Her hat blew off! A backhanded slap up the back side of fall. Understated lean facilitated whispered gossip beneath brim. Tete-a-tetes of grand old ladies amid the lesser. And how much was directed toward stately pecan tree? Subject, I’m sure, of much curiosity. Quietly, of course.
Chin tucks down. Lid dims eye.
“I have felt the spit, Lord.”
I have only a roll of paper towels beside my spitting cleaning solution.
“May I feel the wipe of Your hand?”
I dab eyes with a crumpled piece of paper towel.
“Do you see anything?” I recognized His Word.
I clench the paper towel tight. “I hope to see Your reflection when I look in the mirror. Smudgy me.”
“Smudgy you, yes.”
Ah! I feel His hand. It’s not so bad to see my reflection smudge.
After all, “The things of this world will grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace,” is hymn.
I open eyes. Sing hymn.
And I have mirrors to clean.
Spit, spit, wipe. “See Me in your reflection.”
Spit, spit, wipe. “It’s how I see you.”