A beautiful Colorado day. Sunny, fifty plus degrees, in January no less. It was church day, but I traded in the building’s four walls for two wheels. Exchanged singing with the choir, for singing solo. Swapped listening to my anointed pastor, for hearing what God would say through nature. I was feeling wildly rebellious. I swung my leather boot over the motorcycle. The early air still quivered. I tucked in tight behind my racer. Warmer. The wind blew recklessly through my helmet.
The country homes faded, and open land abound. The sun peeking through the intermittent clouds, He was present. The pine trees stood at attention, with branches held high in adoration. The mountains wrapped a blanket of snow around their shoulders, shivering in adulation. The clouds swayed in rhythm. And on the side of the road, mounds of snow leaked tears of joy underneath the bike’s tires. We did church on a motorcycle. I was afflated. It was glorious.