“God said “Let there be lights in the dome of the sky, to separate day
from night. Let them mark the fixed times, the days and the years and serve as
luminaries in the sky, to shed light upon the earth. God made the two great
lights, the greater one to govern the day, and the lesser one to govern the
night. God saw how good it was. Evening came, and morning followed.” Genesis 1

I am watching the sun set on the frozen lake outside my
window. Dotting the water’s surface are the countless ice houses that break up
the sea of white stretching onto the horizon. Their mostly monochromatic colors
of beige, white, and gray are punctuated every now and then with a brilliant
red structure, a bright blue one. (If I had an ice house, I’d paint it red so I
could find myself in a snowstorm!) The sky is, just this minute, forming hot
pink and lavender stripes that in turn reflect onto the white prairie of snow.
It is an Impressionistic canvas being painted before my very eyes. Two snowmobiles
are shooting across the lake …..bundled up cowboys riding into the sunset.

 Giant trees, oaks and maples mostly, are creating a black
lace curtain against the lake. Snow clings to the branches, holding on for dear
life. Up one side of the sturdy trunks the wind has glued the memory of its
flight pattern. Yesterday morning I watched as a squirrel jumped from tree to
tree with the ease and confidence of a trapeze artist. It made me laugh.

This noon, while eating lunch, my eyes were shocked by the
sudden soaring movement of an enormous bird flying toward the center of the
lake. Upon further inspection, I was blessed to recognize the brilliant white
head of a bald eagle, its wings outstretched surveying the ice below, perhaps
remembering warmer times when a tasty meal lingered below. Not today, my
friend. You will have to be content with your gift of flight. He circled
several times over the ice house villages offering his blessing.

The sun is a half sphere of red about to dip behind the
farthest side of the lake. It is creating a deep yellow and orange that brushes
color onto the white clouds, the edges now tinged with gold leaf, as if the
Great Artist added that last touch just for dramatic effect. The now purple
clouds are moving south as the wind picks up and, no doubt, the temperature
plummets. But wait, the sky has gone completely fuchsia.  The sun seems to be saying “I’m not quite
finished with this day.” Oh, brilliant Sun, you always have the last word!

 What possible reason is there that I have been given such a
gift of beauty, of mystery, of wonder? Since I cannot answer this immense
question, I will say only Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.