The Cloud Quilt

We took a road trip just after Christmas to visit extended family a few hours from our Vancouver-area home. The better part of the trip is through a range of mountains, up to the top and down again into a semi-arid desert valley.

The sun was exceptionally bright for a December day. So much so, in fact, that even our boys, who are not prone to notice details of any sort, remarked at how the light glistened off the mountain snow.

As we began to descend into the valley near the end of our trip (I had dozed off and was half asleep in the front seat,) Rob remarked, "Look at that you guys, there's a cloud covering all of Kamloops!" There was a bit of awe in his voice, and I wondered why a mere cloud had caught his attention. When I heard the boys respond "WHOAAAAAAAA!" from the backseat, I shook off the sleep to see what the fuss was about.

The sight was truly remarkable. At age 39, I thought that there wasn't much I hadn't seen in my lifetime, at least when it comes to weather. It caused me to marvel at this mid-life "first."

The largest single cloud I'd ever observed lay unfolded like a gigantic quilt atop the mountain range. The very peaks of the mountains poked through the fluff like pointed arrowheads through a piece of fabric. The sun shone brightly atop the quilt in a pure azure sky, bathing the mountain peaks in effulgent light, making the snow shimmer as if it were bespeckled with millions of minute diamond chips.

We were descending, and as we drew closer to our destination in the valley the road disappeared into a gaping hole in the quilt. The cars in front of us looked as if they were driving into a grey, swirling abyss, or the mouth of some great, yawning giant. They may have been dropping off the very face of the earth for all we could tell, so dark was the opening.

Soon we too drove into the yawning cave, where suddenly the sun was completely hidden. A light snow was falling inside, in stark contrast to the blue sky we'd just left behind. It was almost as if we'd entered a completely different dimension or plane of existence.

And at that moment I couldn't help but think of this scene in relation to the coming New Year, and the year we were about to leave behind. I thought back to the dawning of 2009.... the year had held promise for me, personally, in a number of ways. I remember thinking of all the things I wanted to do and re-do in 2009. My business was thriving, and I looked forward to taking on new challenges. Ministry at our church was fulfilling, our family was happy and healthy. I had much to be thankful for and even more to look forward to.

But when 2009 came, a different picture began to unfold. We had left the cloudless blue skies behind and had entered a grey abyss, much like the one we were driving in now. 2009 turned out to be a difficult year for our family in a number of ways. Professional and personal challenges and some significant health issues made it seem as though we were driving in thick, swirling fog most of the time. As the year progressed, the cloud seemed to thicken rather than dissipate as I had so strongly hoped for, so that I had begun to believe that the sun had only been a distant fragment of a dream or maybe even a figment of my imagination.

But as we drove that day in the snow and fog, I thanked God for this very real and tangible reminder that the sun never really disappears. Imagine having a greater perspective, such as the one that our Heavenly Father has. While I can only see what is directly in front of me, He is able to see the whole picture. I realized that I needed to trust God, remembering that above whatever cloud cover I might find myself under lies the sun. Blocked temporarily, it never really disappears.

In fact, as we progressed through the fog, now and then we could see small holes in the clouds that allowed a few rays of sun to pierce through, another reminder that the sun is always there. My 2009 had many of these cloud holes, where even amidst the fog I knew that God was in control, giving me strength and light to proceed through the storm.

I doubt I'll ever have the mind of God. But I hoped that after that day I would remember what it was like to be above the clouds, looking down on what lay below. That I would remember that God sees what I cannot, and that I can take comfort in His omniscience and not worry when the road ahead seems to be obscured by fog. And that I will never overlook those little patches of sunlight that inevitably break through even the thickest and blackest of clouds.

So far I'm not sure what 2010 will look like. But if I remember all of this, then I guess it doesn't really matter, does it?