From the minute I woke up, I was behind schedule. Typical. I loaded my two young daughters into the car to run errands. Our town, Petoskey, was built along Lake Michigan. To get from one end of town to the other, you have water on one side of you at all times.
Before we even left the driveway, the girls began to bicker. I let their chatter fade into white noise as I rushed around. Grocery store. Dog groomer. Post office. Gas station. Then something made me glance in the rearview. My younger daughter pointed toward the water and said, “Who poured that?”
“Who poured that?” I repeated. I looked out at the expanse of blue, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Everything seemed to slow as I took a breath and answered, “God did.”
Now I have one daughter who is highly scientific and needs to drill down to the proof of the matter. My other daughter is extremely visual and needs to see in order to understand. Yet there was no follow-up interrogation. Both carried on as if that was the answer they’d been seeking. I felt a wave of satisfaction and assurance and, yes, even pride. Somehow in all the messiness of everyday life, I had instilled in my girls enough faith to understand the simple response “God did.” I silently gave thanks for the reminder to slow down and take in the wonders all around me—from the Great Lake to my growing girls.
