I was driving back from campus tonight with a stack of finals. Partly cloudy, the forecast had said, but I was not expecting the beauty of the stippled clouds. Harvest was unusually late this year because we had so much rain in the fall -- there was corn in the fields at the end of November. But they are shaved down to stubble now, waiting. The trees' bare branches were black against the setting sun, waiting.
I watched a sheet of cloud scud from north to south, sweeping across the sky. I thought of my own smallness, as I listened to the voice in the back of the van say "How much farther now, Mom?" Twenty-five miles, sweetheart. I imagined the skies behind the clouds, boundless space and tremendous stars, and I thought about the might of God that wrought those realms and somehow chose to be contained within a human frame, a baby's frame. I sang, "The universe declares your majesty," but I didn't sing very long because I had to stop and say, Twenty-one, Pete. Only twenty-one more miles.
The sunset was violently orange, but the underside of that sheet of cloud shone in an improbable fuchsia. I thought about how things that threaten to occlude the light of God can still reflect its beauty. And I thought about wisdom. I love this prayer of St. Thomas Aquinas, its idea that the light of God drives out ignorance as well as sin, so we can seek holiness and understanding at the same time. Teach me.
mightily reaching from end all the way to end
gracefully ordering all things
come to teach us the way of prudence.
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