Backyard. Redlands, CA. Morning.

The chorus from a song by Edie Brickell, "Love Has Come for You," plays over and over in my mind:

Love,

Love,

Love has come for you.

Flying in yesterday, I watched the sprawl of the Inland Empire. Miles and miles of warehouses and houses, freeways and train tracks, millions of people. I tried to imagine the infrastructure required to support all this humanity.

Now, this morning, I'm sitting in a backyard, surrounded by the ordinary stuff of a family whose kids are flown from the nest. A pair of mocking birds is bringing breakfast for their brood, wary of the stranger sitting too close. Up on the power pole a pair of acorn woodpeckers is also busy with morning childcare. Starlings, sparrows, and doves add to the morning busyness.

From a distance every particular thing becomes vaguely insignificant. A planet against the backdrop of the galaxy. A galaxy against the backdrop of the cosmos. A single truck driver in the maze of Southern California freeways. A mocking bird bringing a bug to a naked baby in the backyard bougainvillea.

With our affection, we can give any particular thing galactic immensity. The baby in the hole in the power pole is the entire reason for existence for two woodpecker parents. I got on a plane to join a handful of relatives, because young people graduating is a big deal--if we notice. And graduations--like funerals and marriages and birthdays--are good excuses to exercise our affection across the constellation of family.

This morning, I let my heart wander from my family to other families, the people next door here in Redlands, the families of the drivers for those trucks surrounding the warehouses I saw from the plane yesterday. The families of the young patients flown to Seattle for emergency care after terrible accidents whose stories I know because of Karin's work arranging medical housing.

I think of the countless people I know in this region from my lifetime of family and friendly connections with Loma Linda University.

It's all a blur until I stop and give my attention to this one and that one. This kid. That nonagenarian. This doctor. That professor. This student. This sibling, cousin, friend.

Love.

Love.

Love has come for me. In