The Glory of a Sunrise

   Not being a great meteorologist, I never know what kind of a sunrise we might have here on St. Simons. So when the light first began to appear in the east,

   But it got a little brighter with some more color

   Then we got this

   God put on quite a show to remind me that His Mercies are new every morning.

   I am awed and grateful at the same time.

   (All of these are posted straight out of the camera, not enhanced on any computer program. The final two look darker but the cloud cover darkened the sky considerably.)

Michael? Who is Michael?

   What was a disaster for the Florida Panhandle, turned out to be a non-event here in the Golden Isles.

   When a storm heads our way out of the Atlantic, we say, "Just wait it will hit the Gulf Stream 60 miles from shore and turn north".

   Or if it, like this time, comes at us out of the Gulf of Mexico, our retort is, "Just wait and see where the winds take it. Off to the west sometimes, or at least north of us to the Carolinas".

   So Michael struck north into Florida and then turned east and passed us to the north.

   Our morning, today, the day we were supposed to get rain and wind, appeared like this on the beach.

   Soft Colors at the outset.

   A family enjoying the color of the sky and the warm water of the ocean.

   The wind pushing the sand north, and sandblasting my ankles in the process.

   The roar of the waves in the inlet.

   We hate it that someone was in the path and had to suffer the effects of this big storm, but are thankful that it was not here.

Missed by Most

   People love to be on the beach. Both locals and tourists flock to the beach when the weather is nice, all for a variety of reasons. Of course there is the water to swim in, wade in or maybe even surf in.

   Then the sun beckons folks. Some for warmth, some for browning the skin, and some because of the openness of the beach and the majesty of that great ball in the sky.

   But I realize that most beach goers miss the allure of the beach in the predawn hours. The quietness of the air, but also the lapping of the water on the tidal river and the sometimes roar of the waves oceanside.

   Arriving there at Gould's Inlet this morning around 6:15, I found I was the only car in sight. The sky was showing a little light, and the moon was still high in the heavens.

   The small waves of the high tide were lapping at the shore of the tidal river.

   The shoreline afforded very little space to walk between the waves of the receding high tide and the perpetual fluffy sand, a small strip of relatively firm sand next to the water.

   But that did not matter much at this time of morning, there were few walkers out this early anyway.

   As the sky began to color some orange next to the horizon, clumps of marsh grass pointed to the high water mark of the previous incoming tide.

   As the time approached the sunrise hour, a few more brave souls awakened and stirred on the sand.

   The sky lightened, the colors deepened, the clouds gave emphasis to the whole landscape.

   And the ocean waves, albeit small, gave a deeper roar, as they rolled toward the shoreline.

   Human activity stalled and then stopped as those who had made it to the beachfront stopped to watch the sun appear over the ocean on the horizon.

   Folks gazed and loved the sight, but really did not know what they had missed in the previous hour.

   My favorite beach time of all, the quiet semi-dark hours before the world begins another new day.

   God's handiwork and His Mercies and Grace.

   New every morning even when it is hard to see.

 

Do Windmills Have Voices?

   Driving down the highway, the scenery seems to slide by at 70 mph, and my thoughts are often elsewhere, but over here in South Georgia, I have been intrigued several times by a scene on my route.

   Now, in my older years, I have shunned the Interstates of this world, and taken to the back roads. Roads that take me through smaller towns and give me glimpses of life lived away from busyness and sprawl.

   Roads such as Highway 341, which I often take on my way north from St. Simons. Traffic is lighter, big semis fewer, and scenes more bucolic.

   A road that takes me through Jesup, Odom, Baxley, McCrea and Hazelhurst.

   A road that lets me unwind before I have to go back to the hurry of Interstates 16 and 75,  roads that will take me to Macon, and Atlanta, and on to Chattanooga.

   I have driven this road several times in the last few months, and I can tell you, without looking it up, which of its towns have courthouses and good places to eat.

   It is familiar to me.

   Several times lately, I have noticed a scene that I wondered about.

   Somewhere between McCrea and Baxley, I spotted, rising above the surrounding trees, the remnants of a homestead (I think). Maybe the correct term is "farmstead"

   What is left of a house, with its water tower and tank, and windmill.

   So, driving that route the other day, I stopped. Getting out of the car, noticing the "No Trespassing" signs on the fence, seeing the lock on the gate, but slipping around it into the yard (?), I walked up to the structures. The grass was tall and a misty rain had made an appearance.

   It was also quiet. Even though 314 is a four lane highway, there was no traffic. The only noises were insects.

   Then a whirring sound above me. Looking up I noticed a slight breeze had come up, and the windmill blades were moving.

   It was then I wondered about the folks who had once lived in this place.

   What kind of life did they have?

