like the last 2 on page 53

"The roads around Burton are a plethora

of Norman Rockwell's Americana --
apple orchards, dilapidated gristmills, craft stores, comb honey, smoked
bacon, Coca-Cola, the Marlboro man, and cold beer at every turn. Vintage
cars painted in rust dot the pastures that flow with creeks, cows, and
horses. All summer long, hay bales rolled into one-ton mounds sit big as
shacks, covered in white plastic like melted snowmen until the winter cold
sheds their coat and feeds them to the livestock. And farmers, those whose lives are connected to the lake yet uninterested in it, sit atop green or red tractors beneath dusty brimmed hats, roll cigarettes, and pull at the earth for one more year like a pig suckling the hind teat.
And God?
He's in these hills because we are. No matter how far you run, you can't shake Him. Maybe Davis and I know that best, but Emma knew it first, and Saint Augustine said it best:
You stir man to take pleasure in praising You, because You have made us
for Yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in You."

-Last 2 paragraphs on p. 53 of When Crickets Cry by
Charles Martin (EXCELLENT READ AND AUTHOR - HIGHLY
RECOMMENDED!)

I know this place. Well, not Burton... not Georgia either. These hills in "my parts" roll with sand, blanketed with rusty shades of pinestraw; apple orchards replaced with Mac's Pride peaches and there's not so much in the way of a lake around, moreso, a burnt sienna crayon-shade of a river, and winding creeks with names like "Huckleberry."

This is where we are now, me and my babes.

My nose stuck way up to these familiar sights and smells. Creeks stink. Pinestraw is itchy. And sand, not so pleasant once covered with crabgrass, baby pines, their daddy tree's cones, and sandhills critters. "Nope, not for me. I'm outta of here, when I graduate, and heck no, I'm not comin back." One of many wrongo statements my 17 yr-old mouth and/or brain voiced.

I see the beauty in what once annoyed... not because I've simply matured or enlightened myself by some means.

St. Augustine said it in gorgeous fashion. No need to repeat. I rest in Him. Send me to Africa, and I will have rest. Send me to Nova Scotia (random) and I will have rest.

Speakin of... it's bedtime. Oh and, more to come on how I'm a super sinful, gross, girl without Jesus! just wanted you to know that there is NO high horse here.

Also, precious picture of Belle picking strawberries.