Every time I come home I'm in awe of the expansive skies. I spend so much time in Los Angeles hemmed in by buildings and the thick ribbon of smog painted across the horizons that a stroll under the sweeping Washington sky makes my soul feel free to spread out and rest.
Down in L.A. the people aren't the only ones fenced in by the layers of smog: the east and west are too. I can always see them lodged on the sticky horizon just a few miles off, struggling to break free from the dirty sky, maybe see how far they can stretch before they meet in the middle.
Today I couldn't stop looking east, and then west, and then east again.
In the Pacific Northwest the east and west just keep going. I can see them stretching beyond the farthest horizon for a bit, and then I can't see them anymore.
Do you see the dip in the trees toward the center of the photo just to the left of the white house? That's where the east scurries out of view.
Now look at the horizon, just a couple of inches below the street light. Can you see the dark far-off hill behind the trees? That's where the west soars out of sight.
My horizon gazing today has helped me to understand a little bit better what the Psalmist meant when he said "[God] has removed our sins from us as far as the east is from the west."
Up here, that's really, really far.
Now, if I could only get my heart to fully believe this bit of grace I think I might live a bit more like these "daisies" of the field, resting instead of striving with my head tilted toward the sun, leaning easily in whatever breeze dances by.