He makes all things fresh with a reach that exceeds our grasp.
He is the deep valleys of the dark purple iris, the wafting fragrance of the tea rose, falling with the shattering of burgundy peony petals, shining in the reflected sunshine of the wild buttercup, crushed and bleeding among the mown crimson clover.
He is in the decades old photo of a great great grandparent whose hands look very much like my own.
He is in the sheets and towels taken off the clothesline, clean, a little rough, but sun-dried and wind-whipped fresh.
He is in the tears that fall from the gray eye of sky, to form puddles reflecting heaven on earth.
He is in each cherished breath from the first; only He can know which is our last. When it comes, He breathes forever into us, cradled in His everlasting arms.
He is the forgiving worm in the soil of our hearts, unexpectedly unearthed and quickly covered up when we don’t wish to see Him, yet He continues to work within us, enriching, opening and fertilizing everything He touches.