We've spent a couple of days at our son's home taking care of his daughters while his sweet wife was out of town. He could have done it himself because he's a good daddy but this is football season and he's a coach. Small children don't do well on the football field with huge boys running and tackling and small girls wanting to run in the middle of them.
As I watched him enter the house yesterday, nearly six feet of him, I remembered the time when he was half that height. When he was five we lived in Small Town Arkansas and attended a church that had wonderful cathedral-like steps leading up to the beautiful doors of the church. Our pastor was an older gentleman with beautiful, thick, white hair and who always wore black robes when in the sanctuary. He was a stately looking southern gentleman.
One day my husband and I were driving down the street in front of the church and saw the pastor standing at the top of the steps in his black robe talking with another church member. They had just had a funeral and though the family and friends were gone the pastor was still there. Our son spotted him there and yelled excitedly, "Momma, Momma, look! There's God standing on the steps!"
Made perfect sense to me.