Eden LakeStanding by a lake, the dawn is so stillmy warm breath, visible in the cold, hangs suspended and motionless there before dispersing. I am suddenly aware I am alive, breathing air that swept across lonely miles of sea, from deserts, ancient cliff sides; farther than I have ever seen. Air that is older than my grandfather, and his grandfather, and his grandfather still; breath older than anything that now breathes alive on Earth, older than all who ever died there. My breath's vapor is the same ancient water, sister to the cold air, that is found in the storm, the puddle, the sea. What divine privilege permits me to see a glimpse of Eden in the rising sun, the wading loon, a live bluegill tugging at the line of a young boy? As his father watches with affection, what permits me to hear their laughter? As they pack and leave they are laughing still, unconcerned with autumn's creeping cold. I imagine that when the world was a week old and the first rest was taken by our Father— after He had separated earth from sky, land from sea, night from day—He must have intended it to still be as Good today as He proclaimed it then, resting there in the heavens. And though those alive mourn the dead, and the dead pray for those alive, and though Heaven and Earth yearn to meet in tenancy, they are not as separated as we imagine. There are still signs of Eden, found here on this cold morning by a lake: an enthusiastic father and his son in worn overalls. Their joy shared in the Almighty's wilderness sings that they're divine and precious, and surely the earth belongs to them. I see the warm spirit of love envelope them, the cold and anger of society pushed further and further from their company. They are alive, and as I watch them through the still of the cold morning, I am also alive— and while Heaven and Eden lake still wait in silence to see their final union, I am content to bask in the love of my Father. |