Psalm 19

Somehow, in the midst of the storm, I managed to fall asleep. Sheer exhaustion must have washed over my body and I wake, hours later, on the same bench within the garden. My first reaction is fear; surely sleeping all night in wet clothes in a wet landscape will wreck havoc upon my body. But my body is strangely dry, and before I can contemplate more deeply on the subject my jaw drops in wonder.

The sun is rising over the tops of the trees and a broad rainbow races from one side of the world to the next, complete in its beauty and brilliant in color. I stand, transfixed, mezmorised by the effect it has on the sky. My sight begins in the center and travels earthward, tracking the graceful arch until it meets the forest canopy; what once threatened chaos now seems to sing in peaceful glory to the one who has created all. Peace has descended upon this place, and I look down to see dewy beauty surrounding this bench.

Everything in this scene testifies to a beauty far greater than each possesses; it is as though a master painter has come and spent decades perfecting each blade of grass, each gentle flower and branch, every corner of the perfect sky to create a scene as lovely as one could dream. Every ounce of sky testifies to the wonder of God, as though this creation is stretching to pass itself off as a dwelling place for God. It knows of the transcendant wonder of God and yet tries regardless to house God.

My heart rejoices at such a scene; surely this moment in time is sweeter than the freshest honey. I would not trade the world’s riches for a second of this inspiration, for my heart and soul sing out as one, crying out to the wondrous God whose finger traces the beam of the rainbow. I feel as though colors have never been so true as they are in this moment, and I shudder in fear at the fact that I have some rule over part of this creation.

I look down at my unruly garden, much of it still awaiting my attention, and I wonder at how the God who paints rainbows after storms would let me determine the fate of one plant in this place. Should not God paint each corner of the world, since God is the master artist? Who am I to pick up a brush and pretend to emulate God? Who am I to even allow my humble feet to disturb the glorious grass that points to God?

I stand in awe of what God has done on this morning, and I can only pray that the work I do in the garden might be acceptable to God, my rock and redeemer. May the efforts of my feeble hands somehow testify to the love I have for a God who is able to freeze the breath within my chest at the sight of such wonders that I stand before now.