The Mystery of Gray "Days"

The grayness of a day neither declares nor determines the value and ultimate beauty of its weather.  We know this because we have learned about the importance of all types of weather for healthy soil and animal life.  But during a gray, rainy, seemingly lifeless day, it's often difficult to recognize any ultimate value resulting from said weather. 

Often, this is the way we feel with regard to the seasons and realities of our own lives, isn't it?  Be it the wounding gray we've experienced at the hands of others, or the painful gray we ourselves have brought into the lives of those around us by our own struggles and mistakes.  It's so difficult to see any ultimate value in confusion, pain, or suffering, particularly when we are in the midst of it; we may not even want to.  We might even be angry that someone would dare to ascribe anything positive to the mess and suffering of life.  That's ok, and it makes sense...

We virtually never see the whole picture, regardless of whether our souls are experiencing a season of "Februaryish" gray milieu or one of refreshingly bright April mornings.  So how can we even begin to gain a more ultimate perspective or sense of real hope in the midst, especially, the darker seasons?  And where is God in the midst of it all?  Does he care?  Is he involved-positively or negatively?  Does he have any control at all?

These are some of the realities of life we explore at Starting Point.  We would love for you to join us as we wade into the questions honestly, without any presumptive or Pollyanna declarations.  We believe God respects humans too much and is far too honest for any of that.   

A Poem by Wendell Berry on Mystery, Life, God, Eternity

It takes all time to show eternity,
The longest shine of every perishing spark,
And every word and cry of every tongue
Must form the Word that calls the darkest dark

Of this world to its lasting dawn.  Toward
That rising hour we bear our single hearts
Estranged as islands parted in the sea,
Our broken knowledge and our scattered arts.

As separate as fireflies or night windows,
We piece a foredream of the gathered light
Infinitely small and great to shelter all,
Silenced into song, blinded into sight.


"VIII Sabbaths 2004"
from Wendell Berry's collection titled Given Poems