True confession: This morning, supervising puppy chow so that Salt doesn’t eat Pepper’s share, I gave the usual command, okay, and she moved away from the plate so her older, though smaller brother could eat. After taking a long drink of water, Salt put her paws on my lap and waited for the daily caress. I stroke her head and belly and rub her ears while she, perched on hind legs, takes it all in, waiting to see with tail wagging, if he will leave her anything for a second pass at their bowl.

After a particularly long and loving gaze into one another’s eyes, I became aware of how simple this ritual is and yet how grudgingly I sometimes participate. Given the day’s clamoring, husband’s climate on waking or going to sleep, I have more or less attention to simply be still and know I became aware of the sad truth that God can count on less than this from me. Not all the time, but more often than I’d care to admit, my time in His lap is perfunctory – akin to the peck on the cheek one is made to give elders during childhood.

More often than not, my time in my prayer closet is also something scheduled and executed, like getting on the treadmill which lately, sad again to admit, happens less and less frequently. It is not to say that I do not remain in constant, conscious contact with Jesus, only to say that I miss the quiet, candid times when we just hung out and connected in the middle of some daily thing. A meeting not engineered by crisis and calamity but by familiarity, relationship, and a genuine delight in one another’s company.

And as for you, my friend, I miss the flowers you used to leave outside my door.


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