Wildwood

“This world is not the same world God created in the beginning,” my almost-five-year-old boldly declares this morning on the way to school.

“How do you mean?” I inquire.

“In the beginning there was only God and people and the garden,” she explains.

“This world is the same one God created,” I assure her, “just… changed a little.”

She’s so young and already sensing something’s amiss after Eden.

Later that day, perhaps hoping to get a taste of Eden, the baby and I go walk the trails at the nature preserve.

The honeysuckle along the towpath is in full bloom. The fishermen are not in a hurry. My little daughter waves to every living thing we pass.

We mosey along and count eight snowy egrets, a handful of turtles, and one very dead frog (this is not Eden after all).

The sun twinkles between the twisting vines and the egrets glide through glistening waters looking for their lunch.

We hear the birds songs as well as the gentle humming of the highway close by.

The turtles are huddled against each other on a log with their heads held high, basking in the warmth of the sunlight. On their chosen perch, they only know contentment.

I think what if I, like the turtles, was more eager to turn my face towards the Son?