Today I look around and my breath catches in my throat.
Surely I should take off my shoes. Or fall to my knees. Or raise up my hands. Surely this moment is holy.
Not because of anything spectacular. This morning is going the same way every morning goes. Still in my pajamas, hair disheveled, placing porridge dishes in the sink before grabbing another cup of coffee, I look around.
Regina moves into place beside me to help scrub the dishes. All four of her once-malnourished children play in the yard in front of us, strong and healthy. We both look out the window at them and look at each other and smile and don’t say a word.
As we look back out the window, Makerere walks by, not limping, raking the leaves in our back yard. He looks up and he smiles and I think of whole months when he didn’t smile and whole months when he just couldn’t leave his alcohol addiction and whole months when I could see his leg bone.
And it fills up my heart and I know it with my whole body and it tumbles out of my mouth in a barely audible whisper, “God has been good to us.”
Some days, babies die and children don’t obey. Some days, friends won’t leave their addictions or take the ARVs that could save their lives or listen when I try to share the gospel. Some days the hurt of the world muddles my vision and I forget to remember that every moment is holy and I could live here on my knees with shoes off and hands raised if I would just choose to see it.
Tomorrow or next week or in ten minutes I will forget. A devastated friend will sit on the couch and I will struggle to find words that encourage. I will cry as I peel carrots over the open, already-stained pages of Psalms. But right now I breathe deep and bend knees and raise hands high. And I say it to you and I say it to me: God has been good to us.
And to Him, the Good Father, I say thank You.