Every time we pass this old church, I am moved as I think of the blessing God provided those who came there to pray and to worship. I am moved by the feeling of driving my MMZA down the road on a bright sunny morning and a field of sunflowers with their fat yellow heads waving in greeting when I pass.
I am moved when Indian nuzzles my arm, his warm breath mingling with mine, when the cool breeze takes the heat of the day from my skin as the sun sinks into its orange-bronze bed, when the creek runs over rocks with leaves floating along as we ride by on the trail, when the wheat field is green and wet after a rain storm.
I am moved by the cycles of the earth: the crisp smell of fall, the cold winds of winter, the hawk building a nest in spring, and the tomato plant struggling to have enough water to grow one juicy piece of fruit.
I am moved by the innocence and acceptance of children and the way they love without wondering who is watching, the joy of eating cotton candy and the way it melts on your tongue (especially the blue kind), the shy glances of a girl to that boy she thinks is cute, and those who give without considering what they might get back.