Grace

Altogether lovely, that describes my weekend.

Of course, two extra days didn’t hurt.

Two extra days in which to work a little and play a lot, bake a little and eat a lot . . . to shop and chat and laugh . . . to spend hour upon hour with those I love most of all.

So, as the weekend came to a close, I grabbed my mum (and my camera) and we meandered our way through the park. After all, she needed a diversion from having to say goodbye to her sister and I, well, I was on a mission. I was in search of forsythia.

Forsythia, you know, heralds spring. So, as we inch towards the end of a blustery winter, even sight of the spindliest of suckers will do . . .

Of course, most of what I happened upon had nothing at all to do with blossoms or spring. They were remnants—blank canvases, if you will. Things like this . . .

—a designer, if ever I’ve seen one. I mean really, muted tones and still, the flair.

I also made a friend of two; she, for instance, came out to say hello and pose for a photo . . .

And this handsome little fellow . . .

When the boys in front of us made guns with their fingers I may have had to hold myself back from making a public spectacle of myself.

Speaking of spectacles, blue skies and sunshine did nothing to sweeten the mood of this fellow . . .

He was in one foul disposition and he made sure the whole park was aware. It was embarrassing, really. Not to mention, his tomfoolery did not make for the most peaceful of outings.

All the same, I did finally happen upon a good dose of forsythia . . .

Happiness in bloom, that.

Looking back through my snapshots I realize this is what grace looks like. It’s not flashy, it doesn’t make a spectacle. More often than not, it blends right in with the surroundings. We have to look for it. But when we do, we just might find peace—mercy for a world worn soul–in the most unassuming of places . . .