Faith Works 7-21-18

Faith Works 7-21-18

Jeff Gill

 

When the sun goes down

___

 

At the risk of making anyone unhappy with this revelation, the sunsets are starting to get earlier.

 

Ever since June 21, thirty seconds at a time and then creeping up to a minute or so earlier each day, the sun sets more than an hour earlier than it did a month ago. The days are almost a half hour shorter than they were this time last month.

 

But the evenings are still long, the days are warm, and the sunsets . . . hey, you don't have to have mountains to the west or an ocean at our feet to enjoy a good sunset.

 

Sunrises are back on the civilized side of 6 am, but I have found that sunrises are an acquired taste and not that many have acquired it. Sunsets, though, have a solid constituency.

 

In principle, that is. In practice, grabbing strangers by the elbow and pointing west and saying "hey, isn't that an amazing sunset?" would not get you much thanks, and possibly a police report.

 

I'm told there are places on the west coast of Florida where the community sponsors a nightly sunset party; I'd imagine Key West doesn't need to organize theirs. The Lovely Wife and I have been up along the Straits of Mackinac a number of times as people gather in the shadow of the Mighty Mac bridge, and as the sun touches down on the surface of Lake Michigan, a hush tends to gather across the crowd, holding as the ruddy orb descends and often turns to applause as the sun vanishes.

 

The Midwest can give the casual observer a good horizon for sunsets, even if there are not seagulls overhead. A hill or ridge to the west can offer an early sunset, technically speaking, and a longer dusk, but the experience from a well-selected seat of the light withdrawing up along a tree trunk, into the upper canopy, and then whispering up into the clouds is still the same. Time seems to pass visibly, and your soul is soothed by the semi-conscious act of slowing down your senses to where you can mark the movement of the line between light and not-light slipping upwards.

 

Once the sun is below the horizon, of the sphere or of your surroundings however situated, you see everything in a different light, and it takes a greater, more intentional effort to be mindful of the growing twilight, the gathering dimness, progressing into night. Clouds miles above your location still catch the rays of the distant sun, and if you look closely, you can readily see their silent explosion of expansion. Having started seeing that movement, you can find yourself suddenly realizing you've been contemplating the fluidity of the heavens for quite some time.

 

This is where sunsets and spirituality can come together. The cumulonimbus are not as common in winter, nor are you as willing to stop, let alone to sit still. Evening is still well into the end of your day, not halfway past the afternoon, and you are more ready for contemplation, meditation, prayer.

 

Day is done, gone the sun, says the song; from the lakes, from the hills, from the skies. All is well, safe at rest: God is nigh.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he's borrowing that ending from Gen. Daniel Butterfield. Tell him about your summer reflections at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.