My backdoor is a mystery that opens each day into a twenty-four-hour tour of life.
On one morning, the fog, only yards from my door, will gently cover the ground, like a soft blanket protecting a sleeping child from the world. The mist will hover over the crops, hiding them until the sun whispers, “It’s time to get up,” and the cloud disappears, seemingly on its terms, but under orders, no doubt, leaving only the dew as a reminder of its presence. The birds, impatient to get their day started, have already sung their wake-up call to the rest of nature.
Another morning, the fog is a no show; the all-clear sign shines; the knobs are naked, with no smoky skirt to dress them.
The rain has the privilege of announcing yet another day, sometimes pelting the door, sometimes barely moistening the earth, but always certain, in sufficient quantities, to bring an Irish spring or an icy chill, greeting me with a wet kiss or a frigid smack.
Within the mystery that is my back door, there are certainties: the sun’s evening glow tells me the day’s end is closing in: slow it down; breathe in the accomplishments; breathe out the defeats or regrets. Later, if I step out from my back door into the night, provided it’s clear, the stars speak to me of my smallness in the universe’s vast design, humbling me as I gaze heavenward.
The back door begs for answers to the secrets each day inevitably hides: Will I get there and back? What will be the answer to that prayer? How will that issue play out? Will the enemy attack? Will I matter to someone? Can I bring joy and love into life’s equation, regardless of whether it’s a negative or positive one?
The unanswered questions themselves drive me to a hope stirring deep within my soul, for in that hope, I find solace, if only for a little while. That moment is the rudder for the day.
The front door is necessary too, but just not yet, for when I open it, the trucks tell me they are arriving, what with their jake breaking, only a mile or so down the road. The cars are honking, and the school buses’ diesel engines are snorting. Some people are driving in from other places, their lights still on from the start they made in the night, while other drivers are local. They all are traveling down this road or up that one, most in a hurry to get on with this life: let the race begin; who will win?
I don’t pretend my front door opens to a metropolis; I’m in the country. Nevertheless, the world charges on, relentlessly, like a locomotive, and I too must climb aboard.
But not yet.
Let me linger a little longer at my back door, please, and sit and stare and listen for one more moment or maybe two. Who knows, perhaps the deer will be grazing on that knob over there, the one I hiked with my grandson, not very long ago. Maybe the flock of geese (Are they local or heading home?) will honk my way as they pass me by, and surely, my friend, Mr. Cardinal, showing off his colors, will make his morning debut with another solo flight over our swimming pool, around 7 a.m., so predictable he is.
And after having opened the front door to seize the day, I will be sure to return, God willing, to my back door, at eventide, where, looking out with a sigh of relief, I will rest in a mystery that promises a peaceful sleep.