As I traveled down country roads yesterday to visit a friend, I was impressed by the landscape encased in ice. We had some rather nasty weather earlier in the day which froze to every surface it struck. The roads had been treated by the time I was traveling his way, so I did not need to focus carefully on my driving and could instead focus on the marvelous scene. I had the thought that my perception of the scenery would change based on mood. And so I thought of three proses: happy, sad, and contemplative in response:

Happy Perspective

Well, thank God they have cleared the roads. It would be a shame to concentrate on safe travel instead of this spectacular landscape. Nature, in an angsty fit this morning, encased the earth in glass. Man has removed her musing from our pathways, but left her beautiful kiss on nature untouched.

As I meander down country roads, my vision is unobscured by the distracting constructions of man. Only telephone lines, and the road, seem to bear any proof man has been through here. The grass has even been iced by this morning’s storm, so that each blade looks like shiny, glazed candy flooding the fields around. The trees are fantastical. Perfectly encapsuled in ice, they remind me of some quirky curio I’d find in a country store in a cozy, quiet town. Nature, even in its broken state, speaks of its Creator’s personality. Perhaps He is a fan of quirky curios; I certainly fancy myself a quirky curiosity.

Sad Perspective

Some small mercy the Lord has granted, the roads are not treacherous as I wind through the obscure paths you must search hard to find on a map. The oppressive weather this morning really made a mess of things. The roads are clear, but nature is still entombed in its icy shroud.

I’m the only one out here sojourning the barren landscape. There isn’t even a house or barn for companionship–only telephone lines and the lonely road. The dead grass has gone from a pitiful pale to ghastly white, as each blade bows low from the weight of the frost. The trees too, hang heavy from the dense ice clenching their boughs. The whole landscape appears to weep, as the scenery vainly suppresses its emotion in the mist. The Lord is present though, even in this forlorn, forgotten place: my soul, and this country road.

Contemplative Perspective

The Lord has granted my mind to wander free since the roads are cleared from the sleet this morning. The land is still covered in ice though, so my thoughts turn to it.

I am undistributed by other drivers, or man made things, on this quiet path. Each blade of grass is distinguished by the transparent shell form fit to it. Glazed by winter’s rain, the trees are both foreign and familiar. The breath of the earth wisps through the area. How long, O Lord, will it be until these things are no more? Like the ice that blankets the land, our life will quickly melt, yet like this frozen visage, we too can make an impact on the lives of those that view us.

The heavy fog has conquered this morning’s land, yet I must be its ally, for I am pleased to witness its conquest. A chill races down my spine; is it from my joy or the frigid air? Traversing the forsaken hours before dawn, the fog overwhelms my field of vision. Street lamps, no more than two visible in the distance at a glance, throb into existence through the fog. Their warmth, ineffective against the heavy laden air, fizzle out with haste once passed. Even the beams of my headlights are as useful as a flashlight against murky waters.

The frosty, wisping air bears no malice or eeriness this day; in truth, I am the phantom haunting the wee hours. I sail as a ghost ship round the bends donned in the frigid shroud. Grandiose fantasies, and fable-like scenes fill my imagination.

So rare it is to see good photos or paintings which depict the child-like awe that this phenomenon demands. This ineffable birthing of clouds intertwined with and obscuring the frozen landscape fills my soul with joy. I cannot help but praise the Maker of this moment. Such mystery, such wonder, such beauty gently grasps the morning.

There are no ghosts in the ghetto. There is not a horror movie brought to memory that occurs in the projects. It is always a camp, or quaint town, or Victorian home–never the wrong side of the tracks. That is not to say the ghetto is unhaunted. The haunting is of a different kind…

The ghetto is teeming with ghosts. Famished ghouls of addiction, vengeful poltergeists of abuse, phantoms of inescapable poverty, all relentlessly haunt the disenfranchised communities. These twisted demons prey on the pain, prey on generational curses, prey on misfortune; they utilize every scheme and statute of man to keep the denizens of these destitute areas in a constant state of oppression.

It seems those unafflicted by these wraiths cannot see the torment. Indeed, these privileged, free from the vindictive spirits, decry such notions as shadows cast by some other thing; perhaps even the machinations of selfish lunacy from the afflicted themselves. Denying the evidence, for they fear they may have conjured the very specters that prey on these downcast. It takes a priest to cast out a demon, but the parson is stuck in his reading and prayers.

I, though barely touched by these phantoms, see them. I see their fiendish work among those God created. Too few, too few are those, unmaligned by these spirits, that are willing to perform the exorcism! But these ghouls are insatiable, and when they have devoured all, they will sup elsewhere. Then the apathetic priest’s blindfold will not avail.