“Also,” the young man had stopped to ask directions, and now he hesitated before leaning toward me to ask with hushed intensity, “are you aware that your eyelashes are two different colors?”
Under the blue sky, the duck-billed platypus shares this earth with us. Ice, though harder, is less dense than water. We live on all sides of a globe which is spinning and whirling through space at an alarming rate, but we never worry we’ll fall off, and, in fact, we drop things with the perfect confidence that they will land on the ground rather than the sky.
The upper lashes on my left eye — with nine exceptions — are white, while all the others are black.
They weren’t always that way, but they’ve been that way for nineteen years. Though I don’t spend my every waking moment being actively aware of them, they — with the sun that rises in the east, and the oceans that bound our continent, and the mother and father who raised me — are one with the cloth of my existence.
Mostly, I don’t even notice them when I look in the mirror. But I’d notice if they weren’t there.
When I was a child, questions about them were more common than they are now; children are less inhibited in their asking, don’t fear offending. But every so often, some brave soul summons the question again, and I’m reminded.
Of what, precisely? Not of their existence; I know that already. I am reminded of the God who made them exist, who not only created a world for us, but took the trouble to make it strange and surprising.
I am reminded “that I am not my own, but belong, body and soul, both in life and death, to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ,” who “preserves me in such a way that without the will of my heavenly Father not a hair can fall from my head” — and if not a hair can fall, certainly not one can change from black to white — “indeed, all things must work together for my salvation.”
The young man walked away a bit embarrassed. I didn’t mean to embarrass him, and I didn’t tell him all these things; I just smiled and said that “Yes, I knew.”
Your strange and surprising may be my commonplace, and perhaps I spend my days new-discovering worlds which have been your familiar home as long as you remember. Together, then, let’s delight in the discoveries and delight in the ordinary; let’s delight in the God who delights in both.
©2014 by Stacy Nott