What's the Real Story?

From where I sat, I felt I sensed a struggle in the women I watched nursing her baby. The woman was hot, sweaty, probably in need of a proper cool down. As I watched her, her companions chatted nearby rehashing the Cat 1-2-3 bicycle race they'd just ridden. She was tucked into a cheap plastic chair, facing away from the street in the empty parking garage far out of the glare of the sun. While they reviewed every turn and twist of the course, she pulled her sunglasses from the top of her head and covered her eyes. 

If I had a camera at that moment, I would have snapped a discreet shot of her. Her image must be one of the untold stories on the women's racing circuit. A racer who is also a mother with an infant. What was she thinking while her baby fed? Was she disappointed in her performance on the course or did she agonize over how she might balance competitive racing and motherhood? A photo of what I remember in such detail could have asked these questions and probably many more.

Our Artist's Rubbing

"Whenever I think that there is a design written into each life--a blueprint that can be known--I am reminded of those rubbings that artists make of stone carvings on  buildings and tombstones. I imagine what it would be like if we could have a rubbing or two of our lives, a map that would show us where we are headed and how to get there.

Sometimes I think  I would like that. We would have no blind alleys. Every road would be a royal road; but there would be no mystery, no work to do, no obstacles to overcome, and we would not need each other. After all, what are blind alleys but God's way of telling us that we missed the reading of a sign and to go back and start again. And what are our hopes and "sighing after" but rubbings something deep and hidden in us."

Elizabeth O'Connor - Eighth Day of Creation