We close the blinds together every night. With Anna perched on my hip, I pull the cord and make a "biiipp" sound. On the second or third cord tug, she joins her with her baby voice, trying to emulate my silly noises.
We make our way from the southern windows to the western ones, and we're met by a glorious sunset. The sun settles down into it's slumber every evening, and yet for all its regularity, I am no less astonished. Was this what Moses felt when the bush torched up right in front of his face, the presence of God so palpable and awesome? And I'm no Moses, but this sky is all torched up, and I see God through the slats of the blinds, and I can't stop looking.
I set Anna on the couch and fumble for Aaron's Bible on the coffee table. Is it Psalm 19? Yes. I read the words out loud, and my voice chokes. Anna, she doesn't know what Mama's doing or why we aren't closing the rest of the blinds, but these moments, piled up, they will teach her to see the nearness of God and to sing the language of praise.
There is nothing hidden from the sun, and there is nothing hidden from its Maker.
Sunk deep in wet laundry and crusted food on the floor and mornings that come too soon, another day of doing what needs to be done and bone tired at the end - He can feel hidden from us, you know? Look about and the feeling gnaws harder. Another bomb in Africa, mobs and gas in a wounded Midwest town, a sobbing mother holding her hungry child, the fearsome powers of the world growing, swelling.
And I am just going about my business, closing the blinds as the winter darkness presses down...
But it's all the moments that are holy,
and He traverses with us into all the mundane and all the crazy,
and all of the time He is nearer than we could fathom,
and our God is beautiful and holy and gracious and so, so good,
it takes a sunset to remember.