November Sky
The sounds of laughing boys and running feet on crunching leaves meet my ears as we stand under gray November sky.
The park is empty this day except for my boys and two little girls about 8 or 9 swinging.
The girls eyes keep finding their way over to us and they are watching the running of these four, all fire and pulsing.
The toddling one year old plunges over to them in curious wonder, running and then stopping short a few feet away, innocence pondering at these friends.
And the girl full of her own curiosity, she calls, "Can I see your baby?"
"Sure," I say.
Her brown fingers gently stroke his corn silk tufts. He looks up at her, his pieces of sky reflecting her chocolate-almond eyes.
"I like his hair, it's so nice," she says with so much sugar.
"Thank you, but I like yours." And I do. Under this November sky I watch how it blows wild, like ten thousand sprigs of softest warm wool, dancing. Held back only by a head band, the rest, it flies, free.
And I think of my own locks, the color of November corn still in the field, standing straight, still.
I am taken by her dancing springs of earth-brown.
Her eyes shift downward and she says, "Nah, it's too nappy." Those almond eyes look back into mine, clear sky, looking, searching.
And I wish for just a moment, she could see through these eyes, what I see. Her skin, sweet cocoa, with a smile like spring in November. All beauty.
And how can I tell her, what I see? Make her see, this truth of beauty?
"No, I say. It's so pretty. God gave you that hair. He did and he likes it."
She looks, wordless.
Why is it so hard for us to see beauty, in us?
My words, they fail and I long to take her hand to the mirror and hold it there, seeing.
For a moment our eyes looking, and I see what we were meant to behold in the eyes of another;
God.
And I see the hand of this Divine Creator scrawling Love over all these varied faces.
How does He do that?
Makes earth and sky; and corn and wool, and blue and brown, and All Beauty.
And He makes us to be His treasured possession. His grand handiwork. All this beauty testifying to His grace.
Testifying to His great love, that He who made us, He also first loved us.
And He called us wonderfully made.
He called us His.
If we could only see through those eyes, see how how He loves us, that when He looks, He sees what we were meant to be; beautifully His.
Then we could see this beauty in the mirror.
And know that this God has words of truth for our days when we feel less than.
He calls us loved.
Standing under November sky,
this is all we need.
The park is empty this day except for my boys and two little girls about 8 or 9 swinging.
The girls eyes keep finding their way over to us and they are watching the running of these four, all fire and pulsing.
The toddling one year old plunges over to them in curious wonder, running and then stopping short a few feet away, innocence pondering at these friends.
And the girl full of her own curiosity, she calls, "Can I see your baby?"
"Sure," I say.
Her brown fingers gently stroke his corn silk tufts. He looks up at her, his pieces of sky reflecting her chocolate-almond eyes.
"I like his hair, it's so nice," she says with so much sugar.
"Thank you, but I like yours." And I do. Under this November sky I watch how it blows wild, like ten thousand sprigs of softest warm wool, dancing. Held back only by a head band, the rest, it flies, free.
And I think of my own locks, the color of November corn still in the field, standing straight, still.
I am taken by her dancing springs of earth-brown.
Her eyes shift downward and she says, "Nah, it's too nappy." Those almond eyes look back into mine, clear sky, looking, searching.
And I wish for just a moment, she could see through these eyes, what I see. Her skin, sweet cocoa, with a smile like spring in November. All beauty.
And how can I tell her, what I see? Make her see, this truth of beauty?
"No, I say. It's so pretty. God gave you that hair. He did and he likes it."
She looks, wordless.
Why is it so hard for us to see beauty, in us?
My words, they fail and I long to take her hand to the mirror and hold it there, seeing.
For a moment our eyes looking, and I see what we were meant to behold in the eyes of another;
God.
And I see the hand of this Divine Creator scrawling Love over all these varied faces.
How does He do that?
Makes earth and sky; and corn and wool, and blue and brown, and All Beauty.
And He makes us to be His treasured possession. His grand handiwork. All this beauty testifying to His grace.
Testifying to His great love, that He who made us, He also first loved us.
And He called us wonderfully made.
He called us His.
If we could only see through those eyes, see how how He loves us, that when He looks, He sees what we were meant to be; beautifully His.
Then we could see this beauty in the mirror.
And know that this God has words of truth for our days when we feel less than.
He calls us loved.
Standing under November sky,
this is all we need.
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