Mending Fences

We’ve seen so many blue skies.  Carefree, sunny days when the children’s laughter tinkles like a choir of bells in the distance.  They run, glancing back to see if we are watching.  The brilliant sunlight bounces off of their smiling faces and my heart aches to witness such innocence. 

They can run at full speed, without fear of falling.  Life has not yet taught them that sooner or later, everyone falls. 

We glance at the sky.  Storm clouds are on the horizon.



Even knowing the damage they can bring, I am fascinated by their terrific beauty.  We batten down the hatches, whatever the hell that means, and wait to see what the sky has in store for us this time. 

Each storm inflicts its own special brand of wounds.  There are those that come and go violently in the night, and we blanch at the sight of unexpected damage in the morning.  Some linger for days, weeks even, but we have more time to prepare, more time to mend things in the calm of the storm.  There is no way to know which is better in terms of suffering.

Always, we comfort the children, sharing worried looks above their heads.  The warm comfort they give in return is more valuable than gold.  They don’t yet know that dark clouds are ominous.

As the storm rages, we whisper in the dark, sharing memories of sun drenched fields full of color.  Our dreams are filled with laughter.  We know that a season of sunshine will come, if we can weather the storms together.

Finally, there is light in the distance.



As a family, we survey the damage the storm has left in its wake.  We know we can fix what has been broken and move forward, stronger than before.

We set to work, mending fences.  The sun feels warm on my neck as I dig a hole for a new post.  My muscles ache, but I’m glad to be here in the dirt with my family.  If it weren’t for the storm, where would we be?  Each at our own daily tasks, getting through another day in this life.

The children splash in the mud, digging with their little garden trowels.  My husband laughs as the little one dumps a bucket of dirt into the hole he has just begun to dig.  We set the posts in cement, and make a ring of our four hand prints on each one.

We share a glance over their little heads.  This time, it is filled with hope and promise.