Last night I was finishing up some yard work. The air was crisp and the sky was just darkening. It was a rare opportunity in Texas to feel a slight chill while surrounded by the grey sky. I felt that odd surge of energy that people get when you think of something deep while you’re working with your hands. In that moment you feel as though you could crush a rock with your bare hands and could climb a mountain. Most men feel this just after watching Braveheart, Gladiator, or somthing of the like. It was at that moment I looked up at the sky.
If you’ve never seen it, the sky in Texas is a massive canopy over the earth. It is massive because Texas is flat… like a pancake. (albeit a burnt pancake.) There are also very few trees to obscure the view of the sky. So as I said, I had this surge of energy then I looked up and was oddly reminded that of tremendous power mingled with tremendous weakness. I looked over my shoulder and saw my two year old playing with my wife in the window. With remarkable clarity I suddenly realized the frailty of our lives. So much held together by so little.
I stood for a moment watching my beautiful bride and our two year old daughter concentrating on the new toy. I recognized that there is nothing I would not do for my girls. At the same time, I can do nothing for them that really matters. I am subject to the master of this great sky.
I went back to my weeding, reminded that God has given us the responsibility of tending the ground. It is not ours to grow, but to tend… to plant… to water. God grows. The clouds come and go… the sky remains. So I surrender to the master of the sky.
When I finished my work, I walked to the window. Julia was still playing with some sort of toy that sticks on the window. I leaned in to where I was about a foot from her face. I got directly in her line of sight, no recognition from her. I lightly tapped the window, careful not to startle her… nothing. I waved and moved my face in her direct line of vision. She was so engrossed in her toy, she never even saw me.
I wonder… how many times I have failed to see the sky? What about the Master of it?