I saw a beautiful thing this morning.

My friends—those who know me well—would say, “Of course you did!  It’s Spring.”

They wouldn’t be wrong.  I saw daffodils—and bluets—and crabapple trees—and quince bushes—and…the list could go on forever.  Spring is beautiful; not only for what I see, but for what it represents.

New life.  The awakening of things that have slept—almost the sleep of death—for all the months of a cold, dark winter.

I saw those, and felt them, on my walk this morning.  But, that’s not the beautiful thing I saw.

The wind is blustery today—almost a gale at times—blasting from the south.  At my back as I walked toward home, it picked up many things, traversing the schoolyard I was passing.  The thing I thought beautiful caught my attention, not only by the sight of it, but because I heard it first.

Paketa, pak, pak, paketa, paketa, pak. 

The clattery sound of aluminum on pavement went on and on.

A beer can, thrown from a passing car (or by a wandering pedestrian), had been rescued from its dirty, wet place of inactivity beside the sidewalk, perhaps even saved from the ignominious fate of being chopped up by a passing lawn mower as it made its rounds.

Freedom!  Tumbled over and over by the fickle wind, the used-up can traveled a block or more up the road before I lost sight of it.  For all I know, it’s still going.

Silently, I cheered it on.  But, even before the can left my sight, my mind was freed, just like that aluminum container, from the fog that had overtaken it as I sat in the little coffee shop I haunt with some frequency.

The first thing I thought about was an old game we used to play, much like hide-and-seek, called Kick the Can.  I don’t suppose many children nowadays play it.

In the game, as I remember it, one kid was IT, having to find the others who hid.  But, when he espied them, he would have to run as fast as he could, attempting to beat them to the can, there to count them out. 

“One, two, three, on David!” 

But, if David, who was hiding, knew he had been sighted, he could run faster and, kicking the can as hard as possible, gain a new lease on life, taking off to hide in the landscape once more.

I use the pronoun, he, because in my personal experience, all the players were boys.  As it happens, the Lovely Lady to whom I am married played the game a time or two in her childhood, too.  Right in the neighborhood where we live today.

I look out my window as I type, the house across the street filling my vision.  The Lovely Lady tells of the Wards, an older couple who lived there in those days. 

Anyone can tell you the game needs to be played at twilight, and just past, as darkness settles over the landscape.  But somehow, older people in those days tended to begin to think about heading to bed at dark, especially in the summertime, when the daylight doesn’t fade until nearly nine P.M.

The constant clatter of the can rolling down the street was annoying, but as the evening went on, the children would sometimes take advantage of the darkness to aim their kicks right at the garage door of the Ward’s house.

With some regularity, especially after the can had hit the metal door a time or two, old Mr. Ward would walk out the front door and, without a word, pick up the can, carrying it back into the house with him.

The kids would go home, disappointed, but kind of proud of themselves.

As I walked this morning, the smile had already reached my face before the little beer can rolled out of sight.  I could still hear it (and that one in my mind), rolling on the pavement.

Paketa, paketa, pak, pak.

Did I really say the sight (and sound) of that old beer can scooting along the street was beautiful? 

I did, didn’t I?

Somehow, it must be what it meant to me, much like the flowers that are awakening from their long winter’s sleep—almost the sleep of death, I think I described it—to new life, rather than just a beautiful sight.  It wasn’t that beautiful to look at.

But, my mind didn’t only slip to the Lovely Lady’s old memory of summertime playtime as I considered.

I can’t avoid thoughts of new life.  Life from death.  The parallel is obvious to me. 

The can was finished—no purpose and no intrinsic beauty.

Nowhere to go ever again.  Ever.

As it tumbled up the street, it wasn’t just lively.  It was exuberant!

Loud, even.

Well?  The Teacher, soon to be Savior, did once tell the folks that the rocks would cry out in worship.

Aluminum’s not all that different, as far as inanimate objects go.

Maybe it’s my turn.  And yours.

If clattery is the best we can manage, it’ll do just fine.

Joyful noise.

 

“God made us for joy. God is joy, and the joy of living reflects the original joy that God felt in creating us.”
(G K Chesterton)

“He jumped up, stood on his feet, and began to walk! Then, walking, leaping, and praising God, he went into the Temple with them.”
(Acts 3:8, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.