A glance at the side yard through the dining room door made me smile. Snow covered the top of the old birdbath. I admired the perfectly shaped mound for a moment. It caught my eye later as I lugged groceries into the house. But it wasn’t until I put the apples into the crock pot and saw the birdbath again, this time from the kitchen window, that I understood what I was seeing. White grace on a still, cold morning.
For years I rushed to work and didn’t see the grace. Even on days when school started two hours late, like it did today, I went to school early to prepare, to be ready to give my students what they needed and deserved. All day long I pushed aside the ideas inside my head, the stories that begged to be written down. By the time I got home at night and cared for my family, I’d forgotten the words. Still grace was at work, but when I slowed down enough to see it, I fell asleep instead.
Four years ago, when an opportunity arose to pursue the ideas and stories that had survived my neglect, I left teaching. It took a while, but eventually I remembered the words I’d forgotten. I learned to put the words together so people could understand them. I grew to cherish the time I’ve been given to do so. I slowed down and began to dream and imagine again. This morning, I slowed down enough to marvel at a gift I’d ignored too long.
White grace, undeserved and beautiful, perched on the birdbath.
Thank You, Father.
