The place where I hate the trees

We live in what is certainly one of the most beautiful spots on earth. Not that I've seen much of earth. But when your daily surroundings can take your breath away, that's gotta be something.

Maybe nature is so special to me because it is so tangled up with my faith. While I draw near to the Lord through music, I hear Him speak most often in creation. Mountains, oceans, breezes, flowers, storms, clouds, stars, sunrises and sunsets.

And so it is good for my walk with God that He has planted us amid such glory.

Along my route to and from work is an overlook. Not an official overlook. No brown National Parks sign, no cobblestone benches, no clunky metal pay-for-binoculars contraption. Just a spot on the side of the road where the multitude of cars that pulled off to enjoy the spectacular view created such deep mud-ruts that the transportation department finally gravelled the dern thing.

My words will never do justice to the majesty of the scene. Just so you know.

Miles and miles wide. The clear blue sky drapes across the Blue Ridge mountains, almost purple in the distance. Between here and there, a rolling valley. A big pond, a small country church, and a farm. Utter beauty.

And God whispers, "For you, child."

I anticipated that spot while driving, counting down the days until I would pass by at either sunrise or sunset. One day I would take my camera and capture the day's end, orange sun peeking out from wispy red clouds to sink beneath the dark mountaintops.

And God would whisper, "See how much I love you."

But alas. This was not to be. Not God's whispering, but my photo session.

For the owners of the farm in the valley, whose land extends to the road, and who have more money than sense, planted two thick rows of pine trees against their fence line, completely blocking everyone's view.

You can imagine my reaction.

First it was to write an editorial to the paper or get some kind of petition going. Not like the writing in itself would accomplish much, as the landowner does own the land. But maybe to get the message across to the landowner that the community despises you is deeply disappointed at the loss of a local landmark, and perhaps that guilt might make him un-plant the trees.

Then the realization that someone with the gall to ruin such a famed and cherished landmark most likely has a heart of stone, and probably planted the trees for spite. So a little plotting on how to localize termites to a single location. Or how to shoot poison onto the trees from a long distance, so as not to get caught.

Oh, so upsetting.

I hate those trees. I can't hate the person, because God told me not to, but by George I can hate the trees.

I hate those trees.

Well anyway, there is a point here. For a while I stopped driving that way because it made me so mad, and, we're being honest here, caused me to sin. I'm sure that my flipping the bird to a small forest is not high on the list of things that please the Lord and grow my witness.

Recently I've gone back, just because it's somewhat more convenient. And having a similar panorama recently appear in our backyard hasn't hurt.

Today on my drive to work, I had seen a rainbow peeking from behind the foliage. I craned my neck this way and that, straining to see how clear it was, if it had an end, all the while trying to stay on the pavement and obey the traffic laws (at least the ones I regularly obey).

Then I got there. To the place where I hate the trees.

And as my breath caught in my throat, I pulled over into the long-untouched gravel and stuck my cell phone out the window.


Rainbow. And God said, "I'm here."

Look closely. Double rainbow. Not just "I'm here", "I'm really here."

So nanner-nanner to the farmer. You can obscure the view, but you can't obscure my God!!