I almost missed the miracle.
It had been glistening on the opposite side of iced-over windows. (My neighbor calls them cheap blinds.) For three days, I hadn’t opened a door. Ice paralyzed my world. School, church — everything — shut down.
But out there, in the subzero cocoon, a symphony of praise erupted.
I almost missed it.
Until today. I opened the door to the concert hall.
For three days, the head of the birch tree has been bowed low to the ground. Limbs groan under silver weight. I snap photos. And I listen. I hear the woods sigh the way docked boats do when they rock against their moorings.
Every inch glistens, sings. A sheet of ice falls from the side of my home, cymbals crashing. One single icicle drips, keeping metronomic time.
Is this how ice praises its Creator, in crystal spires and irridescent skin?
I pull the winter coat over top of my cotton peace pajamas, and drive back-roads, clicking frame after frame of miracles wrapped in sparkling garments.
How often have I, in the deep-freeze of February, longed for the warmth of July? And then in the swelter of July, how often have I longed for the cool of night?
What if I lived in the now, found the miracle of the moment?
I snap more frames, capture 100 in all. By tomorrow, the ice may be gone.
And to think I almost missed it.
From whose womb comes the ice?
Who gives birth to the frost from the heavens
when the waters become hard as stone,
when the surface of the deep is frozen?
— Job 38:29-30
The photo of Lydia is submitted as part of The High Calling’s PhotoPlay, “Chop it Off.” There’s still time to participate. Check here for details.
Today’s post is submitted as part of Ann Voskamp’s Walk With Him Wednesday series, where we’re talking about time. I’m trying to invest mine well, by living in the now, instead of the then.