We have, I think, about ten different varieties of grass in our yard. They grow at different speeds, the upshot of that being that our lawn only looks good for about fifteen minutes after we mow it. After that, the tall, clumpy, seedy stuff springs up in little clusters about the yard, giving it a disreputable and…well…seedy look. Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man calls it mongrel grass.
But one of those ten varieties grows in lovely curlicues and elegant swoops—in sort of a paisley pattern. I love it and wish our whole yard was covered in it. It looks a bit like a maze or like ancient hieroglyphics. I study it carefully sometimes as though I might break the code, as if God had sent us messages in that grass that we could decipher.
That’s why it’s a good thing I’m not God. I would spend WAY too much time engaged in that sort of thing. You know—like realigning the stars every night to write messages in the sky from loved ones who have passed to the bereft ones left behind. Or maybe I’d have the wind blow sand into whimsical animal shapes to delight children on the beach. Or I’d have a flock of birds suddenly singing in unison the Hallelujah chorus. Or perhaps, as God, I’d be more petty—planting massive piles of dog poo in front of rich, arrogant types so they’d sink up to the top of their Gucci’s just as they are about to meet an important client for lunch. Or for those non-handicapped people who park in handicapped spaces? I’d have all four of their tires go flat, their steering wheels fall off, and for good measure, their car radio start playing “Feelings” nonstop in a continuous loop that they can’t turn off. Or how about this—every time a politician lies to the American public, I’d make their noses grow longer like Pinocchio. Right there on national television.
Like I said, it’s a good thing I’m not God.
But really, who knows? Maybe God does this all the time and we just don’t notice. I like to think that. Because this week, as I was mowing, I saw this in the grass:
Was it a message from God? I’m sure many would tell me it was just a random grass growth pattern. Perhaps. But I’m going to claim it as a miracle, as a message, as a gift. Because I needed to see that and be reminded of what really matters.
And, Lord knows, the world needs it. Love, sweet love. Especially now. So now I send it out, knowing that it will reach only the few of you who read my blog, but hoping that message in the grass will somehow touch someone who needs their own small, but wondrous miracle.
And I hope you’ll keep looking and listening—in the grass, in the sky, in the rustle and whisper of leaves in the wind. You never know where you’ll find miracles. You never know where you’ll see the signs that God has passed near.
But, for certain, if you don’t look up, you’ll never see the realigning of the stars. If you don’t look down, you’ll miss that message in the grass. And, if you don’t listen, you’ll never, ever hear those birds singing Hallelujah.