   What loves did they share?

   There were a lot of memories stored in this site. Memories of men, women and children. Memories of games and love and work.

   The windmill moved around catching the wind from wherever it came. The sounds seemed to want to tell me something, but what?

   Real people lived here once. Real lives were brought into the world and departed thence. Life was sustained and nurtured.

   Whose, What kind, and How were all questions that had answers, but the windmill just whirred and I had to leave still wondering.

   A trip back into someones past, with the human voices stilled, but the windmill speaking on regardless,

   And I understood not it's language.

And The Moral of This Story Is....

   One of my new early morning habits has become a walk on the beach. It is quiet before the sun comes up. There is time to think. There is time to pray. There is the sense that all is right with the world, and that there is that surety that God's mercies and grace are new every morning.

   Some dawns are cloudy, some are kinda moody, but there are times like this morning that seem absolutely glorious.

My friend Duke Smith once told me that I should always look behind me when I finished shooting, and so I did..

A picture of the sunrise that I had never seen before. Taken facing west instead of east.

And the moral of this story is:

Don't think that all you see is all there is.

There is always more

Maybe A New Stage?

   For the past few months, I have tried to follow almost everyone's advice and stay busy. Playing golf, tennis, bike riding, walking a lot, just attempting to fill the hours in the day with something constructive.

   Let's not say that this feeling is an everyday thing, but a lot of time it is. There must be some halfway productive things that I can do.

   Thinking back on some things that I used to enjoy doing, I notice my camera bag sitting in the closet on the floor, lonely I think. Realizing that I used to go out a lot and practice shooting various scenes and locales, but had not in quite awhile, why not put some productive activity into my schedule.

   I had read an article in the paper about the full moon that we were experiencing in these days and thought, "why not?". I've got the time for sure.

   On the way to the beach last evening, I had a good feeling, like I was about to do something. Perhaps not great, but way better than nothing.

   My neighbor and I had been talking outside the other night about shooting moon shots at night, and I had written down the things he reminded me of. So, before setting out, I dialed in the settings he suggested and took a sticky note with some other items to do when I got to my spot.

   I set up and the moon came up.

   Playing with the camera a little bit, I got these shots, and I remembered why I had enjoyed this hobby.

   The moon had arisen out of the ocean on the eastern horizon and a cloud cooperated by giving some color and texture to the pictures.

   That moon is right in the full stage and should be that way as it exits the sky in the morning, I thought, so I got up early to catch it going down.

   It definitely was not the same kind of shot. The moon at 5 am was high in the sky, a bright shining white light in a somewhat cloudy setting.

   Like this:

   A faint bit of color which produced shots such as these.

   But my most important discovery was that just trying to stay busy is not a panacea to fits of loneliness.

   Going back and finding joy in something that you used to love is a way out of useless movement.

   Realizing what you had been overlooking was a surprising result.

   God cooperated with a fabulous moon, all I had was to get up off my chair and go.

   And I wonder, what else in my closet is calling my name?

   Also wondering what else will stir me out of this funk I've been absorbed with. God may be saying:

  "Look around at My world, enjoy this creation, perhaps by interacting with it, you may see more than just yourself."

   And I pray that this is so...

But Even If He Does Not...

   Walking down the beach, or up if you prefer that direction, this morning, greeting the few that were out early with a "Good Morning", I thought about those folks out there, like I was.

   What were they thinking?

   What were they looking forward to today, or maybe even dreading it?

   I thought of the word "anticipation" and I found a meaning:

"realization in advance; foretaste."

   It seems to me, as I think about it, that there is little neutral in the word. It is either a happy thought or one of impending doom. There is little middle ground in anticipation.

   When I woke this morning early, my thoughts were on anticipation, and they were happy. It is great to have some events, be they near or far away, that you can smile as you think of them. It does not mean that they will happen as you foresee,  just that the foretaste can be good in your mouth, or, in this case, in your dreams.

   If your foresight turned out to be on target, all is well, and you can revel in successes in accomplishment, or in life in general.

   But what happens if your dreams of glory are dashed in disaster?

   What if, in spite of your anticipation, your dreams go up in ashes, what do you think then?

   Could you react like the three Israelite men in Daniel Chapter 3 as they replied to the king:

"17 If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty’s hand. 18 But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”

   Is my faith so fragile that I cannot take disappointment or loss? Even if He does not come through as I planned He would, can I pray "Thy Will Be Done"?

   Do I rely on the fact that His Mercies are new every morning and His Grace covers my whole life?

   Do I greet the new day with an anticipation, that whatever happens in this day, I can still pray for His Will to be Done?

   If I can live in light of that fact, my life will reveal Him, and it will be that my worries will turn to ashes and not my dreams.