Christmas from their hearts

There have been a couple of blogs that have posted recently about Christmas that really struck a chord in me. I don't know what to do, if anything, yet. I do know that my heart longs to do things differently. And I have absolutely no idea how to do them. 

Christmas Conundrum

and 

Whose Birthday is it Really?

He Came

The calendar was unapologetic. 

December 1

Here we are again. 

December. 

I  knew it was coming. My culture's love for this month begins to spill forth long before the month actually arrives. There are declarations of excitement about shopping to go along with a plenitude of sales, pictures of Christmas trees on social media as they are erected, Christmas music in every conceivable type of store, cars and vans dressed as reindeer, inflatable decorations in yards,  yards sparkling with lights, and on and on...

If one wanted to avoid this holiday, it would definitely be impossible. 

And I knew that wasn't possible. 

It's not that I actually wanted to avoid the month of December, though honestly if given the opportunity, it would slide from my calendar without a single regret. That wasn't possible, so there was only one thing for me to do.

Fix myself.

I do hate that I'm broken here. I hate that it takes me a monumentos effort to put on any sort of holiday spirit. I hate that I don't eagerly anticipate the holidays with the giddiness of a light soul.

As I exercised this morning, I noticed that my favorite tree had shed it's gorgeous wardrobe. It stood bare. I pretended for a moment that it too was mournful that the change of the calendar had brought it to this stark, ugly state. 

Silly, of course. 

In the frosty cold of the morning, I begged God to hear my heart concerning this season that boasts to be all about Him and his Gift. 

It's not fun to be here, the outsider looking in on a warm celebration which one feels no part of. 

And I'm not alone. Perhaps if I had to list the reasons that have led me to this place of discontent, near the top of the list would be the hardships that this holiday brings for so many that I love. Not that I'm trying to shoulder their burdens for them, taking them on as my own, but as I think of them, my heart aches for the brokenness they too feel.

The list reaches on for a bit - reasons that I dread this season. They range from the trite to the deeply buried and pushed aside issues of long ago.

I felt deeply in me, though, the beginnings of a tiny fire of the longing to worship during this season the God who not only understands the reasons I fear but also gave His Son to remedy the brokenness in me. 

"Heal me, Lord..." I pleaded as I looked up at the cloudless sky. "I don't want to stay here."

He is able. 

This phrase had found me in the last few weeks in a new way. I had repeated it constantly almost as a mantra. 

Today it took on a new ending.

He is able. Now let Him. 

It is so easy for me to stay in the hard sometimes. Staying where it's hard because it's easier than receiving His comfort or healing. 

I just want to stay here, because the hard is easier. 

Being healed means that I have to be honest about how I got here in the first place. I have to say honestly that when I get to this place, I got here because I am most concerned about me.

This is hard for me. 

The rational part of my brain said, Get over it.

It's not really that simple, but the Lord so graciously reminded me again that He is able. And though I wanted Him to repair me in one fell swoop, He instead reminded me that I only need to trust Him one step at a time. 

I don't know how exactly to have a carefree December, but I do know how to do the things that send me deep into His love.

I found my favorite Christmas sermon and played it loudly, diving into the text:

"And you know that He appeared to take away sins..."

And my hurt and my failures and my shortcomings and my longings and my disappointment and my fears and my sins.

He came.

Everything in me wants to celebrate that.  

My love for Him can push past everything in me that would rather be hurt and sad and angry and tired and fearful - that would rather stay here. 

My love for Him can allow Him to heal me, through His love for me.

It takes a willing spirit to be healed and comforted. And it didn't happen in me by the time lunch was prepared. 

But I feel His peace. And I feel His love and careful provision along with His compassion and His mercy. They flow from Him, inviting me to celebrate His greatest gift. 

I can do that. 

I can celebrate Him. 

Sweetly, quietly, humbly and secure in His loving arms, trusting Him with all that is hard about this season. 

"Glory, glory in the highest...

Just a child born in a manager, with the hope of the whole world on His shoulders..."

10 Years Ago...

I sit here, emotional from looking through ten years of photographs. 

I sit, faced with the self-imposed challenge of marking my daughter's tenth birthday with an eloquent tribute to her first decade. 

As I sit, I fully appreciate the fact that this is an impossibility. 

