I pour a large cup of coffee and hurry out to sit expectantly in the 28 degree front yard. C'mon, cotton candy!
Fifteen chilly minutes later, the sliver of sky that should be igniting clouds into color is wimping out into an everyday yellow. The horizon clouds are perturbingly stalwart in their mudpuddle grey consistentcy.
Muttering to myself about my stupidity, I stew on that deeper thought that God is holding out on me. I mean, really, everything is set up for some serious cotton candy and all that shows up is . . . this?!
I throw back the dregs of my cold coffee in disgust . . .and while I have my head tilted back . . .
I'm facing this huge chunk of cloud that balloons out from its dark-grey neighbors.
It's glowing cotton-candy pink from the inside out, its thin, gray, porous exterior barely keeping the color from cascading to earth. Like hot pink beachballs in a fishing net.
I sit here, staring almost open-mouthed at this incredible sight, literally right over my head. And I had almost missed it. God hadn't let me down. I was too stupid to look up.
Now I hear a familiar baritone drawl in the back of my mind:
"Windage and elevation, Mrs. Langdon. Always remember, windage and elevation." *
Who would've thought John Wayne knew so much about theology**, eh?
Standing up stiffly, I fling my last few drops of near-frozen coffee into an imaginary camp fire. As I mosey toward the front door I look up one more time to nod and tip my hat in a heart-felt apology.
* "The Undefeated", 1969
** Psalm 57:10, 78:26, 121:1