When my kids were babies, I played games with them before they could even understand why.  To teach them, to show them, my love is here, with them, even when they can't see. me.  That they are the objects of my constant affection, no matter how things. appear.  Looking back, over time, I can still see my younger self.  Covering my face with my hands, hiding my eyes, and then gently, quietly, softly, moving my hands.  Revealing my face, scattering smiles, showing them my blue eyes, pooling, in love, and my lips, red laced, with grace.  Reflecting on this picture of myself, I can hear, through all this space and time.  And I am still. here.  Squealing, with delight. "Peekaboo!  I see you!"

I am older now, and so are my kids.  And we are still, right here, and back there, playing.  Peekaboo!  I see you!  Only now the hands that cover my face, that separate me, from them.  Are hands of high school and college.  Hands of nights out and days away.  Movings away, and livings away, under different roofs.  We have hands of fights, with fingers of rebellion, many mine.  And hands of pain, with wrinkles of shame.  And the distance between us grows, sometimes, from our sittings close, face to face, to our sittings, far away.  From one another.  When we are each one of us left, for times, individually, alone, not seeing, nor hearing, one another.  Sometimes even when we are in the same room.

The Hand of pain is isolating.  

I've spent a lot of time over these years looking up into the sky.  Looking, out windows, for signs, of love, for tokens, of affection.  For Hands that move, for me.  Listening, for squeals of delight, in my heart.  And wondering, in my wanderings, for attention, why I'm still, out here, all by myself, on my own island, of pain, alone.  Pain has taken me far away, from the wings of the dawn, of fellowship, into the depths of isolation, inside my own deep blue seas, smack dab in the middle, down in the dust, of a large island.  And I am still, a lone tree.  Standing.  Alone.  In the middle of my own island of pain.  Looking up.  Like a baby.  From the tree tops in the skies.  Covered with dark clouds.  Looking out.  Like a parent.  From windows in this room.  Covered with hand curtains.  Wondering.  God.  I've been wondering.  Are. You. Still. Here?

And, like a baby, from my tree tops, like a parent, through my windows, still, a child of God, through His creation, I see. Wind.  Moving.  White hand clouds.  Revealing. His Shining Sun Face, scattering smiles.  His Quiet Blue Eye Skies, pooling, in Love.  And His Soft Lattice Lips, red laced with Words, of Grace.  Squealing.  With delight.

Peekablue Eyesee You

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