I've seen the Grand Canyon and the Rocky Mountains, the voices of three oceans breaking on rocks or surf have spoken in my ears. On hot summer days I've played in the waters of the Frio River (aptly named), then on those warm nights I've lain on my back and stretched out my hand toward the black sky, reaching for stars just beyond my grasp. I've watched the leaves change colors then float gently, softly, to the ground, and I've seen little yellow flowers push their way through the same damp leaves to breathe the fresh air of Spring. I've heard the quiet burbling, babbling, chortling of a mountain stream, and I've stood transfixed as the fierce, powerful thunderstorm rolled in over the hills, flashing its lightning in the distant clouds. I've drunk water from a spring that seemed to emerge from solid rock, the scent of cedar and pine, magnolia and honeysuckle have overpowered me. I've caught lightning bugs in a jar at dusk, then let them go as the night grew dark, and my daughters (who are expert firefly catchers) hug and kiss me and tell me they love me. Of course I believe in God!
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