Stoplight

She crosses in front of my car,
unhurried and unaware of everything
but her purple backpack
and her new barrettes
and the secret lovely thoughts
that make her hands dance and flutter
before her like small birds,

and my eyes follow
these hands and their joy
until the car behind me honks,
an angry sound
calling me back to the smog
and hurry of my day.

How many times are
we given these moments
of pausing
of waiting
of stillness,

and how many times do
we trample over them
or kick them aside
like so much trash in our way?

We are wed with such devotion
to our hustle and our rush
that at the smallest slowing
we flush with righteous fury
at whatever blocks our path,
and churn with hot impatience
at the stalling of our plans.

But what beauty passes before us
at the stoplight?
What opportunity for grace
nestles in the long line?

Think what it could mean
if waiting weren’t simply
some obstacle to overcome
or endure with gritted teeth,
but was the gifting of divinity
in the midst of our day,

a chance to quiet
and feel the brush of God
against our lives.