If I were a saint, I'd be Saint Fracis of Assisi:
Glory to you, my Lord, for brother wind
And for air and cloud and serene sky...
Glory to you, my Lord, for our sister mother earth
Who sustains and governs us
And produces different fruits
And brightly colored flowers and grass.
Nothing, to me, gives glory to God like this flowered and fruited Earth. This afternoon, we had an ideal day, hiking deep into Red Rock Park. So deep, in fact that we, unknowingly, left it and entered "Section 16," which very much sounds like we should have stumbled upon some government mysteries.
What we did stumble onto was glory, God's glory in the creation. Each step seemed to stir scented memories of other trails we've walked. This is why I love the mountains. No matter what windy paths I'm on or have been on, they're there, testifying. That God is, was, and ever shall be.
We stepped deep into the pine forest, and that soil-scent of needles and bark brought back the Indian whoops of childhood as we stacked teepee logs on Swan Mountain and afterwards ate hot dogs and Cheetos on Lake Dillon.
We wound back on a ferny path to a waterfall that was just a drip, but that was dripping with rembrances of Hanging Lake and sunny, salt-faced days.
We dropped into a valley of wild, white lilacs. The scent of lilacs is joy itself. It wafts back college days, walking in the Arbor, circling and circling the lilac trees as I would pray my silly girl prayers.
We came upon Indian paintbrush and yellow snapdragons and mountain bluebells below Pikes Peak, like the meadow flowers on Rabbit Ears pass in the summer days we stole before Amsterdam came.
We hurried against the rumble of afternoon thunder, the sound of June, the sound of afternoon in Estes, the sound of far-off intrigue.
All this is joy; all this is glory. I stumble along the paths of God, and I stumble onto glory.