In my normal life, I'm a very punctual person. Really. Those of you who met me during the Festival may find that hard to believe, but it's true. This week, however, I was consistently late for nearly everything, and I can't even blame most of that on Atlanta traffic (although it is atrocious; and by the way, do turn signals on Georgian vehicles come as part of the options package?).
So, I came in late for Barbara lundblad's lecture, and since I was feeling fairly scattered and disconnected at that point anyway, I sat on the floor at the very back of the sanctuary, pressed up against the wall next to the doors. My day - my week, in fact - was full of disruptions, and my mind was on a gazillion different things, so I only vaguely heard most of the lecture. I know that she was talking about interruptions, in the Gospel of Mark and in life, and I could only say to myself, "Isn't that the truth," before wandering back down my distracted mental road.
Then I felt something clutch at my arm. Something small. I looked down to see a tiny child staring up at me. Not just staring; beaming. Grinning ear to ear as he pulled himself up to stand unsteadily, grasping my arm.
The disruptions of sickness and pain weighed heavily on my mind that day, but another sort of interruption altered the tone of my day when out of a tiny, wide-eyed, utterly delighted face, God smiled.