When I try to write, to capture beauty, I feel like I'm a kindergartener trying to fingerpaint the Mona Lisa. It's such a pathetic attempt, but it gives me pleasure to write about things that give me pleasure. So here is a tribute to just a few of the many gifts I've been given by a Father who loves me more than words.
The drone of the highway escapes my consciousness as I gallop on my blue and gray steed. The wheels douse themselves with pavement as my legs begin to burn. I sway rhythmically to keep my balance as my knees rise and fall. It’s like climbing up a mountain and plunging into an abyss, time after time, a perpetual rollercoaster.
I come out of a forested area into a wide open space—it’s as if I’ve stumbled upon God’s entryway. Lofty blue rafters are shrouded by subdued wisps. Brown pillars stripped of their leaves line the distance. At my feet are yellow, hollow stems rustling on either side as a gust shakes them out of sleep. They whisper and chatter as the wind continues to nudge. I eavesdrop, their gossip periodically interrupted by the methodical ticking of my gears. I surge ahead as the breeze lifts me up a knoll and I coast down the other side into the stark woods that line the riverbank. Weaving through the stoic trunks I arrive at the bridge. Putting a last bit of fuel into my weary legs I pedal harder and reach the crest of the bridge.
Pause.
Ears prick.
The highway noise tries to invade my serenity but I push it back. Resting my hands on the wood railing I absentmindedly play with the rusted metal screws as my eyes are pulled to the riverbed. Leaves lie there, waiting to die. Minnows move constantly, searching for something to distract. White rocks line the banks and driftwood dots the avenue. The water glides; stopping to silently swirl in a few eddies before continuing on its path.
Breathing in deep,
I do the same.
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