Morning Thanks

It doesn't bug me. The truth is, it thrills me, even scares me a little: my granddaughter is just beginning to be something and someone more than a toddler. She's three whole years old now, and this picture--a "school picture"--is directly from day care. She's at her desk. 

Maybe it's the dark dress, those sleeves festooned with pink frills. Maybe it's the way her bangs are thrown back and tied with a rubber band; maybe it's the setting--so clearly a classroom--but something about his haunting picture has me in its spell.

She's becoming someone, as all of us do. She's becoming something of what she will be, beginning to show to the world all around that she is already who she is becoming.

So I sat out on the deck this morning, waiting for the dawn, having set up my tripod just to see if whatever I might snap of the bold eastern sky would look better than some of the really winning dawns I've witnessed from right here, nothing but earth and sky behind us. Why? I don't know, but I was thinking about this picture and waiting for the dawn to grow when for some reason I thought of John Milton, an old poem, "On his blindness."

Which he was. Milton went blind, had to dictate his poems to his daughters, in fact. Anyway, these lines, a sonnet are what came to me.

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask.

Not so fondly maybe either. He's more than a little chagrined. It's just not fair, he says, that God Almighty expects what he does from me--and us--and then renders me blind. It's not fair. He claims he feels more inclined to serve his maker than he might have when he was younger ("Soul more bent/To serve"), but worries that when called to judgment--yes, Milton was a Puritan--he'll get bawled out for not accomplishing what he should have.

And. He. Was. Blind. Lord, a'mighty, he might have said, how can God expect me to serve you when my lights are out?

Of course, he already knows answers to tough questions. He's cut his teeth on weighing the stress of life's burdens, which is why the answer comes from his own conscience, only secondarily from God.

But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Famous last line, of course, patience-filled. I couldn't help thinking about how much of my granddaughter's life I'm going to miss. It's a painful thought, but very real. Our oldest granddaughter is 21. I'm quite certain I'll see her married; there's a better-the-even chance I'll see a child of her own someday.

But this one in the school picture?--doubtful. In all likelihood, I'll never know her as an adult. I want to see.

I was out on the deck because from the moment I got up because it seemed to me that this June dawn held real promise.




And, to be sure, it came through nicely, a celebration of the Creator's might.






I came heir to a blessing simply as a bystander. I had nothing to do with the imperial beauty proclaimed in and by the eastern sky, had only to enjoy it, only to stand and wait, to remind myself that my missing my granddaughter's life can itself shorten my days. Learn to sit back and enjoy what's up on the screen before you. Give thanks always, for school pictures, Milton's sonnets, and stunning morning lights.

There's so much for which to be thankful.