Frost

It was one of those mornings when the sun rises and the whole outside world is awash in a million sparkles.

From the cozy warmth of my kitchen, that’s a sight breathtaking enough to enjoy even from a distance.

But then I decided to take the time to pull on my snow boots and my warmest jacket and those not-very-warm but better-than-nothing picture-taking gloves, go out into it and zoom in close with a lens.

And I found this, that the sparkles on every blade and branch and fence post were a myriad of tiny delicate fern-like ice formations.  Miniature ice art of unimaginable beauty coated everything in every direction as far as the eye could see.  I quickly forgot the cold as I wandered along the garden and out into the hay field, marveling at the wonderland of beauty.

The idea that a little man named Jack Frost is responsible for all this is a charmingly imaginative one—but when I’m catching my breath at the mind-boggling intricacy of it all, I’m glad to remember that there is a very deliberate Artist behind it all who is no figment of the imagination.

“Out of whose womb comes the ice? and the hoary frost of heaven, who brings it forth?…by the breath of God frost is given.”  (Job 38:29, 37:10)

My breath is only freezing in pale, unexciting puffs of white, which annoyingly fog up the viewfinder of my camera.  But look what His breath does on a cold morning.  Wow.