Over the Fourth of July weekend,
my friends and I are camping
near the Continental Divide;
The darkness of night
brings with it a crisp mountain chill,
and our confused bodies protest vociferously
that we might return to the sweltering
heat wave we left behind the night before,
only a short drive away;
Groping our way along the road
through the darkness of a moonless night,
we come together on Saturday night
to sing praises to God.
Our path is dimly illuminated
by the beacon of a Coleman lantern,
offering light but no relief from the cold,
and we stumble over hidden rocks
veiled under the cover of darkness;
As my eyes slow grow accustomed
to the darkness away from the 'campfire',
I hear the familiar voices of two friends
who call out my name.
They pat a seat which they have saved for me,
and bid me that I come sit down
and share the protecting covering
of a heavy wool blanket draped over their laps,
and I gladly oblige.
On this unseasonable cold July night
In the midst of a seemingly endless heat wave,
we ironically share the fellowship
of being cold together.
Responding to an instinctive physiological
urge for self-preservation,
the basest level of Maslow's hierarchy of needs,
we huddle a little closer together than usual,
our hands taking refuge deep in our pockets,
or safely hid under our own warm-blooded thighs.
We gaze up at the sky,
awed by a billion celestial bodies,
innumerable, silently twinkling high above,
shining brilliantly overhead,
like the inverted side of the Holy City of Jerusalem,
under construction by God Himself,
and awaiting its descent at the appointed time
that mortal Earth and immortal Heaven
will intersect.
Milky streaks of red, purple,
green, yellow, orange,
and every conceivable hue,
painted across the sky
in broad brushstrokes before time
by the Master Artist,
declare the glory and handiwork
of an infinite Creator.