Wind fiercely blew Sunday as I rode into town.
Into Cheboygan, Michigan, that is. It was about 4 pm when a storm of hale and rain thundered in the north. The sky darkened after a sun-shiny afternoon.
Then, minutes later, the sun returned and golden leaves showed the glory of God's gandeur and
hand at work coloring creation.
It was Fall at work in this state.
About three hundred miles from Detroit, about twenty miles from Mackinaw City, Cheboygan is a poor resort town where my mother grew up before coming to the city to earn some cash to send home.
My two other uncles live there while farming some with chickens. But, Uncle Chet has been in Ann Arbor for therapy after five surgical procedures at 81 while Uncle Phil handles the farm.
Native Americans live there alng with Polish, French and others.
In fact, while visiting Pat Watson at St. Mary's Church, one woman I met said she was a Native American "but not with the card."
"I know who I am; it doesn't matter," she concluded as she waited for the pastoral care minister.
After a two-day visit, and a five-hour ride back home, I've arrived in Motown.
A peaceful ride North with a look at the leaves and colors.
A deer crossed my path on the freeway south while taffic slowed. A sight to behold.
Beauty in action.
God's hand at roots and relations.
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