Last night, we saw a bear run through the backyard. It was dark, but not late. Not what you would think of as bear hour, that deep dark of night when we sleep but nature roams.  It was surprising, because though we had a guess there was a bear in the yard, we didn’t know for sure. We had seen evidence- what he left behind after he ate the hundreds of small plums that fell from our backyard trees.  But who knew?  Maybe the piles were from skunks, or foxes, or raccoons.

My daughter and I were on the back deck, about to walk down to the neighbors when we heard the rustling. “Deer,” I thought.  Surely deer. But just in case, on the very small chance it was not deer, I said hello. “Hello, Mr. Bear! Hello, hello!”  From the back deck, I saw the bear run down the hill.

After we screamed, and bolted into the house, and texted the neighbor, and wondered what you are supposed to do if you run into a bear in your backyard, we gathered up enough courage to venture out again, and sprinted to the neighbors, and grabbed the dog, who our neighbor was minding.  Home safe, I realized how grateful I was for the bear.

A bear in the yard reminds me that the world is bigger than I think. The truth is that I often slog through my days in a world that I have made too small.  I get caught up in my daily tasks: sorting socks, packing lunches, getting gas, checking homework.  Sometimes, I am even a teeny bit resentful of my beautiful family members if they do not properly appreciate my efforts. I forget that every breath of every day is a miracle, and that each moment is a gift, just like a bear ambling through the backyard on a starry autumn night. My ordinary days are grace lit through and through.

These are the things I see when I open my eyes:  the green of the basil plant as it grows over its pot. The bees that gather around it. The rambling man on my walk who bent down and hugged his dog on the road, covering his dog’s eyes, keeping me safe from his dog, the dog safe from me. Small red cherry tomatoes, heavy on the plant, grace because I didn’t even plant it until July, much too late in the season. For those of us who are late in getting our tomato plants in, who are late with so many things, there is still hope.

Jesus is all around in all these ordinary parts. He shows up, and shows up, and shows up again.  Glimpses of Jesus are not rare; often, I just don’t notice. Or I doubt them, and think that this moment, this thing, could not be Jesus. Couldn’t be a bear. It’s a deer, right?  Just a deer.

So I give thanks for the bear, who reminds me of Jesus. I give thanks for the wild that touches the everyday. I give thanks that there are adventures here, and that if I dared, I could follow the bear into the woods,  walk carefully to his cave, and watch him sleep his deep sleep, with dreams of water, and plums, and green.