Driving north on Vermont 106, the hillside colors explode in the morning sun. Locals would almost certainly say that the "peak" of color has passed, but the view is electrifying to us. We have traveled hard to get here -- enduring equipment malfunctions, missed flights, rerouted schedules, lost hours and a missed dinner that we had been 12-months looking forward to. A few bare trees are not going to dampen our enthusiasm. We drive patiently, attentively, appreciatively.
Banks of roadside trees intrude on the pavement, almost fighting for attention; as if to say, "Look at me; look at me!" Streams gurgle along on either side, oblivious to the stones that litter and ultimately pave their way. Birch trees stretch tall and upright, as though chastened for poor posture -- or more likely, basking in every glimmer of autumn sun. It is an ocean of neon yellows, warm coppers and reds, deep greens and white trunks. The blue sky and the sweeping hillsides have endured waves of rain, whipping winds and a dusting of snow; holding on until we could get here. Perhaps they are wearying -- winter, after all, is almost certainly on its way. But today -- Sunday -- their intrinsic glory is worship enough; almost hymnic. No wonder we began the morning spontaneously singing, "Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of creation."
The little shiver might have something to do with the morning chill in the air, or it could simply be that we are euphorically, speechlessly, reverently...
...grateful. Amen.
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