It is a trite and overused statement, but when I look at this picture, it truly does feels like yesterday.

And then the years started to spin, passing more quickly than I was prepared for. 

It was over ten years ago when I set the pregnancy test stick down on the coffee table and looked at it, wide eyed. Married for six years with little desire to have children. Least likely time and place in my life to become pregnant, but I look back now and see God beginning the great rescue that morning. 

He set out to rescue me from myself. 

His timing is always perfect.

His plans are also. Usually so very contrary to my own. 

I decided I wanted a boy. 

He gave me a girl. 

This girl.

I'll never forget a single detail of her difficult birth. 

Thanksgiving Day.

Fourteen family members in a waiting room down the hall for hours and hours. 

Complications. People. Nurses. Doctors. For hours on end.

And then, in the quiet hours of the late, late night. It was just me. And her. 

I looked at that face and very literally though, "What have I done?"

No more ready to be a mother than I had ever been. Yet here she was. 

The journey that she and I embarked on that night as mother and daughter would teach me more than I could have ever imagined. 

I had heard the statement about becoming a parent and it was true: 

Making the decision to have a child is momentous.  It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.  ~Elizabeth Stone

As I look back over the last decade, I am flooded with memories. The good, the bad, the hard and the precious. It doesn't seem possible that it has been ten years since she came into my life.

I look forward to the next ten years with complete trepidation. This decade will be so different.

No diapers. No learning to talk and walk. No potty training. No learning to read and write. No rocking all night and no Princess parties. 

How is all of that gone already?

This decade sends me to my knees. It's a less physical role for me and more spiritual and emotional guidance. 

I feel less ready for this than I did in the dark that first night in the hospital. 

So I find myself again hopelessly dependent on the One who can, and will, provide all that I need for this next decade. 

He is able. 

I've heard this statement several times even today. I'm thankful that He is, because sitting here, I am less sure of my ability as a mother than I have ever been. This keeps me fully dependent on Him and His Word. And that is a good thing. 

My prayer for her now is that she will fully and passionately give her heart to the Lord. That to declare His glory will be her one mission in life. I pray that all that she learns will take root in her heart, and as Psalm 1 that she learned so long ago says, I pray that she will be like a tree, planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. I pray that her passion for Him will take root deeply in her heart and never fade. 

She is a gift to me, and I will be forever thankful to God for that spring day when I realized that my life was about to change forever. I'm thankful for the daughter that I get to spend each day with. I'm thankful for the way we love and laugh. I'm thankful that at the end of the worst days, she'll still come and curl up in my lap, as best as she can, apologizing and forgiving. I still ask her if she'll always be my best friend. She's kind enough to say yes even though I know now we are moving in new directions. 

In some ways I don't want to stop writing this post. I know that when it's done, we will be even nearer to the next decade. I'll be glad, though. Each day I fall more in love with this child. She's a true gift. 

A repost for Veteran's Day

Thank you, Pop.

(clink link)

Adoption

It was one of my favorite days of the year - Secret Church. A time when a group of believers come together to study God's Word for 6 (okay, 7) hours on a Friday night.

I don't think we did school that day. I'm sure I was too excited to sit still for that long. I'm still such a child in so many ways.

The main thing that needed to happen that day was a nap.

I may act like a child a lot of the time, but this body knows what's up. In order to stay up until 3 am (we eat after) I was going to need a nap.

As I snuggled down ready to rest, I got a text. As I reached for my phone, I squelched down the irritation.

Nap. I wanted a nap.

My irritation melted away when I saw who sent the text. My friend who gets all passes. Everything stops for her.

She said, "Can you meet me at the park? Now?"

All thoughts of a nap flew from my head as I unfolded myself from my cocoon. I gathered the kids and scooped up my keys, pressing down the worry that was welling up in me.

She didn't ask for much. Rarely did she step out of her own self to ask for anything. Frustrating as it was at times, I had grown accustomed to asking what she needed, knowing that she would always be reluctant to ask.

We sat across from each other at a picnic table. The cold November wind whipped around us. I still remember its rub on my face and the chill it sent down my spine. I can still hear the kids laughing and yelling across the playground. I looked across the table at the face I loved and cared about so much. I forced myself to be still and wait.

"I need to tell you something," she started.

