Look at the heavens, and see; and behold the clouds, which are higher than you. http://esv.to/Job35.5

The Flemish painters were known for painting dramatic clouds that took up three quarters of the canvas. Along the very bottom edge there were small and intricate depictions of what was going on with humankind. Below the clouds, little people were moving about, on a river, in a small city, or at the market.

One interpretation of this style is that the Masters believed God was in charge. Because God was large and humans were small, the artist’s focus was on the sky above. Whether intended or not, there is a humility in their paintings – they looked at the sky and captured the clouds with awe.

Similarly, the clouds in the Texas sky are awe inspiring. They look like giant billowing cartoon clouds one day and like wisps of hair falling in your eyes the next. The evening sky in the fall looks like a painting with yellow, pink, and purple streaks chasing each other to the horizon. The sunsets are long and low and slow just like the days. It’s as if God the Artist is mixing the colors right in front of you, on the canvas.

In West Texas you just have to step outside and squint. Pretty soon you and the sky will meet in a big way, as if the sky is tipping its hat and sayin’ “Pardon me, Ma’am” before heading away in a cloud of pink dust. If you sweat in West Texas, God will promptly whisk out a dusty bandana and wipe it off your brow.

By contrast, East Texas has more rain than can fit in a ten gallon hat. The clouds start in the Gulf of Mexico and bring along the ever-present humidity. The warm Gulf air envelopes you from the ground up. You try not to sweat. The bandana you carry with you is frozen and you wear it on the back of your neck.

Here I am driving along the lower edge of a dripping wet East Texas painting, along with thousands of other little people in our little cars and trucks, below a grandiose sky that takes up three quarters of the canvas. I see the storm clouds from atop a concrete overpass so high I feel like the top car on the roller coaster. There I am strapped into my car, just like I am at the amusement park. The rail connects and ready or not, ca-chink, ca-chink, up the giant concrete hill I go. Then it’s down with a “whee!” and I tumble into the merging lane below. Will anyone let me in? Traffic is at a standstill and we are all tiny little cars on a five mile long train, stuck in our seats. “Please wait here” says the amusement park Director, over a tinny loudspeaker.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and think it might be a long day. I am stuck in traffic, under the clouds, on top of hot concrete. Humidity oozes up and makes the picture in front of me hazy. Now I am in an Impressionist painting of sorts, with cars and concrete, the paint holding too much moisture. The Great Artist up above is masterfully adding some dramatic clouds.

I am encased in a concrete sauna. I turn down the air conditioning and the song on the radio tells me: “It’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away”. I turn up the volume – it is my favorite song. The clouds accompany me.

Now the clouds are moving faster than the traffic and entertain me with their shapes, like God has a talented sidekick who is hosting a hand puppet light show while we wait for the main speaker. I see the Gingerbread man in the clouds. He is running, running, fast as he can. I see a whale, and Jonah, terrified of being swallowed whole into a darkness so dark, in the belly of a whale. “Three days in the belly of a whale would be worse than thirty minutes in traffic”, I muse. Maybe it’s the same sort of being “stuck”. Three days in the belly would give a person plenty of time to think about their predicament. The song ends and I instinctively hit repeat. Even the sound track is stuck.

I have gone another mile. The concrete barrier next to me looks over, bares its teeth and and smiles grimly at my progress. I have made it past another section. I see grass and wildflowers peeking out from within the barrier, happy in the mist, a bird flitting and nestling in around them, unaware that they are all stuck in a concrete barrier. I smile at the incongruity of it. “Some things can grow anywhere”, I think to myself.

The pick-up truck in front of me has workers riding in the bed. Like me, they gaze upwards at the morning sky, watching the clouds. All except one guy who has a hat pulled down over his eyes, feigning sleep. Another sips a big gulp coffee, while the third talks to no one in particular. Or maybe he’s like me, singing along to a favorite song.

The humidity creates wavy lines between us. The men in the truck rode their bikes down dark streets to a corner, where they stood on one foot and then the other, waiting for someone to pick them up, jostling for a position in the bed of a truck. They look at me. They want my life and I understand, because I want theirs. In their world, humidity and sweat are okay, a mark of honor. In mine, sweat is a sign of weakness and I will fight it all day. They are overdressed for the weather, protection from the sun and the weeds. I am overdressed for an air-conditioned ride. They have bandanas to wipe the sweat from their brows and shield their faces from the fumes of traffic. I have tinted windows and air-conditioning and a nice sound system.

The clouds are still fantastic, filling the sky with broad brush strokes and filling my heart while they are at it. They remind me that the Artist woke up even earlier than I did, early enough to prep the canvas, to be with the men riding their bikes. We are all trekking along on the lower edge of the painting, small depictions of life, in awe of the majesty of the sky. The clouds are big and ever changing, light dancing off them, making shapes like gingerbread cookies, and whales, high above the traffic jam, higher than the concrete hill.

I look to the sky. The Gingerbread man has run off the canvas and a calvary of cowboys wearing hats and kicking up dust has taken over. The brake lights of the cars contrast with the picture in the sky. Little flecks of red, added at the end. The painting is incomplete without them.

I am tempted to follow those clouds right off the bottom edge of the East Texas canvas where the patterns and colors are painted so thick they may never dry. In my mind, I roam with the clouds all the way to dusty West Texas where the paint dries before it’s even on the brush.

We are all small depictions, bright spots along the lower edge of the world, of our world, with markets, and rivers, and towns, and traffic jams, and so many people scurrying about. The sky is large all around us, swallowing us up. We are so small, and God is so big. I am in awe.

The bird nestled on the barrier shakes off sleep and flies up to meet the clouds, politely moving upward, “excuse me, Ma’am”, says the bird, “Pardon me, while I go hang out with the clouds – it’s a beautiful day” he sings along with me. I hit repeat and start the song again. I look up at the clouds as they slow down and start to dry out, gorgeous and billowy and perfectly rendered. Clouds overtake the composition, leaving some space along the bottom for an accurate and intricate depiction of my little concrete world.

(lwr 11/14/2017)