This morning, the sky is His canvas.
He draws a bead of light through the gray and I catch a glimpse of star before those swiftly moving mist islands swallow it up. We are driving off to school and I remember the song Teddy played for me last night, and how Mike Doughty sings over and over Don’t fall through the stars…My son told me how he wrote this song after the death of his friend Jeff Buckley—of Hallelujah fame—and I wonder if that line is a reference to slipping out of this world and I am nearly brought to tears when I think how life can change in an instant.
Later, I pour the coffee, read my Psalm, pray. I am still savoring Julie Zickefoose’s book as part of my quiet time—it’s not a God-book, but how it makes me marvel at the Creator. I pick through stories about birds and weep over a downed ruby-throated hummingbird. Tomorrow, a friend will bury her husband and I sit and watch the Downy Woodpecker cling to my feeder…clutching with three toes to peck at the suet.
How do we move through the days when there is so much sorrow collecting in the corners and the valleys of this tired world? How do I fold the laundry, sweep the floor…how do I love and dream and cling to hope?
I don’t know any other way than through His promises.
Hope that is seen is no hope at all, the scripture says. So I sit with these words, try to touch hope with my hands. But in the end it is my heart that is touched. And how do I give this to another person? How do I explain how an invisible God reaches down—embraces sorrow and comforts with tears of love? I do it by loving gratuitously; by using my own arms to embrace. But in the end, I know it’s not up to me.
There is so much that is not up to me. This used to frighten me—make me angry. It still does at times. But this morning, in Psalm 93, I read this: …you are from all eternity.
What must it look like from there? From all eternity?
It strains my brain and bruises my heart but I know that it doesn’t mean that today doesn’t matter—that this pain is meaningless. Our tears are collected in wineskins, the hair on our heads numbered.
Understanding is a ghost—a thin mist that slips through my fingers but peace is a Person and I don’t need to explain this. I cannot lift the veil between the heavens and earth and yet I feel the rent of the curtain—that holy breeze blowing through.
But I am yet human and I do not have the view from eternity…and this, our good God understands. And so I cling to the ones I love in this life, even as I trust and hope in promises. Life is so short, so uncertain. I cling to this peace that surpasses all understanding even as I join in the song.
Don’t fall through the stars…
Today matters. Let your love be known.