But they couldn't be called lights if they were not like the
sun. All kinds of lights must come from the Father of Lights. Now the
Father of the sun must be like the sun, and, indeed of all material
things, the sun is likest to God. We pray to God to shine upon us and
give us light. If God did not shine into our hearts, they would be
dead lumps of cold. We shouldn't care for anything whatever."
"Then, father, God never stops shining upon us. He wouldn't be like
the sun if he did. For even in winter the sun shines enough to keep us
alive."
"True, my boy. I am very glad you understand me. In all my experience
I have never yet known a man in whose heart I could not find proofs of
the shining of the great Sun. It might be a very feeble wintry shine,
but still he was there. For a human heart though, it is very dreadful
to have a cold, white winter like this inside it, instead of a summer
of colour and warmth and light. There's the poor old man we are going
to see. They talk of the winter of age: that's all very well, but the
heart is not made for winter. A man may have the snow on his roof, and
merry children about his hearth; he may have grey hairs on his head,
and the very gladness of summer in his bosom. But this old man, I am
afraid, feels wintry cold within."
"Then why doesn't the Father of Lights shine more on him and make him
warmer?"
"The sun is shining as much on the earth in the winter as in the
summer: why is the earth no warmer?"
"Because," I answered, calling up what little astronomy I knew, "that
part of it is turned away from the sun.
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