This week a friend told me that he is done with words. I know, I know, he used words to tell me. But still. He has cautioned me before about hanging on to the menu at a five star restaurant, without actually taking a forkful of the steaming entree. 

 

This photograph is stunning. In fact I could pile on a heap of superlatives to describe it, but even that would be a pale substitute for seeing the picture. What is more, the image is itself a poor consolation prize for not being there, waist deep in the water, inhaling the fragrance of the landscape, the spray on your cheeks, eyes blinking up at the stars. The photograph is silent, lacking either texture or flavor. Still, I am grateful for images on google maps for navigating where I want to go. 

 

France is currently in its third lock down. Our daughter lives there, and keeps us appraised about restrictions as they ebb and flow. In an act of generosity the Louvre has offered virtual tours of its galleries and I will avail myself of that on an afternoon. But it seems unlikely that people will lose interest in walking through the door, entrance fee or no entrance fee. Standing in the presence of masterpieces is not adequately replaced by a postcard. Even less by a friend mentioning that they bought the postcard. 

 

I skipped over the reasons why my friend is done with words. I will employ words to explain. 

 

Our task for the brief years we walk on this planet is to be part of that waterfall. God's unending desire is to bless us, to immerse us in the splashing flow of goodness which He bestows without pause or an entrance fee. When we cling to the descriptions of those gifts, or warnings about how me might miss them, we are distracted from the bounty itself. 

 

I am grateful for the treatises that help me find those offerings. I consider my modest vignettes to be among the menus and maps and postcards. But they will be left behind once we are waist deep in the deluge of joy God creates every day.