I would have limited God's glory to sunsets and rainbows. To the color of dahlias and the taste of peaches. But in August I understand that the earth is full of His glory. It soaks everything, seeps from every seam. It spills out in a sudden wind. It burns our skin like sunshine. We droop beneath the heavy weight of glory in the humid air and spy its mystery in the spider that scuttles away before we quite know what it is we've seen.
Christie Purifoy, Roots and Sky
I, too, limit God's glory. Yet I surprised myself by finding it even in the less-than-cuddly creatures of the pond today: The snake that wriggled across my path . . . the prickly purple thistle that stood proudly against the browning grasses . . . the underground beehive that swarmed with activity, causing me to walk quickly on by.
For that matter, the "cuddly" creatures themselves remind me to keep my distance. The other day I spied three young raccoons tucked among the blackberry brambles, munching on berries with their dainty little paws. (Alas, my camera was at home!) Their perfect masks, ringed tails, and cunning waddle were almost irresistible, until I reminded myself that -- had they been older -- they might have been somewhat aggressive. I pass the brambles more cautiously now.
As is often the case, I think of Aslan in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe:
"Is he safe?"
"Course he isn't safe. But he's good."
Nature isn't safe. I tend to limit God's glory to the safe and beautiful. But I can also see glimmers of it in the wild and free, in the reckless and bold. It makes me feel small. But it also makes Him feel so much bigger, so much more vast and marvelous than I can comprehend. Indeed, the whole earth is filled with His glory.