Crunch…the fallen leaves sounded under the pressure of a step. The wind whipped and whispered as the trees composed a rustling melody. Each leaf blew with its own note, composing the harmony, while the sound of creaking branches groaned the undertones. The air was thick with music. At the same time there was a silence so loud and sweet that it could split the sky. I stepped forward on the path and pushed through the music as each note kissed my ears crystal and clear. This place was full of magic, a kind of mystery that filled my soul with awe and yet at the same time, was so familiar, like home. I came to the bend in the path and my eyes strained to see around the corner. My steps grew faster and the music played louder. There just up ahead, I saw the dark iron lamppost and rounding further, I could see my home; the small stone and wooden abode that waited beneath the arms of the oaks. In a green cradle of rocking old trees and the laughing colors of flowers, I had built it, my own hands scraped and bruised with each stone laid and nail pounded.
My pace slowed while the crunching quieted as I went from dried leaves to bare ground. The smell was of earth, a smell that drifted with the scent of old books, dead leaves and grass. Then my feet came upon the stone trail leading to the door, and the smell of earth was added to by the smell of wet stone. My wife had been watering the flowers. The lilacs dripped with perfume while the early roses were poised arrogantly in a purple sea of sparkling Creeping Thyme. It was her handy work and mid morning passion. Mine was the pen and her's was the earth, to each his own canvass and brush. She would tell you however that it wasn’t a garden, because gardens are made with pots and seeds and shovels; this place was filled with life to the brim, and all she had to do was pour the glass.
I climbed the stone stairs to the wood door. The handle was made of dull bronze with various simple carvings. The thick wooden door was dark brown like the color of earth, and it had a musky scent that made the door seem old. It was a simple door and yet it seemed to have been carved without a chisel. The grains of the wood spiraled and swooped up and down its surface, and when looking closer you could see the light polish that gave its grain the hidden colors of deep purple, dark auburn, rich chocolate and sometimes a touch of moss green, all of them swirling and mixing together to make the wood into a dark rainbow. This was my door, a door that was not there to keep me in but to let me out. This entrance was just that, an entrance not prison bars in costume. I grabbed the handle and turned the knob as the latch clicked and the door gave way. I swayed the wooden surface open as the hinges creaked in a whining welcome. I stepped across the threshold and turned my head to hear the music once more as the melody changed key. This was my somewhere green; this was my hidden place and open home. I pulled the door in behind and I heard the hinges whine and the latch click again. I was home, my somewhere green.
This is the place I may never know. It has as it always will, exist in the heart of the Father, and in mine.
For those who long for home,
may the grace of God sustain you till that day.
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