Open your eyes. Let the music surround you and indulge. But don't let it
blind you. We must stay alert and strong. You can take them, for they
are the weak. Find the source; he is there if you look, if you accept, if you
are open. For the act of closing is futile. You cannot see his heart, but
you can feel his love. The children run out into the new day to find the
bitter cold exciting. When tucked into their warm beds, the world was
dreaming. They dread the next day, waiting for the arrival of the school
bus. But when they awoke to the whiteness, the pureness, a sort of
childish bliss swept through them, for this kind of happiness is only felt
with the drifting in of snow and the voice of the radio announcer declaring
a day off of studies.Mothers curse the administrators, insiting the
weather shouldn't stop the daily study of knowledge. Fathers curse the
plow trucks for their hectic ride into work that awaits before them. But the
children open their eyes to see the miracle, little as it may seem. The
children hesitate not, for at any moment they know it may melt away, like
their past. The snowmen are created as if God had sprinkled a little of his
miracle in each of their tiny hands. Snowballs are thrown playfully by
young boys, showing their "masculinity" to the girls who giggle at their
"immiturity." No one notices the shadow. She walks through, smiling to
herself at the past she barely can recall. The angelic music of her past
plays to herself. She wonders if the children themselves can hear the
songs of the angels. She just then realizes that they are the angles.
. past she barely can recall. The angelic music of her past
plays to herself. She wonders if the children themselves can hear the
songs of the angels. She just. your eyes. Let the music surround you and indulge. But don't let it
blind you. We must stay alert and strong. You can take them, for they
are the weak.