The Miracle of the Kite
![The Miracle of the Kite The Miracle of the Kite](https://terriblakeslee.com/wp-content/uploads/elementor/thumbs/The-Miracle-of-the-Kite-pylgat5jz711nplbpyd0ah9prsqhwkd7oq89a3t9h4.png)
I hated my life, and the irony was that I had worked, planned, and strategized to get exactly what I wanted. Now, everything about how I lived was drudgery.
No one else would see it that way. In fact, most people would think I led the life considered the gold standard for living. And, I had worked hard to have all that I have. I have a nice, one-bedroom, leased apartment on the 10th floor on W. 57th St. in New York. Moreover, I have a charming bungalow right on the bay on the central Maine coast. I purchased my whimsical refuge three years ago located in Rutherford, Maine, a little town of less than 800 people. This is where I go to write.
Yes, I am a writer, a successful author, if you will, who has had eight of my 26 novels on the New York Times Best Seller list.
I can hear you judging. You want to know why I see my life as a drudgery. Understand that success can become abysmal when you hit a block wall, and you feel you have nothing more to give. As the old cliché goes, “the well has run dry.”
My agent reminded me four times just this week that my website has promised my newest book will be on the shelves by August 4. That was four months away. Book tours were to begin in September. I hadn’t written the first word. I had no title. In truth, I didn’t have a clue what I was going to write about. My brain was a black, opaque cavern. I had prayed and prayed. I had even yelled a bit, but it was like the more I said anything, the blacker the cavern got.
I had been at my house in Maine for the past two weeks, hoping my little retreat would be faithful as it always had been to inspire me. Alas, my sanctuary proved to be nothing more than what it was, a sweet little cottage overlooking a bay that emptied into the North Atlantic.
I also have to add that I felt ashamed. Here I was, a top Christian romance author who wrote inspirational love stories that would give all women hope that their godly Prince Charming was out there. What a hypocrite I was. I hadn’t even found my own Prince Charming, and I was almost 40.
Yet, this was the path I chose, and now the path had brought me to a dead-end.
One morning while I sat on my deck that faced the bay, I was giving myself a generous cup of self-loathing over my morning coffee and blueberry muffin. At least, I still knew how to make a decent muffin.
Activity was going on next door. The cedar shake cottage had been vacant for as long as I had lived in my house. But, there they were. The boy appeared to be 11 or 12, and the man looked to be in his 40’s. The boy looked over at me, and I waved. He waved back. While the boy didn’t return to the outside, his father brought in a couple of suitcases, and that was all.
Light travelers; I assumed they must be renting the place for a couple of weeks.
My new neighbors turned out to be the highlight of my morning. After my coffee, my second blueberry muffin, and my spying, I figured I had procrastinated enough, and I could hear the computer calling to me.
I sat at my computer and stared at the bay until I realized I had to put some thought on the screen. All things great and small must have a beginning. Let it flow from your fingers, I told myself. Breathe in the creativity. Nothing happened.
“Just write!” I screamed to the bay window in front of me.
I began:
She drifted into his waiting arms as an empty boat drifts to the safety of the shore.
Enough. Delete, delete, delete. That was about as corny – I couldn’t even think of an appropriate simile – about as corny as a corn field. Lord, I needed help.
At the end of all my best efforts, I bowed my head once more and pleaded with God to refresh and renew my love for writing. I asked Him to forgive me for not being appreciative of my life and being angry with Him.
I opened my eyes and truly expected electricity to race through my body, kind of like I wrote when my wayward heroine finally surrendered to God. I just the knew the charge would speed through me, to my awaiting brain, and out the ends of my eager fingers. Again, nothing, except I noticed my neighbor’s son sitting in one of two weathered Adirondack chairs flying a kite.
Why was he sitting? Why wasn’t he running, or at least standing as he controlled his kite. For some reason, the more I watched the boy, the more curious I became. I decided it was time for a mid-morning walk.
My stroll to the boy took about five minutes. After, I left my backyard grass, there were a few boulders I needed to traverse. It took no great effort. I had done this walk many times. I had even sat in one of the Adirondack chairs once. As I got closer to the focus of my attention, I noticed the rays of the sun, which were almost directly overhead, made his blond hair look like he was wearing a halo or maybe a crown. The light seemed to catch the tresses and glitter and shine, much like light dances on the water. When I was no more than six feet from him, the boy turned and smiled at me.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” I returned the greeting. “May I sit with you and watch you fly your kite?”
