James Wilson Miller Cook
Personal mission statements aside, no spiritual formation retreats or
Regular sessions with an accountability coach or a mentor. Yet, I see now how you knew God.
You knew him in the way of cultivated earth, rocks thrown aside, seeds tucked in waiting for rain and sun and time to do their work.
You knew him in fresh picked beefsteak tomatoes, sun warmed, softball sized, passed into my wide-eyed citified grasp, and salted first bites, warm juice gushing down my chin.
You knew him in the song birds in your garden, the ‘Tropicana’ roses you propagated, and the paraffin topped jars of black currant jam set out to cool on the kitchen counter.
God, to you, lived in the close up worlds of stamen and pestle, and all growing things, in the dew worms we gathered by flashlight on the wet grass, and put into tubs for next days fishing trip.
God, to you, was practical love. Hands on, tireless, twenty year sacrifice for the ‘good looker’ you married, who lost mobility and found great love in you.
I wonder if I first found God in the sound of the Jersey’s bawling from the farm next door, or a calf’s sandpaper tongue against my open hand?
Or did I find God in the warm dent you left in your bed, when I was afraid of sheet lightening and blue bottle flies trapped inside my bedroom window, and crawled in with Grandma?
I heard your occasional ‘Would you look at that!’ as I followed you around the two acres, hands grasped behind my back, parroting plant names in latin. Still,
It took me 40 years of looking in less obvious places to come to the realization that God’s voice was hard wired, haunting, familiar.
You told me once that you read your bible seven times over, cover to cover.
I think about that too some days.
Regular sessions with an accountability coach or a mentor. Yet, I see now how you knew God.
You knew him in the way of cultivated earth, rocks thrown aside, seeds tucked in waiting for rain and sun and time to do their work.
You knew him in fresh picked beefsteak tomatoes, sun warmed, softball sized, passed into my wide-eyed citified grasp, and salted first bites, warm juice gushing down my chin.
You knew him in the song birds in your garden, the ‘Tropicana’ roses you propagated, and the paraffin topped jars of black currant jam set out to cool on the kitchen counter.
God, to you, lived in the close up worlds of stamen and pestle, and all growing things, in the dew worms we gathered by flashlight on the wet grass, and put into tubs for next days fishing trip.
God, to you, was practical love. Hands on, tireless, twenty year sacrifice for the ‘good looker’ you married, who lost mobility and found great love in you.
I wonder if I first found God in the sound of the Jersey’s bawling from the farm next door, or a calf’s sandpaper tongue against my open hand?
Or did I find God in the warm dent you left in your bed, when I was afraid of sheet lightening and blue bottle flies trapped inside my bedroom window, and crawled in with Grandma?
I heard your occasional ‘Would you look at that!’ as I followed you around the two acres, hands grasped behind my back, parroting plant names in latin. Still,
It took me 40 years of looking in less obvious places to come to the realization that God’s voice was hard wired, haunting, familiar.
You told me once that you read your bible seven times over, cover to cover.
I think about that too some days.
Lesley-Anne Evans
May 2010
BUDDY BREATHING 
