Anywhere But Where I Am

By Cynthia Ruchti

Alanna ran through the concourses to her gate, and then sat for nearly an hour waiting for the attendant at the desk to call her name from among the dozen other stand-bys hoping to get on that plane. She eyed the gates near hers. Denver. Detroit. Dallas. Des Moines. Duluth. All the “D” locations. Any one of them would do.

“Alanna Blake?”

She barely caught the announcement above the din of stir-crazy toddlers and people mid-conversation on their cell phones. “I’m sorry, Ms. Blake. This flight is full. All passengers have checked in. We have another flight later this afternoon, but prospects are iffy for that one as well.” “The destination doesn’t matter. Can you get me on a flight to…what’s boarding for other locations right now?” The gate attendant looked up from her computer. “Where are you headed?” “Anywhere but where I am.”

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Surrounded By The Garden Of God

By Peter Lundell

I whispered, “Speak to me, God.” And a whippoorwill sang. But I was hurrying between appointments. I shouted, “God, speak to me!” And thunder clapped from the sky. But I dashed inside to escape the rain. When the storm cleared I prayed, “God, I want to see you.” And the stars shone from behind the passing clouds. But my cell phone rang, and I didn’t want to miss the call. As the days passed, I asked, “God, show me a miracle.” And a child was born. But I only took photos and said a quick prayer. Finally, I raised my hands and pleaded, “Touch me, God.” And the wind caressed my face. But I turned away and put on a jacket, disappointed that God did not respond.

When we insulate ourselves from nature, we insulate ourselves from God as well, because God connects with us through the natural world. Earth is another word for God’s garden.

Our souls can become anesthetized. This happens when we drift into the artificial respiration of needing to be constantly busy or when we focus on something electronic.

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Cross Country in the Rain

By Cynthia Ruchti

Rain? More sleet than rain.

As I drove with the heat cranked up as high as it would go and the vents blowing on my feet and face at the same time, huddled over the steering wheel as if it were a glowing log in the fireplace, I noticed a handful of young people in shorts and t-shirts running along the side of the road. On this ugliest day in the history of ugly, the high school’s cross country team members showed up for practice and ran…in the sleet.

Behind the handful of runners came another bunch, and another. While I bent over my steering wheel in the comfort of my vehicle, they leaned into the wind and rain, their legs pumping, arms slick with the precipitation that coated the sidewalks and roadway. One foot in front of the other. Silent. Focused. Plodding forward despite the Terrible, No Good, and Awful Day.

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Who Is It All About?

By Sharon Autry

Several years ago, my son repeated almost every night, “Do you know who it’s all about?” We would play along. “Who?” With a huge smile, “It’s all about God!” he’d say.

Too many times I find myself feeling like I’m getting the raw end of the deal. “Why do I have to clean up after everybody? Why am I the one who has to get up and let the dog in at 5 AM? Why can’t we have what they have?”

Remind me, “Who is it all about again?” 

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WINDOW WITH A VIEW

By Cynthia Ruchti

Just beyond our bathroom window, Adam and Eve Barnswallow built a nest on top of a wooden shutter. As the season progressed, we watched the parents tend the nest and warm their eggs. Eventually little fluff-heads attached to massive, always-open beaks peeked over the edge of the nest.

When my then five-year-old granddaughter Grace was at our house one day, I took her by the hand to show her the incredible sight. Six now-adolescent barn swallow babies were crammed into a tiny mud-and-fiber nest. Grace took such delight in watching the mom fly back and forth with nubbins of insects for her children. We mocked their bird voices as we watched the beaks open and close.

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