We’d seen them before, my husband and I. The weird eroded shapes of the badlands. Four massive solemn faces carved into a granite mountainside. A herd of buffalo calmly holding up traffic. Bighorn sheep leaping effortlessly up the faces of seemingly sheer precipices. But oddly, seeing them for the second time seemed more meaningful to me than the first—and it was all because of three little people strapped in the back seats behind us.
We had seen it all before, but there was something wonderful about experiencing it anew through their eyes.
The wonder continued when we visited the world’s largest collection of live reptiles. We watched our littlest girl’s eye’s practically pop out of her head at the sight of a massive anaconda. We looked together for loose tiny geckos running around in the conservatory, and gasped with them to find an (uncontained!) snake hanging in a tree over our heads. We felt their excitement as they got to pet baby alligators and giant tortoises. We laughed with them at the parrot who could meow like a kitten.
And I thought to myself: Wow! This place is way more fun than I remember as a teenager. Had it changed that much? No. It was just me that had changed. I was seeing the same blue frogs and cobras, but this time as a mother through the eyes of my children—and that made all the difference.
On this trip, I though a lot about what Jesus meant when He said: “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 18:3)
Winter is well suited for contemplation. Spring, I’m reminded lately, is not. Spring is, rather, for living in the moment, moving constantly from the enjoyment of one beautiful, wonderful thing to the next, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re probably still missing something wonderful. Nothing sits still, lingers or waits for you. There is a great tension of panic and excitement that wells up inside of me at the recognition of this. I feel a little like my children, oh so impatient to be done with phonics and math, oh so eager to run outside and not miss a single glorious day of this fleeting season.
“How good it is to sing praises to our God, 
how pleasant and lovely to praise Him!
Great is our Lord, and mighty in power;
His understanding has no limit.
Sing to the LORD with thanksgiving; 
make music on the harp to our God, 
who covers the sky with clouds,
who prepares rain for the earth,
who makes grass to grow on the hills.
He sends forth His command to the earth; His word runs swiftly.
He provides food for the animals,
and for the young ravens when they call.
Hallelujah!”
I’ll just go ahead and admit that I like this little red squirrel.
I don’t think I’ve ever gotten quite such a sound scolding as he and his mate gave me. As you can see, he was so put out with me, he came right down out of the tree and sat right at the end of that clothesline, inches from my face, to give me a piece of his mind. In the branches directly over my head, his mate joined the tirade, scraping little bits of pine bark into my hair in protest.
Finally, I fled for the house, and they sat back from their squatter’s rights protest, smug with victory.
Rejoicing Hills 