There are eighty billion trees in the yard, and they're always, always, always, shedding something. Always.
Pokey balls, bark worms, leaves, pine cones, pine needles, tiny birch tree bits, tiny maple tree flowers...and these are all technical terms I'm sure.
The messy yard makes me crazy when I'm focused on my rake. If you look at the wrong thing, you miss the magic. I absolutely HATE missing out on magic. Magic keeps me sane.
When a piece of tree pollen hits an azalea bloom and lands in such a way as to channel an otherworldly Horton Hears A Who-esque image, magic happens. Hot pink, green dusted, wonderful.
God's an artist and He's not afraid of radical, and He's not afraid of extremes, and He doesn't skip a detail. You could look for years, outside your door, and never run out of amazements to wonder at.
He doesn't hide His art and charge admission. He's generous. He keeps creating even when you are too busy worrying about bills to notice. He keeps making the flowers bloom even after you fight with your brother. He sprinkles pollen like fairy dust even after you fuss about your allergies.
Beauty isn't based on merit and movement. It's a God thing; a solid, unmoving thing. There's nothing you can do to stop a sunrise. You might have lied to your boss yesterday and God will still send birds to chirp in your tree. That's grace. Extravagant, hot pink grace.
He even makes tree debris interesting and unique. Put down the rake, pick up a petal, and feel the wonder.
