Just found this wonderful picture in a hidden corner of my computer. Haven't a clue who might be in it, but it's old--1910, which means not one of those standing outside of school is alive today to remember. Grim thought. Here's something worse: That they're all gone makes the school picture a cemetery of sorts.
Then again, not. Click on the pic, get those small-town students up close, and look for your own face. Lots of us are here, after a fashion. Maybe all of us. In that way, it's very much alive.
That's what I'm thinking, a day or two ahead of my release from Heartland Manor. I'll be going home soon, my legs a shamble. I couldn't even do any slow dancing. I've been away from a keyboard for some time, even though my spouse saw to it that I'd have this computer right here in the room--working, as she was, on another variety of rehabilitation.
This morning, sitting here with nothing to say, I saw this old picture. Never bothered to note anything at all about who, what, when, and where, only scanned the old shot something ago when I couldn't take my eyes off the whole perfectly lined up student body. 115 years later, all of them are unable to point out that naughty boy or the teacher all of them loved. They're all gone.
Here's why I'm encouraged. Writing demands vision, the kind of vision which found its way into my noggin when I looked sidewise at this old dateless, nameless shot and saw more than just that.
For a long time my bum legs stood like Ft. Randall Dam between me and vision. It was as if I couldn't see, or, better, it was as if I could see nothing but what was right in front of me.
Maybe Ft. Randall is breaking apart. That'd be nice.
Meanwhile, see if you can find your own face in that old schoolyard.
2 comments:
It's interesting that in regards to all those kids, God knew the plan he had for each one of them. (Jer.29:11)
Praying for your comeback!
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