Our theme for February is actually a challenge: write a piece without using first person pronouns (I, me, we, etc.)
The heavens declare the glory of God;
the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
Sunday, 2:00 p.m.
Ashy sky melts into dirty snow at the side of the road. Merging onto the freeway, the snow gets cleaner and deeper, but the world still looks black and white. Out the bus window it’s just grey sky, white snow, brown trees. Even the “evergreens” can hardly be considered a color. On the outskirts of town, there’s no telling where the snow ends and the sky begins. It’s hard to hear the glory today.
Day after day they pour forth speech;
night after night they reveal knowledge.
Sunday, 8:30 p.m.
Things don’t get any easier on the ride home. The sky is black. Faces reflect back in the tall, wide windows like a movie playing in the heavens. One reads, one knits, one closes her eyes. What knowledge do you have to reveal tonight? No shooting star, no crescent moon, no rousing speech to pour into silent night. Just melancholy piped through headphones. (“I’m looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find.”)
They have no speech, they use no words;
no sound is heard from them.
Tuesday, 3:45 p.m.
Still no words of wisdom from on high today. Day when the milk spills (don’t cry). Day of broken copy machines and silent stares. Day of snippy remarks and blunt lists of what you’re doing wrong (too late). They pour forth speech but use no words? A puzzling combination. The aural learners down below are lost. Just waiting, please, for that still small voice.
Yet their voice goes out into all the earth,
their words to the ends of the world.
Friday, 7:05 a.m.
And yet. The water still boils. The car still starts. The mail still reaches islands across the world. The sun still breaks through the dark of the morning. Driving along the highway again, the sky brightens with each passing mile, and it looks like the sun might just show its face today. Day of peaceful drives and good intentions and margaritas.
In the heavens God has pitched a tent for the sun.
It is like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber,
like a champion rejoicing to run his course.
Monday, 5:30 p.m.
Sun shines in earnest today. God must have unzipped the tent flap. From the second story window of the sportsplex, the rowing machine hums and swishes, and it’s almost like being on a real river if you close your eyes. Cares wash away with each stroke. Go another mile on the treadmill and rejoice.
It rises at one end of the heavens
and makes its circuit to the other;
nothing is deprived of its warmth.
Saturday, 11:20 p.m.
Circuit completed, the sun makes way for other stars. Drive twenty minutes out of the city and suddenly the heavens reveal every constellation you know—dipper, belt, bear, bow. Cold and clear and together, let’s stand here a moment. (It’s never long enough; we’re impatient beings.) Tomorrow the clouds might roll in again. It’s true what they say, that into every life some rain must fall. But nothing escapes the sun, either. Look up and listen.