shade
Today, I walk early, slipping out the door with the light barely new, thinking maybe I’ll escape the heat. But Summer’s sun burns and throbs like it’s been up for hours, and the air sits thick in my lungs, and before I make it down the front steps, sweat becomes my slippery second skin.
Already the day looks gold-spun and simmering, as though it could all dissolve into sunbeams–curling tree leaves; dusty bark; sidewalks and road glinting. I melt; drops of me run in rivulets down my back. Swallowing heat until it burns in my chest, I think it: So what would it be then, to walk through Hell? This, as my dad likes to remind me, is just Summer in the South.
Or, we can call it “the season of plenitude (Slowing Time, 95).” I read Ms. Mahany’s label recently, her beautiful book at my fingertips, and I see it now–not just dripping sun, but sky itself swelling and splitting like overripe fruit. Voluptuous blooms weigh down the Crepe Myrtles; their limbs spread wide. Neighbor passes neighbor and lifts a hand, asks, “You doin’ okay today?” I step into a stretch of shade, where finally a breeze rattles the leaves of an overhanging tree and dances along my cheekbones. Places emptied of God know no shade, no breeze.
In the Psalms, the poet-King wrote, “Protect me as you would your very own eyes; hide me in the shadow of your wings (Psalm 17:8 CEV).” I remember the verse as I slow in the shade now, sweat dripping from my fingers, dotting the road, darkening the dust. I remember lingering over those words, hefting thick books, like shovels for digging deeper. I don’t know Hebrew, but the words sounded full, like an embrace. I practiced the phonetics; the syllables made o’s of my lips, caverns of my mouth. Old words still breathe, and these conjure a watchman preserving his sight–me, like I’m just that precious. In this shadow of Tree, God covers me cool now, concealing me from the glaring heat. The poetry goes on; the words give birth: God makes shade for me under His wings, like a mama bird, just that fierce; under the edge of his cloak, like a groom claiming me, just that passionate. In one pregnant sentence, poet re-members Protector, sketching Him strong, with arms stretching wide enough for my shelter. In God’s shade, Spirit-wind borders my vulnerability. I disappear, hidden safe beneath the holy crossbeam. Silently, I pray it now: Protect me….Yes, hide me within the shelter of your embrace (Psalm 17:8 TPT).
“I’m trying to stay in the shade as much as I can,” Neighbor jovially says, looking back over his shoulder, his long, white hair flying Moses-on-the-mountain behind him. He wears those glasses that darken on their own in the sun. Two black shields, dark as night, guard his eyes. “Makes such a difference,” he says, laughing a little, lifting his hand as he walks away.
“Yes, me too,” I say, nodding gently–a pilgrim farewell, smiling wide, grateful for the respite, however temporary. I’ll have to leave this shade. I’ll have to walk right out the other side. But the shelter of God, that’s the place I live and never leave.
