The Play Set

I never want to forget today.

The old men, the young men, the children stomping out in the backyard, all wet from three-days rain. The new fence was just put in, too, so clods of mud and clumps of grass are strewn everywhere, caking the men’s scuffed leather work boots and oozing through the toddler’s toes.

What a sight.

Instead of a barn raising, neighbors and dear friends have all come to assemble the cedar play structure purchased this summer for all the church and community children— but particularly our own. The bright yellow slide in the garage has been smiling to me for the past two weeks— reminding me of all the love handed freely to us all before we even came; its been cheering me on amidst the slow unpacking and moments of uneasy loneliness. Even the very pieces, before any assembly or plans for construction, have offered me joy in the weariness. And then today, seeing it all come out to the mush, it felt like the bubbling over, a welcoming embrace as soft and as intimate as the wet earth between the toes.

The building has been a slow one— eight hours from start to finish. Like all good, sturdy dwelling places, the playhouse and ladder and swings stood up slow and steady. Every hour yielded an inch.

And across the street the tall corn stalks echoed the unhurried rising:

Yes, all the truest things take the sweetest of time. They would doubtless crash under the weight of impatience, topple if pushed in reckless hurry.

The tall, white church hovers over on the other side of the yard, mirroring the corn on the north and east ends. The bright steeple concurs with the surrounding fields, groaning its approval:

Hm, the truest things take the sweetest time.

It watched us all bend over the piles of pieces of cedar and nails and drills and roof shingles. Its holy shadows in the late afternoon warmth blessed each hand and hammer, consecrating both our work and our place of play.

I step back into the kitchen, readying another meal for the men and look out at the golden rows of dying stalk and beating leaves. The remind me of God’s movement, His timing.

All the things we long to grow— our family, the church, this house, our circles and depths of friendship, our dreams and callings— all this, all true things, are not rushed in the hands and purposes of God. The Kingdom has been advancing for centuries, millennia, and here the pace is graciously unhurried.

I stir the beans and peppers slow. The Carpenter would know a thing or two about building a cedar play set or the old wooden table on the front porch that won’t fit through the door. And He knows about building the Church and Kingdom, too. Indeed He is the only One who truly creates anything at all, speaking it before the world; becoming it in the fullness of time; redeeming it all when the Father leads, soon we pray.

Yes, our Savior builds tenderly and with precision and joy and a steady hand.

Forgive us, king King, for rushing the intricate work of the Spirit. And free us to joyfully and peacefully put our hands to the task with You.

Tonight we feast a celebratory enchilada meal, one saved for birthday fiestas and Christmas Eve and when there is something to show for. The small kids down the street test out the swings and slide down with popsicles dripping, warm mud adorning their fingernails and knees. We laugh over melon and tea, this small country church who builds together with cedar and screw and hearts and hands. And the vision of all these old saints and glowing children could make me hold me breath out of total delight.

Tonight, we will all go to bed tired and still a bit shadowed from the soft dirt, drifting off to the melody of the swings whistling in the damp September breeze.