There comes a point in every Ontario summer when the weather is just right. The humidity finally takes a day off, the breeze remembers its manners, and someone in the house declares, “Open every window!”
Suddenly there is a great flurry of activity. Windows that have been firmly shut against winter cold, spring pollen, or July heat are thrown wide open. Curtains begin to dance like they have been waiting months for an invitation. Fresh air wanders from room to room as though it owns the place. Even the house seems to breathe a long sigh of relief.
It is one of the happiest sounds of summer.
It is also, I suspect, one of God’s favourite metaphors.
The trouble is that most of us spend much of life behaving like old farmhouses in January. We keep ourselves buttoned up. We close the windows against disappointment, criticism, grief, awkward conversations, and people who might rearrange our comfortable furniture. We convince ourselves that staying sealed up will keep us safe.
Instead, we slowly become stuffy.
The soul is rather like that. Without fresh air, it becomes filled with stale worries, recycled resentments, and opinions that have been sitting in the corner since the last federal election. Before long, we cannot remember whether we are protecting our peace or simply preserving our dust.
Stephen Leacock might have observed that there are few people more determined than a homeowner who has just decided the outdoor air is “perfect.” Every window must be opened immediately, regardless of whether anyone else in the household is wearing a sweater. Someone invariably insists that a cross-breeze has been scientifically proven to cure every known ailment except perhaps taxes. Another family member quietly closes the bedroom window five minutes later. Thus begins one of summer’s great domestic liturgies.
I confess that I rather enjoy it.
There is something wonderfully hopeful about opening every window. It assumes that what is outside may actually be a blessing. It welcomes birdsong instead of silence. It exchanges conditioned air for living air.
Faith asks us to do something remarkably similar.
The Holy Spirit has never shown much interest in remaining outside politely knocking forever. Throughout Scripture, the Spirit arrives as breath, wind, fresh air, and unexpected movement. Pentecost itself sounds less like an orderly committee meeting and more like every window in the house flying open at once.
Perhaps discipleship is simply learning to crack open another window.
A window of gratitude.
A window of forgiveness.
A window of curiosity.
A window toward someone whose story we have never taken the time to hear.
A window that lets God surprise us again.
The wonderful thing about fresh air is that it does not ask permission to improve the room. It simply comes in and quietly does its work.
Grace often behaves exactly the same way.
So perhaps today, if the weather cooperates, throw open every window in your house. Let the breeze wander through the rooms. Listen to the trees applauding outside. Breathe deeply.
Then ask yourself a gentler question.
“Lord, is there a window in my heart that I’ve kept closed for far too long?”
Do not be surprised if the answer arrives on the wind.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of fresh air, gentle breezes, and hearts that can still be opened. Sweep through our lives with your Holy Spirit. Clear away what has become stale, fill us with new hope, and teach us to welcome your surprising grace each day. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
Same in Saskatchewan – every window open. At least for a couple of hours!
Where are you in Saskatchewan? i have a sister in Yorkton.