This morning, I sat in the cleft of the rock beneath Turret Arch in Arches National Park. The sun made its gradual appearance without dazzling colors. There was nothing dramatic about the rising sun as the light around me slowly changed from darkness to light.

In the cleft of this rock, I began to cry as I tried to remember the words from Isaiah. Words that espouse:

You are our Creator;
we are the clay, and you are our potter;
we are all the work of your hand.
Isaiah 64:8, NRSV

But, I couldn’t remember the words. I couldn’t remember if it was Isaiah or Jeremiah who voiced this prayer in a fit of despair about the way that the world is. I had forgotten even that. I remembered kinder words, gentler words that remind us of the work of God’s hand.

Because that is what I saw in the red sandstone beneath me.

That is what I saw beside me.

That is what I saw all around me.

I could only see the work of God’s hand sculpted from these amazing red rocks, like the red clay I once attempted to mold in college. I was never any good at throwing pots. Or working in any three-dimensional media. Let’s be honest, even my pinch pots were rather lame. But, in the cleft of that rock, I felt held in the hand of the Creator. I felt God holding me in the cleft of that rock like Moses was once held. God was there to show me her glory.

And I could only cry in wonder.