One word (ponder). Five minutes (write).
I settle myself into the big brown recliner and ease back, my feet poked out before me, and draw an old knit afghan across my lap. It’s like some psychedelic ocean, these zig-zagged rows of red, orange and yellow, but it’s an open invitation to one cat then the other. The first nestles in the crook between my legs, the other plops like an overstuffed pillow square on my belly. There’s little room for me let alone my Bible. A rise of irritation surfaces just below my skin. I’m trapped. I glance out the window, at the gray skies hovering over trees bare and brown like ancient skeletons. The sky is dark, brooding even, like this mood I’ve been wearing like a cloak these last few days. I look to my lap and irritation gives way to a slow smile, the kind that spreads by way of a warm hug, a loving touch. I pull my Bible over and let it splay across the armrest, opening where it may. I lift my cup to my lips and savor sweetened coffee. I’m as snug as these felines on my lap already lost to a purr-filled snooze. I look up and over to the window, to those ugly skies and notice a few white flakes between me and that dark expanse; just one, then two, then three. Soon it snows with all intent and I look down at the pages before me, so much more than black text on white paper, more than a feast for a soul as tumultuous as a winter sky. I read one verse, then another and all my gray drops back, obscured by truth falling like faith and a warm blanket over me. These words bring me home again, remind me who I am, whose I am. These words make me white as snow, despite the days before. I settle into the warmth and watch the snow lay a fresh blanket before me.
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