Seth sent me this picture of his work shoe by the river. He had stopped to sit on a rock on his long way home from trial. He can’t not edge up to the water when he sees it. He wants to be down in it, too, up to his armpits, with a fly rod, a felt hat, and a silence. 

Instead, he wears squeaky shoes, a shiny belt, and a part in his hair, and while he’s longing for a day off, I’m longing for him, wearing mustard stains, a baby, and a wop-sided pony tail. 

These are the days we wish against the curse and learn the meaning of finding ourselves in the presence of the Father, or at least we get to see our great need for rest and for Him. 

One time I posted the following prayer, and this is how I feel like I sound now, too:

“Father you are so good to me; You saved me; You couldn’t be more amazing; did I call Amy back; there are so many dishes in the sink; Get that crayon out of your nose – so help me … excuse me, LORD; oh, yeah, thank You for grace and our food and my husband; my toenails are so tacky; oh look, nobody painted around the top of that ceiling fan …”

Sometimes it’s hard to look at the green in our own back yards and see the bounty. It’s hard when we’re hot and tired, when we keep getting chiggers out there. It’s hard, especially, when we’re separated from the body. 

It won’t be long, though, until we’re old and somewhat retired, and all these labor-ridden vegetables have been tilled up. It won’t be long until we’re trying to remember these gorgeous details, longing to give thanks. We’ll be hearing from God. We’ll be rickety old. We’ll hold hands and assure the other: it won’t be long until we see real glory, Adam and Eve finally back to God-manicured garden.