Blood Red Miracles.

I am a window seat girl.Cars, buses, trains, and especially airplanes. I love the window seat because I love the view.Not too long ago, I was flying for work and the flight left extremely early in the morning. We were up in the clouds, and by 6 am, the sunrise was starting to appear. I had my forehead pressed to the cold window, fogging it up slightly more each time I took a breath, and I was watching as we ascended higher. Finally, in a moment’s notice, the clouds cleared and I saw layers of sky and color and clouds, and below it all, faint lights from the city that was trying to wake up. At our highest, all I could see were dark gray clouds, just one shade away from being black. Under it, yellows and oranges were becoming more vibrant with each passing second. Between the developing color and the opaque clouds, just barely covering the slowly disappearing city below, was a bold red strip of color cutting the entire view in half. With the strongest, most passionate color, the red shot a perfect line through the sky. It nearly took my breath away.I almost couldn’t look away, but every now and then I would glance down at the city and the microscopic building lights and remind myself that the people on the ground couldn’t see it yet. I could see something beautiful, something breathtaking, and it would soon come to the people below, but for now, I was witnessing it alone. They were waiting for the light to come, running on the faith that it would, just like every day before then. I couldn’t reach down and tell them, I couldn’t radio to the officials and announce the news. I just had to go on the faith that they were still keeping hope.I looked right into that powerful, passionate strike of red and could only think of blood and life and heart things. A rare insight that we warriors know we possess. Things we can’t wait for the people below to see, even if they’ve already lost their appreciation for the constant rising of the sun and grown bored of watching the light come. We’ve either lost gratefulness to boredom, or we all need the sky to show us what goes into the miracle of a new day. What a wonder that it takes the color of the sky to bring us back to an appreciation for the mundane and purpose in habit and routine.I think the people who have seen the sky from above carry a beautiful responsibility to the people of the city below. Everyone knows what the ground feels like, but only a few have gotten a taste of the miracle in the making and return home unable to look at the sun the same way again. Never taking for granted the recurring. Never becoming bored of a new day’s light. Always holding dear the magic of witness and holding the hands of the people who have given up any hope that that magic still exists.People who have seen the good are responsible for bringing hope to the people that need it the most.Can’t we be girls who love the window seat, but also find purpose in the view? What if every opportunity was one to find the good and bring it back with you? What if we stopped trying to fix people with big words and long sermons and started just using the beauty we’ve seen in the mundane corners of everyday life?To love them, to hold them, to restore the hope not just for a new day, but the truth that each new day is a miracle in itself.To remind them that even the recurring normalcy is a chance to wrap themselves in gratitude and awe and wonder.“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”- G.K. Chestertonwords by Lauren McLemore and photo by Sarah MohanSaveSaveSaveSave