The First Warm Day

I was walking to work on the first warm morning of Spring. I'd been feeling rather listless and out of sorts, and I was wondering why, and I was wondering when this season in my spirit would finally pass. Not that I was depressed exactly, but I had lost all eagerness to pray for the fallen world. This particular morning, this first warm morning of Spring, as I looked about me at the old brick houses and the broad front of St. Mary's across the street, I knew all at once that Wilbur had been quite correct to say, so long ago, "Love calls us to the things of this world." Yes, I thought, suddenly believing what I'd never understood. And then I heard him--a young man strumming a guitar and singing on his front porch. His scraps of song seemed torn from him by the gusty wind. They flickered briefly in and out of my hearing before they were finally engulfed by the traffic's din. And I said, "Father, bless the young singer. Bless him, Father. Bless him." And it was the first warm day of Spring.