Constant

How many selves have we gone through? How many days?

How many times had I stared out of the window? How many selves looked out to the purple darkness, counting the stars or listening to silence?

The window grills look the same. The buildings never waned in stature. But a thousand days and nights passed, will pass, sunlight will fire rays into the small parking lot, or the clouds drift pass, bringing either rain or shadow. A thousand days, more days, when I stared out from the same space, the same angle, wondering despite my changing mind. And a thousand more, maybe an eternity, to watch the world revolve and spin dizzingly fast when I pause, stationed in the same position, never seeming to change.

Has my mind changed much? Or has my heart stayed constant despite the years? Despite the maturity of my thoughts as I moved from devotional writing of romances and dreams to life and basic truth? Has age come to take my younger selves away to the hazy depths of memory, or has it failed to? Time marches on for the world we see, but never really gathers ground in our hearts. We seem to defy time by being constant with a part of ourselves.

Is eternity like this too? Shall day and night fade into insignificance? Let our own hearts be our light and our shadow? Heaven never deserved the worldly dream we speak of, of agelessness, of time, of beauty. Death strips all that away and leaves only our hearts, the one constancy that the world affords. This constancy of God’s making is the only thing that never fails to make sense.

I wonder how long will I sit in this same place, or if I will forget this place, or remember it from afar. But that isn’t what matters. If I can keep the constancy of my heart alive, I will always find a way back here.

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