I still don't know how to creep through this dark house just yet. There will be a half-unpacked box somewhere en route through the living room, ready to assault my shins. It probably lies in wait, hulking in a shadow of its own making. It probably chuckles.
But I try the journey anyway, ever more impressed by my own midnight prowess.
There's a baby upstairs who's lost his binkie, and a preschooler who thinks the air conditioner is making too much noise.
Good, cool noise, on hot, dry nights.
It does sound different, though. We haven't memorized the tone of the walls, the tenor of the floors. Every creak is suspect, and when the wind kicks up, we lie still, discerning: friend or foe?
Last night, the wind ushered some rain drops right to our doorstep -- a miracle. Lightning sheeted blue and white under the clouds and thunder rattled a picture on the wall. I shuffled from the bedroom (one box at the foot of the bed tried to trip me with a low-hanging flap).
Down the hall, through the kitchen, past the dining room, I followed the noise of the rain. It tapped against the sunlights in the sunroom, tinkering out a paragraph about the wetness of relief. Lightning bloomed into the room, and there was Justin sprawled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
Come lay down with me -- it sounds amazing in here.
He pushed a cushion out of the way, and opened his arms. I snuggled in. The rain slowed. Thunder grumbled away. Lightning softened.
I love it here, I whispered.
I don't know the noises; the creak of a random floorboard still catches me off guard; the light switches confound me; bullyish boxes threaten to bruise my shins.
But I love it here.
Every Thursday, we come together to share the harvest of intentional living by capturing a glimpse of the Bigger Picture through a simple moment. Join the Bigger Picture Community at Corinne's place today! Reflect upon something simple — or simply magical — that’s resonated with you this week, then share it with us!