Pine Needles

It's the smell of pine needles that does it.

Carries me to childhood. Back to swinging in the hammock, croquet on the lawn, splashing in the lake, and fishing off the dock.

Pine trees sheltered stick houses and long walks. The winter brought fresh-cut boughs and standing next to Grandma crafting wreaths.

Grandma's house was the constant in my childhood. Home base. My roots.

One whiff of pine and I'm there.

That constant dissipated with her death. Home base was missing from the field.

“But the firm foundation of God stands, sure and unshaken.” 2Timothy 2:19

Here were steady roots. Sturdy, enduring, changeless.

Here was a constant. The steadfast God.

I could simply relish smells and memories of days existent no more. Childhood delights.

And a firm foundation.