Ice Age

Since it's been unseasonably warm this week, we finally got to resume our weekly nature walks.  Winter always makes it obvious that I'm not from around here.  I'm one of the crazies that loves the snow!  Where I'm from, snow never stays on the ground for more than a few days and ice comes in the form of the dreaded ice storm.  So, ever since we moved here, admiring the ice on Lake Erie is a treasured winter pastime.

 

The first thing that always strikes me about the ice covered lake is the sound.  The sound of silence.  No waves lapping at the sand.  No sea gulls squawking for a bit of your lunch.  No crowds.  Just silence.  Like the world and all its cares stopped in icy suspension.  Like peace and quiet has a shape you can touch and a texture you can feel.

The hills of ice made it look like Jared and Hilary were starting out on a great Arctic adventure.  Which way to civilization?  Is there any land anywhere or only this vast expanse of snow?  The beach melts away, as just a few yards out, it seems like a brave new world.  (Never fear...they're not as far out as they appear!)

As we wandered and filled our lungs with the crispness of the cold air, my mind and heart replayed the line from the sixth chapter of Isaiah, quoted in the Divine Liturgy:

Holy, holy, holy, Lord of Sabaoth.  
Heaven and earth are full of Your glory.

I thought about God.  About the massiveness of nature.  We drive past beauty every day and don't notice it.  We so rarely allow our minds to grasp the world outside our bubble of busyness.  What color was the sky today?  Ask a thousand people that question on any given evening and how many would know the answer?  How many would instead live a whole day and never once look up?  I gave thanks for this day that God allowed me to notice the sky.

Holy, holy, holy, Lord of Sabaoth.  
Heaven and earth are full of Your glory.

I thought about the awesomeness of Creation.  How unpredictable and mighty and glorious it is.  Even in the tiny gentleness of  a snowflake.  Even in the crushing devastation of natural disaster.  I prayed for those suffering in Haiti.  Those who died even during the time we stood on that beach.  I prayed for their souls and the lives of those still suffering.

Holy, holy, holy, Lord of Sabaoth.  
Heaven and earth are full of Your glory.

I thought about all those who suffer today.  In war, in persecution, in sickness, in hunger, and in despair.  Some a world away.  Some right down the street.  It doesn't take a natural disaster to see the suffering if we open our eyes.  It's in you and in me.  We can't bear to see it all the time, though.  So, we pretend it isn't there until something major happens, and we can no longer ignore it.  We freeze our hearts just enough to dull our pain and make the thought of everyone else's pain manageable.  I prayed for all those suffering today on the outside, and all those aching on the inside.

Holy, holy, holy, Lord of Sabaoth.  
Heaven and earth are full of Your glory. 

I thought about emptiness and fullness.  For Heaven and earth are FULL of God's glory.  It's not hidden.  We don't have to go on an expedition to find the wonders of God.  The earth is full of them.  Filled to overflowing with glory.  But we must be empty of everything else to be full of God.

Holy, holy, holy, Lord of Sabaoth.  
Heaven and earth are full of Your glory.

Unseasonably warm is still pretty cold after awhile, so we left the beach with one last look over our shoulders.  I came home and tried to find the glory in the sink of dirty dishes; the laundry; the to-do list.  If earth is full...really, truly full...of God's glory, aren't all those things just trips to the beach?  Moments of silence, clearness, and beauty.  Full of glory.  I prayed and thanked God for the glory, and I prayed that today...of all days...I'll see it.  Everywhere.