The Psalmist paints with powerful metaphors. He calls God a Rock. But until two weeks ago, that comparison did little to move me.
Then we crossed the border and watched Colorado peaks rise from the plains. The mountains traveled with us, ridged with veins of snow. They encompassed us and astounded us and warmed us.
On one of our mornings in Colorado, Dad stoked a fire in the cabin stove. We sat on the striped couch reading our Bibles, sipping dark coffee, and looking to the peaks. I read Psalm 18, not for the first time.
But for the first time, I saw things differently.
God my Rock was no longer a Missouri boulder. He was a Colorado mountain. He was a towering and intricate stone, glittering with holy snow and rooted with incomprehensible strength.
It’s funny how new surroundings tint Scripture with a fresh flavor.