And the old girl at the cruddy stove weeps a bit and is not ashamed. She is only a longing.
I once saw a picture of a girl.
She’d taken chalk and drawn a picture on the concrete of her mother, so she could see her mother right there.
And then she’d taken off her shoes, like she knew it’s all holy ground, and she’d crawled up to where the heart would beat —  and she’d fallen asleep next to a love like that.
Her mother drawn all around her.

There is a way of seeing, so that you can behold Him right here.
I clean the stove, the kitchen, with no shoes on.  Who needs shoes? There is glory in the light, in the crusty frying pan, even in impossibly caked-on egg splatter.
There is a way to live that sees how He is drawn all around you. Glory. 
And we are held.
Ann Voskamp