Open your
eyes. Let the music surround you and
indulge. But don't let it blind
you. We must stay alert and strong. You can take them, for they are the
weak. Find the source; he is there if
you look, if you accept, if you are open.
For the act of closing is futile.
You cannot see his heart, but you can feel his love.
The children run
out into the new day to find the bitter cold exciting. When tucked into their warm beds, the world
was dreaming. They dread the next day,
waiting for the arrival of the school bus.
But when they awoke to the whiteness, the pureness, a sort of childish
bliss swept through them, for this kind of happiness is only felt with the
drifting in of snow and the voice of the radio announcer declaring a day off of
studies.
Mothers curse the
administrators, insiting the weather
shouldn't stop the daily study of knowledge.
Fathers curse the plow trucks for their hectic ride into work that
awaits before them. But the children
open their eyes to see the miracle, little as it may seem. The children hesitate not, for at any moment
they know it may melt away, like their past.
The snowmen are created as if God had sprinkled a little of his miracle
in each of their tiny hands. Snowballs
are thrown playfully by young boys, showing their "masculinity" to
the girls who giggle at their "immiturity." No one notices the shadow. She walks through, smiling to herself at the
past she barely can recall. The angelic
music of her past plays to herself. She
wonders if the children themselves can hear the songs of the angels. She just then realizes that they are the
angles.
No comments:
Post a Comment