Cappuccinos and Crepes
I sat on the Eurostar, bursting with a heart full of gratitude that the Maker of light would surround me with such splendor and grace. Tim and I were headed back to London after two days in the City of Lights, two days walking lover’s lanes, dining on French cuisine, strolling along the River Seine, making our mark at "Love Lock" bridge. It was all too much for this simple girl. My parents flew over to visit us in Oxford and offered to watch the girls so we could escape, and Paris is only two hours away. So, we went for it.
The weather was perfect, it was Spring. The days exploded with sunshine and eased us along with crisp air. My feet throbbed from all the walking, but who cares when you are eating the most magnificent crepes ever made? And the cappuccinos, well, they have forever ruined me from enjoying a Starbucks cup of coffee.
We sat outside a little cafe, drinking cappuccinos and eating crepes, while the French danced their dance, making magic out of simple things like catching a bus, smoking a cigarette, and bon jour greetings among friends.
I retrieved my book from my satchel to pick up where I last left off, and stumbled upon these words by Frederick Buechner:
"I think the dance that must go on back there ... way down deep at the heart of space, where being comes from ... There's dancing there ... My kids have dreamed it. Emptiness is dancing there. The angels are dancing. And their feet scatter new worlds like dust. If we saw any more of that dance than we do, it would kill us sure. The glory of it. Clack-clack is all a man can bear."
The glory of it; the weight of glory; of such a glory as this, man cannot bear.
Light enough to scatter new worlds like dust, weighty enough to gravitize a man. Who is this King of Glory? As magical as Paris was, the stuff dreams are made of, it was just a prelude. A prelude to the King who comes in glorious light. "God, my God, how great you are! Beautifully, gloriously robed, Dressed up in sunshine." (Ps. 104:1-2, The Message)
His glory far surpasses it all: Paris in Spring, Lovers on "Love Lock" bridge, masterpieces at the Louvre, cappuccinos and crepes, the Eiffel Tower dancing in twinkling lights ... He outshines them all. The Maker of light. He Who wraps Himself in light.
Life is hard. Most days are not spent living the magic of Paris. Hearts break. Friendships fracture. Love dies. And maybe this is why. If we saw any more of His dance, if the clouds parted any more to let His glory shine through, would it be too much of heaven for man to bear? In our mortal state, its weight would be too glorious.
An uncreated being cannot let all His goodness show for a created being cannot bear the weight. Evil exists. But so does goodness, light, beauty. Amidst the darkness, light is seeping through, creating glimpses of the masterpiece, the Original. Give us eyes to see beyond the darkness, to peer behind the clouds.
There's dancing here, a prelude to feet scattering new worlds like dust.