Harvest is over and he’s home.

When I was in boarding school, way back a hundred years ago or so, it was what we said when a dad was helping his daughter move into the dormitory. When he was about to carry in the luggage or the stereo with those ridiculously huge speakers or the big box full of things sent by the mom to make her room more comfortable. Someone would call it out.

Man on the floor.

It was the signal for the dorm girls to cover up or close doors or do what was necessary to protect their modesties, or hide their messy rooms, or whatever.

I walked out to milk the goats this morning, and it’s what I felt like calling out. Man on the floor. Because it makes a difference. It changes things.

His presence, just being around, makes it all a little different. The schedule changes a bit, the atmosphere deepens into manliness just a little, the boys behave a tad differently.

I wonder sometimes what it would have been like to have been there when He walked. To have seen him. To have been in the crowd, to have heard his voice, to have served him a meal.

I think it might have changed my own walk. Changed my schedule, deepened the atmosphere of my life. I might behave a little differently.

How I long to walk with him, hear him, serve in his name.

Today I call it out. I call it out into the hallway of my life.

Wake up, Janelle. He’s on the floor.