There are times when for for no apparent reason, I find myself journeying into nostalgia. This morning I found myself remembering summer days when the sidewalk at my sister’s home would be covered in sidewalk chalk. Each of the kids would have contributed their own masterpieces, and a walk down that path was filled with the story they had drawn. Today, I simply wanted to write an homage to what simple sidewalk chalk gan tell us about God.
There comes a point every summer when perfectly respectable neighbourhood sidewalks begin to lose all sense of dignity.
One morning they are ordinary stretches of concrete.
By afternoon they have become galleries.
Rainbows appear.
Flowers bloom.
Hopscotch courts stretch halfway to the mailbox.
Entire families are depicted with astonishing optimism. Every person has a smile approximately the size of Lake Ontario, and the family dog is somehow larger than the family car.
The artistic standards, I should point out, are wonderfully inconsistent.
Perspective is optional.
Cats may be blue.
The sun often wears sunglasses.
And every house, no matter its actual appearance, seems to have at least three chimneys.
Art critics would have much to discuss.
Children simply call it Tuesday.
One of the delights of sidewalk chalk is that nobody seems particularly concerned about permanence.
Nobody says, “I’m investing seventy-two hours in this masterpiece because future generations deserve to appreciate my stick figure.”
Quite the opposite.
Children pour their hearts into creations they know perfectly well will disappear.
The next rain will wash everything away.
Tomorrow’s bicycle tires will scatter the colours.
The neighbour’s enthusiastic Labrador may contribute to the process.
And yet…
The artists keep drawing.
Perhaps adults are the peculiar ones.
We have become strangely convinced that only permanent things are worthwhile.
We frame photographs.
Back up computer files.
Laminate certificates.
Purchase storage bins with reassuringly secure lids.
There are entire television channels devoted to helping us organize things we haven’t used since the last century.
Children, meanwhile, quietly create beauty with the full knowledge that it is temporary.
There is wisdom in that.
Jesus rarely measured life by how long something lasted.
He spoke of birds that sing for a season.
Lilies that bloom and fade.
Seeds that disappear into the earth before becoming something altogether new.
He seemed remarkably unconcerned with preserving everything exactly as it was.
Instead, he kept pointing people toward the joy of what God was doing right now.
Perhaps that is why summer feels so sacramental.
We know it will not last.
The tomatoes will finish ripening.
The evenings will grow cooler.
The children drawing dragons on the sidewalk today will someday be driving cars across those same streets.
That knowledge does not diminish the beauty.
It deepens it.
I sometimes wonder whether God smiles every time a child kneels on a warm driveway holding a piece of purple chalk.
Not because the drawing is perfect.
But because the child is utterly absorbed in delight.
There is no audience to impress.
No prize to win.
No social media strategy.
Only imagination spilling onto concrete.
Isn’t that remarkably close to prayer?
Perhaps prayer is less about producing something impressive than about spending time joyfully in the presence of the One who delights in us.
After all, the God who invented butterflies, sunsets, cardinals, and the northern lights has never appeared overly concerned with making everything practical.
Beauty has always been one of God’s favourite languages.
Even when it lasts only until the next rainfall.
The older I become, the more I suspect that faith itself resembles sidewalk chalk.
Not because it disappears.
But because it is meant to be lived out in the open where people can see it.
It colours ordinary places.
It invites others to join in.
It makes familiar paths a little more joyful.
And if the rain eventually comes—as it always does—we simply kneel down again when the sun returns.
There is always another piece of chalk.
There is always another summer afternoon.
And there is always another opportunity to colour the world with grace.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
thank you for the gift of imagination, laughter, and the simple joys of summer. Teach us to create beauty without worrying about how long it will last, to delight in each day as your gift, and to colour the world with kindness wherever we go. May our lives, like bright chalk on a warm sidewalk, point others toward your love. Amen.