Fourteen

Late one balmy June afternoon,

I perched on an outcropping of obsidian rock,

peering, wide-eyed, up the mountain

spewing molten lava into the sky. I was fourteen.

The base was fringed with a blanket of green,

 which abruptly ended halfway up,

where 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, crawled up my spine.

If I had ever needed proof of God, I was witnessing Him at that moment.

There I stood, weeping with awe, fourteen.