Cumulus clouds don't arrive with a grand flourish—they begin in the most unassuming way: a little warmth rising from the earth. You can't see it. You wouldn't even know it's happening. But it's there-quiet, steady, reaching upward. Rather like our own hearts, isn't it? That quiet ache for something more.
As that warmth climbs higher, it finds cooler air. And there-right at that invisible threshold-something shifts. Vapour becomes visible. Mist takes form. What was once hidden becomes art across the sky.
That lovely, flat line at the bottom of the cloud? That's not just weather. It's a moment. A sacred place of change. A meeting point.
And it reminds me so much of life—of those moments when we reach up in faith, fumbling and full of hope... and He reaches back. That line? That's where the Savior meets us. Not once we've made it all the way, not when we've become perfect, but right there in the middle— in the becoming. Right at the line where we can still see who we were and feel who we're meant to be.
It's holy ground, really. Where His grace meets our reaching. Where we stop climbing alone—and start rising with Him.
And from there, the cloud stretches upward, billowing, kissed by light, shaped by the wind. It becomes something beautiful-because of where it started, and Who met it there.
That's our story too. We rise, yes. But He is the reason we become.
