There's sun on the snow and in the morning porridge bowls.
The boys argue loud, who knows about what — sometimes we don't understand each other. Sometimes we're speaking the same language but we aren't.
My father always says he'd never be able to talk if someone tied his hands. I don't know about that. I just start cleaning off the breakfast dishes, gathering their bowls up in the midst of their blustering.
Gratitude is always this language you speak with your hands.
Jesus took the bread with His hands and He gave thanks...
There's hot water filling the sink, the suds rising. There's this running murmuring filling the empty places, thanks rising.
When you speak the dialect of doxology, life can take you down any road and you know the language of joy.
There's light coming in across the floor, always brave light coming — it may not be much but it decodes the dark.
Always enough light to master the dark.
All pictures from Ann Voskamp.
Ann's teaching, writing, speaking, and photography have blessed tens of thousands in many languages and her books are available in multiple languages...