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Touching Heaven

I used my foot to push the shovel into the mound of wood chips. They lifted up quite easily and fell into the wheelbarrow with a gentle sound. A hawk, circling overhead, viewing the dinner menu of the field, cried out. I looked up to marvel at his magnificence. Turning my attention back to the wood chips, I wondered what type of tree they had been. Where had it grown? Did it live its natural lifespan or had man’s desires for a home, a road, or less shade, interrupt its life?

I pushed the cart to my garden plot, tipped it, and let the chips fall onto the weed cloth. “Thank you, dear tree, for your existence. I appreciate these chips of yours to protect my garden path,” I said quietly, smiling at the knowledge that I’m the “crazy lady” who sings to her plants every morning. I’m the one who respects life. But how crazy is that, really? 

LIfe—magical, mysterious, miraculous, goes on around us every moment of every day, and yet, we often don’t see it, our minds too busy, our hearts too walled off.

“God, help me to respect all life. Help me to see you coursing through everything. Help me to treat all life as I’d treat you; with dignity and reverence,” I prayed.

God tossed a breeze my way, rustling my hair. Once again, the hawk cried out, and for a moment, I touched heaven, I touched love.

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