It's a beautiful morning, overcast and cold with the rain working, carelessly at the moment, to rid the lawn of the remaining snow. Through the space between the bare branches of the trees there are wispy clouds and streaks of a pale blue sky peeking out.
On the not so poetic side of life is my three year-old, a child in need of a bath because she smells like over-used pull-ups: a reminder to me that, indeed, it is time for (more) potty training, or that at the least I should remember to change her pull-ups before she goes to bed. I have found that in motherhood there is always room to err and err again. Thank goodness for water.
In any case, there is a bold statement in scripture, that "men are, that they might have joy." And though it doesn't take a rainy misty day sitting by the window with a poetry book in hand for me to know this, I feel it this morning with a conviction inside. Man is, that he might have joy.
It has been a while, I concede, since I have stopped to really look at the picture outside my window. I am glad I woke early this morning to do it. And I wonder, how often do we choose to close the door to that joy? The joy that is our birthright.
In the slow coming of my new year's resolutions I resolve to live this one: to not sell my birthright for a mess of pottage, or anything else, for that matter.
image found here.