
Why even our smallest routines are the stuff of worship.
"Baby, please go get Papaw." I can't begin to count how many times I heard that simple command and ventured out to find my grandfather, who was working somewhere around the house. He was a man who was happy performing the most menial tasks. Washing cars. Painting trim. Cleaning the gutters. Spraying for weeds. But the chore I most often found him at was sweeping — and singing. My, how that man loved a clean sidewalk. "When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more. And the morning breaks eternal, bright and fair . . ." He sang each word of the hymn in a clear baritone, accompanied by short, percussive whisks of the broom. Before I clapped eyes on the back of his seersucker shirt, I knew where he was. All I had to do was follow the cheerful sound to its source. continue reading >>
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||












No comments:
Post a Comment