journeys-page

The other night we had one of those perfect sunsets. You know the kind. The air was perfectly still. There were no clouds in the sky. The last 20 minutes before the daylight ended, the western sky was a brilliant orange. Trees, buildings, and machines were stark black cutouts holding back the horizon’s glow. We here in south-central Nebraska are lucky enough to be able to see the turning of the earth. With good peripheral vision, we can see the dark blue edges slowly close in on the sun’s reddish-yellow influence. A yellow glow radiates in streaks through the blue sky as the sun’s angle gets steeper and steeper. The orange slowly consolidates into the top half of a brilliant ball of light that sinks away to darkness. You just don’t get that view from heavily wooded places. You need places with a clear view of the entire horizon; places where you can see the outline of the earth begin to bend in the furthest corners of your vision. When we lived in Charleston, South Carolina, I had to go to the beach for my sunset fix. You can go to the mountains, but you have to be on the top of the tallest one looking down on the horizon to get the same feeling. Being in the middle of the ocean works. Tundra does it too. But there is nothing like having a flat horizon to frame your sunset. The simplicity of the line gives you a sense of the greatness of our world, and the smallness of our place in it. It is one of those thin places, where the boundaries between heaven and earth are permeable and it seems easier to cross over from one side to another. A sunset like that makes you sigh deeply. The orange glow seems to have gotten inside you somehow. And before you know it you find yourself bowing your head and saying these words out loud to no one in particular, “Thank you God . . Thanks.” Grace & Peace,