Oh, to be a porcupine up in a tree,
a conspicuous ball of black against the blue,
placidly nibbling tree buds,
oblivious to the -25 wind chill,
whose only response to a curious passerby ankle deep in snow
(after that twinkling in his eye—or was I imagining that?)
is to curl up into a slightly tighter ball,
just to be sure I didn’t forget that he had nothing to be afraid of underneath all that spiky armor.
But I suppose that since I can’t be a porcupine
I can be a city on a hill instead, or maybe a lamp on a stand—or maybe both at once, since they have so much in common.
Especially the way a city glows after dark,
conspicuous for miles around in it’s reflections up to the heavens,
placidly humming with all the activity that makes it a city,
stoplights constantly switching colors,
brake lights flashing and turn signals blinking,
people closing the blinds at night so they can sleep in spite of the constant glow of lampposts.
Cities, like porcupines, don’t really know who might be wearily traveling
down long highways way off in the darkness,
gazing at the lights,
moving towards them and their promise of things to eat and places to lay their heads—
but they shine on steady through the night anyway.
“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16)
Rejoicing Hills 