He knows to water the ground despite what he cannot see.  

A small paper package with carrots painted on the front—picked to plant by his willing fingers. Three trenches scraped and born of dad’s easy movements. Strength that one day will be passed to sons. 

He tells me today—while we are outside and I am chasing the littlest one—that he must water his carrots. I look to the dirt patch, next to the overgrown and past their prime tomatoes—refusing to place rouge on their green cheeks, the summer sun having left them on their own to figure out it’s past last call. Dirt that is empty of signs of life. 

He is undiscouraged at what isn’t there and I marvel at the belief of a four-year-old. A boy who just yesterday replied “in the sky” when he was asked where he saw God—shirking the theological discussion that teased me. How to explain a God who is everywhere but also nowhere to be seen?

And then he grabs the green watering can, walking to the spigot. Small hands twist to release the flow. Standing over the bed of dirt, seeds somewhere below, he knows:

What he cannot see is still present. 
What is invisible to his eye is still real. 
What he cares for will grow.