I jumped out of bed and looked toward the window. The view was distorted by partially closed blinds. Something didn't look right. I drew closer and separated the thin slats with my fingers. A heavy fog had descended. I threw on some clothes and grabbed my camera.
What lay beneath the damp and dew?
Tall grass bowing under the weight of tiny water droplets.
The first blush of summer. A beautiful pink rose.
The skeletons of last summer's Queen Anne's lace were closed curiously tight. They had been open in yesterday's sun.
And then something else caught my eye.
Something fragile, something beautiful.
A tiny engineering marvel. A spider web. Adorned with pearls of hydrogen and oxygen in just the right combination to define its symmetry.
And miraculously, one drop, larger than the others, hovered in the middle.
My camera forces me out into the world to discover the unknown, the ignored, the steady streams of glory still radiating from their Creator. Still breathing, still yearning for what was lost in that first garden, and promised in the last.
I yearn with them too.
And in the yearning, in between the now and the not yet, I want to gather as much of the Glory as I can.