August is here and the mountain is still dressed for June. Green seems inadequate to describe it so we’ll say it’s lush, verdant, and vigorous like the rain showers that pounded on the tin roof last night. The creek is rushing, and the morning sky is freshly washed blue.
If I had time for the news this morning the best I could hope for would be a renewed sense of gratitude for the blessing of living here. Surely we have our challenges, but here it is peaceful. The weather is gentle. The people are genial, and the land is generous.
Our hearts reach out to the world that is composed of news, to the people who do not know peace, where the weather is harsh, the people are angry and desperate and the land is unforgiving. As John Bradford, upon seeing criminals led to execution in 1553 remarked, “There but for the grace of God go I.” Two years later he was executed for heresy. We all get an opportunity to make the news, eventually.
This morning, however, there is grass to mow, and the mower is making that sound again. The tomatoes need to be tied to the stake. There are eggs to collect in the hen house. Business will take us across the mountain this afternoon on a ride to work that makes Atlanta traffic seem like torture. No, there is no time for news. I barely have time to write. There is all the time in the world, however, for gratitude.