A playful sky.
I wondered abruptly if among the many other things he is, God is a glad-hearted child, a holy little one at play in creation, smearing vivid swathes of color over his page of sky, merry and sweet in his making, holding up his handiwork for us to see.
And I wonder if we, in our frailty, are careless, faulty keepers of this Child who tugs so ceaselessly on our hands, begging us to look on his creation. We barely glance, for we have more important things to do. We sleep or work through the beguiling moments of first light, our eyes fixed already on the lists within our brain before our eyes have even opened. We wake impatient for God to get on with the real stuff, willing only to look at him for spiritual business, for action, and need.
And he, with saddened eyes lets the soft, pink light fade. The hard day kick swiftly into gear along with his faithfulness and he sighs, hungry for the morning when we will all have aged enough to be a child like him once more.
But he, eternally innocent soul, is indomitable. His laughter rises with each new morning and he peers into the windows of our homes and hearts once more, begging us to play, to laugh, to see.
At least today, I did.
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