God is absorbed in work, and hears
the spacious hum of bees, not the din,
and hears far-off
our screams. Perhaps
God listens for prayers in that wild solitude.
And hurries on with weaving:
till it's done, the garment woven,
our voices, clear under the familiar
blocked-out clamor of the task,
can't stop their
terrible beseeching. God
imagines it sifting through, at last, to music
in the astounded quietness, the loom idle,
the weaver at rest.
Vanya wondered how he could best help this child, so pure in heart, to grow in the love of God. It was too early to SPEAK to him about God dwelling within him, so he simply encouraged him to sit still, to relax and concentrate his thoughts within. He was sure that, in the boy's open and expectant heart, the mystery would make itself known in its own way without the sounds of words... Vanya, for his part, tried to see into the depth of those wonderful eyes and, behind them, into the sanctuary of that child's heart where so clearly God was dwelling.