“We’re waiting for the street sweeper to come,” she squeezed her almost hip-high grandson’s hand.
“It’s very exciting,” she looked at him as though they were about to board Disneyland’s most awaited ride.
All during my run I think about this grandma and grandson.
My own memories surface. Feeding ducks with Grandma as she matches my slower pace and smiles at my eager face.
I feel a sorrowful ache for neglecting some of those years when my boys were almost hip-high, running to find my purpose while they watched in wonder at the street sweeper shuffle by.
I consider how God holds my hand and waves at neighbors. “We’re watching the street sweeper. Want to join us? Isn’t this grand?”
One day I’ll hold the hand of my own grandchild. I’ll scoop them up and plop ourselves on the sidewalk with giddy expectation for the Giant Green Monster who slurps his way along curbs, around corners. I’ll watch their expression and know this is what presence, love, hope reflects:
of glorious anticipation
for streets to be cleared
The intention to take it all in