CONTEXT

 [Continuing]

The precious words he was after, the ones Laura was now "borrowing" for whatever reason, already felt illuminative given what they were. Checking back into the notebook at what preceded and followed the explanatory messages about Paradisaic Intentionality now, however, immediately showed him how critical the context had been.

Memories came back of their time together talking things through the first time around. It didn't start with heaven or the unbridled and loving imagination or some sort of pie in the sky time where somehow someone is given there own little independent and everlasting shopping spree with God just for themselves. No, the nights conversations and these vital Wonderworking practices had something to offer of immediate use and were ready to potently rebuff and overcome, tooth and claw, many of the world's deep pains and shades of darkness.

They talked about cancer. Not only that of her photographer grandmother but the many they knew; friends, families whose lives were completely sidetracked, silently dismantled out of nowhere. They grieved the helplessness that surrounds so many in its grip.

Mass shootings and hate crimes remained on the rise in our cities. It seemed the world was devolving into an anxious pit of chaos and fitful disconnection governed only by fear and force. And the worst of it was the undeniable sense that the churches were caught up in the politics of their own communities. Election results were clear. Christian folks had become increasingly indifferent to the pain endured by so many people who Jesus loved just as they were… people who were immigrants, people of color or who had disabilities, people whose sexual identities would be named nontraditional. People had been hurt by religious practices, the superimposition of their own individualistic kingdom visions that somehow didn't include millions and millions of God's children.

To be so comfortable while so many suffered. That's what really got to them both. Each refused to look past that.

The singular Poppy that Laura sent was at first thought to be the source of the peculiar magic each now sought to disentangle into some redemptive and restorative purpose. Surrounding conversation, an unavoidable and complex context, had in fact disclosed it as more of a conduit, merely one tributary through which much light and mystery had been flowing for years.

Did it not seem destined to flow well beyond his chicken scratch or a few crinkled pages now folded deep inside her purse?

He sat drinking coffee back in his station at Anthony's. His fingers were still dark from charcoal and now the soft pencil that he worked with to raise up a three-story lakeside cabin, another dwelling place his fingers could create right before his very eyes.

Laura had left a message on his phone. He had listened to it four or five times without deciding to call right back.

She had a cute voice that always sounded at home and comfy to him. Some people always sound like they're smiling or on their way to something good.

Hey I wanted to follow up, she said. It was great to reconnect and have a chance to finally tell you where the poppy photo came from. Fred's been moping around ever since you left. Anyway, wanted to thank you for letting me go on and on about how it made its way into in my dusty old shed.

I don't want to fill up your messages here, but passing it along to you, it being my grandmother's, with my house already full of so many of her visions – Well, as I said the other night, she saw more than most people. Because she was looking for more, expectant.

I'm glad you have it. Seems right.

And yes, you've probably noticed some pages missing from your notebook. Sorry to be a dork, but I told you this thing is special. It has to be turned into something. It's a class, it's a retreat waiting to happen. And I'm gonna stick to my guns and convince you that it's worth developing and sharing. People need to be doing this, man. I'm not just blowing smoke…

All right, take care. Call me.