It’s sunset right now. You should see all the colors.
Sometimes, I wonder if God has enough free time to enjoy things like these summer sunsets. I know he must be very busy up there, but I hope breaks free long enough to see this.
Our cat, Lula Bell, is laying at my feet, out here on the porch. I didn’t know cats liked watching the sun lower. I guess they do. She’s whipping her tail back and forth—which is universal feline-language for: “I feel great.”
Good for her. This feral cat has a gimp leg and lots of scars, she deserves to feel that way.
A tiny wolf spider is hopping around our porch like he owns the place. I’m sorry to say: I hate spiders. In fact, I used to smash them whenever I saw them.
We don’t kill spiders in this house. My wife refuses to kill anything bigger than household bacteria. She won’t even kill cockroaches. She picks them up in napkins then deposits them outside.
I used to think this was squarely ridiculous. Because during my childhood, we shot at things bigger than cockroaches, and we did our damnedest to hook anything that swam.
Anyway my arachnid-squashing days came to an end one summer. It happened when my wife and I were rushing out the door for Atlanta, to visit my aunt.
There was a loud smack on the front window.
Outside, flopping on the ground was a bird. The thing had hit the glass so hard its head was bleeding. It was still alive, panting.
My wife came unglued.
She stayed outside with that bird half the day, stroking its head, whispering to it.
I finally phoned my aunt and explained we wouldn’t make it to Atlanta any time soon.
Hours later, around sundown, my wife screamed, “Come quick! Look, he’s getting better!”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her, the bird would probably die.
But before I could say a word, she walked toward the woods and held the bird to the sky. The thing flapped its wings once, and tore off above the treetops.
“It was meant to be,” she said, sniffling. “That poor thing might’ve died if we hadn’t been here.”
I suppose what I’m trying to say is: I don’t know what’s out there. Who makes the sun rise and set, who feeds the feral cats, or takes care of cockroaches. And I don’t know if he cares about smashing spiders. But I do know one thing.
He keeps a close eye on sparrows.