We awaken this morning to a fairy land—the world outside covered in a glittering filigree. A fine dusting still sifts down—covering over the mud of last week’s rains, dressing up the browns of the dead grasses in the meadow.
On the way out to pick up flowers for his winter formal date Saturday afternoon, my youngest asked me about my first school dance. How old were you, he wanted to know. And who was the boy? Did I like him? It seems a million years ago that I sat with the boy next door on his car port, dangling legs over the cool concrete edge and falling headlong into my first case of puppy love and my first broken heart. But my little man doesn’t want to know the ins and outs of the infancy of my love life—he’s only trying to make sense of all the feelings surging up inside of him.
So I tell him the good things, the happy memories; and for a moment I am young again—fresh as the snow falling outside my window right now. He gives me a gift by asking for a story and the remembering helps me to hold his story-in-making more gently. Will his son one day ask him about this night? This first?
Suddenly, the wind is knocked out of me as all the “firsts” he must experience come reeling over. And the newness of it all is a sparkle in his big baby blues. My tired eyes catch the glimmer of all that new—mercies new every morning—and I hold on to this: God still has a lot of “firsts” left for me too.
So I open my eyes wide.
Over at The High Calling today, writer Shawn Smucker is talking about music. I love the way Shawn weaves a story. Will you join us?