The Winter Sky

Today was a disgusting weather day. When I trekked outside to get wood at -- yes -- 5:30 this morning, I was greeted by a treacherous layer of ice on top of what would have been some lovely snow. At that moment I couldn't quite decide whether it would be best to let the fire in the stove die out or risk slipping and hitting my head, to be found by my family hours later. I decided it was cold and it would be better not to let the fire die out. That was a good choice, because the day remained cold and wet and gray and altogether unpleasant. Until this evening, that is. The wind started to blow and the western horizon cleared. It was nearly dark, and the sky above held dark gray clouds, but a good stretch of horizon was the deep blue of twilight, tinted with orange at its edges. It was breathtaking.

Somehow, for me, tonight's winter sky seemed to carry a poignant message. So many people I know are suffering right now. Job losses. Financial difficulties. Drug and alcohol problems. Marital problems. Major disappointments. All of the above. I, quite frankly, have been having my own particular brand of difficulties lately, which have left me tired and distracted (and not blogging much). Yet tonight's sky seemed so hopeful. The whole day was dreadful, and night was coming on. If the sky had waited a few more minutes to clear, the twilight and the glow of the setting sun would have been lost. But it was not. It seemed to me to be a perfect reflection of a deeper reality.

When I am praying for someone (or for myself) over the long haul -- some ongoing source of pain and trouble -- I usually reach a point where I run out of prayers. Then I'm just sort of hanging on for that person, and I often start to pray in pictures -- because I have no more words.

All hope seems lost in many of these situations that are on my mind, but I know it's not. When I run out of prayers, I will pray tonight's clearing winter sky, the unexpected twilight and the sunset's warm glow. I will remember that sometimes salvation comes long after it even seems possible. Hope has already been lost. But the change comes anyway -- sudden and unexpected, like tonight's breathtaking horizon.