“Sure.” He reached out his hand holding the string. “Do you want to try?”
“No, you’re doing a fine job,” I said.
“What’s you name?” he asked as he maneuvered the yellow and blue kite from side to side.
I smiled. Just like a kid, I thought. So direct and so honest. “I’m Connie. And who are you?”
“I’m René. That’s usually a girl’s name, but my name only has one ‘e’. My mother liked it, so now, it’s who I am.”
“It’s a nice name,” I said.
“Yeah, I think so. My mother is in heaven now. How old are you?”
“Well, young man, don’t you know it’s rude to ask a lady her age?”
“Sorry,” he said, still watching his kite flip and flop with the wind.
“I’m 39,” I said, “and how old are you?”
“14.”
I was shocked. He looked so small for his age.
As if he could read my thoughts, he said, “Yeah, I know. I’m a runt. I have a bum heart.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. It’s what God gave me. Besides, my mom always said that I had very pretty eyes.
I leaned forward and looked. “Why they are beautiful. They’re almost a pale violet.”
“Humph, they used to be a light blue. My mom said that they made me special.”
“Do you think you’re special?”
René laughed. “Of course, I am, silly. And we all have a special life that God meant for just us to live.”
“Everybody?” I asked.
“Yes, everybody. God doesn’t waste His energy making things with no purpose. Especially people because we’re made to be like Him.”
I sat there thinking of all René had just said. I felt like I were the child, and he was the adult.
“You know, you’re very smart to be so young.”
“I know. I’ve had to learn quick because I wasn’t going to have as much time as other people. My parents told me about my heart when I was seven.” He was leaning forward now, working hard to control the kite because the wind had picked up.
“I’m not allowed to run with my kite. My dad says I have to conserve my energy.”
“I’m sure your dad loves you very much.”
“Oh, he does. And, he’ll be very sad when I’m gone. But, he understands. He knows Jesus, too, and he will realize I’m up there flying kites with Jesus and Mom. I’ll be able to run, and then, he’ll be glad for me.”
“You’re very brave,” I said.
“I just have a changed heart. Remember, I’ve known about this since I was seven. At first, I was so mad, and then scared.” René paused. “You do know that’s the biggest miracle, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, do you know Jesus?”
I nodded.
“Think what you were like before He came along.”
I laughed. “I was self-centered and manipulative and very vain. I wasn’t a good person at all. Pleasing self was my greatest goal.”
“See, your heart changed. People can do a lot of stuff, but nobody but God can change a heart. And, look at you now. You’re taking your time to sit and talk to a kid who is dying. I’d call that very different – a change.”
At that moment, the wind died, and the kite meandered to the ground.
Tears filled my eyes. I had forgotten I had purpose, and for the first time, I realized I was a miracle.
“You’re some fantastic kid,” I said.
He laughed as he rolled up his string. “And you’re some fantastic lady.”
“René!” A male voice called from behind us.
“It’s my dad. I gotta go.”
I sat there a long time, longer than I realized, for I noticed the beginning of sunset orange filling the horizon.
All evening, I sat in my house thinking of René. I hoped I would get to see him again tomorrow. But that wasn’t to be. When I awoke, I looked out my window, and the car was gone. I threw on sweat pants and a tee-shirt and ran over and knocked on the door. No one answered. I noticed the curtains were drawn, and junk mail was falling out of the mailbox by the door. Strange. Did they only stay one day?
I went back to my house and called Mr. Easton. He took care of all of the house sales and rentals in Rutherford. After I asked him about René and his father, silence penetrated the call. Finally, he said, “Oh, you mean the Fletchers. Why, yes, they own that cottage next to you, but Mr. Fletcher hasn’t been here since his son died, oh, I guess about four years ago.”
I mumbled thank you clicked off my phone.
I heard René’s words, “The greatest miracle is a changed heart.”
I realized that no matter where we are in our life’s journey, we will be having heart changes all along the way. That was the road of salvation.
Suddenly, my head began to swirl with ideas. I sat at my computer, and I began to type:
René walked down the street. He had never been to this town before, and he didn’t know why he was there now. He only knew that he had quit arguing with God along time ago. He was there for a purpose, and that was all René needed to know.