There is a fog on this morning, the river and mountains blanketing up from the chill of the morning. Sun warms the tree-ed feet but the mountains beyond still cling to their morning cover. This is clarity, golden greened trees mirroring the grace of the warm sun toping the mountain behind me bringing the world in front of me to full scenery. That is “Quiet Time”, a time when The Only Holy gives you sight for the day but all eternity lies in the fog of His Bosom Mountains beyond. Your vision is alive because you see alive things, green trees, and dazzling water, but the glories mostly lie hidden assumed by faith in that far off Land. Facing south I assume the South Atlantic, brushing by Brazil then clear cold water becoming wildly fierce until the frozen land of poles. Hard to be reminded of Heaven by the frigid barren of the pole but it is the stark unknown-ness of it that leads me wandering this quiet morning about faith and heaven hinting softly of God by a morning fog on.
Reading Christian Wiman’s, He Held Radical Light
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