Hands busied with scrubbing twenty-four cups of the muffin tin, eyes catch sight of my Bible on the window ledge and breath catches in my throat as I remember the One I am ashamed to have forgotten again. Him. God of the Bible, God of the universe. God of my day, my weak and flighty heart longs to know more of You. You are the One who searches for those who seek Him. Crusted bit of cornbread muffin giving way from the pan, words of the Psalmist becoming mine. You look down from heaven to see if there are any who seek You. I read and pause and repeat, knowing there is truth, wondering if it will be my truth today.
Muffin tin clean, I move on to mixing bowls and barely start a thought. If You are searching for those who seek You, then you aren't smugly keeping a tally of my wrongs. You aren't orchestrating events good or terrible. You aren't sitting back, leaving the ball in my court. You are active, interested, invested. The lost sheep, lost coin, lost son are not lost on me. You are searcher.
Mixing bowls clatter as they are abandoned for buttons and zippers and rubber boots. There is muddy terrain to be explored. This moment is gone, but His words follow me down soggy sidewalks. Dump trucks jounce over snow and through mud-caked grass in full spring mode. Two little hands and four little feet pull the little blue wagon and He pulls me back in once more. He is searcher and every search has an objective. His is the faintest hint of heaven-turned face, heaven-stretched hands, heaven-cast eyes. He searches for signs of a thirsty soul that will receive His Cascading Greater. Lord, may it be me.
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