Grace burrows into the hood of her orange sweatshirt and curls into pink plush on the couch. She complains of a sore throat, but she has no fever. Of course, it’s only 49 degrees in the house.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” she moans.
“Do you want some gloves?”
“No. Then I can’t feel my iPod.”
We take turns making vapor clouds.
I know how she feels. I’m dressed in several layers and swathed in MSU green. If I put on gloves, I can’t feel the computer keys. But instead of typing, I wander from room to room, fascinated with how vividly I see the world as they knock out each pane of glass.
Who replaces windows in winter?
We do. We got a deal.
Someone comments on Facebook, “At least you won’t have any bats fly inside in this weather.”
And maybe when they’re all done, we won’t feel the cold crawl through the cracks. And maybe the house will fill up with light because we can more easily wipe away the smears.
My husband spent days last summer cleaning the old windows. Trying to anyway. Unscrewing and rescrewing the storms, removing and replacing the screens, all while balancing on high. We still could not see clearly. But these new windows? They tilt down and in, all nicely framed.
They’re easy to care for and energy efficient.
It should be well worth the investment.
I think how there are times we need to replace the windows through which we view life. To don new lenses in order to see more clearly, even in cold and clouded circumstances.
“No matter how we feel,” I tell Grace, God frames wonder right in front of us. All we need are the eyes to see.”
Your eyes are windows into your body. If you open your eyes wide in wonder and belief, your body fills up with light. If you live squinty-eyed in greed and distrust, your body is a dank cellar. If you pull the blinds on your windows, what a dark life you will have! ~Matthew 6:22-23 (MSG)
“Once a nurse, always a nurse,” they say. But now I spend my days with laptop and camera in tow as I look for the extraordinary in the ordinary. I’m a Michigan gal, mom to two, grandmom to two, and wife to one. My husband and I live on 50 acres in the same 150-plus-year-old farmhouse he grew up in. I love this quote by Mary Oliver, “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” That’s how I want to live. And I’m still learning how to be. Still.