Wonder

     I am sitting on my sister's porch swing, listening to the creak of it's motion. Off in the distance I see pink yellow light claiming this sky back from the threatening clouds. A big rain has just passed through the little valley, and here I am in its wake; bringing my scribbles to you. Last weekend my family spent at a cabin in the woods, relaxing. That Saturday afternoon, I had time to wander on the trails, and time to write. So I did, and here is what I wrote. 
     "I see a runner through the golden leaves, hear the shush shush shush crackling of those leaves he scuffs as he makes his way up the sloping forest path. He cannot see me. Hidden in the cleft of two fallen trees, I am safe from view. He passes. The wind whispers through these maples and a woodpecker keeps an irregular rhythm on a nearby tree.

     I meant what I just said - the leaves really are golden. But they are not just tinted yellow. Actually, they are the color of fairy dust, but here they are in this woods. Every now and then a large gust of wind sweeps through and these leaves flurry about, a blizzard of gold instead of white. Fall is indeed come upon us, almost gone, and I barely noticed it at all. So now I snuggle down into my downy blue sweatshirt, look around and listen to the cry of the crow somewhere beyond the next hilltop. As I shift my position on the log, my thoughts turn to something Mom said in passing this afternoon.
How do we soak all this in? she had wondered. Her words were inadequate, she said to me, and all she could do is take pictures and try somehow to get the beauty inside. Yet the beauty doesn't last, and soon it fades away. So how?
     I know why she asked -- I get what she means. Because I have wandered in to the fresh blue dawn, lost my breath for the glory of the sunrise and lost my heart to the ache of not owning it. Not keeping the magic of beauty. So often I have racked my brain for a solution to this ache, a way to truly feel as though I had taken it in like I meant to, possessed the wonder of creation as I long to. There is not a single way to capture it. Though I am able to enjoy His too-much-for-me  glory in His mountains and streams... still I cannot keep the wonder. Does anyone else feel this way when they experience beauty? The majesty of a symphony, a dazzling bride, a thundering waterfall; am I the only one who feels the crippling ache? Imogen Heap said it well in her song "Can't Take It In":

                                                               

                                                               Can't close my eyes

I'm wide awake
Every hair on my body
Has got a thing for this place
Oh, empty my heart
I've got to make room for this feeling
It's so much bigger than me

It couldn't be anymore beautiful
I can't take it in

Weightless in love...unraveling
For all that's to come
And all that's ever been
We're back to the board
With every shade under the sun
Let's make it a good one 

It couldn't be anymore beautiful

It couldn't be anymore beautiful

I can't take it in

    In his letter from my previous post, Mr. Nelson says "I loved how you described feeling the Spirit and the love of God as 'that funny ache inside.' I know exactly what you mean." So maybe it isn't just me after all. And that ache has something to do with the fact that I want so badly to keep what is good and holy but I somehow can't.  Whether I am seeing the Ohio State Stadium through a silent snowfall in a quiet, sparkling city; or  horse back riding in Indian country, The thing I want stays just out of reach. I tell my sisters that sometimes I want a giant straw to point at the world and suck in all the goodness until it's in my marrow. They shake their heads at me: straws like that simply aren't on the market. Beauty is transient, fading. Just when a moment has reached its peak, just as it's finally hit our hearts like it was meant to -- it's gone. 

     So what conclusion am I supposed to come to here, anyway? What is the purpose of beauty if not to frustrate me with its elusiveness? C. S. Lewis called these stabs of joy, 'sign posts' along the path to heaven. Maybe he was right, you know. In "Surprised by Joy" he writes how he came to realize that all the things that ignite longing in a heart are not to be hated but seen for what they are: reminders of heaven. Landmarks of that place where there is no sorrow. Perhaps that's why I can never possess the wonder in the world. Because it's mine in heaven, and it is only leftovers of Eden here on this little planet. 

     As the old saying goes, beauty is passing. I agree, earthbound beauty doesn't last. It doesn't invade us and cleanse us the way we feel it should. But heavenly beauty? that's another thing entirely. That beauty will never fade, the wonder never cease. Instead we will be completely immersed in his glory until we become glorious purely by osmosis. 

     I look forward to the day.