The Romantic poets felt that the soul was revived by beauty and sustained by memories of beauty. They wrote of beauty restoring the soul and giving them meaning. They felt whole when their eyes and souls were filled with the awesome beauties of nature.
Sure enough, they forgot the One who made the beauty and missed a great deal of lovely truths that make the beauty all the richer–that give it meaning and Him glory.
But . . . they were on to something. There’s a tingling of timid delight when one sees something lovely these days. I think our culture has forgotten the simple, lonely loveliness. On the ride back from NYC, we wound our way through miles of snowy, barren hills and fields. The trees were crisply outlined against the stars and moon in the darkness by the clinging remnants of snow on their branches. The expanse of nothingness was still, the air clear, the woods deep and restful. And my heart was glad to see it, to see dear Orion high above again, to see the empty spaces and the wild beauty under the moon’s fading beams. And one girl with us in the car commented:
“There’s nothing out here at all. I don’t think I like it. There’s…just nothing.”
And I was quiet. For I love what she called nothing. The rich stillness, the pale, forlorn beauty. It’s wild and fresh, a bit uncanny, and very rich. And the One who made it all is greater still.
He’s not a tame lion, but he’s good.
The other night, as I walked across campus to my room, a very damp, sticky snow had begun to fall. I was struck by the stillness of it; the contented manner in which the flakes amble on their way to rest on the walks. The twinkling feeling of snow on my eyelashes. The silence of my footfalls in the snow. The joyous weariness of working my mind until it could absorb no more left me content and numb intellectually, but in the snowfall–with the silver glintings of the stars, street lights and the flakes embroidering the inky darkness of the night . . . my soul was refreshed.
These are the small graces, the little moments when…