I’ve found my happy place, my tranquil reprieve from the stress and sterility of medical offices.
It’s a 1970’s folk-rock playing, back porch swingin’ kind of place. An oasis of glistening aspens; of earthen, piney aroma, where entire families of quail scurry underfoot and hummingbirds dart just overhead.
Husband’s parents have settled in the mountains of Central Oregon, and these are MY PEOPLE. Their modern-hippie farm boasts sprawling, prolific gardens, a flock of chubby chickens, and a colony of pollen-drunk honeybees. Their towering pine trees are actually enchanted.
Naturally, Little Man took to his grandparents immediately, seemingly relieved to wake to the same faces and surroundings for the first time in days.
I’m trying not to think about next week, and the surgery that awaits Little Man, instead rejoicing in the day the Lord has made.