Last night it rained, wildly pounding the roof and the gutters. The tree branches swayed and bent and the sky was weeping when I went to the bathroom at 3 a.m. Then, the sprinklers came on. We conserve water here, if nothing else. But seriously though, I wouldn’t want my weeds to be thirsty.
I suppose I should confess that I have nothing important to tell you today. I just have goofy Christmas pictures, and it’s January. But what could be more exciting than goofy Christmas pictures in January?
I don’t know either. This morning is a pretty regular morning, if you ignore the sparkle on the street from the rain. Outside the raindrops are shining and sparkling in an extravagant way, and inside I’m just sitting here waiting for the parade, or the amazing appearance of an important person, or something big. Instead, everything is little. There was a spat over crayons, and Dr. Claw the unfortunate cat has been chased within an inch of her life.
The point is, nothing big is happening inside. Someone just handed me a yellow glitter pen sans lid. It worries me. Life is full of riveting details. But why is it so beautiful outside? So fresh and sparkly? Why is the moss on my neighbors roof exploding in vibrant green? I would take a picture but the magic doesn’t translate. Just believe me, it’s beautiful. And I can’t seem to catch it, the exciting splendor of a Saturday morning after rain. You know?
At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendors we see. But all of the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in. -C. S. Lewis