W is for WINDOW

I saw the smoke from my window as it rose slowly into the sky. It was several hills in the distance, probably a good two miles as the crow flies and yet, even though it was a common sight in the countryside at any time of year, something didn't seem quite right. First, as the clock had only turned seven in the morning, it appeared to be rather early for any farmer to be already burning bushes or lighting fires or a householder to be tidying around his home. Secondly, although I was always taught that there is no smoke without fire, I couldn't see any flames. As I trained my eyes through a better viewpoint, from an upstairs window, I could see a moving figure, dressed in light colours and just visible above the hedge. The journey was a short one, from the house to the smoke and back. It was like watching a silent movie unfold before my eyes, but when flashing lights of emergency vehicles began to gather near the smoke, I knew this was real life and not just a film clip. I hadn't heard the bomb that had claimed another life for the double glazing had protected me and the distance had shielded me from the emotions of the moving figure but the window had allowed me to gaze in on someone else's tragedy and even from afar, in that eerie silence, I didn't like what I saw.

In his later years dad had a favourite seat, on the couch, by the kitchen window. From his vantage point, he could view the countryside all the way to the village,could see farmers cutting silage or making hay, harvesting barley and potatoes. He could tell when the river was higher than normal after prolonged rain, knew when his neighbours were spraying their apple orchards and could see cattle in his own fields. When the grass on the lawns became longer than an inch, he could see it through the window and we were told so and expected to rectify it and he could watch his three tiny dogs as they lay sleeping outside the back door. He didn't like any car parked there, for it blocked his view and when he heard a car, tractor or motor bike arrive in the yard, he would wait expectantly until a head appeared around the corner. His was the first face you would see through the window when you arrived and as he welcomed you, he beckoned you to 'come on in for a while's craic'. Now, I miss that face at the window, but I can still see everything he saw when I'm on his side.

And that's the strange thing about a window. The view depends which side you're on. I've looked through many windows from the outside and been disappointed with the view, for the inside has not always reflected the image that the window created. But sometimes I'm pleasantly surprised by what I see, for the owner knows that a window's main function is not adornment but to provide light to the inside. When others look at us, do they see a different outside to what we really are and when they really get to know us are they disappointed or elated? And how often has our opinion of someone changed, for better or worse, through time, when we get beyond the exterior? Yet I can't forget that when I look through any window, I can see my own reflection, showing me exactly what I am like. As the write of Proverbs reminds us, ' As water reflects a face, so a man's heart reflects the man.' And it's really God who counts at the end of the day and what He sees in my heart when He looks in to my life. I want it to be a place where He is always happy to live and I hope others can see His reflection in the window.