Every now and then I look around me and wonder if the moment I’m living wasn’t plucked straight from a story book. Some meticulous author labored through words and pages to describe the scene in which I’ve been placed.

Or maybe, somewhere far above my head, there’s an accomplished film director who cues the lights and sounds of my experience and displays this creation for a hidden audience of skilled dramatics.

I am so important – so special to have a skilled artist focus their attention on me. I’m not sure if there’s a lesson for me to learn or if I was meant to go through life unconcerned with the complexity of my surroundings. I am so small – to be here experiencing while someone else creates experience.

The rain was falling as I walked out the doors of the chapel in Kanarraville. The trees hung low, but were strong. The rain wasn’t for me, but the moment was. I walked a little slower. It’s supposed to rain for funerals, and someone took the time to make sure this one was done right.

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