the boy in the yard
he’s out there now by the mulberry tree. he stands and eats just like his dad and he found the tree along the new fence, in the new yard, at the new house.
three days earlier i sat on the grass and heard the splash, heard the yelling.
i jumped up once i pieced together that the life jacket was lying wet on the dock and he was off the too deep end. i get to the edge where it’s over his head and he’s treading like mad, trying to swallow the lake whole and i dive in.
he grabs my neck and climbs me like a tree and coughs. he is crying and sputtering and i ask him ~
“why did you jump in without your life jacket?”
he answers true enough ~
“i thought it was still on.”
the berries are ripe and he’s out there to pick them and eat. him down near the ground and the birds flitting from branch to branch up top.
these days i’ve been diving into waters too deep imagining my life jacket is still on.
god is the same, telling me the same thing.
consider the ravens: they do not sow or reap,
they have no storeroom or barn; yet god feeds them.
and how much more valuable you are than birds!
he told me he wants to give us gifts.
but here i am sputtering, drowning. i’ve gone too far in without him. and once one part of life is a burden, i break under the weight of any other part.
but life isn’t full of weights for me to bear poorly, it’s all just gifts that i’m living with.
i want to wear the evidence. the tell-tale stains that lead right back to the tree. i want to be present for the finding in the yard.
i’m far from that right now. can you lead me back, lord? i don’t want to take it from here.
before i leap into this new day, i will stop my running feet.
am i with you, or am i jumping in alone? will i walk right past the mulberry trees, or will i point out the innumerable gifts?
lead me back like you have before into something i’ve never seen before.
edited repost from the archives