a morning with nets

The orange nets from the dollar store wake us early.  The boys hear them calling from the porch, promising bullfrogs, or at least a dragonfly or two.  

With coffee in one hand and a bucket in the other, I follow them to the pond.  It's not likely we will beat the storm, but we are not afraid, not even a little.  We are big and we have nets.

The boy sneaks and lunges, but it is just a stick. We tiptoe on. I gasp, make them pause, then we realize I'm pointing at dried mud. The little shirtless one is cold. He presses up against my leg as the wind increases.

It is getting darker. Perhaps the bullfrogs are afraid of the storm.

We head home, but we are not sad.
"Mom, you have to see this!" he points at the sky. God is playing with a clouds.
We will not go inside.

We watch the art change on the giant canvas.

We see dragons, and whales, and beds for the angels. Before long, we cannot even guess what God is drawing; we sit in silence and watch Him do a new thing, new to our small eyes.

We breathe in cool, wet oxygen, and we watch in awe.
We are standing inside a living painting, watching the work of our living God.

We watch until the drops are fat and the lightning is near.
We are chased inside.
We are small.
We are alive.
We have nets.

The voice of the Lord is over the waters;

    the God of glory thunders,

    the Lord, over many waters.

The voice of the Lord is powerful;

    the voice of the Lord is full of majesty.

(Psalm 29)