This morning when I woke up there was a pink sky hanging behind the trees outside my bedroom. The light has caught me all off-guard. I'm trying to write responsibly, but I am distracted.
Just like my puppy, who is always chasing after Christmas lights and the dancing rays of sunbeam, I am distracted by this apocalyptic light. I am distracted by the light that catches me off guard, the sparkle of the seventy-degrees November sun on the brick and sandstone. The eschaton could not be more beautiful than this.
Sparrows hop on the ledge outside the french doors, wondering why winter has not yet banished them to warmer cities. They are distracted by the spots of sunlight filtering through the trees, and I am distracted from my writing to watch their impish scampering. Behind them, two small trees are still (somehow) a vibrant crimson amidst all the dun skeleton branches of their neighbors, the silvery linings of their flamboyant foliage flapping in the wind.
I am distracted by the scene outside the classroom: the light that catches me off guard, the beautiful oak tree outside of the classroom window that is right now, a brilliant scarlet flame against the uncannily radiant blue sky. There is a sense of fittingness to that juxtaposition. As if red and blue reveal here their true colors, it was for this moment they were made, so that their beauties can play off each other like the tree and the sky.
I am so distracted by these banks of clouds that roll across the blue horizon. I wonder how fast the wind has pushed them from Lake Michigan.
I look up from my reading to star into the subdued and dignified light that is pouring into the library from the dying sky, a small bit of golden eked out from the sunset that catches the yellow tree by the patio flagstones. In the bright afternoon, the spinster sun is shining, bitter and still cold,
jealously emanating pale gold into the atmosphere.
God has also tasted wine, and was not distracted by it. He has tasted all of the goodness of warm bread, and felt the October sun and August breeze on his face. He has seen, felt, and heard all this, and still they came up insignificant in comparison with the heavenly banquet of his Father. I wonder what it could be that is so beautiful that even the God-man is does not fall in love with all this beauty at the expense of the beauty of that banquet. How beautiful can such a vision be if even sweet wine and sweater weather cannot distract him?