Jesus, shouldn’t these tomatoes have ripened, like, in August? They haven’t listened to me (‘STUPID TOMATOES, WHY DON’T YOU TURN RED?!!) Maybe I should have been a little more polite. Anyway, I’m thankful Your sun doesn’t give up on late bloomers and producers … and that Your Son doesn’t give up on me.
Jesus, thank You for a Ranger-roaring good time with my big brother, zooming around the Indiana hills like teenagers. For a brother-sister tour of his Eden-like garden. And OMG, thank You for his hospitable, patient wife who put up with a couple of adolescents in her home.
O Lord, thank You for ruffles of green lettuce that portend fresh salads for supper. For little Roma tomatoes that vow we won’t have to eat store-bought, pink-plastic fare for long. For blackberry blossoms that promise a future yummy pie. OMG, I’d love for You for wave a magic wand. Make it happen without weeding. But is the wait-watch-and-work part of Your gift to us?
O Lord, recently, I saw a preschooler “help” her father unload items at checkout. The little girl worked diligently, but squished a loaf of bread. I tensed, expecting frowns. Impatience. Yelling. Instead, Daddy thanked her for her help. OMG, that’s so like You. When I offer eager, squishy-bread obedience, You smile.
OMG, thank You that You welcome even grouchy writers with deadlines onto Your lap. And liberally pass out that supernatural love to their longsuffering spouses.
