Remember when we watched—mesmerized by majestic deer on the distant highlands, feeding at noon? And our friends exclaimed, “How intriguing for this time of day!” The ground shook; and the sun, moon, and stars broke to pause and peer for a lifetime of five seconds.

It was the cry of the seagulls and arcs of their wings connecting heaven and earth that sealed our captivity upon the mossy grown, craggy cliffs of the Scottish northern shores.

It took our breath away—and thought we might die for beauty.

Fall we did, as trees are felled. On our faces, we wept with the skies—lavish silvery tears of rain—for life and death and the longing to go home.

We lingered for more and all the more, then rose and praised our kind Maker.

To be held prisoner of this exquisiteness is a privilege, for it piques and pales in comeliness and value compared to the savage beauty of blood and water, scars and bruises, scourgings and piercings, and injustice for justice.

We blinked our eyes again and again for holiness and purity and untouchable, blinding light.

As we walked from the mountain top to the northern shores, like Miriam we raised our tambourines to the music beat of a divine score.

There is no God like Yahweh!There is no God like Yah!

We measured the distance between heaven and earth and the depth of the North Sea and counted a thousand Scottish bluebells nestled between the heather, each blossom tinged with scarlet drops of love.

All the way down the mountain, we flew dancing and singing and speaking ineffable mysteries.

Bonnie Saul Wilks