They say it is coincidence,
The way the sun bursts through the clouds,
The rainbow after the storm,
The check in the mail, like so much manna,
The hope that beats unmerited in your chest.
They say it is random,
Simple happenstance,
The way the right words come at the right time,
The answer to a prayer you’ve barely whispered.
They call it a happy accident,
The shift of the universe,
Atoms in entropy.
But I am a mother now,
I have peeked behind this part of the curtain.
Tiny notes are tucked into lunchboxes,
Scraped knees are tended,
Groceries appear in the pantry,
Feverish brows are tended,
The right gift appears for the occasion,
Lullabies are sung deep into the night.
“It’s my lucky day!” the child exclaims.
And the mother nods, smiles,
winks.
Perhaps it is only chance
For the one receiving it.
Maybe coincidence is really
A divine love note,
A kiss breaking through the barrier of heaven.
Maybe it’s just another way to say
I love you.
There is no chance thing through which God cannot speak . . . even the moments when you cannot believe there is a God who speaks at all anywhere.
Frederick Buechner
