We’re trying to recapture our Sundays as days of rest. Part of rest for me is getting outside, seeing the world God created. I am rejuvenated in His creation. So, we planned on taking a walk, but as the day wore on, the light waned.

We could have decided against it as dusk settled in around the golden red hills of Le Rouret. Could have stayed put in the quiet of our home. But we didn’t. We put on shoes, coats, gloves and hats and walked the dusk.

I came back alive, more alive than I felt before we left. We passed by homes with light emanating from within. We saw the sky blush salmon. The trees reached toward heaven in a sacred song. The scent of pine made me smile.

We meandered along a country road, a road I’ve run on before. Perhaps I was running a bit too fast to really notice. Tonight as our family walked, nostalgia grabbed me.

A white picket fence.

Those of you who know me well know my longings for a home in the country, complete with a white picket fence. I have never seen one in France. It’s more of a wrought iron or stone fence place. But there it was, long and white under a darkening sky, with tangles of roses climbing in and through.

It was God’s reminder to me that He is my picket fence. He is my dreams, hopes, and longings all wrapped up in the person of Jesus. I may never live in the country, encircled by pickets. But I will always live encircled by His delight.

The moon smiled back at us as we ambled home. We passed the picket fence, still white in the graying light. I held Julia’s hand, wondering what her dreams were.