Here’s a photo from cold April 2016, and I believe (without getting back into my photos) a shot from a drive to or from Lisbon. A lucky shot. The question Paul asks, goes well with the photo. Cold can’t separate us from God. The fact that God is spirit and we are physical can’t separate us. Cloudy skies can’t either. Hmmm…
“Look, giant cupcakes!” announced the Husband looking to the left at two huge dark evergreen bushes cut cupcake-shaped with a thick layer of white snow-icing decorating their large tops
“Get a load of those huge marshmallows!” said the Husband looking to the left at long rows of large white plastic wrapped rolled hay bales appearing like nothing more than monster-sized edible marshmallows
Apparently, it was one of those food-on-the-mind-days for the Husband
white, snowy hills pile up onto each other through the distances
but cannot actually be seen separately without the delicate
trim of dark, lacy, tall, bare, winter trees that outline all
of the different, oval-shaped areas like eyelashes
sometimes thick, sometimes thin, long or short
with buildings serving as pupils
There exists the stray person among us who lives her whole life not knowing that she is actually a Barn Person, until one day she moves to a land loaded to the gills with new, old, colorful, sagging, huge, small, single-deckers up to quadruple-decker barns. Barns are on every hill, in every valley, climbing hillsides, or even existing as part of houses like in Europe. When this stray person among us gazes upon such story book barn scenery, she inexplicably wells up with tears, sensing overwhelming bliss from even the land, the trees, farm houses, fences, horses, and cattle that surround the barns; and she constantly whispers or chokes out, “It is so beautiful!” pronouncing every consonant slowly and clearly. This stray person’s spouse has to pat her on the hand and continue driving around more curves, each one creating new tearful, happy, emotional outbursts of “It is so beautiful!”
“We’re in Paris now!” exclaimed my friend as we drove speedily on the two-lane highway to Canton.
My head swiveled back and forth looking for the town, and I saw thousands of tall spires of intricately designed green corn stalks, and ancient trees surrounding an elusive white building or two before we slipped past—
“We’re out of Paris now!” cried my friend gaily as I looked upon gorgeous, rich greens, of artistically styled fields of corn, soy beans, and lush, thick patches of tall trees that would make King Louis XIV green with architectural envy.
Through sprinkles on the windshield, on a gray, cloudy, Tuesday morning, between Emporia and Newton, Kansas
the back half of a long, stretched out train wends its way west, pulling gray, brown, and rusted cars that might hold grain or might be empty
Long sections of rust-colored cars are hooked up to long sections of gray cars, which are hooked up to long sections of mixed cars of gray, rust, or brown
most stenciled with the letters BNSF on the sides; some having painted-out graffiti here and there; others showing off decorative patches of graffiti
The train vanishes into a long line of tall, green trees
A bit farther down the road, two hooked-up train engines pop out of the trees, hauling the thread of gray, rust, and brown cars
and I hear a long, loud blast—a sad, mournful, multi-horned sound, generating a whole range of emotions and longing within me.
Driving on a turnpike in east Kansas, coming up on a bridge, I stopped staring at the road for a sec, and looked up to the right to view the horizon
but only saw the crenelated walls of a huge, white castle!
Frantically thought I was sleep-driving until realizing that a long motionless train with all white cargo containers had stopped on the tracks heading somewhere on the other side of the bridge.