The winter’s first snow fell, as if on tiptoes. It drifted down, like winter sneaking up on the world, silently decorating Earth in white streamers for a surprise party.
I am so glad I got an invitation, a pearly curtain opening to beckon me: Come.
Because here’s the deal: When I’m outdoors, I return to my first Love. I forget myself, and He becomes greater.
Too often, I’m a throne stealer. I freak out and fret and fuss and fluster. I shoehorn my way into the spot reserved for God. But out here, where flakes fall soundlessly? I sense the Father.
Out here, I can’t hear the zippers slap-tapping against the dryer bin, or the laptop’s steady hum, or the iPhone, beeping an incessant looky-here.
Outside, I find my first Love wooing.
While silent flakes drop from Heaven, I think of the Christ child. I think about how He could have come like a freight train, but he came like a quiet snowfall instead.
On that Bethlehem night, you had to be watching the stars or grazing from a feed-trough to know that God showed up in a manger.
You had to be paying attention.
I come outside to pay attention.
I click frame after frame of tiny miracles, crystals floating on air, white jewels collecting on boughs.
How can something so cold, feel so warm?
I bend my soul to see. And here in the posture of praise and admiration, I see more clearly into the quiet, understated ways of the most humble King to walk the Earth.
Out here, I surrender a throne.
“There can only be two basic loves: the love of God unto the forgetfulness of self, or the love of self unto the forgetfulness … of God.” — St. Augustine
Linking with Michelle…