It was a Saturday night.
The mingled aromas of garlic, basil and oregano lingered in the kitchen, echoes of a tomato-zucchini-chicken-mozzarella-smothered dish that had my husband claiming that all that was lacking was tiramisu to transport him to our favorite Italian restaurant.
A candle was still flickering on the table from our late night meal, the first candlelight one of the year. Behind it, a fistful of Russian sage stood stiffly upright, stuffed in a vase with all the advanced flower arranging skills of a four-year-old. It was, after all, the fistful of Russian sage I didn’t have the heart to scold her for picking because it was so sweet the way she happily presented it to me. The bouquet threw flowery shadows to dance on the wall as the flame below it flickered.
The baby was sleeping, peaceful, in her wooden cradle, lamplight making spindled shadows across her blanket while long eyelashes rested softly on round cheeks.
The squeaks and splashes of her older sisters in the midst of enjoying their Saturday night bath echoed from the bathroom.
I rinsed soap bubbles off the last clean white plate and set it on the rack to dry, humming to the old familiar song playing softly in the background, that one that forever conjures up black and white images in my mind of my grandpa when he was a little boy.
And then I turned out the lights—but before I could blow out the candle, I caught a glimpse through the window of silvery mists swirling over the fields. A great yellow moon was rising through the trees and there was a path of liquid gold across the lake, leading straight to it, calling me out.
When I stepped back inside, there was dew on my bare feet and a cratered harvest moon captured on my camera. The crowning touch to a perfectly ordinary evening in which all the simple, happy things of life were strung like pearls and shone together as one beautiful blessing.
“Return to your rest, O my soul, for the LORD has dealt bountifully with you.” (Psalm 116:17)