My son, Sam, sits on the big recliner in the corner of the living room, holding Levi. He is the youngest of three, not yet three months old. His lips curl open, a ready smile in response to a gentle finger nudging his throat or cheeks. Gammon is gone to pre-school and Harrison romps from one stimulus to another in the ready response of a two-year-old. Sara Jane vacuums the metal grilles in follow-up to Sam and me replacing filters a little while earlier.

There is in this a comforting ordinary, a snapshot of family in the midst of a day simply sandwiched in between the day before and the day after.

I saw the ending of the day before from 30,000 feet, saw the darkening of the world’s husk beneath me. An intense reddish orange glow rimmed the circle of the earth, a color and range never seen from ground level. At this height, light still holds, thin clouds brilliant in the sun’s high glory. Below, in the realm of nightfall, the dark closes in and lights begin to glow with their own intensity as we begin our final approach into Atlanta.

There are those moments, both spectacular and ordinary: the sun’s settling into the spinning of the world and a grandson’s fascination with a small tomato, the first bite spilling around the corners of his mouth and Sara Jane’s hand lightly touching my shoulder as she leaves the table, passes behind me.

In all of this, I am humbled, grateful. Truly, His mercies are fresh every morning.

H. Arnett

10/7/11