The construction crew is picnicking on our front lawn again. Sprawling, propping themselves up on elbows and taking a break between bites to banter and laugh. The loudest of them has long hair and a beard that makes me daydream of Jesus and the disciples swapping robes for some orange and yellow vests which pick up on the Marigolds we planted in the back garden. And why not, really? Eventually, when they finish up their work, none of them will draw a bath and enjoy a soak in our tubs. They’re digging up our street and wrestling with ductile iron, polyvinyl chloride and steel pipe to bury beneath the frost line. Everything they help make flow will land in glasses, Brita filters, vases and all manner of sinks that they’ll never see or touch. The town says the work will take months, rather than seven days. But then we’ll turn the faucets without ever thinking about them, much less giving thanks or praise. I watch them eating on the grass and apologize silently to God for tending to reach out only when what he made breaks.