The World Is Charged

Two years ago we first set foot here. Our brief work of waiting was rewarded with a deed to this little bit of land in southeastern Minnesota. In December we tore out walls and ripped up linoleum; in January we fitted new studs and sanded boards smooth; in February we patched drywall and varnished floors. End of March our furniture entered its new abode and our family followed on Easter Sunday. Since then we have seen summer twice, a crop of beans, a crop of corn, risen and harvested in the adjacent field. Neighbors have called, family has gathered, a brood of hens has settled in. We’ve split, mowed, sawed, planted, pruned, picked, dug, built, and bought our way through two dozen months. One step at a time, we are refining our vision and being refined by it.

This place feels like home more than ever before.

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Amber days, golden hours, scintillating moments.

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs
Because the Holy Ghost over the bend
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

 

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