l was taking a walk one winter day and came across a strange assortment of items along the side of the road. Scattered near a driveway were a few carrots, and several pieces of coal. And as I wondered aloud what sort of bird or animal the carrots were left there for, and why someone had dropped the coal, my friend simply said “Snowman”. And the nearby clumps of melting snow took on new meaning, as the picture formed in my mind.
A few days later I built a snowman with my granddaughter, who had never seen one before. It was her first winter as a toddler. The snow was icy and didn’t stick together very well, and the finished product was a tiny, misshapen creature with two stubby little arms, dents for eyes, and a stone nose that kept falling off.
People walking by probably didn’t even notice the pitiful little snow sculpture, but my granddaughter peered over the back of the couch frequently to point him out through the window. “Snowman! Snowman!”
What we see is influenced by more than eyesight. We see through the eyes of experience, through the eyes of love, and even through the eyes of childlike faith. And sometimes that’s what‘s most important of all.