I grew up in a farmhouse in the bottom of a valley with windows facing the hill on the other side of the river, accompanied by a constant watery melody with frequent train interludes. Towering beech trees were visible from every window and with their changing colours and seasonal skies the result was always dramatic, whether a bright spring green on cornflower blue or brilliant gold against a darkening air force grey.
I don’t spent very much time sitting down – who does with a young child? – but when I do get the chance to stop and look out the window, it never fails to make an impression. The mountain is unchanging I suppose, but it seems to like a frequent costume change; sometimes clothed in thick dark cloud, sometimes gauzy haze. The light is very accommodating too; at times bathing the mountain in soft, blurry shadows from apricot and pink to blues and charcoal greys, and in other moments revealing the mountain with such dazzling clarity that each circling vulture is highlighted below the forested peaks.
There have been moments, particularly at dusk, when I’ve been so struck by the transitory beauty and so aware that no camera would do it justice that I’ve tried to capture a sense of the moment in words. But I realise that my words are insufficient too.
I’m profoundly grateful for the privilege I have to witness the beauty and glory of God in what He has made.
I’m reminded that “The heavens proclaim the glory of God. The skies display his craftsmanship. Day after day they continue to speak; night after night they make him known. They speak without a sound or word; their voice is never heard. Yet their message has gone throughout the earth, and their words to all the world.” Psalms 19:1-4