Excited children are playing beneath a beautiful Christmas Tree. Cheery blond boy. Energetic little redhead girl. Both like cake, family, friends, and being warm inside when it’s cold outside. I close my eyes.
Between Christmas jingles on the radio, there’s prime-ministerial talk of war, bad government, and refugees. Is this 1916, ’36, ’56, ’76, or 2016? I often close my eyes, in a bid, perhaps, to sharpen hearing.
However, the sounds are much the same. I can’t put a date to them. I am here and now, there and then. We all are. The abiding sounds of conjecture, fact, hope, play, and report thread through time and family.
The lights twinkle whether my eyes are open or closed. There’s cake, and I am glad and grateful for larger Silence that carries our words, hope, growth, and timeless mystery in the palm of her universal hand.