And then, a miracle
The other day at work, one of my charges, a three-year-old with an intelligent little weasel face, gazed up at me and said, dreamily, “Ms. Whip, where did you come from?”
And I was like, “God sent me so that you might have eternal life.”
J/k. Honestly, I wasn’t exactly sure how to answer her. I understood what she was getting at. Before I came on the scene, my little friend and her compatriots occupied a cold and uncaring country. For them, life was a dreary and seemingly endless monotony of grey days and unkind faces. (I do, after all, work at a 19th century orphanage.) Then, sort of like in that Shangri-Las song, except without the regrettable outcome, came moi. A blast of sweet spring air… a rainbow… a sunburst… a shooting star… a lightning bolt… a flash flood… a tidal wave. Of awesome.
You oughtta see the place now: the sun pours down like honey, the willows sough in the breeze, the birds are all a-twitter. In the center of it all you shall find the benevolent whirlwind that is Pistol Whip, tying shoelaces, modeling correct sentence structure, calming the angry and scooping up the weepy, generally turning them frowns upside down.
In the end, I patted the tyke on the head and said, “No matter, honeybun. The important thing is that I’m here now.”
Which is the same thing I would say to you out there. Our readers. Who adore us. Or will say, whenever you show up. Which I’m sure you will, sooner or later.
For God so loved that world that He supplied you with Left Hook and Pistol Whip.
Amen.
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