The land where I grew up is loved by few. Harsh winters, strong and never-ceasing winds, and nothing but flatness don’t make for “beauty” in most people’s minds. But every time I return to it, I get twinges of homesickness, and I am thankful that God put me there. Had I grown up on the ocean or in the forest or in the foothills of a great mountain chain, I don’t know that I would be able to bask in the beauty of a flat river valley and its tiny towns, each centered around a grain elevator or a beet plant.
I see beauty in the fields of golden grain, even when it’s dead.
I find beauty in the shelterbelts, often the only trees for miles…
…except for the occasional mavericks.
I find beauty in the hay bales, sometimes stacked, sometimes lined up, sometimes randomly sitting all over a field.
I see beauty coming at me for miles in the form of a shiny(?) semi.
I see beauty in the train track that runs from Moorhead to Detroit Lakes and slowly rises on trestles. Very old-timey.
I find beauty in the seed companies and beet plants, even if I don’t enjoy the smells that emanate from within.
I see beauty in small-town camaraderie, local businesses’ signs cheering on the local high school sports teams.
I see beauty in a main drag that looks like this (and no one thinks it’s so very bad).
And I, of course, see beauty in the sweet baby who (for the most part) patiently endured a 5-hour car ride.