We and the crickets
We stood silent, we four; leaning against a lamp post, sitting on the pavement, standing upright as if in salute to the coming twilight. The lightening and the hail had shredded the cloud cover, leaving shards of varying blue, tipped with orange by the descending sun. There was a hush that could not be broken, even by the chirping of crickets or the the mumbling of a loudspeaker over at the baseball fields. We were still.
Be still and know that I am God.
The red-breasted robin began to splash around in the puddle near my feet and then lifted off past the row of cars. The muggy air gently enveloped us.
And my soul wells up with Hallelujahs.
We four worshipers saw the effect of light, how it illuminated bits and pieces of cloud and diffused colour, while letting the periphery sink into deep indigo. We saw the light and saw that it was good—and let a whispered song rise up to The Maker of light. We let the sky drown out the students walking to and fro and the traffic on the bypass. We allowed ten minutes to forget the papers and final projects that were weighing down our spirits and creating bags under our eyes.
No one wanted to speak. No one wanted to walk away. When in fellowship with the Almighty Father of Light, all other things seem insipid and fruitless. Finally, one, two slowly rose to our feet and began to shuffle back toward Heritage, keeping both eyes above us every minute.
How could we leave this temple and return to our tiny bedrooms with artificial light and frustrating responsibilities?
Because that is worship too.
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