There is order in the chaos, though it’s very hard to see.
The design is flowing through us – within you and within me.
From the vastness of the atom to the leaves upon the tree,
The Designer’s Plan is plainly there for all who truly wish to see.
Call it Magic, Math, or Science; call it divine mystery.
All names are lost within the great tide of eternity.
We are falling, we are falling – in and out, afire and free.
Calling out yet to be heard, the Universe, adrift at sea.
There is a time, there is a space, there is a guiding light we see.
In our ignorance we boast that we found electricity.
But the Master Artist weighs and see and paints with what is true.
And the pattern will be lost unless we take a step back, too.
The winter twilight had painted the snowy hills a murky mauve. The wind rustled through the branches of the pines. Across the highway, a lone Christmas tree gleamed, the only colour left in the darkening world.
Grace stood panting at the top of the hill, sled in hand. Her brother and sister had abandoned her out here in the cold and had gone back inside, lured by the smell of the turkey dinner. Her mother had not yet come out to collect her. She probably hasn’t even noticed, she thought. I’m always the last one she thinks of.
Tired, she flopped to her knees in the snow and absently sucked on the little snowballs stuck to her mittens. She’d wanted her siblings to help her build a ramp for the sled. It was perfect packing snow and she was sure that with the right momentum and angle of approach they could get some serious air. I wonder, she thought, what would happen if I never went back inside? I wouldn’t get to open my gifts…but then, they’re probably all socks anyway. She doubted her parents were going to give her the chemistry set she’d asked for. Little girls aren’t supposed to play with acid, her father kept telling her. Sheesh. How was she supposed to prove her theories without the right equipment?
The red mitten was a beacon; I couldn’t have ignored it. Its crimson softness called out to my peripheral vision like a siren song, a ruby gleaming in the grey November surroundings. It was a solitary, ordinary mitten. Why I was drawn so magnetically to it remains a mystery.
The day was grey and misty and the mitten was spotted by man and dog almost simultaneously. Charlie strained forward on his leash in anticipation of a new found chew toy. I reined him back in, my sixth sense tingling. We were a few miles from the last rest point on the trail – a long walk for the small owner of the mitten. Continue reading