I think I’ve been missing it.
Praying with a 3-year-old is hit or miss. Some nights she knocks it out of the park, other nights we’re praying for daddy not to get eaten by a whale.
But tonight as we were praying, she stopped me mid-sentence and said, “Do you miss Him?”
God, she meant. My 3-year-old wanted to know if I missed God.
And the more I’ve thought about that question, the more I’ve decided she’s right. I do miss Him.
I miss Him every single day, all around me.
I miss Him in the laugh of my babies when I’m too busy to stop and listen to them giggle.
I miss Him in the colors of the sunrise as I rub my exhausted eyes and wait for my coffee to brew.
I miss Him in the quiet when I’m over-scheduled and overstimulated and over being touched.
I miss Him in paid bills and good health, and the people who believe or vote or parent differently than me but are crying out for love nonetheless.
In a thousand ways, big and small, I miss Him.
And if I’m being really honest, all the parts of me that are longing and gaping and begging to be filled up — it’s because they’re missing Him, too.
“Yeah, baby,” I finally said. “I really do miss Him.”
This story originally appeared on Daylight to Dark