The hole went right through the beautiful wood cabinet door and out the other side. I could see that the metal had pierced the wood cleanly, splintering only slightly upon its exit inside the interior space.
I tried the lock. Perfect. The communion bread — safe.
We hit the switch and slid the glass. Light splashed down onto the owl, perched inside the oak cabinet, and lit it up. As we pushed each button — more light, for more art. Perfect.
I slid my eyes across the case. Fourteen pieces, shining there like the finest art in the finest museums in the finest world.
I looked up to the ceiling inside the shower. The drywall was broken out at least a foot wide and eighteen inches long. It looked like someone was trying to escape. I peered up into the opening — a rusted drain, a new rubber sleeve and a shinny black plastic ninety swept up to the floor above. Perfect.
Not a drop of water anywhere! I love a toilet that actually works, especially just before I go on stage.
We put the tiny round table in place in room four, then the little chairs around it. The toys, the changing table, the rug, the step stool. It looked like a great setup for dwarfs. It was. Perfect.
494 — at an angle on the baked potato stucco wall. We stood back. The silicon was still drying in the holes, but the numbers were staying put. The first building had been put up here in 1927. Almost ninety years later, we were sticking numbers on site. Awesome.
Perfect.
Perfect and perfect and perfect. After all, you want people to find the place where the holy communion bread, the sacred art, the little table and the sacred water chambers reside – right?
You do. You want them to find what you have done for them. You want them to find the beautiful church and all the good waiting for them there.
You do. That is why you do it.
For the dwarfs, and their parents — perfect. Because they are coming!
Thrive! 