The Window

There is a window before my face, as there is before yours. Sometimes, I want to scream and punch through the glass. But it is thick; my scream is silent, my fist is bruised.

Sometimes, the glass is frosted and I see and understand only as much as a newborn understands its mother’s lullabies. By my own effort, I cannot dissolve the mystery, for it resides on the other side; I must wait for the veil to melt away and bless me with clarity.

Then there is night. There may be particles of starlight to ease the pain, or there may be nothing, and when there is nothing, I rock and weep and press my face to the glass and beg the light to return. It always does.

I have come to see that one’s home is a prison without the window. Many a soul has pulled a curtain over the window and turned away to artificial light, and I truly do not understand how they can go on. What of hope?

Sometimes, I see a face at the window. It is often mine—especially visible at night—and then ensues the bitterest struggle to see beyond my self. And then there are the euphoric moments when I see a face other than my own; I see a reflection: Nicholas. By his face I am reminded that he too is searching and that there is One more beautiful even than he.

I search, we search, and bask in His light when He is near; beg when He is far. But I think I know why He does not press His face to the glass of our earthly home: He must know our hearts would burst with longing to touch the Face of Love.