Fourteen

Late one balmy June afternoon, I perched on an outcropping of obsidian rock, watching wide-eyed up the mountain spewing molten lava into the sky. I was fourteen. The base was fringed with a blanket of the green canopy, which abruptly ended halfway up, where the the bare rock face stood out like a scar. The towering volcano bore its wound proudly, roaring its challenge, molten spittle flying from its mouth. I was fourteen. What must it be like to have the power to create and destroy? Closing my eyes, my feet left the outcropping of lava rock. I joined the flow of lava, reaching out and devouring the nearest organic material, traveling farther, over the outcropping it had taken years to build, hissing as I cooled, leaving my mark on the majestic landscape. I was fourteen. My hands trembled as I raised my small blue camera, trying to capture a snapshot of the incredible force of nature before my eyes. A tumbling rock, slapped the mountain side. The resounding crash vibrated through my feet. A shiver, that had nothing to do with the sinking sun, wracked my frame. If I had ever needed proof of God, I was witnessing Him at that moment. There I stood, weeping with awe, fourteen.