I Can See the Sky from Here
by Emily Conrad
It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and my house has surprised me twice already with unexpected glimpses of sky.
Somewhere between five and six a.m., I walked into our bathroom. The rice-paper-like covering over the bottom half of the window shone orange.
The window faces east, toward my neighbor’s full two-story house. And I’ve walked around the block plenty of times to know that between us and sunrise are other houses and trees and fences.
And yet, that window was orange, and when I leaned closer to the just-barely-translucent window applique, I saw the unmistakable ball of light that could only be the sun.
Until then, I didn’t know I could see the sky from there.
Hours later, I was reading my Bible on our enclosed front porch. I looked up into the large maple tree that spreads its arms in front of our house. Through one of the thickest parts of the tree, a brilliant blue patch of sky drew my attention. And once I noticed that one, I saw a few others, too.
I hadn't realized I could see the sky from there.
A few weeks ago, I was driving my dog Sadie to the vet. I’d attempted to steel myself for the visit, knowing it would be difficult. My dog had been vomiting, not eating, drinking little, and acting lethargic. We’d been told she would need x-rays because this kind of trouble usually meant something was blocking the digestive system.
Either she’d eaten a part of a toy, which would have to be surgically removed, or perhaps it was cancer, which would’ve been a scary enough prospect even if it weren’t five years to the day from when our black lab died. Of cancer. That they diagnosed by doing x-rays because she’d skipped a couple of meals.
As I drove the familiar streets, I prayed. The trip was just me, Sadie, and God, and if I was going to make it through without being a sniveling mess who stressed out my dog and alarmed the vet staff, God was going to have to be the one to make it happen.
A little over halfway to the vet, as tears were pressing at my eyes and I was navigating a tree-lined street, something moved overhead.
Read more »
It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and my house has surprised me twice already with unexpected glimpses of sky.
Somewhere between five and six a.m., I walked into our bathroom. The rice-paper-like covering over the bottom half of the window shone orange.
The window faces east, toward my neighbor’s full two-story house. And I’ve walked around the block plenty of times to know that between us and sunrise are other houses and trees and fences.
And yet, that window was orange, and when I leaned closer to the just-barely-translucent window applique, I saw the unmistakable ball of light that could only be the sun.
Until then, I didn’t know I could see the sky from there.
Hours later, I was reading my Bible on our enclosed front porch. I looked up into the large maple tree that spreads its arms in front of our house. Through one of the thickest parts of the tree, a brilliant blue patch of sky drew my attention. And once I noticed that one, I saw a few others, too.
I hadn't realized I could see the sky from there.
A few weeks ago, I was driving my dog Sadie to the vet. I’d attempted to steel myself for the visit, knowing it would be difficult. My dog had been vomiting, not eating, drinking little, and acting lethargic. We’d been told she would need x-rays because this kind of trouble usually meant something was blocking the digestive system.
Either she’d eaten a part of a toy, which would have to be surgically removed, or perhaps it was cancer, which would’ve been a scary enough prospect even if it weren’t five years to the day from when our black lab died. Of cancer. That they diagnosed by doing x-rays because she’d skipped a couple of meals.
As I drove the familiar streets, I prayed. The trip was just me, Sadie, and God, and if I was going to make it through without being a sniveling mess who stressed out my dog and alarmed the vet staff, God was going to have to be the one to make it happen.
A little over halfway to the vet, as tears were pressing at my eyes and I was navigating a tree-lined street, something moved overhead.
Read more »
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