There is something about autumn in this Pennsylvania countryside that turns my mind to ghost stories.

When the fog curls around the trunk of the weeping willow, I half expect to see the headless horseman ride by.

When I pass the field where the Hessian soldiers camped before they joined the redcoats, I think I almost see their faded muskets between the trees.

 

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There aren’t many places left in our world where the past feels so near. So everpresent.

Truthfully, I’m not sure I believe in death when I cross vast parking lots or stand beneath fluorescent lights. But I am learning. This place of somber black horse-drawn buggies, covered bridges, and old stone farmhouses is working a change in me.

I am learning that fluorescent light and concrete don’t tell the truth. I am learning that some realities can only be glimpsed in the low, golden light of Autumn.

I’m sharing a story about a covered bridge and a cloud of witnesses. I hope you’ll click through to read it at Living the Story (via BibleDude.net).

 

Maplehurst

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