Just out my kitchen window, through the metal bars of the gate that divides us from another complex, and past a few artistically placed fir trees, stands this one tree. It's the only tree in the whole city that I've seen thus far that has any color. And it shines.
It sits there, small and lonesome, surrounded by ten huge towers of concrete and glass, and sings its autumn song every morning as the light hits from the east. I gaze at it while washing dishes, or scrubbing potatoes, or as I turn from the stove and catch it again out of the side of my eye.
I like this tree, how it speaks to me. How there is always grace, there is always His kindness, growing and shining, however small or alone or surrounded by bleakness. It's right there, and I can see it when I look up.