They say that a picture is worth a thousand words… and poetry is music for the soul.
But for me, description is a visual photography, where the poetry is placed in the mind rather than the eyes. The colours are only as bright and as vivid as the author can imagine, and the sounds are only comparable to the music that is created in the heart. And you can smell the fragrance. And you can feel the embrace. And you take it with you everywhere you go, feeling His Presence through worship in an album of literary photographs from every Moment you ever felt Alive.
This is Love. This is Worship.
- Before the wedding. In morning. The light gleams through the chapel windows, floor to ceiling in man’s marriage with nature. It isn’t raining, but I can imagine that it is. At first it’s soft, like tapping, then loud and thunderous, like applause. But here and now, is the sun, creating the kind of shadows that dance, and grow, and reveal. You shouldn’t be wearing heeled shoes, you should be barefoot. You should be silent and simply take it all in, listening to all the prayers and whispers of joy that have been made in this place. The area is so small, but the feeling is so big. The building is white, but the colours are vibrant. And the pews… there is something about pews that a chair simply can’t do. They’re meant for sitting alone in, or for squeezing in children between rows of families. Together. Knit. Close. So you sit – looking, listening, and drinking it in. You feel the paradoxical beauty of tradition and nature, new and old, defined lines and free verse. You’re alone, but not at all lonely. You breathe it in. You wait for it. In reality, there’s no music, but you can still hear it: Holy, Free, Exalted, Yahweh. He is here.
- There are warning signs, but the adventurous don’t mind. They embrace the clouds that come pouring in over the jungled mountain, fast and furious with swirls of grey and black and fear. The flashes and thunder are distant and approaching. Soon, there isn’t a spot of blue, and the greyness overtakes the sounds and the smells. In a single moment, the temperature drops, the moisture rises, the wind strengthens, and the skies open up in a rush of tremendous downpour. The rainforest begins to run from the storm, and in minutes there are rivers washing down the mountainside, and the black earth becomes black mud, and only the trees keep everything in place. Thunder is so loud you hear nothing. Rain is in such torrents you feel nothing. The fog is rising so thick you see nothing. And beside you, she huddles under a banana leaf, laughing and staring in awe at the Nature that surrounds you. You grab her hand, and she takes yours, and together with the others you form a train up the mountain, pushing, and pulling, and dodging as the waters continue to fall. There is slipping, but no falling; struggling, but no failing. The minutes become clichéd hours when you finally reach the top, and in a movie come to life, the rain begins to lighten, and the skies begin to clear. But you hardly notice because meanwhile, your breath is taken away at the sight before you. Mountains rise. Waters cease. Mist. Blue. Green. View. Incredible. He is Here.
- It’s summer. At first, the sounds are everywhere: a flock of sea gulls squawk over the leftovers of an abandoned picnic; there are children screaming in laughter along the shallows; the far off tug boats sound their warning as they come in for the night. But the day is ending. As you sit with your legs over the rocks, watching the brush strokes change before your eyes… everything else becomes mute, and all you hear is the water lapping up against the pier. It is calling to you. For the waves are alive, splashing and dancing and resting in spurts, desiring to be everywhere and see everything all at once. And the salt and the seaweed and the fish smell tangy, but free. The sky, too, is racing. There are only a few moments left to cover the canvas in an array of orange, purple, and gold. The sun sinks lower, and the water responds. It is blue and then green and then black – deep, dark and reflective. It is no longer restless, but all knowing, keeping secrets that come out only in the depths. The race is over. And He is here.
“Blessing and Honour, Glory and Power, unto the Lord be praised. Sing with a chorus resounding before us, Holy is His name.”
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