I remember the light.

The way it illuminated that part of the porch.  All golden and bright.  Hope.

Every morning it would rise just as I would; we’d watch it grow up the post and into the trees, rising for the day ahead.  Basking together in it’s gift of warm delight.  A glimpse of the Promise of God’s good works to come, present in this moment together.

Now morning is wet.  Dark.  White and cold.  Light comes later.

Mornings are hurry and scurry of shivers, breakfast, books and out the door.  Not until the baby is yawning for his nap do we see, if we are gifted by the sky, that brilliant golden light. And no longer on our porch, but out mid-grass, creeping, shivering, up the hill.  At a distance.

It is effort to remember warmth, to remember hope being near.

To take delight in present circumstances.

When life turns cold and expectedly unexpected.  When insides reflect the seasons instead of steadfast purpose.  And heart feels sluggish and shivers at the wintery view.

I read it.

“And yet if so small a portion of God’s work ought to ravish us and amaze us, what ought all his works do when we come to the full numbering of them?” ~ John Calvin 

In the shivering morning’s silver cold, I remember that golden light.  The hope of warmth in that day.

I see it.  “So small a portion of God’s work…”  And it does amaze me.

Just the memory of hope.

And in memory’s light, edging away the darkening cold, I glimpse the edge of the full numbering of all His works for me…

Including these done here. Now. In winter’s chill, the season and the heart of life. The hope that is present still.

“…and God squanders nothing.” ~ Ann Voskamp

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