Thomas Wolfe once said that everyone longs to go home in October. Since old Tom and I come from the same hometown, I deeply understand this longing. I walk down these city streets and keep lifting my nose to the wind, hoping to catch wood smoke. I keep searching the horizon line for the red of sourwood and the gold and fuchsia of the maples. Down here in the bottom of this topographical bowl called Chattanooga, we don't see things like blazing falltime color...or snow...or stars. There is just this endless flow of broken humanity. I understand that I work in God's vineyard, but in October, I yearn to go deep into the mountains and breathe a finer air and remember my own personal Bethlehem.
Current Mood: nostalgic