The best when only the best will do

It was the best of times, and it was, well, it really was the best of times. Waves upon waves of joy and laughter broke against the barrier, shattering like crystal on a moonlit night.

My day, this Thursday with the kids and grand kids sandwiched around softball, baseball and memories thick with joy, was a royal blue as the sun set behind the ball fields at Terrytown Playground, with rivulets of deep purple shooting into the sky all kingly and such, looking for all the world like a trident held by Godly hands.

Perfect? Nah. I've never run headlong into such. But what it was, was, pink cotton candy on a Saturday afternoon in May, the sillouette of my past paving the way to the future's mystery and surprise, with each new grin a happening I never deserved and I certainly never expected.

It was like the stickiness in the middle of some great and grand living sweet roll,  this day, grace-filled, deep and dark and decorated with wow, stuffed with unicorn elixer,  dripping with unique Billy sauce.

The moment gathered itself in a field outside of New Orleans and presented itself to the court of all is well. My wife, Mary, and I came to simply spend a day with grand children, taking in spontaneous joy and then our plan was to drive back this morning, spent but happy.

But even as "that moment," a small and tender page from Sears and Roebuck's Spring Miracle Catalogue, blossomed beautifully, as the outer skin of the evening drew and crinkled like an exceedingly old pair of loafers. It was a moment, an afternoon of them, a wish-dream that produced a wonderful trophy (our lives together) the size of an alligator-gar -- tough as real leather but tender as marinated Alaskan Cod fish..

But in thinking back yesterday's sweetness, it's bittersweet rule on each of us, that afternoon when we spilled what we were onto what we might have been, it was beyond what some strangers might perfect. Perfection, I reckon, doesn't exist I reckon this side of eternity or at the very least has never existed outside of the circle of Jesus.

That's okay. I have no trouble admitting my lack of perfection, nor do I have trouble seeking it in Jesus.

But for a minute or two Thursday afternoon, we danced till we were in silent smiling pain, then we sat quietly. The best of times didn't cover what it truly was, I suppose, nor did it hide what it truly wasn't. It just didn't.

But as the gasps of willowy clouds dotted and shapes the world's landscape, that which  I've come to see in a couple of old grand parents as we've ripped out rot and age, it would simply have to do this day.

The best of times is what we dwell on. The best of times is what we sweat to buy. the best of times is what we get for our buck.

Thursday, that's what we got.

We put the best on, walked around in it, and smiled. That was truly enough for one afternoon.