Late afternoon, early evening. We load up and drive out west on the interstate, then turn north on a two-lane highway, traveling maybe half an hour. Not that far…
Noodle isn’t really much of a “town” anymore. A few houses here and there, but most of the buildings are abandoned, empty and crumbling now. And as we approach, I always reflect on what a funny name for a town…Noodle.
Sometimes, it is hard to tell if a place is still inhabited…or not.
Our destination is a friend’s land where we hunt dove or practice shooting clays with our shotguns.
But, mostly we go to feel the wind blow, hear the tall native grasses rustle, breathe deeply. And feel small beneath this sky…
It feels like the middle of nowhere and the center of a time long gone. Cotton grows in long straight rows and the pump jacks still squeak up and down.
And the stillness becomes the nearness of the Father…and the clouds seem as angels’ wings.
A stolen hour or two out here is so good for the soul. A time to soak up peace and quiet, rest and reconnect to nature, and simply be.
Welcome to the porch... 