On Tuesday I saw a man-boy turning the corner of our back road in a blue tractor, and there was glory in his sand-blonde hair.
For man is crowned with glory when he comes alive in his purpose, when the being given him begins to tremble and echo the particular Word that created him.
All of us are formed by a call and fingerprinted, and when we trace the Maker’s lines in us they become a one-and-only map to the telos – the end goal – of our being.
And I saw that telos tumbling, radiating backward in the muscling of sun-strong arms, and God was laughing right out of his teenage mouth for the joy of a spring ploughed field and a barn going up all sticky and sweet and new.
Higher than the angels, that boy is, and he drives into the western sun and I wave in a kind of awe at the weight of it all.