What Are You Doing, God?
When I was little, my mother used to sew a great deal. I would sit at her knee and look up from the floor and ask what she was doing. She informed me that she was embroidering. As from the underside I watched her work within the boundaries of the little round hoop that she held in her hand. I complained to her that it sure looked messy from where I sat. She would smile at me, look down and gently say, “Son, you go about your playing for a while, and when I am finished with my embroidering, I...
