if no one can find you. Finally after being excluded from the pinata the small boy broke the rule about matches, and relit his own candles. He knew that the magic lasts all day. After hurriedly singing to himself he took a deep breath, and every flame poofed out. Bam, he was visible again, and went out to rejoin the fun. 

 

I like that God offers us both the repetitive and the novel. This week I will step into predictable routines, like responding to comments online, and participating in marriage groups. There will also be surprises, like the baby quilt commission made from tiny clothes that have been saved for thirty years. It is as if life offers us a clean palette with each sunrise. The colors we draw with are familiar, but what will we do with them? 

 

I believe that the magic lasts our whole life.