Every so often, usually when I’m in the middle of making supper at the close of a sunny winter day, my eye is drawn out the window to a sudden illumination in the east.
There’s a row of trees across the lake that will be suddenly be bathed in something akin to an alpenglow. It’s not a particularly notable stand of trees at any other time of the day, but for these few brief moments in the evening, it is magnificent.
And sometimes, if the supper is in no danger of burning, I’ll run out to where the view is best and stand there for a few minutes to drink it in—and then I’ll turn around.
Because those trees glowing rose and orange and gold along the frozen lake shore are, after all, only reflecting a greater glory, that of the sun itself setting in the west.
It’s a picture of who I am, who any of us are, if we are in Christ.
Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing special—until His glory shines onto our hearts, glowing on our changed countenances, creating a magnificent reflection of Himself on our lives.
And, hopefully, it’s a transformation glorious enough to compel those who see to turn around and look at the Source of the glory Himself, Jesus, the Light of the world.
“And we all…beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another…” (2 Corinthians 3:10)
If you’ve ever tried photographing wildlife, you will understand what I mean when I say that unless your goal is to capture the animal as part of a larger scene, it’s pretty much a waste of time without a telephoto lens. Without one, animals usually scare off before you can get close enough to compose a decent shot. And that’s why I’ve felt sorely crippled photographically ever since my telephoto lens quit working two years ago.
I clicked the lens into place before I got out of the car, and checked my camera settings, trying to guess accurately. Past experience with swans has taught me to be ready to snap quickly; they tend to be pretty wary of humans. I didn’t think this one would be flying away (it seems that an injured wing prevented it from leaving with the rest of it’s group in the fall), but I still didn’t want it to go paddling off in alarm and leave the great lighting and position it was currently in.
It felt like I had been given new eyes.
There are certain elements of the forest that stand out more in the winter than they do in the summer—and the bare branches and trunks of the trees are certainly one of them.
I think this is such a magnificent picture of the transformation Christ works in our lives. He gently, but steadily, peels back the layers of sin and selfishness wrapped around our hearts, time after time bringing to light something altogether new, each time a little better than the last, as we grow and stretch and become more and more like Him.
The wind comes out after a snowstorm—and what results is a whole landscape of constantly shifting patterns and intricate designs highlighted beautifully by the light and shadow of a sunny day.
The invisible wind and it’s artistic work, reminds me of this passage where Jesus Himself pictures from nature the most wonderful transformation ever to happen to man:
I’ve read the articles on the science of forcing your Christmas cactus to bloom in time for Christmas. A simple schedule of watering and then purposely neglecting to do so within certain time frames will, they tell me, insure that it buds right on time. I’ve considered doing this (hence the fact that I was reading the articles in the first place), but since making sure my houseplants actually get watered at all seems to be enough of a challenge at this point in my life, I’ve never quite gotten around to it.
If you’ve ever stood on the shore of Lake Superior on a summer day, you know the feeling. Waves crashing on the rocks at your feet, sending spray high into the air, vast expanse of water stretching to meet the sky on the horizon. It’s big; you’re small. It’s a magnificent feeling.
The trail was very icy, so we didn’t go far. Instead we went along cautiously until we found a spot with a good view, and then stood still to take in the magnificence of it all. I couldn’t help thinking of Psalm 93 as I watched to the blue-gray waves crash on the rocks below us.
…The seas have lifted up, LORD, the seas have lifted up their voice; the seas have lifted up their pounding waves…
…Mightier than the thunder of the great waters, mightier than the breakers of the sea– the LORD on high is mighty. Your statutes, LORD, stand firm; holiness adorns your house for endless days.” (Psalm 93)
We just returned from a trip to the Sawtooth Mountains on the north shore of Lake Superior. For much of our visit there, the peaks around us were veiled in fog or falling snow, but on the eve of our arrival, I was granted this sweeping vista with a clear view of craggy Moose Mountain silhouetted against the setting sun.
The amazing thing is that we serve a God whose eternal unchanging-ness supersedes the mountains. Even if these seemingly immovable peaks were to unexpectedly blow up and slide into the depths of Lake Superior, He would still be God. He is the only thing that we can truly count on to never change.
Sometimes, in all the wonderful hustle and bustle that December can be, it’s good to take a walk alone in the woods to listen to the stillness…
to be startled and then delighted when a deer goes leaping across the trail mere feet in front of you…
to stand and watch the late afternoon sun glint through bits of ice on twiggy branches, like hundreds of cut glass ornaments hung for Christmas…
to deeply breathe in crisp cold air and be glad for warm new mittens…
It was one of those mornings when the sun rises and the whole outside world is awash in a million sparkles.
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.
Rejoicing Hills 