Remember as a child when your mother would trust you enough to hold the snow globe that rested innocently on the sofa table; the one that came out once a year from the first week of December until the first week of January?
You would carefully pick that thing up in both hands and hold it over your head, then slowly turn it upside down and wait for all the little flakes to float to the top which was now the bottom and quickly turn it back upside right and watch until every piece found its new home. My mind would go to the scene in the globe and fantasize about being there, enjoying the snow, the people, the homes, the lanterns in the streets, the kids on ice skates and all the little things inside that sphere. What joy my heart would know in those few moments as my imagination would carry me away to some distant past I never knew.
I wonder now if any child will do the same tomorrow and dream of the scene my mind holds today? I wonder if they will be proud of our generation and the heritage we constructed for them, will they smile when the snow finds its new home and they see clearly the landscape we helped create?
I think so…
Our family has endured the disruption of our “snow globe” and the flakes are still flying, and prohibiting our view of anything with clarity and meaning. Our feet are moving forward into a dark unknown, because a steady hand holds the globe, one my mother doesn’t need to be concerned about. Your high math may hypothesis these things to be random and have no meaning, determined by nothing for nothing, with nothing really in view, but I know better and the picture the one who holds the globe will paint will draw smiles from viewers after I’m gone.
How precious and golden each moment has become with my family; each member, and how privileged I feel to be able to hold them, to read with them, to talk to them, to hear them breath, to listen to the noise they make doing insignificant things like tapping out letters on a noisy keyboard, wrestling with a dog, drawing a bath. I remember the calm I felt as a child listening to the mumble of my parents talking in their bedroom late at night, and last night I realized we had become those voices for our children, …may my voice breed the peace they need.
Will the picture God paints with the brush of my life be beautiful, one that others will want to gaze upon and wait for the flakes to fall so they can look at every detail… yes, I think so. I am not an optimist, just ask my children, but I know a little about my God and His hands hold my future and everything He does is glorious.