I’m going to interrupt my observations on the Confederate battle flag controversy to share a simple pleasure that I enjoyed night before last. If you’re a long-time reader of this blog (and if you are, “bless your heart,” as my mother would say), you know that one of my greatest joys is to sit and read in the summer in a park near the college. There have been summers when I have read thirty to forty books on the same lake-side bench, and the anticipation of being able to return to “my” bench is part of what gets me through our brutal Chicago winters.
For a variety of reasons I haven’t gotten to spend much time on my bench this summer, but I did sneak in a couple of hours a few evenings back. It was unseasonably cool for July—not much over seventy—the sky was almost painfully blue, there was just a hint of breeze, the mosquitoes had mysteriously gone elsewhere, and the park was quiet except for the distant sounds of children on the playground. Does it sound too mystical to say that it was a deeply religious experience—a fleeting moment of peace and beauty that both filled me with joy and left me longing for more? I was thankful—and because I believe that “every good and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights”—I worshiped.