relationships, Uncategorized, Writing
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Megapixel Miracles

The anticipation of change is electric. We feel it on bare arms as each tiny hair stands lifted on a breeze of molecular tension.We try to breath it in, but the air is charged and tastes strange. We hold collective breath and wait.

We saw it on the sky that night as the brilliant blue waned to pale and water-light. The north and south skies were ripped through, dazzling in electric orange, slippery salmon, and pink of every shade like Bahamanian beach houses.

It began with a clipped end of a rainbow, a shattering of light bent as glass to the flame into the beginning of a perfect arch. The golden mean in ether – exact, as always in shape, it’s design mathematically perfect, artistically rendered with the skill of the ages so powerful it can shut the mouth of the most cynical critic.

This pillar that stretched from hillside to blue on a backdrop of shimmering orange interrupted our writers’ meeting. Our thoughts, our words on pages and glowing screens hung like long forgotten holiday decorations, and we, distracted by the silent screen magnificence in the south, dropped pens and picked up camera phones to capture the moment.

But the window glass, thin barrier though it is, caught a glare. Instead we rushed outdoors, phones in hand, faces lifted to the drama, arms brushed by electric air, breath caught in lungs.

Keys jangling, I ran to my car, dodging the first few raindrops, to close windows and push the button that raises the tent-like convertible top. I locked it into place and saw through the splattered windshield a dark knot of clouds in the west. The sun had set, it’s July reign of shining heat pushed into the horizon by a turning earth and a sea-born storm that had gathered its skirts in preparation for the storm to come.

And come it would. The electric charge of change came on rolling beams of water, suspended in space by a miracle of science until their thunderous battle roars above us. But not yet.

For now, these moments, we remained caught in the still kaleidoscope vision, attempting to visually memorize each pixel. We aimed tiny lenses at the expanse and tried, oh how we tried, to capture heaven with our cell phones.

As if we can capture the miracles of heaven in a megapixel.

An image shot and saved in silica is as alive as a stuffed gazelle, whose once lithe, leaping body is forever frozen in a taxidermist’s chemical stew — a touchable, careful rendering of something that inspired awe.

But although the image stands before us, the magic of the armhair-raising miracle of magnitude cannot be copied or rendered, stuffed, painted or photographed. Only held in the soul, a small bundle of joy to be remembered, brought out like heirlooms and cupped and dandled. We breathe rejoicing over magnificence held in our souls.

As writers we attempt to capture witnessed miracles, stories of nature and of lives redeemed, using the words as palette and keyboards our quills. As if we can capture the miracles of heaven in syntax.

But we try, oh how we try. And we use our humble tools to render the same electric charge, the molecular energy of transformation. The painted sky, the tiny insect, the baby’s cry, the marriage healed calls us to take notice, saying to us:


Abide in the present and let its light imprint your soul.

Agree that you cannot duplicate this exact moment,

but you can honor it and magnify its Creator.

You are seeing the work of a beating heart so expansive that the universe keeps time to the rhythm of its beating.

You are seeing the work of hands that stilled and gathered ancient, lost waters into life-giving rivers.

You are feeling the touch of your Creator, a breath of his strength.

Tell your story, show what you’ve seen and make what you’ve tasted and serve it to others. Let your small rendering of my glory brighten dark eyes, nourish weak bodies and lead lost souls to salvation. Take my glory, from my hand and scatter it like seeds.

We will reap a harvest of miracles.

“Can anyone measure the ocean by handfuls or measure the sky with his hands? Can anyone hold the soil of the earth in a cup or weigh the mountains and hills on scales? Can anyone tell the Lord what to do?” {Isaiah 40:12-13}

Lord, help me to, with diligence, take up the tools you’ve given me to bring you, you alone glory. Soli deo gloria. Soli deo gloria.

What inspires you? Do you live or create, work or dream with a desire to magnify God? How do we make small the expansive work of grace, the miracle of salvation? How can we receive the invitation to participate?

linked up with ann voskamp’s walk with him wednesdays,

also linked up with internet cafe devotions.



    • Thanks! We were lamenting that we didn’t have our real camera’s, only phones. But it came out pretty good — nothing like the original. Thank you! Blessings, Aly

  1. That is beautiful! How can words describe such holy things? They fall short every time.

    Happy WFW!


    • Beth, thanks for coming by. I’m glad God let’s us try to capture his glory — and to think he calls us his temple! humbling.

  2. We had a massive dust storm blow through Phoenix a couple of weeks ago, one of my daughters said, “It looks like the end of the world”! It was 2 miles high and 50 miles wide and it was blowing some kind of silt like volcanic ash that I’ve never seen before.
    I think of the things I’ve done and built in this world and then consider the awesome power of God that I can’t fathom. I then consider myself like the ant in God’s amazing world. We need a dose of humility that these storms cause in us. Thanks.

    • My gosh! I remember the wind blowing by the Navajo mission in NM — I was very, very young, but the sand felt like knives. And there’s a lot of sand out there. That he holds it in the palm of his hand is quieting truth. Have a wonderful day, Floyd.

  3. Diane says

    Beautiful piece of writing Alyssa! I love towards the end of where you call to give you help, with diligence, to pick up the tools God has given you. That is my prayer! Can I use that one statement?

    Keep writing!

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