All that we see around us all the time —
this is what we risk never really seeing at all.
I think it was Monday that she brought the the last of this melting snow right into the kitchen.
Right into the kitchen, in this packed ball with a few blades of grass that cut open the blind eyes.
“It’s melting right in my hand.” She’s grinning.
I’m melting in her palm too.
And after that, I see how the light folds in with the spinach in the pan, how it falls across a plate, how it lights her eyes when she sings, “Away in the Manger” before the Advent candles.
See how the boys listen to man-legends while they eat.
How their hair falls to the kitchen floor, this precipitation of time, how time’s made the son’s hand a man’s hand — running right there up the nape of his neck.
When brothers migrate in the evening to the fire and the couch with their books, I look up from words in my own lap and watch them a long time. The boy who makes propellers, there with four books in his lap, beside the brother who reads books while driving a tractor.
And there is music, if I listen. Mama turning pages of the hymnal.
Give me eyes to see — ears to hear.
That’s one of the truth wonders of the Greatest Story ever told:
That the only way to make a thing loveable — is to wildly love it.
And this loving a life because of the Giver of it? This is what makes life a loveable thing.
The candles flicker light in the windows and I fall in love with the Giver of the all the moments, who gives all this living.
In the windows, everywhere like a window, you can catch reflections of it —
One thing I ask of the LORD, this is what I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life,
to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD
and to seek him in his temple.