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Restoration fills our talk of home. Kevin and I never finish the conversation. We watch Riley pause in every doorway whispering some memorized OCD monologue, bending at the waist like a bobblehead doll, and Kevin says to me, “One day, she’s going to fly through doorways.” Adam stumbles over answering a simple question, searches his mind and stares blank and whispers, “no, thank you,” and we exchange a look that says, One day, he’ll tell us everything. We hear Riley fall somewhere upstairs, seized and seizing, and we run to her, both of us thinking, One day, she’ll be safe. Zoe leans on the counter in the kitchen, spilling her heart in confession about ways God wants her to be free, and we smile, one day playing across our lips. In our hearts, we treasure up a list.

In worship this morning, God draws my eye, gesturing toward wonder, saying, look, as loving fathers do. It’s like He kneels to talk to little me, and I grab my daddy’s hand, with a jolt of wow because I can. I never get over it, this thing Christ achieved, that I can touch God, that He touches me.

Of course, I need to tell you: there’s nothing incredibly special about me. Just hours ago, I woke up with bedhead and morning breath. I stood in front of the mirror and whispered something like I’m not so bad before turning away from my imperfections, and I couldn’t decide where in my heart I found those words I keep repeating or if I say them in kindness or blindness. The Spirit of God made me turn away, because mirrors lie, and that was not the place to focus. I walked away, noticing what I hadn’t said. I heard a friend’s voice, incredulous, “Do you know how much our papa loves you?”

Now, as God reaches for me, I remember. My vulnerability makes the Holy One tender, I think. He remembers that I’m dust, that I live like withering grass.

We sing of the resurrection, hundreds of God’s kids, whooping and clapping with joy; we never can sing about the grace of God without getting all worked up. Down front, someone jumps.

And the morning that You rose
All of heaven held its breath
Till that stone was moved for good
For the Lamb had conquered death

King of Kings, Hillsong Worship

Kevin and I like to call this “the gospel song,” and the moment I get to the line, for the souls of all who come to the Father are restored, God soul-points down the row. I swallow my tears, turning to look, as He bid me, toward my children.

Beside me, Zoe extends her arms like I do, a child reaching. She punctuates the air, emphasizing with her hands as she sings, and on her face, I read peace. Riley smiles in that knowing way, dancing a little on the balls of her feet, always a beat behind, but all joy. She catches me looking; her eyes flick toward me, and I know she wants to blurt, “What?” Meanwhile, Adam yearns, every muscle in his body absorbed. I look at his fingers, splayed wide, his arms, extended in a broad “v.” You can see the truth all over his face. His expression reflects every recorded human response to holiness. He desperately wants to look and also to press his body to the ground, so he squints, his face turned half away. His chest shakes with recognition; his cheeks glisten, wet.

I know why God wants me to look. Right here, in the place closest to my heart, I catch a glimpse of grace. This is where we take our best family portrait. It’s not a careful, perfect, polished pose. It’s hundreds of children who’ve skinned our knees and muddied our faces; it’s Adam squinting and Riley a beat behind; and somehow, it’s all the beauty of a holy God.

All who come to the Father are restored.

All who come are restored. Are. God soul-points and I see, looking down the row at my kids: Adam speaks clearly, Riley walks free, Zoe lives at peace. Look. This is what God sees. This is the mirror that tells the truth. Though now for a little while, our papa says. Believe and be filled with joy.

It is finished. Restoration has already come.