06/29/2026
There is a moment at the end of day when the sun does not simply set — it lingers. It presses itself through the trees like it has something left to say, like leaving is the last thing on its mind.
This is one of those moments.
Standing at the edge of what we’ve been given — stone underfoot, garden to the right, greenhouse frame holding its quiet promise in the background — the light came through at the 45 degrees. Not rising. Not falling. Suspended in the place where heaven decides to touch the earth and stay a while.
Abba does that.
He doesn’t always announce Himself in the grand or the sudden. Sometimes He simply saturates — the ordinary yard, the evening air, the jalapeños flowering without fanfare, the raised bed that asked nothing of the moment but received the gold anyway.
We had quite a morning before this light found us. A ladybug rescued from the water. A honeybee given her time at the pool’s edge — the first of the season, and we knew enough to be still. Five vultures turning slow circles overhead while we praised the One who orders all things, even the clearing. A tiger bee fly resting on weathered wood, doing what she was made to do in ways no one sees.
And then evening came, and the sun said one more thing.
This is what it looks like to live at the table Abba sets. Not a curated altar. A real yard, with a traffic cone on a statue and a wagon in the corner and peppers that flowered because that’s what peppers do when they’re rooted in good ground and tended with love.
He doesn’t need it to be perfect to show up in it gloriously.
He just needs it to be yours — offered, open, unhurried.
“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.”
— Psalm 23:5
This is the table. Right here. In the light that wouldn’t leave.
