A Psalm 8, of Sorts

Well, I'm back. Camping turned out pretty well, and much fun was had. Lots of stuff went down, which is to say, events occured, which is to say, I won't go over it in detail. Except about the late night campfires, because somehow, they sum up all that is the Best of Camping.

This is not really about toasty marshmallows or guitar or scalding hot chocolate, though all of those things are fine additions to the Experience. It's about the effect the fire has on the night.

I love the night, especially when it's dry, cool and windy out. When the clouds scud across a sky that looks impossibly deep, and the wind whispers in the trees and the brush, I consider myself fortunate to be alive.

But a fire enhances that by shutting it out. The world contracts around Fire, and the smaller the fire gets, the more magnetic it is. Glowing embers and flickering Orange drag my eyes away from the outside - the blackened blues and greens of the wild dark. Crackling sparks over-ride conversation. Fire commands attention.

And the Night knows this - it strains to regain a distracted audience. It looms large behind turned backs, chilling and threatening and coaxing all at once, and it washes everything in breezes. The pines groan - they have seen the Night in all its forms. They are indifferent to stars they cannot reach. But the inhabitants of the shrinking hemisphere of light and heat and sound lean in ever closer 'til their faces are nearly singed, and they think their thoughts, and the Fire dances on.

The Dark sets its jaw and waits, after that. When the last flames are finally dispelled, I am the only one left. The world expands with a whoosh, and there is the Night: cold, grim, grand - immense.

I retreat to my tent. I slip into a sleeping bag. Warmth returns. I lean over to zip my haven closed, but I let a little of the Night in, too. It curls up and goes right to sleep. The rest of it goes back to being splendid. And I am intensely glad that God has lavished so much beauty on a single day.