"Are you pregnant?" I burst out. I couldn't help it.

She laughed the laugh that I love, but had so seldom heard in the previous 7 months. Her eyes sparkled and I reveled in the beauty of her happiness. She's always beautiful, but I had grown accustomed to seeing sadness coloring the beauty. I studied the absence of the grief, the lightness, the shine, committing it to memory, selfishly to help in the next moment when the grief would return.

It's hard to grieve.

It's also hard to watch someone you love grieve.

Not as hard, but hard still.

She said, still laughing, "No!"

Her laugh quieted and her eyes held mine. I shifted a bit on the hard, cold bench.

"Then what?" I thought. I forced myself to be still.

She's calm. Quiet. Thoughtful. Reserved. Patient. Gentle. Qualities that I feel so deficient in. I forced myself to wait - "Be like her. Wait." I said it to myself. Reminded myself.

Her eyes held mine as she slid something across the table to me. It had been in her hand the entire time, in her hap. She'd been holding it. Clutching it, probably.

I peeled my eyes from her face and dropped my gaze.

Looking back at me was the most beautiful pair of chocolate brown eyes. The breath left me and tears sprang to my eyes. The most adorable girl. She looked so much like her oldest son.

Your daughter.

I don't know if I said it or thought it.

I struggled to breathe and a thousand thoughts flooded my head at the same time. I looked up and just shook my head, blinking back the tears.

There were tears in her eyes too. Never would she ever shed a tear that didn't honor her lost daughter. Ever. But these tears had intermingled with them tears of happiness. Again her beauty flooded me.

A mom, stepping out of her grief to rescue a child from the other side of the world. Pushing away everything within her and everything that the world would say that said, "no."

Because He adopted us. Because she loved Him. Because she had His heart. Because she would do what was right even if the world said no, and even if something in her said no too.

I watched her work harder than I've ever seen anyone work the next months. Raising her children, raising money, grieving her lost daughter, maintaining a house, a marriage, friendships, laughing, crying, determined. Stoic.

They decided to adopt a son too. The precious girl's best friend at the orphanage.

She worked even harder. Pushed herself past the point of exhaustion.

In the midst of a tornado, she was working on a fundraiser.

I was in awe. Inspired. Encouraged. Blessed.

She inspired others to adopt. To take up the cause. To help. To care.

I climbed back in the van that chilly November day to head home. The thought of a nap was far from me now. As I thanked God for all that had happened, I felt it. It whirled up in me and I begged God to suppressed it. I didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to be selfish. I didn't want to ask God why. I didn't want to think again about myself. And the desire I had. Or the desire He had given me. I simply didn't want to go there. I just wanted to feel happiness for my sweet friend.

A constant, selfish battle that rages in me, constantly screaming what about me?

And I hate it.

I looked at the face of another sweet friend as we had a much different conversation. A conversation about longing. Desiring until the physical pain almost overwhelmed the emotional pain.

"Is it like a miscarriage?" she asked. "Is that what this feels like?"

I felt the pain on her face. I carried it with me constantly.

"No," I answered. "That's something God gave and then took away. This is a desire that is constantly unfulfilled. It's like infertility."

She nodded.

What a blessing. That this selfish longing and desire has a community of people that understand far beyond the spoken word.

She gets it.

"It can render you a helpless friend. A bad friend. You have to be careful," I added more for my benefit than hers.

My desire can rob me of joy for my friends. The desire can even lead to jealously. Animosity. Division. Distance.

I battle that too.

 I will rejoice in the beauty of adoption. I will thank the Lord for my friends that have and will adopt. I will pray for those traveling the arduous road of getting these children home. I will pray for those who are struggling under the weight of the children they worked so hard to bring home only to realize that was the easy part of the battle. I will step outside of myself and rejoice, celebrate and pray. I will. I will trust Him.

I wil trust Him as I celebrate adoption.

I'll never forget that beautiful November day when I got to witness the beauty of adoption.

Parenting & Grace

Parenting and Grace

(link)

I have the book mentioned in this article and I started reading it. It sort of messed me up. 

And so this is sort of like Galatians and parenting and everything I've been learning and seeing and hearing and feeling all rolled up into one.

Putting this here for later.

An Important Post

We were headed home from a successful trip to Costco. I do believe it's the first of that kind we've ever had. There is something about Costco that brings out the worst in my kids, but this trip was good. 

