Amy Carmichael once wrote, "And only Heaven is better than to walk with Christ at midnight, over moonless seas." She humbles me with her trust, her willingness to walk in the lonely hours of the night, in utter darkness, over the waters.
On a cross country ski trip in a valley tucked into the folds of the rugged North Cascades, I had the privilege of a moonlit ski. The three of us had reached the cabin mid afternoon, and clambered down slippery snow steps to reach the cabin door. Mark built a fire, and we played games and drank tea and chatted and ate dinner. Then the lure of a full moon drew us back out of the cozy cabin, into the cloudless night. We clipped into our skis in the dark, for the moon was shining brightly on the hills across the valley but had not yet risen high enough to illumine Bridge Creek. In the dark, we skied towards the open area just before the bridge, only able to see enough to differentiate between the whiteness of the snow and the blackness of tree trunks. There was no depth perception, and hills and dips in the snow took us by surprise, our skis slipping backwards or carrying us down inclines through no effort of our own. When we reached the clearing, we stopped to take in the glory of the mountains bathed in bright blue-white light across the valley. Above, the stars were clear and distinct (though only the bright ones were visible in the glow of the moon) and two planets blazed above the horizon.
Then we turned our eyes to the ridge behind us, and suddenly, a sliver of white appeared behind the tree-lined hillside. We watched it grow, though it was almost too bright to look at. Shadowy skiers appeared behind us, and then, the whole round moon had slipped from behind the hill and glowed bright above us. It was not a painted circle but a shining sphere, full in every dimension. We skied down to the bridge, intoxicated, and the trail onward beckoned, but we at last turned to head back to the cabin. When we left the clearing, the trees shaded us from the moon's bright light and we were back to skiing by feel, bending our knees and letting the contours of the snow direct us as they would.
We laughed and sometimes wobbled and were breathless with the beauty of the night. Then there was the dark outline of the cabin before us, warm kerosene lamp light shining through the windows. Inside the warmth of the wood stove awaited us. And perhaps, as we make our way, we will one day be counted worthy of skiing at midnight over snow fields not just sans sun, but moonless, too.
