Daddy's Off to Work.

The house is quiet. It's seven twenty am. My siblings are tucked away in their beds, with the exception of Caleb, the youngest. A bad dream behind him, he is by my side on the couch. Daddy is packing his brief case for work, just has he has done every morning I can recall. Soon, he'll be heading downstairs to kiss his bride and be off to the world of dentistry.

The fire is lit in this early room. It's memorizing; shadowing the many campfires of Gilbaugh summers. It captivates me, draws me deep into memories and sweet family pastimes.

Daddy's off to work. He stops at the door and I hear, "Hey. You. Yeah, you. ... I love you. Don't forget." Me. Yeah, me. I won't.

The subtle communing with my Maker is intimate and unmistakable. He's here. He's near. With me. For me. It only asks for the noticing, and I'm enveloped in this holy longing yet again.

It's strange, you know. When I recall our union, I want more. When I remember His spiritual nourishment, it provokes my hunger. When I think on Him, my mind reels at the simplicity of His Gospel. It's all paradox, isn't it?

I guess that's why I call Him my Yellow Bird.