My mind vacillates with every curve of the road as I shift silently through the waning twilight. I have retreated into myself, distracted and deject, with no conscientiousness of existence beyond the bounds of my vexation. Morose machinations are pulling me further from reality with each bend of the aptly dark hillside. I feel forever lost within the ghastly phantoms of sorrow and fear. Just as these feelings begin to breech my spirit, I am thrust back to the present with all the force and precision of a veteran sniper dropping a target through the mist and fog. The force which has ushered me back into existence with such swift efficiency is the ancient matriarch of the night.

Upon recovering from such a violent re-entry into existence, I begin to ponder. Although I have witnessed many a moon rise, and Lord willing will witness many more, this reliable maiden has arrested my attention this inauspicious night. She is a harvest moon, but tonight she has donned herself with the most brilliant vestments I’ve beheld. Her color is so…alive; as though Van Gogh has lent the night his paints and brush. The brazen disk looms as it rises with every air of regal pomp above the humbled hills. She is so illuminated that the entire sky seems to glow like a smoldering blanket. Clouds and haze are thwarted as they attempt to usurp the maiden’s elegant ascension. Within minutes of her ascent, the clouds and haze begin to fade away—unable to stand before this ethereal effigy. As I bask in her domination, she continues her course across heaven.

I am transfixed, paralyzed, undone by the splendorous sovereignty of this lunar lady. She has remained insufferably bright along her course, though she shed her hue with each step she climbed. As she neared the apex of her throne, her aura transfigured the night sky into a canopy of serenity. As I continue driving under this veil of calm I feel a reassuring presence; as if someone is caressing my cheek with all the form and weight of an elderly woman raising her hand to caress the check of a grandchild departing for a journey, which will not conclude until long after the woman’s passing.

And now I realize.

The celestial maiden, with all her charm and graces, could not be so intimate in her imminence. Her lord, and my Lord, however, could craft such an occasion. The Maker of the moment himself reached across the infinite chasm of my despondency and rescued me from myself. And through his servant, decked in the majesty of her master, is counseling me. I hear Shaddai say, “You know, the real question is not whether you will rise.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. My hand which guides this maiden across the sky is the same hand which guides you through the course of life. My servant may be obscured by clouds and haze, but never is the course lost or altered. So, the real question lies in the rise.”

“The rise?”

“Indeed. Your twilight is waning. The last bit of light from before this event in your life has faded, and there is a night for you to traverse. If you remain faithful to me, you will rise like the moon. The real question is the manner in which you will rise. Will you chose to embrace, for a time, the clouds of despair and haze of doubt, or will you chose to don the garments of joy and grace that I clothed the harvest moon in?”