Looking back at our delights across miles of youth young glory, I feel a dreadful hopelessness.
It is this; that God allows us to travel through the stronghold of youth’s naivety oblivious of any danger. In that wild young abandon we breathe magic into our dreams and some come true.
Far off there is a horizon where a storm awaits; to the young it is unimagined.
Morning time comes to us generous with the fresh dew of dawn, and we skip down the primrose path to our day of seemingly timeless escapades. We drift into afternoon where summers boastful tongue tells us we are forever. Are our times known in the chapters of God’s mind, written or, yet to be written? Is there a theology of chance? Are we all in that hidden book? Are we in some kind of waking sleep, our parts not acted as the writer with the mask intended?
And so comes evening where loved friends disappear into the blaze of sunset.
Can we love through ashes?
I have come now to the page I don’t want to turn.