Sometimes dinner is a microwaved chicken patty and love is a tent on a chair. And they get so much joy from those blanket forts in the corner that you hate to make them clean it up when the sun goes down. But they do and you know that tomorrow morning, they’ll get up and rebuild it better, even though tonight they cry and whine to keep it up forever.
I’ve been trying to zip up the world today, pulling the sides together with my knees and prying that tiny medal up, inch by maddening inch. I’ve made little progress. I’ve been sifting through my bag of faces, grasping for the ones labeled strong and responsible and organized. I can’t find even one. I’ve been hovering over my life from a helicopter, looking for fires to douse with right now! water.
Jesus didn’t hover over life from up high. He came down to gritty, sandy, soil earth to walk with us, among us, within us. And he offers himself as our water – the living kind – not to douse on our emergencies but to satisfy our souls in quietness and in strength.
And so if you wrote a book, and if you happened to get your first copy in the mail today, and if, as you held it in your hands, you felt yourself sucked back up into the helicopter, your eyes roaming about the landscape to find another fire to put out, another worry to tend to, another anxious heart to calm, remember Jesus. Remember that he pulls us gently back down into this day, this moment, this earth, this sand, these shoes. This day is the one he has made. And he has called it good.