Last week, as I was working my way through a box of old papers, notes, and clippings, I came across a single sheet torn from a journal, dated almost exactly 23 years ago. We were camping with our four daughters, driving endless hours on a state highway. Stunned by what was before me, I jotted down my thoughts, not imagining I’d find these words again someday.
Montana 7-14-1997
In this desolate land
of endless miles of scrub grass,
a patchwork of dust and rocks,
the shadows of clouds
passing overhead.
Hill after hill, a barren place,
the only signs of life
are fences of barbed wire,
lining the asphalt two-lane.
No speed limit.
And suddenly,
from a far-off view,
a line of green drawn erratically
as by the hand of a two year old.
There is no question
where the water is.
The trees flourish
with a sharp contrast of color
in a place so pale.
Should not our lives too
point the way to hope
like trees planted
by rivers of water,
laughing and singing
and clapping their hands?
A mirage does not
produce life
visible from miles around.
Hope does.
