“Look over there,” Craig said, nodding toward the east as we swung into the curve of the ramp up to the bridge. Up above the ridge of the city, caught against the fog of the morning, the unseen sun was forming a thick, tight rainbow. Around the darker bowl of gray, multi-colored legs curved toward the gray toward earth.
Most often, when you see a rainbow, you find yourself more or less between the sun and the prismed arc. Not so with this one. With the morning fog acting as both prism and backdrop, this brief spectacle of refracted light was directly between us and the sun. I turned and looked again as we crossed the bridge and descended into Kansas. That stunning view held for less than a minute and then disappeared.
There are those events, so fragile, so brief: a certain smile, an image of a child, a momentary tilting of light and shadow and then they pass except when caught and cast into memory. We wake to see another line, more gray hair, another fold of skin, another indicator of our temporary mortality.
But in that coming land of brighter sun, when all our days meld into one, when we will know as we are known and see as clearly as we are seen, when all of good is gathered into one place and kept by the grace that we do not yet understand, in that place there will be no passing of glory. When we are made no longer subject to the nuances of this world and its ways and when all that causes death and decay has been done away, in that Day, we will know fully the joy that we have only tasted, that which stays.