Sun song10:34 PM
"Oh huzzah! A fresh page! It's July 28th, 2012. It's around 5:00 and I'm being brushed by the breeze and dappled by the shade patch here in my lawn chair. The plum tree looks ripe.
Can I begin to say how moved I am right now?
I want to capture this feeling forever. I am so awake yet so serenely at peace, surely God is smiling on me.
Alright. I'm back. I had to dash off and eat some of those sweet golden spheres of joy. Isn't it amazing how a huge ball of fire in the sky, millions of miles away, can peek through swaying branches and warm my skin? How can a toxic explosion of heat and destruction glitter off water, sparkle in the dew and make the fragile flowers grow?
Color is nothing without light.
Too much is bleached barren white to squint and hide from, too little is lonely, abysmal black; but just enough is a fracturing bouquet of brilliance, spilling in fullness and flourish.
Colors, are they not a language to say what humanity lacks the words to convey? As a language is an order of symbols to bear the meaning of the greater real, so also colors speak of a glory for which our hearts yearn to behold.
These stirrings and tinglings are mere shadows through a glass dim, teasing of that day of face to face.
God said "Let there be light."
And was there ever.
It flowed from Him like a song, poured out in purity and radiance. But what is light without refraction? What is light without the defining dark? Thus God painted boldly His story of perfection in the midst of brokenness, beauty splattered in filth, strength bowed in humility, wholeness seared with pain. These are the things into which the angels long to look; the face of God that shines on his shattered image is a side they will never see. How dazzling His light reflects off the facets of a splintered likeness! We look into the face of a savior, Redeemer, while the heavenly beings see only "Creator".
Every aspect of this Creation is a trace, a glimpse of its Genesis, its Maker. I am continually thrilled to know the marvels around me that I adore are the delight of Him too, for He made them! No one can completely know and appreciate every stroke and minutia of a painting as does its artist.
If I love the green of the leaves, the blue of the sky, the red of the sunset, the purple of the horizon-stretched mountains, and the yellow of the tall grain fields, how much more does the Painter who mixed them on His palette delight in their spread across His canvas?