O Lord my God, you are clothed with splendor and majesty, covering yourself with light as with a garment, stretching out the heavens like a tent. He lays the beams of His chambers on the water; He makes the clouds His chariots; He rides on the wings of the wind. Psalm 104: 1- 35
Foggy mist breathing and rolling toward shoreline as dawn slowly meets our corner of the world. Mauve and coral fingers reach, stretching from the east, brightening the morning. Illuminating the water lilies curving skyward, the majestic mountains.
The rhythmic swell of cicadas. The sun dappled sandy beach. The towering old growth pines – they landmark our haven in the Adirondacks. And have, for decades.
By dusk, calm settles over the camp, kids’ giggles and splashes reigned in after a day of memory making. As day draws to a close, a regal Old Glory is carefully removed from flagpole up by route 9, where a constant swoosh of cars, a downshifting of trucks, wanes.
Shadows lengthen from our island in lake’s center, stretching to shore. Scattered lights pop on, spilling glowing yellow stripes across lake’s surface. Patterns dance and flow onto the sand. Campfires are spotted around lake’s perimeter. Flames shooting; sparks snapping. Glassy lake, reflects.
Friendships form and cement. A few staccato laughs, but mainly hushed conversations over marshmallow roasting. All the while, aromas of pine, cinder and promise weave itself into our hair and sweatshirts, ending a perfect August day.
Months later, crowds have thinned and temperatures, plummeted. A few crimson and rust leaves dot the maple trees. Most splatter, though, in nature’s heaps on the ground. Canoes and rowboats are stacked behind cabins. Docks and floats, safely stowed, too. Waiting for the calendar to point toward summer.
Winter settles into the range. It’s not the shrill of motorboats, but the rev of snowmobiles that echoes across our peaks. Ice envelops our brambles in a blinding display. Dangerously beautiful. The island we swam to during an endless summer is now our destination on skis and snowshoes. Snow piles are higher than cabins and branches scramble to form a delicate patchwork. The shadows that we sought for reprieve on sun-drenched July days, we now eschew in a frigid February.
For by Him, all things were created, both in the heavens and on Earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities. All things have been created by Him and for Him. Colossians 1:16
Copyright 2012 Christine Mooney