The farmers still can’t plant.
The earth struggles to swallow all the sky continues to deliver.
And I think how sometimes it seems to take forever for me to soak up all that God pours in before I notice any kind of growth.
The air hangs heavy with the scent of lilacs.
I can’t walk in this weather, so I decide to take a drive to see if I can see the familiar through new eyes.
I’m fascinated with the broken down, the hidden, and forgotten.
Pieces of the landscape that connect us to the past.
That are part of our history, but that will one day be gone forever.
I still miss our 150-year-old barn that stood on a stone foundation, then finally collapsed in the wind a couple of years ago.
A shadow of family history since entombed underground and now exists only in photographs and memories.
And kept alive in stories.
The mist gives a different perspective, reminds me that I see dimly in this life.
A weathered barn stands proud and dwarfs a crow as it flies by.
And I think of how insignificant I am in the scheme of things—yet how He knows every hair on my head.
The country is, of course, scarlet splashed, with a color I now connect with hope.
It’s even said that at one time, some farmers may have mixed stock blood with linseed oil and skimmed milk and lime and rust to give the protective coating a brighter red color.
At least for the interior.
My husband’s great-grandfather built this barn in about 1890. A later owner painted it blue.
It’s obviously deteriorating.
But the red bleeds through the blue.
Like hope bleeds through brokenness, hovers over the hidden, and remembers the forgotten.
If we look for it.
My husband frowns later as he hangs over my shoulder.
“Where did you take that picture? What is it?”
It’s mostly just stuff that’s always been here.
You just didn’t see it.
Sandra Heska King
Wife, mom, grandma, nurse, Bible teacher, writer, blogger, and deep see diver who looks for the extraordinary in the ordinary and the miraculous in the mundane. On Twitter as @SandraHeskaKing and at http://sandraheskaking.com.