This existence of mine is a present one, a living in the here-and-now that involves tears as well as smiles. I have plenty of both. Grief and I, we are old friends, but laughter and I are what you could call heart friends. We know that no matter how hard life seems, whether my friends are coming over twice a week for tea and talk until three in the morning or whether I am curled up in bed by ten-thirty, no matter if tears fall generously or smiles spread graciously — we will meet again, my dear, and be stronger for the parting.
“Sometimes,” she murmured to me, “I think we look too hard. We try to see what God is teaching us in every little thing — we search so determinedly that we forget to actually learn the lesson, whatever it may be.” She paused.
“You see,” she continued, “it doesn’t really matter what we think God is teaching us. We’ve probably got it all wrong, anyway. The important thing, I think, is to be thankful for what we’re learning.”
Her face split into a crooked grin. “And remember to look at the stars, and the mountains, and the ocean lapping at your feet. Remember that feeling, that standing on the brink of eternity feeling that reminds you we are small. Remember that — you’re small. Remember God is big. Remember there are things beyond your knowledge and that God gives us wisdom anyway.”
She chuckled. “And dash it all, remember to laugh at yourself and enjoy the lesson!”