a chapel in the woods.

Today I went on a hike with a friend.

And it was startling, actually, where we ended up. Because we were in Wilmington, driving by strip malls and underneath electric lights, when suddenly we turned off a highway and found ourselves right by a river that was doing something right because the land all around it was verdant and seemed to be saying an awful lot about springtime and life and the color green in general.

We parked the car and started walking and I felt like I could look at my surroundings forever. And if not forever, than at least for an hour or two before I wondered if anyone had texted me and shoot! I left my phone back at my friend’s house, anyway.

Don’t worry, I did that on purpose.

Part of the whole proving a certain friend of mine that I am not obsessed with my iphone, after all.

But the grass, it wasn’t just your every day green. It was like when you take a photograph and put it into iphoto and, when editing it, click on enhance and suddenly you blink because everything just got so much brighter. And then this grass was dotted with little yellow flowers and my goodness, but you know me: they had me at yellow.

But that would have been enough, you know? All that vibrant color carpeting the ground, acting all modest, like it was just its job anyway. Except then my friend took me to a very special place. A place, that for her, is a sanctuary. A place where it’s possible to hear the whispers of hope and grace that seemed to have been drowned out by the world clamoring for our attention for a long time now–probably even before you started noticing how cute boys are, but man, that sure didn’t help with trying to hear that whisper, did it?

Because there, on top of this hill and hidden by trees that, as it turns out, are some of the oldest and best secret keepers around, stands this small and rustic chapel. It’s rugged and it’s lovely and nobody has ever thought about installing anything so offensive as florescent lights in it. There’s a large wooden door and the floor is made of red bricks and wide grey stones. Oh! And I love this part, because there are tall archways on either side of the chapel, but they are devoid of any glass at all. Rather, they let the air come in and out as it pleases, and today the most perfectly warm breeze kept moving around inside the chapel. It was moving my hair too, which I figured was its right since it has been coming in and out of the place for a long time, while I had only just arrived.

And at the back of the chapel was a little unassuming plaque, one that tells a nice little story every minute of every day. Something about how the chapel was built in gratitude to God for a beautiful life–one filled with family, unique friends, joy, and laughter.

And tonight when I was telling a friend about this magical place, I told him that I’d like to be that, too: A temple of gratitude. One who’s hair might change an awful lot, who gets lost if she’s going anywhere that doesn’t happen to be home or the gas station down the street from home, and who falls for a fishy phone call enough to get her heart beating harder than normal when a silly friend disguises his voice at 2 am in the morning, telling her to come down to the police station or be arrested, but it’s your choice, ma’am…

But I agree with that little plaque. The one about this life being beautiful and, for this, being grateful.

And I hope to be able to find that perfect chapel again. Maybe with my guitar in tow next time.