Meditations from Zion

Lord, our Lord,
    how majestic is your name in all the earth!
You have set your glory
    in the heavens. . . .  [Psalm 8:1, NIV]
When I gaze to the skies and meditate on Your creation—
    on the moon, stars, and all You have made,
I can’t help but wonder why You care about mortals—
    sons and daughters of men—
    specks of dust floating about the cosmos. [Psalm 8:2-4, The Voice]

Theoretically, I want to be more aware of God’s work in nature, the things that human has yet to destroy: but what’s left? There is still the blue sky (on a good day), and the stars (if I can steal away from city lights), and the clouds (thankfully, untouched). There are still streams and trees and butterflies, and for a while yet, honey bees. There are birds who still build nests and foxes who hunt in the night, although they are forced to adapt, the birds building nests in our front porch lamp and the foxes scavenging in back yards.

When my mind runs along these tracks, I become sad. That’s not the point here. Perhaps it’s why I crave the ocean so much. Despite the harm we’ve done, she still roars and claims what is hers. She is a presence. She still seems bigger than the harm.

I don’t get out enough. I don’t do the nature thing. I don’t choose it.

Certainly, we live in a lovely town, with a promenade skirting the mouth of the Susquehanna and the Chesapeake Bay kissing its waters. But, even there, the railroad tracks and bridges and barges claim the sound space, my eyes must isolate.

How can I laud and praise the wonder of God’s earth when I am living so thoroughly in a human designed one? Is this what God intended for us?

I need to get out more.