God gets up off the couch

I was sitting on the couch, idly listening to the big girls play outside while baby napped in her swing, and thinking about how lazy I felt. Babs came and pounded on the back door, but I didn't move because I knew that a) if it were something important she'd be yelling; and b) Noogs can open the door for Babs if necessary. There's a hierarchy of movement at work here: for a simple knock I stay put, for a certain tone of voice I get up after a minute, for a certain cry I'll get up right then, and then there are the screams that have me setting records sprinting to the door (and nursing pulled muscles a few hours later).

And I was idly contemplating how fortunate we are that God doesn't sit around on the beatific couch listening to our inner two-year-old knocking at the door and think, "This one isn't worth getting up for." No, God stands at the kitchen window of heaven, loading the celestial dish washer (because cleanliness is next to godliness), and watching his children play on the swingset of earthly life. Then, when a mishap befalls, he dashes out the back door of his compassion to comfort and kiss the scraped knees and ant bites as we turn to him and ask, "Can I be good?" And he doesn't get frustrated by that.

And as I was idly turning this over in my mind, Noogs walked in, stark naked, holding a bucket, and slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

I'll ice those aching muscles tonight.