Blanketed, the world patiently waits amidst silence and stillness. Fog settles much like a thick shroud to block me either out or in, depending on my perspective.
A garment or cloak, of sorts, it presses down – heavy, oppressive, and yet also protective. The towering, barren oak branches wear it well, merging into a dusky union with no sense of either burden or reluctance.
Gazing through my window, the landscape’s stark winter features lie hidden by this cottony blanket. I wonder when it may decide to quickly shift and dissipate, only to gather and descend elsewhere.
Just as the fog lays itself down so gently, the Spirit also hovers over my heart – only conversely, with a sort of permanence. Like the oak limbs that reach and seek, I mingle with it and push deeper, deeper, wanting to submerge.
It seems a well-fitted cloak – predictable and yet mysterious as it allows carefully meted-out measures of understanding. Internally, I want whatever the Spirit will show me – in His way, His time.
Is this image of a cloak reminiscent of a garment of righteousness? Am I outfitted for the Lamb’s wedding feast? What is this concrete and yet wispy Reality that insistently captures me when my own sight and reason fail?
It is the assurance of hope.
I Co. 13:12b – “Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”