I have a spot in my great room that serves as my little corner office with just enough space for my desk and chair. My desk is actually a lady’s vanity or dressing table. There are holes on top and toward the back of the desk that look like a mirror might have been connected there. A center drawer has a top that flips open to another small compartment hidden underneath. It has two narrow drawers on either side that don’t offer much room for papers. They force me to carefully consider what goes in the drawers and think about what I really need to keep. There’s just enough room on the desk for my laptop, a few notepads and a little stack of books.
My desk chair is a 1940s-era version that was originally covered with red velvet fabric. I hated to have it recovered but the velvet was shredded and far past being respectable so it now boasts a silky pink striped fabric. When I first moved into my house, I wasn’t sure where I wanted my office. I didn’t want to work on my computer tucked away in a spare bedroom. I wanted a spot where I could type a few words and check on what’s cooking in the kitchen. I wanted to flip open the computer and still keep track of the football game on TV in the living room. So I put a bookcase in the corner of my great room and situated the desk in front of it, facing the doors to my courtyard so I can see outside. My framed photos of Paris hang on the wall for some inspiration.
As I sit at my desk, I glance up and portraits of my niece and nephew look back at me. My collection of tiny wedding cake toppers solemnly stare at me as they stand beside photos of my sister’s wedding, my parents’ wedding and the wedding of an aunt I never knew. This is where I write and think about my family. I'm lost in thought about the stories I want to tell about them. The lives that were lived and the lives we’re living now. The long days and the short years. That are a part of who I am and what I’ve been and where I’m going.
The truth that everyone’s life matters is obvious to me here in this space as I look at the little scene on my bookshelf. The truth that tells me that my life is connected to theirs. That I am here for the reason that my life touches other lives. And when I want to ask the questions, why am I not? How could I be here without? What of this isn’t enough? I contemplate the view in front of me. Because the whys and hows and whats aren’t mine to ask. God orders my life. He might not answer those questions now. Or later. Or ever. I have to trust his heart for me. In that I am very confident. So it’s quite a view from my desk. Where I get a glimpse of the lives that were lived before me. Where I catch sight of the dreams that have gone before me. And ponder this life that coaxes me onward.