The sun gleams and warms my face as March breezes blow. Daffodils nod.
Hope, slides down her little, orange slide and plops to the ground. Eyes squinting, hair blowing, she braves the wind and goes at it again.
Gideon sits barefoot on cool sand in his turtle sandbox and digs, little lips rumbling the noise of toy trucks pushing heaps of dirt, mounding up, piling high, and flattening again.
Samuel lies on a pallet in the grass and reaches for his toes. Then turns and stretches out as far as his little hand can reach to grab hold of that one gossamer dandelion tuft.
Birds sing. Bees drone. The earth turns in this steady pace on its course around the sun.
While I sit and read.
I wonder if we should build a fence around the backyard and where exactly to put a garden and how to scare off those pesky woodpeckers beating holes into the siding of our house.
Hope gets stuck and cries, Gideon yells for me to watch his trucks work, and a plastic bucket blows onto the road.
God exists. And I sit a spell to breathe in spring.
I fold laundry, pick up scattered toys, wonder how to organize this place. I call my husband, Brent, at work to ask him when he’s coming home for lunch.
I feed the goldfish.
And sometimes it hits me as strange. Not that God exists, but that God exists and my day is full of these ordinary things. Since God exists—the God who spoke and there was light, who formed all us earth children from the dust of the ground, a God who always is and always was, who bent down to breathe life into our very lungs—shouldn’t we be doing something else?1