One of the great acts of worship for my lover and me is riding in the country during harvest season. Yesterday we did it again and the fields are bursting with the His holiness, wave upon wave, mile after mile, as far as we could see His earth is providing a bountiful hymn of life, the verses in unison singing of His kindness. And our machines, great mechanical marvels, the space shuttles of earth, harvesting great swaths, as they grind away engulfed in the cloud of chaff like smoke from the incense altar. Corn and soybeans taken now and cotton coming in. No cathedral built by man can wall in His glory like the great plains of the Mississippi Delta with its towering horizontal steeples of grain, its rolling isles of abundance, row upon row of seated crop, altars of round silver bins storing food for the world and the green stained glass tracery of tree lines dividing one cathedral from another. Heaven as its ceiling, earth as its foundation, the Great Cathedral of Row Crops is now open daily for all the pilgrims with eyes to see and hearts yearning to worship Him.
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