Awake in the middle of the long winter night, I shed the cocoon of my sleeping bag, layer on fleece and snow boots, and emerge from my tent. I crunch slowly across the snow, alpine ridges rising around me washed silver and black by moonlight. My breath smokes in the zero degree air.
Turning around I study the thin nylon and polyester that shelters me from the cold. How easily a wind down the couloirs could flatten that frail structure, carry away my illusion of security in the midst of the wilderness. How threatening is the failure of a zipper on my fleece pants!
But it’s only more obvious here, on the edge of nature and existence. My house down below, with gas and electricity and heat and running water, is only slightly less frail in the face of the universe. Fire, storm, violence – any of these could breach the unsubstantial battlements of wood and concrete. No total security there either.
Tonight, no wind blows. Spilling across the heavens above me, the Milky Way shimmers while Orion marches brightly over the mountain ridges, Betelgeuse glowing redly at his head. Who created these and calls them all by their own name?
Here in the midst of cold nature I am at home. Not because of anything I have donw or made, but because of the One who made me along with the trees, the mountains, the snow, the stars. The One who loves me. I return to my tent, crawl into my mummy bag and sleep.
In peace I will both lie down and sleep, for you alone, O Lord, make me to dwell in safety. (Psalm 4:8)
(written for A Denver Book of Prayer, February 13, page 92)