We’ve taken down our Christmas tree.  It feels so sacrilegious to breathe a sigh of relief as all remnants of Christmas decor are put away for another year.  But the house feels so fresh and clean and void of clutter.  Filled with intention and purpose, as it were.

One of our children has been having a very hard time adjusting to the idea of moving far away from grandparents.  He’ll be cheered momentarily when we mention skype or that we’ll come back on visits.  He’ll even perk up enough that he wants to pack right now and move RIGHT NOW.  But then 20 minutes later, his heart will feel crushed, and he’ll start crying.

This is the child who has never had an afghan crocheted for him, so before Christmas he requested that I start an afghan with bright (occasionally garish) colors of his choosing.

I sat thinking about him and praying about him yesterday morning.  For crocheting, to me, is a visible reminder of prayers I have prayed for people.  Each stitch I bring a new request or a new burden, sometimes a new tear or two to the Father who gives good gifts. “I wish I could wrap my love and security around him as easily as I could wrap this afghan.”   “Help him to experience peace and comfort.” And as I was praying for this child, the snow fell, and my tears fell along with the dusty flakes.

“Go outside.” something in my soul stirred. I don’t often feel such soul stirrings, but I ignored it for a while, because the couch was much cozier and convenient.

“Go outside.  Your soul is starved.”  I felt the prompting again.

It had been days, nearly weeks, since I’d been outside just to appreciate nature, because of inclimate weather and poor health in our family.  I finally got up, threw a sweater on, and sat outside next to the Christmas tree that had been deposited a little unceremoniously on our deck. I watched the flakes take refuge in the dried branches and thought to myself, “I should be getting something out of this.  Why am I even out here? This is crazy.”

And then I watched the snowflakes more closely.  I took note of each one that landed on my jeans and melted, never to be seen again.

And words came.  “Each flake, Lord.  Each flake does it’s best to bring you glory.  It whispers your name, your creativity.  But then it melts, and who will remember it? If no one notices a flake, its memory is gone forever.”

And something deep in my soul welled up and reminded me “Does it matter?  Does it matter if anyone notices?  The God of the universe notices and is pleased with His creation.  He is pleased when His creation does its duty and glorifies Him.”  

Does it matter if anyone notices?

These thoughts gave me a grander perspective of eternity.  Even if no one notices the little things (and big things) our family struggles through or waits for or sacrifices, God notices.  It is enough that we obey.  It is enough that we are faithful.     Now these thoughts may not necessarily help my child who is struggling, but they certainly gave me comfort.  Our God is the God Who Sees.  He sees each snowflake bringing Him glory before it melts away.  He also sees me struggling to hold my child’s heart tenderly and sees me floundering and failing all too often.  He sees.

And that is enough.


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  1. Pingback: The Smell of Marigolds In the Fall | Those Kinds of People

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