When I need something to look at, I go west. West, as in, the westernmost part of our house, which is the back deck. It isn’t just because the sun sets in the west, but because taking a few steps in that direction somehow makes me feel closer to whatever lies out there. It’s also because the only thing back there is the forest.

When everything is green like right now, I can’t see the road and the headlights and the traffic jams on the other side of the trees. I forget that just past the woods are a gas station, an intersection, and two drive-thrus. I forget that these are the suburbs, where fruit trees don’t really grow fruit and, as I discovered at age six, you cannot own a horse.

But it’s home. These dewy green trees are the first sight every summer morning and this is where I’ll gaze at the moon if I open my eyes at three a.m.. This is where the light sweeps in graceful curves like intangible portals to sailing skies. This is where the trees are deep and bright and lush after a night of glistening rain. This is where you stand and stare and wonder, breathless, when you have a song or a dream or a person stuck in your head. This is where fireflies flirt with balmy evening haze every evening in June. And this is yet another place where God whispers glory from the roots of the grass to the rings of the galaxy.

It may be the suburbs, but with the right eyes, it’s breathtaking.


One thought on “West.

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