There are no mountains this far
east of the Rockies. Only rolling hills with occasional plateaus that drop off
suddenly into creek-bed crevasses, bone dry in the prairie sun.
The vast expanse is the thing
that really gets me. I grew up in the Willamette Valley at the foot of Mt.
Hood; surrounded by forests and peaks. There was a limit to the eye's scope.
The horizon was found in the tops of trees. A true, unfiltered sunrise was a rare
thing.
Here the human eye is limited
only by its own disabilities and the curvature of the great sphere. You look
out and you see the big world that you grew up hearing about in stories and
watching in the old westerns. The eye surveys the vast emptiness, but the heart
sees the wild frontier; full of adventure and life; at once both wild and wonderful.
Back in the city, there is a lot of work to be done, and it seems so important and prestigious (at times). But this is
the land, the dirt, the soil. This is where hard work, good work is put forth
to survive and to prosper. There is no Starbucks around every corner, or even a
grocery store for that matter. This is not a land of convenience or amusement.
It is a harder land, a simpler land, and in that sense, a purer land.
And then there is the snow. In
Oregon snow comes down, lands, and either melts at once, or waits a matter of
hours (maybe a day) before fading into the puddles and creeks. It is wet, and
it is dead.
The snow in Montana is very different. It often comes in flurries
as legions of flakes riding the great winds over the plains. Even if it comes to
land in some location, there is every chance that it will jump right up onto the back of the breeze
and carry on its way. And in this frigged haze the world turns from gold to white.
The very floor of nature becomes a blank page on which the adventures of two
children, three tabby cats, and a black-capped chickadee can be written and easily read. Every
footprint is crisp in the making and clear in the leaving. The expanse is all
bright and dark as the shadows of the rolling plains are cast here and there
across the land's fresh blanket.
As the fog sets in and a bitter
chill begins to creep from west to east, castle spires form on every upright
surface. Soon half the world is white with crystallized fog while the other side
remains both dark and colorful. Giant, half-flocked, Christmas trees stand with
the appearance of dwelling in two worlds: One of sun-bathed forests and the
other of winter-laden lands.
This is the mysterious and majestic land in which I now dwell. The creativity and power of God is present in every moment; every biting breeze; every passing cloud; every waving field. God is here.
And now, so am I.
