We’re not sure exactly who walked across the boy’s bedroom carpet with green paint on their heel.
There is an Everest pile of laundry to be folded in the mudroom and another 3 to be washed and kids are making wigs and mustaches with yarn and the oven is begging me to come clean it.
I may or may not acquiesce.
I am not sure who keeps peeling out of snow-soggy socks throughout the house, molting out of winter skins.
The Farmer says it to me, washing his hands up at the sink after this morning’s barn chores, “Looks like we’ve got another one today, eh?”
I glance out the window — What’s supposed to blow in hard today?
He’s grinning, drying his hands. “Yet another grace day.”
And I stand in the kitchen. A farmer knows: Isn’t that always our weather?
When is it ever not right to wear worship: “For from Him and through Him and for him are all things. To Him be the glory forever! Amen.”
Life is only all our moments slipped on in a row, one after the other — and if you turn slow in the light, the moments might shine translucent.
And the surprise of it catches you and releases you and it is what you always hoped and always knew.
There is glory in every now.
how you can turn, turn direction a bit like the wind —
and all this grit becomes such startling grace…