I wish I had something meaningful to say, Lord:
Something of value, something of glory to you.
But instead, today, I have gray.
Big puffy clouds of gray that swirl with moisture and humidity,
or maybe with my tears and frustration.
That's what it feels like, Lord: A fog.
A sightless, amorphous fog
which obscures shapes and clouds vision,
deadening sound and light,
leaving only a sense of oppression of spirit.
As the sun behind the clouds,
shining though not seen,
so too are you here now Lord,
are present behind all that is now.
But right now, I cannot see or feel that:
I can only feel the clinging dampness
and smell the mustiness
and see, not the Son shining in glory,
but only gray.