The hour before the sun slips beneath the Montana horizon is sacred— a bird, lifting out of the mist of a cooling lake, the dusky lashes of trees closing, a shadow falling soft and slow on the pages of a book, the hush of an earthy cathedral after everyone’s home around the supper table, the candles burnt low like a last prayer. God is here.
Is there a word that hurts more than separate? Apart, like the rasping tear of skin and flesh. The absence of beauty, of the knowledge of the Father of all things good. The cold, resounding clang of a cell-door slammed and light seeping out forever.
Why do we voluntarily choose darkness over light? Why do we clench fists and smother grace and separate ourselves from love and God? Angry fist-shaking blame-games, quiet withdrawal, deliberate denial, a world spinning broken and separate.
We traveled from Montana to Arizona in two days, from dizzying snow covered mountain passes, to desert skies reflected in Lake Mead. The hour before the sun slips above the Arizona horizon is sacred—saguaros silhouetted against clay-baked skies, palm trees stationed like sentinels, guarding the sleepy city, light spilling out into the sand and rock, the hush of the south in the throes of another day.
While all the world may turn away from freedom to their own confines, while hate may predominate, and humans stoop to lower levels than ever before, while we may separate ourselves from the Creator, our God never will.