I chalked it up to the kids being bigger. 

I was lost in thought and music, and thankfulness for the simple things,  when I realized that the little kid was in what we call the "way back" of the van, trying to tell me something. 

I turned down the music and said, "What, Buddy?"

He said something again, but was being shy about it. That kid can be so loud and bold, but he has a definite shy side that springs out frequently.

I tried again and said, "I can't hear you, Buddy. What?"

He repeated himself, but for the life of me over the sound of the road noise on the interstate and his being shy, I couldn't make it out.

The girl kid was in the middle, and had by this time lost some patience.

"HE WANTS TO BE A CHRIST FOLLOWER," she yelled at the top of her lungs with the depth of emotion of a news reporter on the local 6 o'clock news. 

Oh.

I was caught completely off guard. A hundred thoughts flooded my head at the same time. I struggled to process what he said and force my head to switch gears all at the same time.

"Um, what did you say, Bud? Can you say it a different way?"

I wanted to make sure I'd heard correctly.

He said something again that I couldn't hear, and before I could ask him to repeat it, Diane Sawyer in the middle row belted, "HE SAID HE WANTS TO BE A CHRISTIAN..."

"Okay, sweetie. I got it. Thanks for your help."

She sat back, glad to have been a valuable contribution to the process. 

My heart fluttered and I lost my breath for a second. 

I had prayed since these kids were in me that God would save them, and save them while they were young. I prayed humbly, knowing that it wasn't a given that they would be saved. I wanted them to be saved early and cling to it all their days. 

Would it be possible that God had saved all of my children? I wasn't sure, but the thought of it filled me with such gratitude and hope.

I turned my attention to the back seat and said, "Sweetie, can you tell me what it means to be a Christ follower?"

He shyly with a smile said, "It means that Jesus died on the cross. He died because I sin. If I believe I get to go to heaven when I die."

It was a 5 year old version of the Gospel, and I appreciated it, but my heart longed for him to know and understand more.

See, I'm studying Galatians with a wonderful group of women, and I'm coming to terms with the way I've treated the Gospel in my own life. I've realized that I don't always believe the miracle of the Gospel. I don't truly appreciate or believe the miracle of justification - the act of God seeing me as blameless and righteous because of how God imputed my sins on His Son. He sees me a holy and right with Him not because of anything I did or could ever do, but because of what happened to Christ on the cross. 

Salvation only happens because of sola fide - by faith alone. Through grace alone. In Christ alone. We've said those words in our house over and over again as I remind myself that God's love for me is not rooted in my performance before him as a "good" Christian. No Bible study, no love of theology, no church I go to, no amount of time in prayer, the books I read, nothing I could do or will ever do will make me more or less justified. Not more or less loved by God. 

I just am. 

The realization of the depths to which I don't believe this have wrecked me over the last few weeks and the reaching implications of how this affects my life have shattered a lot in me.

It hasn't been fun, but it's been necessary.

So as I looked at the precious face in the rear view mirror, I was desperate to tell him that he was saved by the simple fact that he believed that Christ died out of love, and that He did indeed take his place. The how's and the why's could be worked out as he grew in his faith and worked out his salvation for the rest of his life.

But I really think he gets it. 

He asked me when we got home, "Do I tell God? Do I pray?"

All on his own.

The next day he reminded me again that he had prayed. "And I told God that I wanted Him to help me obey."

Is it a coincidence that as I struggle through the complexities of how I have switched justification and sanctification in my life and as I trudge through the deep depths of Galatians that I was presented with the Gospel in its most simplest terms?

Believe. And obey. Out of a heart that is overflowing with gratitude and love for what the Son did. 

When we shared the news with Daddy, he squinted his eyes at Zane and said, "This does not been that you get the grape juice and crackers on Sunday now..."

My eyes widened and I looked at that kid. 

Was this all a ploy to get to do what everyone else did on Sunday?  To be able to take communion?

He grinned and said, "I know."

I think he does. 

And so I have expressed my thankfulness to God over and over again but also felt a larger burden now. How to disciple him. He belongs to Christ now, and it's my job to teach him how to live as a Christ follower. I won't buckle under that pressure, but I'll take it step by step, trusting Him to guide me as I guide him.

