Yesterday I drove west towards the mountains, leaving the blue skies and white clouds of Denver. I’ve lived here long enough to recognize gathering mountain storms that darken one horizon while the opposite remains sunny and vibrant. Here, temperatures plummet quickly as early winter storms roll in, dumping inches of snow on the highest peaks, pushing frigid weather down, over the front range and across the plains. It was one of those days that started warmer than it ended, when feet remain cold in winter boots and one sweater isn’t quite enough, but an additional layer is too much.
Last weekend, I made a quick, spontaneous trip to my hometown in North Carolina. And as soon as I stepped off the airplane I was hit with the high humidity that instantly curls my hair. Here, the temperatures swing degree by degree; there are no October snow storms or sudden, drastic atmospheric pressure changes. It’s steady, often predictable. I laid in bed in my parent’s guest room and listened to the rain fall, a sound I hadn’t heard in weeks, maybe months. We don’t get much rain in Denver, something I’ve missed — funny how we always miss the things we no longer have. When I lived in Colombia for 12 months, I missed seasons. I lived in a beautiful, tropical climate, but even that grew old after a while. Perhaps it’s human nature, perhaps it’s just how I’m wired. I need seasons, my heart yearns for them, for green springs and hot summers, golden autumns and snow-filled winters.
I spent a lot of time over the weekend thinking about what it is to go home. Hallmark Christmas movies (which I reluctantly admit to watching far too many of) make it seem like a bad thing to leave small towns for the city, to discover a beloved career, and break up with that high school boyfriend who ended up staying and now sells Christmas trees and volunteers at nursing homes...But I’m often reminded of the importance of discovering snow in October; impossible in one location, magical in another. To leave the comforts of home isn’t always selfish, those who leave aren’t always prodigals. Sleeping at Last sings in his song Saturn: “the universe was made just to be seen by my eyes.” And I think, to better see often requires leaving the familiar for the unknown. It’s hard to hold wonder when we’ve grown accustomed to the known, apathetic to the familiar.
On the days I drive towards the Rockies, and return back to Denver with the sunset in my rearview mirror I feel the incredible weight of beauty too big for words. I often pull over at a gas station in a field on a hill that perfectly overlooks the Flat Irons and snow-capped peaks. I get out and stand, half way in my car and half way out looking at the indigo sunset sometimes dwarfed by pregnant storm clouds, sometimes perfectly clear. And I hold wonder for this microscopic bit of the universe I get to see with my own eyes...
I returned home to North Carolina for a funeral, to hug those I love, and bear witness to sorrow and memory. Anne Lamott writes in Bird by Bird that the privilege of the writer is to preserve the memories of those we know, those we love, through the written word. But sometimes, we need to sit with it, to reflect privately, grieve collectively, and write when the words come naturally, in their own time, in their own way.
As much as I adore the majestic Rocky Mountains, I also hold a special kind of love for a full table and old friends. That’s the irony of this vast creation, that the universe is composed of unfathomable galaxies, deep oceans, singing whales, towering peaks, and people gathered around a shared table with chicken pie and Folgers coffee, and tears, jokes, and laughter that surely reach the ears of God.
I don’t have anything particularly profound to share with you in this Friday’s Substack. But I do know that there is beauty to behold in both the ordinary and the extraordinary, that tears fall at the sight of a mountain sunset and into a slowly-growing-cold cup of bad coffee. In finding home, I’ve realized my home is in different geographic locations, in seeking the universe I’m reminded it’s not always grandiose. Sometimes, oftentimes, God is in the smallest of things.
Loving & Savoring
Reading
Shoutin’ in the Fire by Danté Stewart. I wrote a reflection on this beautiful book on Instagram yesterday (check it out and order the book if you can!). Danté is a dear friend, and I’m so thankful for his encouragement as a brother and a writer. This is his first book of what I know will be many, many books.
The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell. A few weeks ago I asked a question on Instagram: what book(s) shaped you, were even life-changing in your own growth and spiritual formation? Several mentioned the novel, The Sparrow. So I bought it because I’m easily influenced. I started it in the airport, read 200 pages on the plane to North Carolina and back. I can count on one hand the number of science fiction books I’ve read. I’ve just never really gotten into the genre. But this book. My goodness. I will certainly be writing more about this one once I’ve finished (nearly there) and had some time to digest the powerful story and beautiful prose. I don’t want to give too much away, but if you’re interested in space exploration, aliens, Jesuit priests, and themes of faith, doubt, apostasy, hope, suffering, goodness, healing, and redemption, this one's for you.
Watching
Netflix’s Midnight Mass. I’m hesitant to share this one because I know the horror genre isn’t for everyone (I’d argue this isn’t really a horror show, though it has a few scary elements). I was sucked into the theological depth and symbolism of this interesting and beautifully filmed Netflix show. Many have criticized it for its long monologues and the lack of horror, but that’s precisely the reason I loved it. I’m a lover of words and rich, good dialogue. And though there was a time when I watched all of the B and classic horror films (my best friend and I watched all of the Children of the Corn movies one October), I’ve outgrown that stage. Midnight Mass was fascinating, a creative interpretation of good intentions gone bad, of devoutness to the wrong things, faithfulness to evil over faithfulness to what is good. If you’ve watched it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!
Listening
In These Silent Days, Brandi Carlile’s new album. Each day I work at the little shop in Lafayette, I turn on Brandi Carlile and let her soothing voice wash over me. Her new album is amazing, full of it’s own amount of depth and richness (notice a theme in the things I’m consuming?).
Lore. I’ve been an occasional listener of this podcast for a few years, usually when the weather turns colder and Halloween starts approaching. I love the way the host (Aaron Mahnke) tells a story in his almost deadpan voice. It’s fascinating to me, and the perfect backdrop to a chilly autumn night.