I live among scrub oak, short pines, and rock on the side of a mountain at 7250 feet.

I know that the people who have lived here all their lives couldn’t be torn away from it kicking and screaming.

I also know you’re supposed to “bloom where you’re planted,” as the saying goes.

There’s no denying that this is one plant removed from its native soil, though. Some people, like plants, seem to be born for specific terrain – Julie for her cactus blossoms and mountain hikes, me for wide fields under endless sky.

Every time I drive back to the Midwest, I’m surprised by my response. I step out of the overcrowded van somewhere in Oklahoma, and the wind and humid air wrap around me like the two arms of a “welcome home” hug. When I explain this to most people, I don’t often get an understanding nod.

It might be because they’ve never truly seen how the sun sparkles through droplets on a million green blades of wheat against a vast spring-grey backdrop.

Ah… space. I can see horizon in every direction. How can a person not think of God with such an enormous view of His heavens?

I was formed from the earth of this place. All the pieces of me were aligned by the wind whipping through like fierce sand through a sieve, each piece sorting out and falling into place on struggling, straining walks along dirt roads.

And then comfort in abundance… Rich soil. Warm, humid air. Large, shady trees. Vibrant green grass in rolling lawns.

At one of the homes that we saw, I had forgotten shoes for my younger daughter. No worries. She took off running in the soft grass, happy as could be. My son, in his mud boots, raced as fast as he could down to the rambling creek to throw a stick into the water. They explored fallen remnants of last season’s neglected apple crop in an old, old orchard.

The house in this place wasn’t my favorite. But how can you say no to your kids being able to run as far and as fast as they want – no skinned knees when you fall, nothing to trip over except your own clumsy feet?

A small kid can’t run where we are, can’t even ride a bike.

Like a plant returned to native soil, I feel my roots reaching down and my leaves stretching up, every time I go back. I’m in my element, made from these elements in green and grey shades. This is home.

It is home partly because it is, for me, a window to another home, another space that lays claim to my formative elements. It is a big, big window. A whole vast sky of a window.

And it’s a million tiny windows, sparkles on blades of wheat, glow of sunset on stray bits of feed sack, lacy branches echoed on smooth creek surfaces.

Several years ago Julie introduced me to Ken Gire’s Windows of the Soul. The book’s premise is that we reach for God through the windows of art, nature, poetry. Meanwhile, God reaches for us, hoping our “windows” don’t block our view. It’s a good read now, as we look for the surroundings that will form our kids’ childhood years.

It’s a good read anytime… even here in the Southwest.

It reminds me that the sky that frames the mountains here is stretched with the same promise as the wide Kansas sky:

If we are willing to look, we will really see… God is there to be found all the time, in all places.