We went to the mountains, in the winter. It’s January, and the people’s latest complaint has been for the lack of snow, but it’s there. All it takes is a few yards of mountain, and you’ll find it.
We walked, and I looked at the stream: the ice and the ripples in the water. There was just enough snow to turn my nose pink and place goosebumps on my forearms.
The trees were so tall, and I had to look all the way up to that forewarning sky, full of pink and orange clouds, just to see their tops. All their leaves had fallen-- excluding a few who refused to let go... and I wondered if perhaps it was in fear of leaving the only life they had ever known. I’m still amazed by how beautiful they had looked; how strong and faithful they seemed even through the dead of winter. Even amidst their darkest nights, they clung on.
We walked over a worn bridge and down a ways to the waterfall; it looked like an ice castle. There were icicles, and the sun shown down into that little canyon. My eyes were again drawn to the ripples in the water as it rushed down the little hill, seamlessly.
And as we looked back I couldn’t help but to think, “If this isn’t nice then I don’t know what is.”* And we talked about the mountains, and I thought about the sunshine as he walked with me.
And I guess all I’m really wondering is, when was the last time a moment was so beautiful that you paused to thank God for it?
-Linds
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