At the height of the eclipse yesterday the birds grew quiet and the coyotes began to call to one another. The muted light and the cooling temperatures prompted the nightly routines of the animal world as though the moon was playing a joke on the creatures below. Nocturnal nature squinted their eyes open and stretched with yawns and the thought, “Wow. I must have slept well. I feel like I was only asleep for a couple hours.”
Even the flowers were fooled. Those that bloom at night allowed their petals to fall open and the daytime sky, which had never seen them before, looked down with a smile.
For a few moments, my skin reflected lavender. My hands and arms looked the way they do in moonlight–a sight which made me hold my breath. As though breathing would have disrupted the delicate balance of darkness and light. When the moon was directly between the sun and the earth I standing in the middle of a prairie.
The prairie was quiet but the moment was electrifying. Magical. I wondered what would happen next and wished whatever it was would tarry much longer than I knew it would. Or could. Soon, the light began to grow.
Recently, I watched the documentary After Death produced by Angel Studios, which does a deep dive on the stories of people who have had near death experiences. In it, several of the people who were given glimpses into that which is on the other side of the veil talk about the colors they saw. They report that there’s nothing to compare them to on Earth so they don’t even try to explain. “We don’t have words to describe what it looks like!” I believe them.
Yesterday, I remembered the stories those people told. As the earth around me took on a muted rainbow of colors I stood in awe of how the elements I’ve seen every day of my life–grass, trees, flowers, the sky, the dirt crunching under my shoes–were suddenly indescribable. Sure, I can use words like “muted” and common descriptors like lavender and moonlight, but unless you saw it with your own eyes, you won’t truly be able to understand. You might place a mental filter over your everyday views to make the attempt, but if you didn’t see the earth in those moments, you won’t have any context for what it really looked like.
Part of what made yesterday so magical was that it inspired entire swaths of humanity to stop what we were doing, look up, pay attention, and simply “be” witnesses to the grandeur of God’s creation. There was nothing we could “do” but be present. Show up. Look. Listen. Feel.
We should do that more often. I should do that more often. Yesterday morning I was so anxious. By the end of the eclipse I was so relaxed I felt sleepy. Indeed, I took a two hour nap when I returned home!
But before my nap, I stood in a prairie and observed for two hours straight. In fact, I refused to look through my eclipse glasses until I could perceive a change in the lighting with my own eyes. I actually saw the moment things began to change with my own eyes! I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of anything in my life! I saw the colors begin to change ever so slightly, I looked through my glasses, and there it was–the tiniest sliver of the moon.
NASA will probably call me today and offer me a job. But I digress . . .
In the documentary I mentioned, several of the people interviewed say something similar to this, “Death doesn’t feel like an event. It’s more like a new awareness. It wasn’t scary or dramatic. Everything was more vibrant. More real.” Well, these were the reports from those who witnessed the realm of light. There were other stories from people who witnessed the realm of darkness. I’ve never heard anything more terrifying.
I thought about the realm of light during the eclipse. Stepping from one world into another. Leaving the world we know for the world we know about. Leaving these shadowlands for the glorious truth of God’s kingdom in Heaven. Leaving the colors and textures and forms He created for us here–the ones our bodies were built to perceive with these eyes, ears, hands, noses, and tongues–and stepping into a reality we could never have imagined and could never describe to those who haven’t yet been there.
“But, as it is written, ‘What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him–’” (1 Corinthians 2:8-10). In context, the apostle Paul is writing about wisdom in this scripture. He’s drawing a contrast between human wisdom and the wisdom in the message of the gospel. Wisdom is the message of Jesus Christ crucified. Long before the world began, the heavenly Father chose to send His Son to die on a cross and become the way of salvation. And in His inscrutable wisdom, God planned to bring along all those who love Him to share in His glory.
Yesterday, these words–what no eye has seen, nor ear heard–came to me out of context but with a robust gratitude for the Creator. This world is beautiful. I’m mesmerized by beauty and constantly drawn to Him through nature–not only because the beauty there draws these temporary eyes upward but also because I know that this nature is in a fallen state. If all we see here is fallen nature, can you imagine nature that’s been perfected by God?!
No. You can’t. Neither can I. It’s indescribable to us. And that’s okay.
There will be another eclipse in 2044. If the natural progression of life unfolds, I should be here to see it. Until then, there are prairies to traipse about, trails to explore, animals to be amazed by, and reliable sunshine to bask in along the way.
“We live in the Shadowlands. The sun is always shining somewhere else. Round a bend in the road. Over the bough of a hill . . .” –the character C.S. Lewis in the movie The Shadowlands.
If the shadowlands are this beautiful, can you imagine the fullness of the Son?
Necessary Whispers 
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