I like the sounds of my hometown, the chiming of the courthouse clock, the cry of the seagulls in the harbor, the splash of the tide against the sand and rocks, and the ferry's horn announcing it arrivals and departures. It seems right to breathe air that smells of salt and moss. Growth mingles with decay and carpets the ground. I enjoy the mountains at our back, often obscured by cloud and fogs, their reappearance on a sunny day giving me a reason to gasp in wonder and thank God for their beauty. When I drive to work I'm careful to count the deer as they cross the road knowing that at least three will pass before it's safe to drive on. Even so I drive with caution. It's our version of a traffic jam. There's one road into town and one road out, a reminder of my physical mortality and the reality of my eternal destiny with Jesus, my Lord and Savior. I may be living in a rented house among the toad stools under the willow tree; but this is where my great-grandfather homesteaded, making it my father's world, as well as my Father's world.
When I started this day's entry I wanted to gripe about our President spending four million dollars on his Hawaiian Christmas vacation, while his people eat spam. Yes, I really, really want to gripe, but I guess for him too there's no place like home.
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