It’s been two weeks since I last blogged.  I want my faithful blog readers to know that although I’m not posting regularly, I am always writing stories in my head.  For instance, I’ve considered a piece called “My Father’s Axe.”

“My Father’s Axe” came to me one evening after the blessed time change.  Determined to get a jump start on the chores that multiply exponentially in May, I was working in the backyard.  I was hacking away at brush with various gardening implements including (wait for it) my father’s axe.  It had “been a day” as they say in the common parlance.  I realized I didn’t know much about using an axe and it irritated me.

You know, of course, that you don’t split wood with an axe, right?  You use a wedge and a maul.

Nevertheless, the axe worked well on the thorny roots and I took out the day’s frustrations on the ground behind the barn.  I was a bit like Saul of Tarsus before his conversion, still breathing out threats against the day’s dilemmas.

And because this is a beautiful digital space, I try not to verbalize such existential moments of desperation.  Or I tone them down in a soft, flowery and perfumed ladylike light.  I might text a friend with a delicate “I broke a few dishes in the basement today.  Everything’s ok, though.”

I camouflage such things as sadness and loneliness with the swirling cloud of busy dust I leave behind when I step on the gas in my beloved Jeep.  Yeah, it has a 5.7 liter V-8 Hemi.  That’s probably a different blog story, though.

This particular evening, I hacked away at the ground while ruminating on all these things.  And I did cry out to God.

I hate doing that.  Not because I don’t believe in God’s bigness, but because crying out suggests that I’ve not been consistent in regular conversations, thus precipitating a need to shout to my heavenly father.

Nevertheless, I did cry out.  “SHOW ME A SIGN THAT I’M GOING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION.  SOMETHING.  ANYTHING.”

Nothing happened.  At least not immediately.  I kept striking at the thorny roots in a very ugly fashion.

Then from my peripheral vision, I sensed a light in the dark gully behind my house.

What the hell?

It was too dark to go down into the gully safely.  Was it a bomb?  Something left by a gang of teenagers to mark a stash of drugs?  My mind was working overtime to solve the mystery.  Then it came to me.

It was the solar light I had ditched last summer!  It had stopped working while in its upright position next to my flowers, but it had survived and was illuminating the darkness again.

I’ve thought about this “sign” many times in the last few weeks.  Sometimes when I’m out in the garden in the evening, I peek over the banking to see if the light is still there and I’m pleasantly surprised to see it shining.

Insert an entire book of Psalm-like thanks to God here.

68 days until the Moxie Festival…God help us all!