Secured in the cast, and happy in the nod-roll slap-swoosh thrum against the hull, I anchor rolling cucumber to cutting board and slice. Crisp, round as the moon full on the plate. Next, green pepper. Halved, seeded, sliced lengthwise. Slightly curved slivers of crescent moon. The boat rolls a mite off beat. A staccato wave. My rhythm’s thrown, but I balance the plates wobbley and hand them up from galley to deck. Thank-you’s, smiles, sharing, and more laughter. Barefoot, hungry, happy. My family. And warm breeze picks up lake scent mingling, organic, green. Alive.
We feed each other full. We eat full. We find our rhythm on the water. Find the man-in-the-moon, and find awe in his own celestial dance with her full. Full. And I want to be the moon to my man. Embrace him full, and dance. I keep these thoughts to myself. Silent cadence. My heart throb. Mystery and miracle entwined.
We find. More awe. The moon casts a line that anchors the oceans themselves. She casts and hooks weighty water and wave and holds it to shore. She plays the casted line like Moby Dick and his whale; like a sun-baked fisherman plays his behemoth on the hook, and lands it. And Moon and Man in it sun-baked, cast and hook and land tides, seasons, night moods.
My husband swishes the chili pot off the swim platform. Dips it through the moon lit surface, beneath where it’s dark, and lifts it up full. Moon’s light slippered feet are standing in my chili pot. My eyes walk the moon trail from the pot at anchored stern to the end of this hemisphere. Rippled moon, white gold light laid down across night water.
And isn’t this it? What’s needed? Light laid down? Light laid across dark nights and deep water times? Across wheel chair pain. Across lupus and cancer. Across addiction and mental illness, heartsickness and homelessness? A-cross? Yes. It’s needed.
Jesus did this. He cast His glory line, made Himself bait on cross with nail, and hooked sin itself-wily, evasive, restless, tossing and breaking over earth and me....this sin...and landed it in hell. Jesus is light laid down across all darkness.
“I am the light of the world,” He says. (John 8:12). And, “In the beginning…In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shines in the darkness…” (John 1:1,4-5 emphasis mine). And, “Let there be light,” first God-speech recorded, and darkness was divided. The moon itself, night’s light, was divided, amazed I’m sure. Halved. The light side facing us and the back-side turned away.
I look up into that light shadow hanging above and wonder, “Why? Why half light when darkness invades?” I wonder enough to google the moon and read that really just three percent sun power touches moon. Three percent sun on moon. Four percent and we’d stumble, glory blinded, and perish. And the stars would close their eyes. Two percent and it would be like seeing the back-side of the moon. And the Creator moves the heavens and this earth to make sure that never happens. Three percent sun shines and reflects off dark hard moon and God’s back-side glory passes across soul, because even Moses could only see the back-side of God’s glory and still live to tell about it and the moon has no light of its own and neither do I.
Moon lays her glory down and crosses the lake to reach me deep and God lays His glory down and crosses my soul to reach me deep. The thought rests long and grateful and stays with me.
And I worship.
My heart searches for thank-you speech and finds what my tongue doesn’t know how to pronounce. Finds it looking out across the moon lit water and up to into the night heavens. Silent, articulate night sky gives speech full when I have no words. I give thanks under the sun, but in night under the moon, it’s just quietly there. Night season thank-you’s.
And I worship.
Awe and wonder and mystery. A pot full of moon. A cosmos full of moon. What do I call this? Moon-struck worship? Crazy worship? Of the Creator who is giving me the moon? Who is filling dark empty pots at the stern of this vessel, the back-side of my soul, with light full? Who is loving me this sacred barefoot night of sliced cucumbers and bell peppers and chili pots; of lines and anchors and casting and dancing?
Yes. I call it crazy worship. My name for this mystery. And I’m full.
written by: Carolyn Roehrig