The Window

Baby-sized shrieks of excitement fill the otherwise quiet room. His hands clap together while a big-belly giggle gurgles up out of his soul and sugars the air between us. Our eyes meet in mutual glee. His in anticipation of my next move; mine in full delight of being in this moment with him.

Right now, my tiniest stone is in a rare window of time. He is fully mobile now, active and busy. Sure on his feet, he regularly bursts forth in a toddley run, splashing through space to keep up with his brother and sister. He climbs stairs as if they are mountains, seeking the summit with every step. And he descends them carefully, slowing evaluating the steep drop as he lowers himself down the slope. Ducking and dodging, rolling and pushing, he navigates obstacles in his way. The garden hose is his ocean; the sandbox his glittering shores. A daily ride in the wagon puts him at the helm of the vessel that takes him into the unknown, and the backyard swing is his ticket to soar into the blue, like the birds who fascinate his curious mind.

The whole world is his playground, and he subdues it with great pride. He brings his rule and reign, like a little king, learning how the environment around him responds to his plans. My arms can no longer contain his abundant nature–the purpose knit into his makeup–to take hold of this very good place. In this window, I watch his babyhood fade more each day, and notice the promise of childhood coming into view.

But when he wanders near danger–a low-hanging branch, desirable to him–I am still able to pull him back. For the most part, we have not yet arrived at the days of kicking and screaming in a tantrum; the days of rebellion, shame, and hiding. He hears the sound of my voice; he notices the goodness I offer him instead, and he is content with my definition of right and wrong. Of danger and safety. Of good and evil.

It is a window we all pass through. A place in time where we no longer cling to our mothers like an extension of their bodies. Somehow we recognize our own individual identities as separate people capable of responding to our whims and environments as we please. But it is also a place in time where we have no knowledge of evil at all; no knowledge of the sin crouching at our doors. What a small, small window it is.

The beauty of the window is the view that it frames. Lush, inviting, dripping with goodness. A kingdom-garden for us, ready and brimming with possibility.

And the tragedy of the window is that we are unconscious to it. Unaware of our own innocence, unable to remember the day in which we played at the threshold of Eden.

Looking into the window, we see ourselves. Children captivated by a taste of our full, perfected humanity with no knowledge of the heinous system we will willingly become participants in. And looking through the window, we glimpse the future. Outlined by the walls of this life, these windows let in just enough light to brighten the darkness. A single pane of glass separating us from the fullness that awaits.

In watching my beloved son pass through this precious season of life, I find myself inching closer and closer to the window in my own life. Gazing longingly at the view it frames. Pressing my hand upon the crystalized glass. Lifting it open, bit by bit, letting in the breeze and myself dance with the wind. The Ruach–the Spirit–from just beyond, breathing into me the life I am made to live.

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