I'm so deeply grateful for this display of the simplicity of the Gospel during a time where it felt heavy and complex to me. 

Thank you, Lord, for saving my son. 

Trees

When Laney was in Kindergarten, we learned Joyce Kilmer's "Trees." I have been driving her crazy reciting what I remember of it. She refuses to play and won't even say it with me.

It really stinks that I forgot that poem. It was a good one. 

The first line will stay with me forever:

I think that I shall never see 

A poem as lovely as a tree...


I was cleaning the kitchen when I heard a distant, "Mom! Come look!"

I walked out in the back yard to find my middle kid in the tree in the back yard for the first time ever. My first thought was, "Cool!" There were always trees to climb at my grandmother's house and I stayed in them. I almost climbed up there with him.

Then all I could see was him tumbling out of the tree to the hard ground. I saw emergency rooms, casts and doctor bills.

And I hate that.

Thanks to our insurance, the emergency rooms visits we've had took years to pay off. I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the insurance we have, but there is no dread like seeing a never ending stream of envelopes coming in the mail with hospitals' names on the upper left corner with your name on the front.

And then I got mad at myself for letting money affect my son's joy in climbing a tree.

Or maybe it wasn't really anxiety about the money. Was I worried that he'd get hurt and I feared seeing that pain? Was I inconvenienced by his being in the tree because I felt the need to stand under him to make sure he didn't fall out?

Why is this so hard for me?

As I shoved the little kid up the tree so he could be with his brother, I did laugh out loud at my insanity. I try so hard to be a good boy mom. I intentionally try to let them get dirty, be messy, be loud and let them rough and tumble. I see their love for rocks and sticks and motors and balls and running and gross stuff. And tackling. I didn't grow up around boys and never knew much about them, but I am desperate to be a good boy mom.

And I want them to be Godly men, fathers and husbands one day. I'm absolutely desperate for that.

So how does my not freaking out about my son climbing a tree lead him to be a Godly man? I don't know, but way deep inside me I feel a connection somehow.

I want him to know that I trust him to be careful and make wise decisions. I want to trust him to know how high to go or whether a branch is too weak to stand on. I want him to decide with full confidence if he's making good decisions or not. In that tree or out of it.

And I'm simply horrible at this. I stood there yelling up in that tree, "That's far enough. Not that branch. Are you ready to come down?"

The mom I want to be said, "I love that you are in that tree. I wish I could climb it too! How's the view up there?"

I think I said those things. Later. Maybe. I hope I did.

I have to trust my kids. I have to trust the Holy Spirit in them. I have to let them fall. Both out of trees and in life. Everything in me screams against that. But He's teaching me, and I'm so thankful.

I want, long and desire passionately to be a Godly wife and a fantastic boy mom. {And girl mom, but that seems so much easier. At least in this situation. She climbed in the tree for five minutes and decided she'd rather swing or read}

These boys challenge me. And I'm so glad. 

Leaves

by Elsie N. Brady

How silently they tumble down

And come to rest upon the ground

To lay a carpet, rich and rare,

Beneath the trees without a care,

Content to sleep, their work well done,

Colors gleaming in the sun.

At other times, they wildly fly

Until they nearly reach the sky.

Twisting, turning through the air

Till all the trees stand stark and bare.

Exhausted, drop to earth below

To wait, like children, for the snow.

 

I love and adore you, fall. You are my favorite. 

Pumpkin Patch

We made our annual visit to the pumpkin patch yesterday, but we almost didn't get to go. I inadvertently scheduled another field trip the same day without realizing it. At the last minute we were able to work it out. I was so glad because this is such a special part of the way we love to celebrate fall. 

We were late, rushing to meet our friends, and I yelled for the kids to let me take a picture. They really don't mind doing things like this for their photo-obsessed mother, but they knew they were missing things and were ready to get on with it. I knew that we probably wouldn't remember to do it when we left, so I made them sit quickly for a quick picture. 

The picture from this year made me both happy and sad. 

It made me think back through the years, and so this morning, I took a few minutes strolling down memory lane and gathered the pictures from pumpkin patches through the years. 

I'm not sure who these big kids belong to. Laney, on the cusp of being 10 years old, and the boys, so big. And on a side note, this is the first year it has ever been cool at the farm, even though we go each year. I was very thankful for that. 

