that clean

The day begins cold and dark and the fireplace is a welcome place for schoolwork.

Soon, clouds burst with falling snow, and winter looks more like we remember.

Powdered sugar, sifted to the ground, sweet to our sight.

The ground covers and the man-child says,

"Snow always reminds me that our sins are washed this clean."

Whiter than pure, clean snow. How could anything be that white? 

That untarnished.... that forgiven.

When the sun comes out, and gleans upon it. Well... the reflection is almost blinding.

One cannot look at it without squinting.

If our sins are washed that clean, how do we reflect the Son?

Do I glisten by His indwelling?

Do others recognize Him in me so that their eyes must partially close?

And, as He warms us with His love, His Spirit living in this earthly vessel... do I melt into others?

A love so fresh, soaking all the way to the root?

The world waits to sponge whatever we leave as we melt...

If our sins are washed that clean, and our reflection is that strong, 

so also will be the shadows in our lives.

And I wonder if it's our own selves we cast in those shadows... or Him?