The other day I noticed that I was once again murdering my philodendron. I forget the little things, like, oh, say, water.
My pathetic little plant was yellowed and droopy. Beyond droopy. It was teetering on the edge of its earthly existence, about to join the choir invisible of greenery.
I decided to station it by the kitchen sink, near a light. I gave it copious amounts of water and it quickly bounced back, as perhaps only a
It revived so well, so completely, that I have left it by the kitchen sink so that I can revel in its wondrous resilience every day. Yesterday, as I sighed contentedly in its general direction, I was struck by the fact that God is so much like my philodendron, minus the "yellow" and the "droopy" and "teetering on the edge" (okay, so bear with me ... it's an imperfect analogy.)
What He is, though, is this: Forgiving. Always there. Patient. Waiting for me to come back to Him. Knowing that I will. And offering me, in spite of all that is lacking in me, the transparent joy that comes from gazing in His general direction.