Three days ago, while on a bike ride, I saw none of the famous Cherry Blossoms on the downtown Portland Waterfront. It looked a little sad and barren.
Today, in so many thermal and waterproof layers that my knees were barely bendable, I took a different bike route toward downtown. My mind was not on Cherry Blossoms. I clutched my handlebars and focused primarily on defensive “driving” and avoiding slippage in the salvo.
I straddled my bike at the intersection where Joey passed—as of tomorrow—twenty-seven months ago. I call this spot “Sacred Cross.” I paused the podcast I had been listening to and allowed whatever silence the pelting rain and splashing passing traffic would allow. With water dripping from the brim of my bike hat underneath my neon yellow helmet, I casually asked God to reiterate a little something for the Sometimes-Doubting Thomas on this corner straddling this bike. I asked Him to confirm something He’d recently “told” me in an unexpected flash. A couple of weeks ago, at that moment, I could feel my eyes and heart widen: Could it be? Was this you, God, enlightening me—finally answering my desperate question?
After those few minutes at Sacred Cross today, I steeled myself for the goodbye. I thought about playing my go-to healing playlist for the ride away from that holy place—a specific stack of songs that help me grieve Joey well. But the relentless rain made phone management tricky, so I kept my phone in a dry pouch and let it remain silent as I peddled.
I rode away in the downpour, headed toward Taylor Street Kitchen, just a few blocks away, and locked up my bike. Gathering my sopping belongings, I entered the little delicious diner, and THE clutch song on my playlist (the one I had chosen not to play because of the inconvenient rain) was playing inside the café. The very song: Bill Wither’s “Lovely Day.” It’s safe to assume “Lovely Day” is in God’s playlist because He keeps using it to open and mend my busted heart.
I could feel my eyes widening.
I tried to get my phone out to record and document the miracle music, but the little red record button wasn’t responding because my hands were wet. When it finally did, I caught the very end of the song. The recording was automatically labeled #22 in my Voice Memos app. Twenty-two is the number I see everywhere—the day on the calendar Joey left this place.
It was the “Could it be?” widening. After asking that silent question both times, I knew.
“Yes, indeedy, It’s Me. Listen up.”
My tears blended nicely since my face was already drenched and shiny from the crying sky.
Heading home, I took the waterfront path, not thinking of Cherry Blossoms.
But there they were.
In a clutch, it’s a lovely day.
*Some tender details (the “question”) are redacted in this story, but you can click here for some (a little long-winded, but I’ve earned the wind) backstory on God’s previous usage of Lovely Day in the ongoing Joey story.