children shriek like whistles and plastc chairs scrape as they scooch in the atrium. i try to go down the waterside 37 times. one for every year of my life on earth. i make it to 26. and i’m okay with it. that’s a lot of water sliding.
there’s a family of four boys and two girls here, too. two of their sons climb ladders with my kids, they slap wet feet and run next to mazzy to be first to fly down red plastic once again. i want to tell their mother how kind one of her boys is. that in just twenty minutes it’s clear what is in his heart.
i find her and she’s talking with her hands. she’s deaf with a capital D. and you may not know this about me, but i just happen to know sign language. so many years ago before i knew disability like a child in my arms, i started learning the language of those who speak volumes with their fingertips.
and so i told her that her boy was kind and we chatted just like the other moms at the pool. i learned her boy’s name and that she was expecting another this september. but I don’t tell her about the quality of my 37 years.
i don’t mention how god weaves my days with people and places that culminate into talking to her, right now, on my birthday.
i count the lives i’ve known now only because of knowing jesus. the friends where he is the foundation of our crossing paths. i try to count the people i count on and can not do it.
there are too many.
my days have him woven in at the smallest turns and he is the fabric of my life. he holds it together and i’m surrounded by his goodness and mercy all the days of my life.