One of my favorite people has made his appearance the last couple of days. Let me illustrate via these texts between SK and me this morning:
SK: So Dad is only responding to texts today with song lyrics.
me: Two words for you--Vacation Beve!
SK: Oh Daddy! Wait, is it spring break?
That's right, folks. Beve's on break this week, just when the weather warmed and the hyacinths are blooming, and the soft green needles of the weeping western lark are clustered on the branches, bringing a spring to our steps, and--apparently--music to our souls. I love, love, love Vacation Beve. He's the most fun, funniest person I know. And after the long, gray dismal winter, I desperately needed to spend some time with this man.
Sometimes, though, I have to admit, I don't always get his subtle illusions. But also living with us is our oldest child. He'll say something, and I'll tip my head quizzically, like I'm one of our dogs, trying to understand human speak, and E will tell me what he meant by his, "You have to think like a bungee cord," so some other esoteric statement. "Wow," I told her this afternoon. "You speak good Dad." And she does--see, E's her father's child. Body, mind and spirit, she gets him. When E was a little girl, one day I was driving her home from pre-school when she asked me, "Where did my hands come from?" I went into a long, rather elaborate explanation of how God makes us in our mother's wombs, how he fashions hands, feet, eye-lashes, etc. She listened patiently, then said, "OK, but whose hands are mine like?" Oh, I thought. "You have your daddy's hands," I told her. "I knew it!" she answered gleefully. "I have the biggest hands in my class." Her father's hands, her grandfather's. Wide palms, long, fingers, square nails. I'd know them anywhere. Gosh, I love hands. Always have...but I digress.
The point is, E came by her hands genetically. Just as she came by her keen mind, and quirky sense of humor. We are all a blender-full of genes, blended up just so so that only us could come out. I don't have much of a biology background, but I know enough to know that brown eyes are dominant, as is right-handedness. And a host of other things--baldness, tendency to fat, to heart problems, to breast and colon cancer--also genetically linked.
And as nothing delighted her more way back then that she had her father's hands, so she grins widely to be reminded today that she has Beve stamped loud and clear all over her DNA.
So it is for us, when someone tells us we have the tint of our Father on our skin, or that our eyes have the color of His in them. When we do something for someone, and they say, "You were Christ to me." To have our Father's eyes, hands, voice. No better compliment in the whole wide created universe. It hit me today that when I go into default mode in my prayers--you know, the kinds you whisper when you're falling asleep, or doing the dishes or driving, when you're not really thinking, just reflexively praying--that what I most often pray, is "Reveal yourself in me, Lord." That's it. Be more visible in my life than my very self is. It's the default setting in my soul, to want to be known, seen, heard as His. Please, Lord, write yourself boldly on my DNA.