T h e   L a s t   W o r d

B i g   S u r

There is a secret place, high above the rocky shores of the Pacific, where the sound of quiet thunder can be heard, in the crashing of distant waves.

Standing near the turning point on the Vicente trail, I was taken so by the view, that I could only think thoughts of God's glory. Blue mountain ridges rising dramatically from the ocean as far as the eye could see, both north and south.

Even though spring had not yet taken hold, I noticed tiny green blades at my feet, pushing up everywhere through the mantle of last season's dead grasses.

It was as though the very breath of God could blow across the dry land, and by magic, turn the brown hillsides into a velvety green once more.

That's His way: sorrow precedes renewal. Healing power was actually within the storms.

Two years had since passed, and much of my sadness had melted away. Still, there was a part of me...