Beauty is God's handwriting...

Beauty is God’s handwriting. Welcome it in every fair face, every fair day, every fair flower.
Charles Kingsley


I grew up in South Georgia, a place not known for the beauty of its landscape. It is flat, hot, with a population of gnats and mosquitoes that surpasses the human body count. And yet there are those who see a beauty there that speaks to their souls... the ponds with old cypress tree centers, technicolor sunsets all year long, tall pine forests, farm fields emerald green with rye grass in the winter time, mile after mile of family farms with abandoned tall tobacco barns standing in the middle of cotton fields, night starscapes that glisten unimpeded by light pollution.

I have lived in Texas, central Texas not the hill country, and learned to see the beauty there. The huge empty spaces mirror a generous spirit that seems to be peculiarly Texan, open and welcoming to strangers. Wild flowers blooming in bright primary colors in riotous abandon by highways and in fields, the wind that always seems to blowing through and around you, the clarity of light in Texas, hot and dry, green ribbons that follow the waterways winding through a dun summer landscape... all beautiful in ways that differ from South Georgia.

In Kentucky, the lush green tall trees and rolling hills, black painted barn, rock fences, the city of Louisville with its night lights and large parks designed by Frederick Law Olmstead, the smell of sour mash in the air and the sight of graceful, powerful thoroughbred horses running at Churchill Downs, neighborhoods with their distinct personalities, Germantown Octoberfest and Saint James Art Fair, the Ohio river flowing on the edge of the city separating Kentucky and Indiana... its beauty both urban and rural.

South Carolina... humid, hot, lush deep South with Spanish moss and azaleas and camellias, old oaks and tall pines, sandy soil with a carpet of pine needles, beaches and the smell of the sea, the sound of air conditioners running heard on evening walks, gentle winters with brief springs and brutal summers, a culture still strongly connected to its past, soft edged light that is warm and moist... Its beauty envelopes you like a warm fog and provides a soft cushion upon which you can rest.

The North Carolina mountains... rounded green mother like shaped mountains that have been calling me home since childhood, damp with the flow of rock filled streams and rivers, ancient trees and rocks from the birth of time, the earth folds seen most clearly in winter time when all the trees are stripped bare, home to those who have survived the influx of outlanders for generations and still hold dear the speech and values of their ancestors, four distinct seasons each with their own beauty... I am at home in these mountains and their beauty speaks to me of God all the days of my life.

In this place that is hallowed for me, today I will look for God’s handwriting in the snow frosting the fields, the birds on the feeders, the silver fox in the front yard, the garlic’s green leaves and the beech tree still holding its leaves hostage until spring comes, the rusty roof on the high barn that peeks through the trees, the line of dark green pines that marches down the fence line separating our farm from others farms, a gray skylight that seems to be holding its breath waiting for a sliver of blue sky and bright sun, a pair of hawks flying high calling to each other, the gathering of those whom I love, fireplace warmed laughter filled joy making evenings with farm family... I am surrounded by beauty. God has made everything beautiful in its time and I yearn not only to see and know the beauty that surrounds me but to be beautiful, too. Write on the tablets of my heart making me beautiful in my time, please God.