Today was one of those wonderfully calm sunny august days, when the Northern Irish stumble out into the sunshine in shorts and T shirts, like so many cave dwellers suddenly enjoying the daylight. I even managed a dip in the Herring Pond this morning. The Promenade was thronged. The Strand was busy. Then in the middle of the afternoon, in the space of little more than half an hour, grey mists had rolled in from the ocean, swirling around the harbour, and we’re back in the dank atmosphere we had become used to since the beginning of the month, crowds grasping for hoodies and raincoats, and quickly heading home. It only takes a little bit of mist for the world to look that little bit different, and for spirits to sag just a little.
It was a bit like that for me yesterday. For no apparent reason.
Not that I was sick or anything. Just feeling down.
The whole experience of these last few weeks.
And somehow, I just couldn’t shake the feeling. Couldn’t get out of it.
But, then this morning I read the Fortieth Psalm. Of David.
And I understand a bit better.
Such graphic language he uses to describe his sense of feeling down.
The slimy pit. The miry clay.
You can almost hearing the sucking sound as you try to find a foothold.
The mire pulls me down. Trying to rationalise my situation.
Trying to get answers, where there are none … just yet.
I can’t get out by myself. I give up trying.
And then. ..All of a sudden…
My feet. He sets them on a rock.
A firm place. Now I can stand. Now I can see the light just that little bit better.
I’m like a sheep that has wandered off.
Away from the track, falling into a deep ditch.
Dark, and cold. Steep slimy sides. Unable to get out.
Bleating, struggling, giving up.
Until the shepherd suddenly comes upon it, grabs it, hoists it up.
Feet on a firm place. To walk. To run off and join the flock.
Now, that gives me a new song in my heart.
Mists have cleared. Day is bright again.