We humans are creatures of exchange. Our lives are chopped into a confetti storm of colorful bits of commerce.
I place five red tomatoes in my bag at the farmer's market and hand over cash.
Slipping silver quarters in the meter earns me the privilege of parking.
Arriving at work
for two weeks running results in an automatic deposit in my account.
You give me my wish, and I render you yours. Equitable. Fair. Predictable.
Yet there are forces that dance outside of these expectations, following their own fancy. Being generous with no hint of reward.
The salmon colored sky last night asked nothing in return, even that I tilt my chin to the horizon.
The white
branches that sigh beside my deck seem unattached to any opinion of them.
The flowers in the garden are not invested in impressing anyone. They grow because.... well, I can't quite say why.
Which camp do I want to be in? The barterers or the benefactors? I have history with the swappers. They enable me to lock my doors at night, and call this roof home. They keep me out of jail when I start the ignition on our car and take to the roads. The
system works well for filling the refrigerator.
But then again.
All of our children were here last Christmas. It amazes me, really, considering the effort it takes to travel, take off time from work, pack, and rejoin the gang.
In one sense I call them my children, but really that proprietorship means little. They are God's creation, lent to me for a brief window of
time.
Not because I deserve them. Not because I know how to craft a child, or fashion a mind. Ignite their curiosity, or protect their vulnerable hearts.
And still they belong to me. I can't quite say why.
