I wrote this blog earlier today, and this particular blog which you are reading this exact moment is kind of a "spin-off" of it. You might want to read it first--maybe. :)
In the Summer of '09, I worked in an orchard whilst I took one class in the mini-mester and one in Summer I. I wrote a poem one day while I was out and about picking peaches.
I spent this Memorial Day under a perfect blue, cloudless, Arizona sky as the sun shimmered down on my brown and red and blonde and silver hair whilst I tromped through the--sometimes--waist-high, unkempt grass in search of beautiful red-orange perfection.
I spent the day as the sun tanned everything on my arms except that odd upside down triangle scar on my left wrist whilst I watched the yellow and blue and white and purple weeds trumpeting their unintentional, yet beautiful praises of perfection.
I spent the day as the sun warmed my freckled Scottish and Irish and English and Cherokee face whilst I flitted through the fields, playing with the white butterflies who must have just escaped from their ugly cocoons into a world where they were suddenly and perfectly beautiful.
Then, I remembered on this beautiful Memorial Day whilst I tromped and watched and flitted that everything—even the most ugly and imperfect things—can be beautiful and perfect when they truly touch God.