This morning as I walk my dog Harley beneath the nearly-full 5am moon, I can see my breath. The predawn air is a bit chilly and gloriously mosquito-free. Summer is stretching and rising in her final days, like a sunbather brushing the sand from a lakeside lounge chair before dragging it to the parking lot and putting it in the trunk of her car. Fall lingers just behind the curtain, like an actress awaiting her cue. I can feel her heart beating.
A random and permanent artifact greets us near one of Harley's favorite trees, the imprint of a maple leaf that included itself in a driveway and sidewalk project, summer 2001.
A call from the CDC. Legionnaire's Disease.
A doctor telling a wife her husband might not make it.
A firm and gentle insistence that family, her in-laws, be notified. Her teary and silent refusal to comply.
My noncompliance in that moment was a bold gamble, a risk taken without examination of facts nor prayerful solicitation of guidance.
This summer, I am grateful for the maple leaf and a loving God who sometimes simply picks me up and carries me.
The Dune is Heavy