Already it’s been one week since I (we) began this writing adventure. There are seven entries in this book (my journal), looking varied as I expected: Three journal entries, two pieces of a story, one walk down memory lane, and one stab at philosophy.
Already I’ve learned something about myself and about my style of writing: I do much better with a story-line or event about which to write. The words come easier when prompted by a memory or experience.
That being said let me tell you part of a story.
Just last week on one of the last days of December, I went on a bit of an adventure with my brother visiting from Florida, some of his chiefing buddies (camp lingo for counselor), my dad, and my youngest brother. We were riding in the vehicle affectionately known as the Sub and owned by the mission I work for. It’s an old suburban that has had the top half chopped off and replaced with roll bars. The driver’s and front passenger’s seats are still protected by the original roof and windshield, but anyone who sits in the rest of the vehicle will look up to see sky overhead.
We headed for Shelf Road, a drive the locals all know about. This time, however, we went all the way to the old town of Cripple Creek. As we drove, temperatures dropped below the fifties we’d been feeling in Cañon City. The dirt road wound ahead of us into the hills as we drove through patches of last week’s snow, protected from the sun’s reach on the north side of the inclines. As we climbed in elevation, the scenery changed from stocky shrubs to tall evergreens. We saw a perfect window carved out of the cliff towering high above us, and I saw right through to the blue on the other side. There were countless signs of wildlife and a cave in the rocks that had all the men in the vehicle itching to explore.
We climbed about four thousand feet before the drive ended, and at the highest point, we looked south and west to layers of mountains, some white-capped, some with hints of red rock, some with blue-velvet finish. Breathing in the clean, icy air with a view like that stretching out as far as the eye can see, I realized how much I love living in this state, and I thought, “If I ever leave to live elsewhere, I will miss this.”
Honestly I think that’s the first time I have had that thought since I moved back here nine months ago.
Please don’t misunderstand. I love Colorado and always will, but life has been a whirlwind of events for far too long, and just maybe I am finally catching up again.
The best part is I had just talked to God about all of this. I told him that I didn’t want to live this season in discontentment but enjoyment of every moment. I want to look back at this time without wishing that I had known what I had while I had it.
He heard me, and he answered me that day on the mountain. My heart heard him.
I caught a glimpse through another kind of window that day as well, saw right through to the heart of the Father, who sees us, hears us, and answers us because of his love and faithfulness, deeper than the blue of the Colorado sky.