We laugh loud.
We listen long.
We love like Jesus.
Sometimes a day dawns tattered,
unravelled before it’s half-hatched.
Sometimes there are tears before breakfast.
Sometimes I cause them.
Sometimes they are mine.
We snag on splinters and sarcasm.
Spill milk and harsh words.
Break vows, and dishes, and best-kept silence.
Lose shoes, and self-control, and sight of Him.
Little image-bearers park bare feet beneath my breakfast table.
This man, spent from a day of pouring out, ties on the towel, bends low to wash tired Momma feet, and gives the more that he could hoard.
Yes, HE is here.
In memories and mess,
in grime and in grace.
And that should change everything.