Coming off of 165 . . .Turning south off of 165 onto US highway 281, we drive into a brief intermission.This short stretch of road is not dull by any means. The land you are exposed to here just is not breathtaking like the area we just left, nor is it quite as significant as the area we will soon enter. There are some oddities to take note of.

We turn right onto farm road 473. Here the countryside is unique to itself and has special qualities all its own. Traveling this road we find a similar general appearance that we have seen before, but it seems as though we are moreso penetrating the heart of the land than before. Perhaps we notice a greater rolling to the hills, or landcape that is simply more pronounced that what weíve already seen. There begins down this farm road a feeling of oldnessî somewhow. I am not certain of the fact that we are nearing my familieís home effects me to this end. There is almost an emotion down in my bosom that lays there quietly. I cannot identify it. I see the land so brilliantly illuminated by the sunshine, and something sweet walks up slowly beside the oldness that I feel.

Loneliness hovers lightly, but a calm provides comfort and rest. I keep thinking of where I am heading--home. Faint memories of childhood sprinkle themselves about my thoughts and feelings. My mind wants wants to draw a picture of a family friendís ranch in the country outside of Boerne. That place is not far from here, and I want to remember more of the experience my memory is reaching for. There is a tension here within me, even as a write. I donít think itís pain, but it is hard to enjoy. My eyes dance and play over and off the hillsides, and they run the full lenth of the fields. Ah! This place! What is it? I try to behold more than I am able. This hill country stirs me so.

We are coming up on what is perhaps the ideal oak tree. So perfect in proportion. It seems to have achieved perfect symmetry. Thousands of oak-leaves sparkle in the sun, and it stands so firm. It is unshakeable. This tree brings me to May somehow, or maybe Easter. I see Sundays with family and ladies in pastoral dresses. But I am brought back to where I stand. I stand amidst this land that tells of me hot summer days and dry wind against my face. I would wish to hug the trunk of this brave tree, and rub my cheek against its course skin, but it stands not on my land. Let us step back and look upon this thing. Is it not a spotless specimen? But let us realize what we see here! I lift my eyes up to the sky and shout praise to the One who has fachioned this large bush. Turn in a crircle.

You cannot begin to partially inhale the content of even your immediate environment And think for a bit on how this tiny segment of area, though grand it is, fairs in light of the whole created order. I am only saying this: we are miniscual man and require deliverance. Recognize this wondrous creation as nothing in and of itself, and only as magnificent because the lot of it was brought into being by the spken word of its holy Creator. The Ancient of Days made it all, and nothing has been made without Him. I look upon this land that He deliberately created. Look around! Surely the rodents even think it obvious! And I must ask your pardon, for these photographs do no justice whatever to the reality of their subjects. I look about me and see the wonder. Surely He has created; and only He can recreate.

And that He will one day do to this fallen world, even to the land of this earth more majestic than imaginable. And that He is pleased to do so now to the hearts of sinful men who will believe the Gospel concerning His Son. I wonder . . . what would Christ have thought, walking this same land I am taking you through today. I suppose He would walk among the lovely and shy hills, and through the clear, cool, glistining streams, with possession of the knowledge that He was the agent by which it was all created. Perhaps He would speak to a crowd in the shadow of this oak, and tell them of His power to create what they can see all around them, to recreate what they cannot, and to forgive their sins. Observation of this land directs my pondering to the imagination of God.