Sunny Side Up July 17, 2002 �2002, Kathleen Gibson Lift your face to the Son and smile I love a good smile. It invites things�conversations, friendship, even speculation. As the plaque on the wall at Hector�s Autobody reads, �Smile, it�ll make them wonder what you�re up to.� The fading face of a smirking chimpanzee illustrates the point. So does the barely discernible grin on the venerable face of da Vinci�s Mona Lisa. Entire university courses, I�m sure, have been devoted to the mystery of her smile. Spontaneous smiles are the most memorable. Kelly�s, at my favorite sub place. �Spinach wrap, veggie light, no cheese or pickles or hot peppers, right?� she smiles and recites in sing-song when I arrive at the counter. (Then it�s my turn to smile.) Tony Hallet�s blazing facial curve a few years ago, when Jocelyn, all dressed in white, arrived at the church to make of him a husband. My friend Joska�s gleaming white beam when she opens the door and sees me there. A neighbour�s grandbaby�s crooked one, fresh from the smile factory, and pooling up all the way to her blue, blue, eyes. Some people don�t smile easily. Rubin Fuhrmann, a friend from Calgary, told me he spotted a truck driven by an older man wearing a thick and sour scowl. Now, Rubin is a formidable salesman, someone who could coax a fish into leasing a penthouse. Incessantly cheerful himself, he goes to incredible lengths to sprout smiles on others� faces. But he couldn�t have sold this guy a smile, or cheered him up one wit. He knew it the instant he glimpsed the truck�s bumper sticker: �I�m not smiling till the whole world apologizes,� it proclaimed. Rubin was still chuckling, months later. �I know a car I�d like to put that sticker on,� I said. But then I pictured the logistics� �Through the carport window, with only the full-blown moon for a lamp, crept the Preacher�s wife, clad in black and armed with a single� bumper sticker.� Maybe next year. I noticed a truck myself the other day. Brown, with bright painted sunflowers splashed all over. I drove closer. The flower centers were rust spots�incognito. I pulled alongside at a light, called to the driver through our open windows. �Love your sunflowers!� He waved his thanks. �You don�t notice the rust that way!� He was smiling as he pulled away. I was too. I think the sunflower guy should teach smiling lessons. Armed with a paintbrush and a paintpot the color of spilled sunshine, he could teach perpetual scowlers to paint sunflowers around those apologies they feel are due them and those ugly, bitter spots that corrode the soul and snatch the joy from their faces. And if it turned out as I imagine�through my faith-tinted glasses�the petals, the yellow, yellow petals would reflect the face of the Son, and onlookers would see only the fresh beauty of a transformed soul. I love the scripture that reminds me that the one who the Son sets free is free indeed. Free, even, to smile. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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