The View from Everyday

Mar 12

Written By Sara

Someone I know really well but who wishes to remain Anonymous sent this to me a week or so ago. And I love it for so many reasons, but if I offer too many of them I might give A's identity away. Suffice it to say what I love most about it is that it was offered as a gift of sorts. And I love nothing more than receiving the gift of words--if you've ever written me a heartfelt letter, it's probably still tucked away somewhere; it's probably opened again and again.

The View From My Kitchen Window:

I love the view from my kitchen window. I love just sitting at the table with a fresh cup of hot coffee, gazing at the mountain that fills the glass. I enjoy the summer sun as it stretches behind the ridgeline just before it crests the peak; I enjoy watching fog climb through the trees when a warm ground meets a newly visited cold air; I enjoy watching the clouds embrace the peak with a haunting grey coat before releasing a new snow; and I enjoy watching the slopes come alive in anticipation of spring. A lot of my thinking gets done from this place. It’s where I sort out the day ahead, reflect on events of the past so that I may learn from them and craft a solution to some worldly problem that I have no hope of executing from within my sphere of influence. It’s also where God breaks my heart. It’s where He reminds me about His grace. It’s where he expresses His love for me. It’s where He pushes me, nudges me and gets me to move. I know I am fortunate to have this place. I know not everyone gets to roll out of bed and witness the kind of beauty that can both relax and inspire. But everyone needs this place. They need a place where they can reflect, restore and regenerate. They need a place where they can meditate on the concerns of the day and create their next big thing. But most importantly, they need a place where they can just sit in the quiet of the moment, wait and listen intently for God’s leading. So how’s the view from your kitchen window?

To answer your question:

The view from my kitchen window doesn't hold mountains or sunrises, but it often holds children playing, miniature clothes dancing on the line, a garden growing, and a small woods that fills with snow in winter, outlining branches in white. More than once this winter, I've had my camera out before sun fully rose to catch the way light filled the space between branches weighted to the ground, till I could imagine Narnia just beyond the line of trees. That's what a view is for, isn't it: for exercising imagination till magic turns into possibility and possibility into reality? Some growth starts from pain, but just as much begins with wonder. At least that's what my kids seem to think. And I'm inclined to agree.