Today all four kids were going crazy and my husband was late coming home from work. I took the kids outside hoping a bit of space between them would prevent a few arguments. As I mechanically pushed the baby in the swing the eldest cried, “Mommy! Look up!” Suddenly I was filled with hope and ran inside to grab my camera. Of course this glimpse doesn’t do the feathery waves justice and it was all gone in a moment. How thankful I am for little voices that remind me to look up!
My mother and I used to play a game where we would say which artist painted the day’s clouds. The skies present a canvas that is ever changing. One man can spend a decade on a painting, hundreds of men can spend years on an animated picture. God presents an epic show at no cost daily. He is pleased to share it with us but He doesn’t do it just for us. There are spectacular views of sunsets and thunderstorms in lonely deserts and atop fierce mountain ranges. The poetry of the book of Job powerfully describes His artistic majesty:
Have you entered the storehouses of the snow
or seen the storehouses of the hail,
which I reserve for times of trouble,
for days of war and battle?
What is the way to the place where the lightning is dispersed,
or the place where the east winds are scattered over the earth?
Who cuts a channel for the torrents of rain,
and a path for the thunderstorm,
to water a land where no man lives,
a desert with no one in it,
to satisfy a desolate wasteland
and make it sprout with grass?
Does the rain have a father?
Who fathers the drops of dew?
From whose womb comes the ice?
Who gives birth to the frost from the heavens
when the waters become hard as stone,
when the surface of the deep is frozen?