I was at Barnes & Noble last night, sipping on a Frap, typing out some thoughts, trying to make some sense of life. When I left the place to drive home, the sky was amazing.

The last hints of sun poking through the ominous clouds created a kind of lighting that is the best kind of lighting in the world, the vivid kind of lighting that hints at some sort of anticipation, an eager watchfulness, like a team of soccer players lined up in a row, swaying anxiously during the national anthem at the world cup.

I drove with the window all the way down. The wind was picking up and the air was cooling off. Then, of course, all these factors coalesced and the show began. Lightning bolts lit up the sky like tall, skinny, overgrown kids playing tag. The thunder served as a sobering reminder of my finitude and of God’s infinity, as if God was showing me, like he showed Job at the end of the story, just how big He is and just how big I am not.

When I got home I grabbed my camera and went back outside. I stood out on the street taking photos, trying to capture the bolts, but to no avail. I guess God didn’t want to be cooped up in a measly picture frame this time around. He is sometimes frustrating like that, but I guess He has His reasons.