God is very near.

I see a field of barley swaying to its own musicality, augmented by a diminished sea wind coming off the hills. The sun is round but gentle, the breeze enough to keep things cool, the deep sky a lesson in prayer. Birds don't need to fly on such a day; they simply unfurl their little sail-like wings and move to the rhythms of the air. There is no one in the field.

I see a green meadow with daisies like daytime stars, and there are two rabbits in it, eating. But I don't look at the rabbits, I see the way the two hills converge to form a V, and the way the bottom of the dell is like a manger I want to sleep in, pocketed from evil and turmoil. Then I do watch the rabbits, running through the grass and flowers, but not for fear.

I see an abandoned house at the edge of woods, the doorframe wreathed in wisteria (or maybe lilac) with asters where the footpath should be, and foxglove shaking their deadly bells inside on the dirt floor. It is wholly quiet, with no music of animals, men or wind, a place guarded by beauty and ancient power over the living. When I go there, I step lightly in reverence for old ghosts.

I see the greenest river in the world. It's not green from scum or filth, but from trees and bushes reflecting off the surface in the daylight. The fish are not afraid, knowing fishermen will find noisier waters to do their killing, knowing the hand of God rests on the surface, hiding behind vines and leaf-heavy branches. The water flows almost without sound, but with enough sound to lull you to sleep.

I see a mountain like a ram's head jutting out of the earth, locking horns with the sky to see which can successfully throw the other. Every revolution of the globe gives a false impression, and mountain and sky both feel strong and without equal. They have no equal. Instead, their Better sits aloof and watches the frightful combat from clouds of dissolving fire.

I see an ocean too wide to be loved. Men love the thought of the sea more than the sea itself, but it uses them like a fierce maiden, sucks blood from their veins and replaces it with salt, turns gentle men into ruthless figureheads of rust and beaten wood. The sea crashes at my feet, and I know in time it will take me, too.

I see Jesus in everything good. He is rubbing grain between His palms in the grain field; laying on His back in the meadow; tending the flowers on a worn-out path; parting the green river waters; riding the clouds like a chariot; walking on the furious waves. He is not the thing itself but its master, the Lord of Heaven, and the God of Earth, friend of the meek and scourge of the proud.