God works through your pillow—the mustard seeds of nightly prayer rising into the tallest plants of sleep’s garden.
Our Lord of the morning shower, soap, and the fragrant towel—our God who works in the eggs’ sizzle and surprise of the toaster.
The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob works in the frayed cloth used to wipe the table, in the broom
sweeping glass, and the sound of conversation beneath the humming dishwasher.
God works in the taut string that opens hospital room curtains, in the medical instruments’ blinking eyes, and the vase’s wilting bouquet.
He works in the search for lost keys, in the attempt to send messages on phones with cracked screens, in calls made from stairwells.
In the swimming pool, God works through water splashed from your hand toward laughing children.
On the go, through each green light you pass under, the yellow and the red—through missed trains and wrong turns into rush hour traffic.
God works in the lips of the late night kiss, and the morning kiss, and the afternoon’s.
In the vow spoken and the one broken, in the chapel and the lawyer’s office.
God works in the broken dream, in the stacked bills and filed bankruptcies—in what we’ve done and left undone—working long after we’re gone.
God works in the hand that holds the hand, the mouth that closes so the ear can listen.
In each arm of the body that reaches with love to pull another body in.