“Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up,
left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.”
The earth beneath my swing is hollowed out—a dusty rut where the grass once grew—worn down from the drag of my feet.
I’m ruining the grass, God,” I said, as I pumped my legs, propelling the swing higher.
“That’s quite alright, Sparrow.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Time in your swing is time with me,” God answered.
“That’s true. I’m usually thinking of you when I’m here.”
“I know.” God smiled and patted me on the head. “I wish everyone wore down a path to me.”
“Would you like me to tell them?”
“Yes. Please tell them that I wish that they had time for me.”
“I’ll tell them, God,” I promised. And so I have with these words here.