I can tell you that my dad didn’t hear one word of the conversation in this picture. Great-grandson Jake was intent on telling him something about this year’s Easter Egg Hunt. My dad listened with full attention. Then he probably smiled, and nodded, and told Jake to hunt a little more. Between the slight breeze, the chattering people all around, and the softness of a six-year old voice, the words were certainly lost for my hard-of-hearing father.

But that didn’t matter. My dad isn’t bothered because he can’t hear the details of a conversations. He just loves the connection.

I’m pretty sure I sound like a six-year-old speaking against the wind when I talk to God sometimes. He isn’t the least bit deaf, of course. But my words are probably as useless as Jake’s were that day. And I think God smiles. And nods. And tells me to just keep on tramping along through life. Avoid the weedy patches. Walk where the grass has been mown. And keep my eyes open for a splash of color hidden beneath the edge of an overturned rock or discarded tire.

Sometimes, the words simply don’t matter as much as the connection.