I flew into the Bellingham airport a few weeks ago, coming back from my sister’s graduation. The plane flew up the coast of Puget Sound during the late afternoon, and my lovely window seat gave me a view of a maze of islands and peninsulas surrounded by silvery water. You know how people talk about a disappearing horizon? What with the Olympic mountains and the blinding light on the sea, I legitimately couldn’t tell where sea and land ended, and cloud and sky began. It was so beautiful. I may have cried.

The plane overpassed Bellingham, turned right, and started to descend. Out my window, I saw a great plain north of Bellingham that led to a mass of huge mountains, already towering above us. The plane turned right again, revealing icy Mount Baker, shining in the sun, its mountain attendants gathered around it. Then I laughed and shook my head, because it seemed too much, way overdone, beauty on beauty.

The plane descended lower, the mountains disappeared behind the foothills, and the foothills shrunk. When we landed, I could just barely see blue hill behind some warehouses and trees. But I smiled at it, winked almost because now I was in on the secret.

And I still feel that way, weeks later, as I fiddle around on the ground.

I have this wonderful secret: I am living in the middle of this intense beauty.

Just because I can’t see it from down here, doesn’t mean it’s not all still there: the grandeur, brilliance, and splendor.

And I know that the little things I see, that hill, or that tree, all make up the glorious view.

Gaining elevation gave me a fresh perspective on the place I lived in. The incident lends itself so naturally to a perspective about life: I have had moments when, after intentional reflection about life, faith, God, and humanity, I gain elevation and see a surprising glory of life.

And despite moments of depression, I carry this knowledge around with me like the joyful secret of the reality I saw from the plane.