May the rising vapor of morning remind me that my life is such—a vapor that lasts but a moment—fleeting.
May the intensifying blush remind me that the color of my life is in direct response to the Son’s rising in my life—growing.
May the increasing light of morning remind me that Your presence is ever surrounding— abounding as I struggle here below—persevering.
May the setting of the sun remind me of my limits and that hours spent ought to be well spent, for they will surely end—humbling.
May the brilliant reds and oranges fading into indigo remind me that the best I have to offer is nothing that will last—ending.
And may the last thinning rays remind me that though darkness comes, Light is on the other side of things—rejoicing.
Between the ragged jag of mountain and the weight of a helmet grey sky,
there are slivers of light,
yellow and aquamarine,
wisps, vapors, light and air,
a promise of morning after all the grey is done.
. . . some mornings it is worth getting up!
I lost my purpose. Maybe
it is mixed in with my busy schedule or underneath the weight of these obligations.
I know I would recognize it again if I could catch just a glimpse of its shining.
It used to be easy to carry,
easy to store—always at the ready.
And even in storms and on rough paths, I tucked it carefully away
next to my heart for safe keeping, and it never failed to arrive with me at my destination.
But it is lost.
And I am not even sure how to retrace my steps.
Where do I begin to look for it after such a long time and such a long path?
Maybe my children took it with them by mistake when they gathered together their belongings and moved out.
Maybe it got lost in unrenewed contracts and the transition from vinyl to CD.
Maybe it is just out of sight, hidden in this life accumulation of trinkets and treasures.
I used to be so sure of why I was here; and though my path was not totally clear, I knew which direction I was headed and where to begin.
But I am here in the middle,
and where I have come from is murky, swallowed up behind in misty memory; and
what lies before seems just as murky.
The end destination may be sure, but each faith footfall seems planted in air.
There are no cleared paths,
no signposts to reassure me that this is the way—
only recollection of what was once so sure.
It could be that surety was arrogance and that I only had this one shaky step all along.
But the hard thing
is the knowing that I don’t know and
that my trust is the blind forever kind.
We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves. ~II Cor. 2:7