I’ve always been a cloudgazer, captivated by the light dancing among the clouds. Even before I knew Jesus the sky spoke, whispering promises of things I didn’t even know I longed to find. Even when I couldn’t see the beauty of much else with all the sex I was looking at, the sky always made it through and ministered to my soul.
The juxtaposition of sky and earth, like laying out the kingdom of heaven and the kingdoms of the world stacked on top of each other, can be a study in contrasts. Some of the most terrible events the world has ever known have probably occurred under a glorious sky filled with fluffy clouds and dazzling sunlight. I’ve always wondered what it must be like for soldiers on battlefields to look up and see palaces arching above them in grace and majesty while the bodies of their friends lie scatterred in pieces around them.
It would seem beyond horrible to me, as if heaven should weep yet remains coldly unmoved, if the clouds didn’t whisper that there is a way in to all the glory they speak of, if the going out of the day didn’t declare that there will be a more glorious return and a new day.
At least, I think that’s what it says. Like all beauty there is mystery to it, and reducing the message to mere words loses something in the translation.
“Glory, glory, glory to the Most High” just doesn’t quite carry the depth of what is being said.
Perhaps I should just let the pictures do the talking.