FOR MOST OF THE CENTURY: DO YOU NOTICE? (PART 15)

Jean Bell Mosley's new autobiography, "For Most of the Century," is only available in serialized form in the Southeast Missourian. Return each week for her continuing story.

Later on, when it became apparent that my role would be to use the written word in an attempt to hold up before readers a gentler way of life, to make them aware of the little things they might miss if they aren't looking and that these things are His arrangements, His silent speech to us, I wrote the following article. It is a sample of my continuing conversation with God:

The heavens were molded. The sun and moon and stars arranged in proper place. Everything polished, shining, glowing. Sparkling waters of seas and rivers and little singing creeks reflected this ceiling of beauty. Wide grassy fields were laid down, covered with carpets, now green, now brown, now white, sometimes patterned with patches of bluets or splashes of buttercups. Rocks and trees and shrubbery made a sort of furniture. Clever little pantries of food were established -- food in perpetuity whose seed is within itself. Sweet singing birds and furry animals and bright flowers were scattered about for accessories, little extra touches that feed the soul's hunger for beauty.

"Reminded me, God, of how Mama used to ready her house when expecting company -- cleaning, cooking, making everything as pretty as possible. The company came and many times didn't notice the crisp curtains, the polished lamps, the freshness of the home-baked loaves. Just came and went and didn't notice.

"So has it been with your house, God, and the company you invited to come. Some miss so much. But, that old roadbank there, the one sloping up to the field where green corn soldiers with tasseled helmets march in measured ranks across the field, that bank, it is covered with creamy white honeysuckle and clover, and a froth of white daisy lace washes like ocean foam down to the road's edge, over-embroidered with black-eyed Susans, I see it, God!

"Those two little killdeers, long-legged, pet-tailed, full of new life, new voice -- those little killdeers ran ahead of me down between the bean rows, topped, looked around, ran again. God, I had to laugh at their freshness. They were so clean, so neat, each feather in measured place, their cry a tiny replica of their mother's. I saw them, God!

"That dragonfly that lit on my toe the other day, just lit there like it was a fishing cork or lily pad. I bet he had a six-inch wingspan. He looked so comically fierce with those out-sized eyes. But those iridescent wings! Now blue, now green, now purple, glowing and shining as if from some inner light, some colorful sunset going on inside. I saw it, God.

"Old Black Silk curls up in my lap. I gently spread her toes apart. The hair that grows in between is so silky soft, just like milkweed floss. It is for a purpose, keeps down rubbing irritation. I know all that, but so pretty, more silky really than the rest of her. So seldom seen but, I see it, God.

"A black and white cow came up to the fence where I was just standing, staring. She just stared too. At me. She'd been cropping grass and a field daisy was clinging to her mouth. She stopped chewing as if to let me notice. I noticed, God.

"The summer symphony! Bee hum. Cricket chatter. Insect drone. Frog plop! Quail flurry. Children's laughter. Above all, the serenade of the mockingbird. He perches in the wild cherry tree at eventide and pours out an ecstasy of song, now soft and muted like chimes in some faraway cathedral, now growing in intensity until the notes storm the ears, and changing, ever changing as if he cannot stand the thought of boredom, some repetition. I heard it all, God.

"The morning glory bud is tightly twisted at dawn. Slowly, slowly it unfolds as the invisible fingers of the sun probe at strategic places here and there. In less than an hour it is a blue trumpet heralding the gladness of a new day, inviting its company. And soon they come -- the butterfly, the bumblebee, the hummingbird. I watch it all, God.

"The odors! The green smell of fresh-cut grass, the perfume of the phlox, the faint detection of sun-warmed clover! In special places, the damp ferny smell of cool woods. Woodsmoke of campfires. Corn pollen. Hay smell, essence of summer itself with a touch of yarrow and wild mint and a trace of fennel. I smell it, God.

"I linger at the children's wading pool and eventually they will come running to me, wet and dripping, eyelashes matted, eyes bright. While they speak of some delight I look into their eyes and what is there? Two tiny reflections of all the surrounding beauty -- the rose hedge, the oak trees, the blooming trumpet vines, the grass, the spraying water. I see it all, God. And thus I see it thrice!" *

* Expanded from Do You Notice? Southeast Missourian

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.