How Will the Home Fare?


Keith closed the garage door and skipped up the back steps. He wondered if this might be an awkward dinner. He had almost forgotten the milk and margarine on the way home. Coat on the hook. Wash up at the back sink. A near stumble over Michael's tricycle. The kids already seated at the dinner table. Beth coming over from the counter to give him a peck on the cheek.

"Sorry I'm a bit late guys. I had a great visit with George Cromarty."

Ten year-old Becky's eyes strayed toward Mom in a knowing sort of way and then smiled up at Dad. Little Mike pushed across the table the crayon sketch which he had just completed: "That's the bush leading to the trout pond Dad. Remember? And the cardinal way up in that tree. And me on the dock with two good ones already in our basket."

Keith took a long look at the art and then brushed his son at the back of the head. "Good, Son, a really good picture. I think it gets the tack board for at least a week. Of course, your next one will probably be better."

Keith sensed Beth's unspoken comment: 'Would you please say grace? Things are getting cold.'

Hands joined in a circle.

"Father, thank you for this good day, and our home, and our safety, and this good food prepared as You have provided it. Thank you for our kids who are growing so well. Thank you that you have instilled in Beth's heart and in mine this vision for the maturing and usefulness of our Church and for the joy and blessing of the people, our friends. May they share gladly in our hopes. This is a big assignment. You are a big God. Keep us from fear and from going ahead of what you have laid out. In Jesus name, Amen."

He felt his wife's hand give an extra squeeze, and then she sighed heavily. Then it was Becky's turn with news about the field trip planned at school for the Friday two weeks away...

And down from a glowing spring evening sky, over the back-yard, through the kitchen window and onto the busy table streamed shafts of light of Grace.

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