Being here

Wherever that may be

“Mom!” My oldest calls from the top of the green twisty slide. “Be here!”

I’m sitting on a bench across the park, enjoying the last rays of winter sunlight before day’s end. It feels good to sit down for a minute, with nothing to do but watch my kids run wild on the rubber playground turf. 

“Be here!” He cries again. 

It strikes me as a strange sounding request, but nevertheless it’s accurate. Because what my son really wants is my presence, my being. 

I get up from my sun-warmed bench and walk towards the slide.

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In church last week we talked about “the moveable presence of God.” He is dynamic, living, active. He goes where his people are.

God’s presence manifests in a myriad of ways, most of them somewhat unconventional. A pillar of fire. A hovering cloud. A gentle whisper. A burning bush. The person of Christ.

But that got me thinking—how many people missed it? Walked right past a burning bush without noticing, because their eyeballs were glued to their iPhone?

It’s so hard sometimes to Be Here. It can feel like Over There is much more interesting, and plus, those Over There people don’t have any problems! I don’t want to miss it, though. I don’t want to miss the divine presence that is only ever found right where I am.

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I stand at the bottom of the slide, looking up into my child’s beaming face. 

“Ready, set, go!” I yell, and he scoots down the twisting turns of the slide, whooping with delight. I catch him at the bottom, getting a little zing of shock in the process, and kiss his strawberry blonde head. 

The sun is sinking slowly behind the bare trees. We are all shivering, with red cheeks and runny noses. I’m thinking about getting home to make dinner and the boys are asking for snacks (“Dried mango! I saw it in your bag!”). We walk back to the car in no particular rush, despite the growing chill in the air.

These moments are so rare, when I am present in the moment and the presence of God feels almost tangible. Every fallen leaf, every spindly tree branch, every drop of sunlight striking the ground reminds me that we are not alone. He is here. He is with us. 

I buckle my kids into their car seats, give their noses a quick swipe with Kleenex, and hand them each a few pieces of dried mango. The faded blue evening whispers: 

Be here.

Be here.

Be here.