Psalm 18: 1-2
Focusing on Rocks (or, in this case, any other loved part of creation)
You see, there's the ocean and the seaside. Sometimes I can hear it if I'm quiet enough. Waves building and crashing. Breeze blowing, seagulls singing. It has a smell like no other place. Salty and sweet. I can look at the ocean waters and be in two places at once: comfort and fear. Comfort from knowing that it really isn't all about me. There's this whole other ecosystem swimming beneath the waves. A part of creation that deserves my respect, but is not dependent upon me to make it through the day. The fear takes root in the realization that I really am powerless. The waters are so vast and they don't care if I love them or despise them. The waters will continue to be; the waves know their purpose.
The ocean can tell us a lot about you, God.
And then there's Appalachia. The hills and mountains of green trees that stretch out forever. I've stood in a high clearing speechless and dumbfounded at what my eyes witnessed. Finding myself again in two places at once. Fear and comfort. Looking out at the magnificent world that pays no mind to my works, that gets on just fine without me; yet one that I cannot be too indifferent toward. To not think that it doesn't matter what role I play in the act of creating or destroying; care or harm.
The green mountain range and the life that lives in its foothills can tell us a lot about you, God.
And then, for me, there's the way the day wakes up. For someone else it may be the way the day falls asleep. Slowly. It never seems to rush. We think it does, but that's because we are usually so rushed. We rarely pay attention to the way the day takes its time. It knows exactly how to do it, every single morning. The birds are the first to announce it. They take the place of any need for a snooze button. The birds couldn't care less about our snooze button.
The dark fades out, the light tiptoes in.
Some mornings we have to wait and let the fog lift.
There's no rushing it.
The colors of the sun, if the clouds aren't sleeping in, extend and peal back the layers of orange and pink arms across the sky. Then they carefully fade back into the bright yellow fiery ball. As though this is the sun's own special way of yawning and stretching.
Depending upon how closely I watch, I find myself again - even in the walls of my home - standing in two places at once. Fear and comfort.
God, there is so much we can learn about you in the gentle way the day wakes up.
Your vastness and your closeness find their meeting place just outside my window.
If I dare to take a look. Or else I may miss you.