Man in the clouds

Awaking to the distinct smell of the desert, my eyes open to a sky lit by countless stars. My lips slightly chapped by the night breeze that detoured me from unzipping my mummy bag and its warmth. I could focus though the darkness and see the ridgeline that lead to the summit where we would soon be resting atop the mountain gazing to the east watching his beautiful argument lure us ever closer to himself.

As we weaved around the creosote and black brush and scrambled up the rocks towards the summit, I knew he was glorified by our pace. The summit stood ahead, but there was no direct path forged to its vantage. We would scramble up one way to only see a steep drop or a thicket of cacti blocking the way, turning we'd find another path. A few times, we took what looked to be the easiest way up, only to turn back and take the more difficult route we had detoured from. The hike started to climb ever upward and we placed step after step toward that summit block.

On the summit a large rock sheltered us from the chilling wind. Our backs leaning up against the rock, we tried to cover our exposed skin from the cold. The stars began to fade. Darkness retreating to the other side of the world. He spoke the words and we saw the horizon take to light. The dull pastels briefly painted the high stratus clouds, then the fire was set. The rocky ridge far to east set the stage for him to show us how faithful he is. We continued to watch the transformation of light in the heavens when we saw the man in the clouds.

We can climb mountains. We can stand on their summits and see the world you sculpted. Our goal is no longer the mountain top, but the clouds you stood on. I want to be caught up with you in the clouds.

On surfing

on surfing

The alarm clock sounds it ever waking noise. While eyes still closed, a heavy hand reaches for the button. There in the early morning of one's day it starts. The truck is quickly loaded with the board sticking out of the tailgate, and PCH is starting to warm to the sunrise. The best days are when you pull in to the lot and only a few of the locals are parked and no sign of them lingering to get in the water. The smell of salt in the air, a cold breeze presses your face as the wetsuit suctions onto your body.

I think every surfer has his own way of entering the water on any given morning. But once they are wet they all sit straddled around their boards, afloat. Their heads scanning the westerly horizon. They may sit straddled for a time bobbing among the inside swells, waiting. Then, once that horizon starts to grow, you'll see the first surfer lean forward and start to paddle into position. Leaning back he quickly turns his board around and climbs forward to start the dogged paddle to match the speed of the coming swell. The wind starts to spit at you as you feel the back end pick up. This is the moment you could ask any surfer to describe and they can all detail the next few seconds with ease. The speed builds up from below your feet. There just out of your reach behind you comes a roar that is unlike any other. It is a fearful roar, but a welcomed one. There in that fraction of your life, words jumbled on his page, cannot efficiently sketch the emotions as you ready yourself for the ride.

Every wave is surfed different from this point forward. Some carve and slash, some line up and walk forward, and still others simply race the deafening roar behind them.

The peak of it all for me, is not the above but when all is muted by the rolling inside waves and that horizon is flat lined. Straddled on my board, I look up to the pastel sky painted by the rising sun. I know my God is more faithful than waves, more beautiful than the sunrise. I surf in worship to Him who loves me.