I can’t be concerned about the logistics
of how God works things out,
or the trouble He goes to to bring me to a place free of distractions
so I can soak in His healing love.
It doesn’t matter that what I signed up for was not what I did,
nor can I dwell on the wonder of how I can travel 4,365 miles from home
and be at home…and part of a family.
It does no good to try to figure out how, in a Methodist church in Nikiski, Alaska –
on the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death – we would sing
the only song that was sung at her funeral.
There is no way that I could calculate the probability that clouds would roll in
when we started chopping down that cow parsnip,
and the sun would come out just as we finished.
No, I can’t be concerned about the logistics
of how God works things out.
I can only accept the miracle.