Last night, as I was about to go to bed, the Thunder started to roll. B had gone to bed already. I had wrapped everything up. I was going to be in bed by 9. Then the lightning struck.
And it was too tempting.
I made a cup of tea, grabbed The Weight of Glory, and curled up on the couch under my son’s Curious George blanket.
I drank my hot tea, watching the lightning strike in the distance, listening to the thunder roll by. And I sucked the marrow from the words of C.S. Lewis. I let them roll around inside my mind as the thunder rolled around outside. Just as the lightning strike, certain words and phrases leaped out at me.
Both the storm and the book left me feeling that I had been in the presence of something great, but not quite quantifiable. We can measure the voltage of a lightning strike, but not understand where it will strike next. We can count the decibels of a thunder roll but not know when it will end. I feel like I am coming to an understanding of glory, but that I am still sitting on the edge of the storm, watching it roll by.
And my tea is getting cold.