By: Lora Wimsatt
Sometimes it’s easy to believe the world is a beautiful place, full of love and miracles and adventure.
And it is.
Sometimes I tell myself that life is an amazing gift, a sacred mystery.
And it is.
I believe in the brotherhood of man, that every soul is precious to God, that we are called to love and forgive and cherish and care for one another.
But we don’t.
I keep that last part to myself as I talk with my little grandbabies, my heart overflowing as I see the wonder in their eyes and hear the innocence in their voices as they take their first steps into this world, and I pray they will always be as safe and secure and protected as they are right now.
My grandbabies are too young to understand the scary scenes on the television.
They are too little to comprehend the grim headlines in the newspaper.
I am careful in what I say when they are near me; careful of my words, careful of the tone of my voice. I don’t want them to sense my anxiety, to feel me tremble, to see my fears or hear my doubts.
I would like to think that by the time my little ones are old enough to understand, all these dark and dangerous things will be over, gone, history.
I know that is not going to happen.
All I can do is wrap my arms around them now, while they are young and gentle and tender.
I can guide their steps toward fields of flowers, direct their eyes toward blue skies, tune their ears to the singing birds.
Soon enough – too soon – shadows will creep into their sugarplum dreams and they will begin to realize that “once upon a time” was long ago and not every story ends with “happily ever after.”
But until then – and, even more importantly – ever afterward, I will teach them that the world is a beautiful place, life is an amazing gift, and they are loved, truly loved.