When it comes to summer, I’m a greedy pessimist. I sit staring out of train windows, watching the sunset, the long shadows, and the way the green of the fields and the trees glows warm. I sit in awe for a few minutes, and then I am already lamenting its imminent passing. I know that winter always hurtles towards us as fast as summer, but I want to grab this sunset with both hands and not let it go. I don’t want the nights to draw in, and to huddle against the rain. I fear the beiges and the ice. This, of course, is all a bit daft and possessive. The sunflowers, the sweet peas, the lake near my house, the slumping hills of Derbyshire are all beautiful because they echo a little bit of the mind of their maker. But to cling onto them and dread their transience is to stalk a shadow. It’s to assume that God speaks more through sunshine than snow, when He is hardly the type to be put into a climactically defined box.
Psalm 19:1 “The heavens declare the glory of God;
the skies proclaim the work of his hands.”
The psalmist so often draws on the expanse and wonder of the stars to describe God’s power: so that it is in the sky we see every night, not every six months, where we can clearly see His hand. But even more than this, I can rest assured that the beauty behind His creation is also behind His word: after all, they’re both God breathed.
So I pray, God, that I would stand as in awe of your breath when it’s in black script on a white page as when it is radiating every colour; make your word balloon three-dimensional and multi-coloured in my heart. I pray that you would make me hungry to find you in every season, and don’t let me cling on to your shadows but always guide me from them to you: the source of every light.