“Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.”
—Irish poem translated and put to verse by Eleanor Hull (1912)
When a little child receives a gift, she often plays with the box as much as, if not more than, the gift inside. The parents relish her innocent adoration. It’s cute. It’s fun. For a time. But at some point, they direct her to play with the gift and decline the box. They discard it in the garbage or recycle bin. They teach her how to play properly with her gift, to be grateful for it as intended.
When the little child grows and begins to speak, she receives a new gift in a box. The parents direct her to open it up and say “thank you” for the gift inside. This time, the child tosses the box. “It is trash.” They’ve taught her to play properly with her gift, to be grateful for it as intended.
The parents are training her up in gratitude—a good thing, to be sure—but they’re also calibrating her vision. They teach her to see as they see.
Many of us know the famous line from Anne of Green Gables when Anne Shirley celebrates autumn by saying, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” [1] But we forget that just two chapters later she shares the same sentiment for winter:
“Oh, Matthew, isn’t it a wonderful morning? The world looks like something God had just imagined for His own pleasure, doesn’t it? . . . I’m so glad I live in a world where there are white frosts, aren’t you?”
We don’t see this frosty quote embroidered on pillows or painted on canvases like we do its autumnal companion. Who decided it would be autumn and not winter with which we should embellish our homes, coffee mugs, and stationery? Do we think winter is not as beautiful as autumn? Perhaps we think Anne’s fictional setting permitted a more pleasant experience of winter than that which is possible in “real life.” Perhaps we assume that because she walked around the world wearing proverbial rose-colored glasses (or because she is, indeed, a fictional character), we can simply pick and choose to believe her, if and when we agree with her. Still, something has calibrated our vision that autumn is the gift worth gratitude and winter is merely a box to toss aside. Regardless of interpretation, we can, at least, agree that Anne Shirley saw beauty where others did not. She saw gifts in the boxes themselves, so to speak. She turned a simple body of water into a “Lake of Shining Waters” and a regular cherry tree into the “Snow Queen.” And this vision enriched the lives of those around her. Anne carried and employed unique sight. And it was contagious. One might even call it evangelical. In the end, for Marilla, Anne’s foster mother and a constant curmudgeon, “. . . crispness was no longer her defining characteristic.”
Anne’s desire to maintain her singular vision also played into her greatest fear, that when she grew older she would lose her “scope for imagination,” allowing others to calibrate her vision to theirs. She feared such a loss would impede her gratitude, create in her an apathy and inability to experience joy as she had in childhood. Yet, we see that even after death and disappointment, Anne was able to look upon her life and say, “Dear old world . . . you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.” She kept her glorious vision; the boxes remained gifts to her eyes.
The key to gratitude lies in unencumbered adoration.
A wonderful thing about children like Anne Shirley is that they assume their vision is universal truth. This assumption adds to their joy. When Anne asks Matthew tag questions (“Isn’t it? . . . doesn’t it? . . . aren’t you?”) in her adoration of winter, she’s not waiting for his affirmation—she rarely needs that from anyone. No, Anne is assuming he sees as she does, welcoming him into her sight. And he lets her. He doesn’t cloud her vision. He doesn’t speak “fact” into her fairytale. He allows her to renew his vision even though where she rejoices, others recoil.
Do you know a child like that? I do. My son sees winter as Anne does. It is his favorite season. Others often reject his affinity for it and unintentionally scold him for liking it. Ick! It’s so cold! I also happen to love winter and have no difficulty empathizing. My son also loves modern design, similarly stark and barren. I, however, do not. My taste for design leans toward cottage style and pattern-mixing—the more colors, flowers, and textures the better. But where I see comfort, he sees chaos. The first time he saw a modern home and gasped at its beauty, I had to stop from exclaiming, “Eww! Why? It’s just a box!” Where he sees peace, I see paucity. He sees a box as a gift. Yet I love him and know he loves me. So, like Matthew, I check my vision. Does God not inhabit simplicity as much as complexity? Does He not speak through Rothko as through Monet? My son checks his vision, too. We see through each other’s eyes, even though we disagree with the other’s definition of beauty. We allow each other unencumbered adoration, not blindly adopting each other’s vision but graciously understanding it.
My child sees beauty as Anne sees it, “like something God had just imagined for His own pleasure.” He just sees it in something I don’t. I follow his eyes up and down the straight lines, around the abrupt angles, and through the black, white, and grey, and I find God there, the Great Architect, the Beauty behind the beautiful. Like Matthew, I let my child welcome me into his vision and become a “kindred spirit” as the Lord kindles His Spirit in both of us.
When my child sees a box as a gift, I relish his innocent adoration. It’s cute. It’s fun. For a time. But at some point, I direct him to say “thank you” to God for the gift and teach him how to play with it properly, to be grateful for it as intended.
Our Father is training us all up in gratitude—a good thing, to be sure—but He’s also calibrating our vision. He teaches us to see as He sees. That we all can play with the box.
[1] Montgomery, L.M. Anne of Green Gables, Sweet Sequels Press, 2023.
The featured image, “Hoarfrost at the Rock Ledge Ranch, Colorado Springs, CO,” is courtesy of Steve Moon and used with his kind permission for Cultivating.
Melody Trowell is a wife, mother, published children’s book author and poet, college professor, and amateur
gardener. She holds degrees in English and Linguistics and has taught middle school, high school, and college
English since 2004. During her time as a stay-at-home mom, she built a small business doing photography and
sewing children’s clothing and goods. She and her husband live in Texas with their three children in a little home
with big bookshelves and even bigger ideas. She has been writing stories and poetry since childhood and believes
language is one of God’s most beautiful gifts. Her desire is to show others how childlike faith and wonder lift the
veil between the spiritual and physical realms to help them see the evidence of Christ and His creation. Find her
online at www.melodytrowell.com.
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