So much sun hasn’t been seen in the vicinity for a long time.
The sun lies down on the living room table and stretches on the worktop of our tiny kitchen. I can’t believe at all it’s shown up after such a long and exhausting absence. I’m cautious about enjoying it, as it might disappear again soon and I’d be left with the sense of regret.
Feeling the warmth on my face, I look outside. Something seems to have changed, the sky is blue, but I can hardly see. Mainly I can see the outstandingly dirty window panes. As dirty as only windows can be, cleaned for the last time maybe in September, in the city center like this.
And I’m thinking: how really rarely God’s love reaches us in its authentic form, unfiltered by the dirty window. It works its way through the screen of mistrust, of the images inherited from here and there, as well as through the so-called grevious lessons of life that we’ve been taught. It reaches us through the collage of broken ideas that match only our handicapped sense of justice, our petty tight-fistedness, since we have already managed to believe that “life is life” and you can’t expect anything good about it, anything to enjoy.
So much of the warmth and the light that could take us under protection with the utmost tenderness – stays outside the window pane. And it seems that this is the only truth that there is: the truth of the neglected glasshouse we’re in. But yes, of course you can feel completely at home there, even to the point that the stories about the beautiful sun outside seem out of place. And incredible.
Categorised in: Margaret