Last year, we were really, really hot. This is what I think the kids should look like. Perhaps I'm a year behind in their development. I probably need to catch up. 

This was the last year Laney would wear a "fall" shirt. The last year they were all little. 

This one makes my heart melt. The days were still long and hard, but those faces kill me. 

This year we only made it to the tiny church pumpkin patch right around the corner by our house. That kid in the middle is showing you why. To look at the picture makes me so incredibly tired. And thankful that they are big like that first picture now.

And this is why we didn't go to a pumpkin patch this year. I looked at this picture and had a heart attack. I honestly don't remember most of those days, but how adorable is he? I do wish I could kiss those cheeks one more time! 

 And here were the other two. I love those kids. 

As I tried so hard to encourage a sweet new mom this week, I did so gently. I see now, five years out from these last photos, that the time does fly. But I remember all too well those first days with your first born. The unfathomable exhaustion, the worry and stress, the overwhelming sense of twenty-four hour responsibility, the physical demands on a body just having carried a baby for nine months and then gotten the baby out, not to mention swirling hormones and thoughts only of how to go to the bathroom by yourself  or take a shower at least every couple of days, again, alone. 

I could have cried for her, and given the week that just was, I probably did. 

I so wanted to encourage her, yet assure her that she would blink once and these days would be over. Because it's true. But when some well meaning soul would tell me this in Publix as I struggled to make it through that moment, I didn't believe her. 

Thankfully I found a sweet blog post that perfectly expressed what I could not. I read it tearfully and sent it to her, hoping the the Holy Spirit would use it to comfort and encourage her. 

And I prayed for her a lot. I won't ever forgot how hard those days were, nor will I ever say to a young mom, "Just wait until _____ stage. It's so much harder."

No. It's all hard. Just different kinds of hard. 

But the take away for me is the same. That even as I get tired and discouraged in this stage of life, I will remember that it's over all too quickly. And even as I sit now and see a Saturday full of chores and sole responsibilities today for these three ever changing kids, I know that He is strong in me and that soon I'll be sitting in a quiet house, looking back at pictures of Pumpkin Patches from years past, wondering where the years all went.

And that helps me allow Him to be strong in me and do today well. 

Eyes on the Sky

Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

 For consider Him who has endured such hostility by sinners against Himself, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.




The heavens are telling of the glory of God; And their expanse is declaring the work of His hands.

When the mysterious author of Hebrews admonished his readers to run the race"...fixing our eyes on Jesus..." I sort of took that literally.

(and i'm feeling a little cranky about not knowing who wrote hebrews. it seems important today.)

I know that there are lots of ways to do that Scripturally and figuratively, and I've struggled to do those things. Keep your eyes on Him, I mean. 

I also stare at the sky a lot.

My mom has always said, "It feels good to let your eyes look as far as they can" and I agree.

Especially since I read about a prisoner that lost a lot of his vision from being in a small cell for years. 

But it's more than that. It's seeing God's creation screaming His praises. It's seeing that I am such a small speck of dust in the grand scheme of things. It's reminding myself that if I keep looking here, I'll get discouraged, weary and frustrated.

It's hard to feel those things when you're looking up. 

So I set my eyes upward, toward Him. It helps me praise Him, talk to Him, and see that He truly is sovereign over all. Especially my tiny, brief life. 

I also have become accustomed to snapping pictures of the sky with my phone. I have no idea why. I like capturing the beauty, I guess.

It's odd, though, just a bit, to be this fixated on the sky. And I'm sure the neighbors that exercise at the same time I do each morning wonder why I stop periodically and take pictures of the sky. 

That's okay, though.

I was delighted to hear our pastor mention the other Sunday that while walking across the parking lot to come into the church, he noticed the clouds, and proceeded to exclaim about their beauty and how they shouted God's glory.

"I get that!" I yelled on the inside.

That made me feel not quite so odd. 

At the risk of looking like one of those cheesy videos from You Tube, I had to put here some of my favorites. They make me happy. And peaceful. 

This was an amazing morning. This was literally what I saw facing one direction:

And when I turned around, this was the opposite direction:

And then in the fall, my favorite season, there's this; a perfectly cloudless sky, so blue you can hardly stop looking at it. That screams His glory too...