Sometimes, something big comes along and takes our life by surprise . . . so it has been with Place of Sage.

I can’t take the credit for this story; so I’d like to tell you about the author who should.

He designed four-hundred-foot-high basalt walls to encompass the land called Place of Sage, and He flavored His setting with contrasts.

For ruggedness, He gave it jagged rocks that change hues like a chameleon, deserted homesteads, bones bleached white in the sun, and tumbleweeds that bounce along the desert floor. And for a softness that leaves even writers wordless, He paints sunsets of purple—the kind where you blink to make sure they’re real.

To illustrate the spirit here, a red-tailed hawk uses its whole body to push through a dust storm; resilient flowers, perfect in every detail, bloom unseen by human eyes; winds crescendo through the coulee like an ocean, or filter through like a flute; and to the sage He gave four seasons, each adorned in colors and perfume.

In this part of the desert, a coulee is known as, a can­yon formed by ice age floods, but now considered dry. And since every great setting needs a feature, or two, of surprise, He poured an underground river beneath Place of Sage. Then He used the floods to shape a mesa resembling a six-story Aussie hat, placed it midstream in the coulee, and carved only one path to the top. The way is narrow, rocky, and steep; but He promised it’s worth the climb.

It’s the kind of place where . . . .

When you feel alone, and far from Him . . . He covers the mesa in fog, demonstrating that just because you can’t see it, that doesn’t mean it’s not there.

When you are afraid . . . He stops a rattlesnake from biting your hand.

And then to show His ways, He points out the mule deer; how they amble down from the top of the wall, in single file, brushing sage as they descend; and the buck—always the guardian, always attentive, and always near.

When you doubt His ending, and want to die . . . He says, “Write it now, while the pain is real,” and fills the air with mock orange and sage; reminding you that you love to breathe.

When you rip out the For Sale signs . . . He says, “It takes more faith to leave them up.”

When the weight of your secret is too much to bear . . . He sends the bobcat to be your “keeper of se­crets.” And each time you see him or walk in his tracks, you know your secret is safe.

When your feet are dragging in the dust . . . He says, “Lift your eyes,” and with a golden eagle you learn to soar.

When you are impatient for lack of results . . . He leads you to the lake and walls, they are alive with un­seen activity. Nests are being made, babies will be born; and only after much care, will they be ready to fly.

When you shout, “But what’s the point?” . . . thun­der rolls through the coulee, and wind ripples the lake like curled feathers. And as you watch you realize, this is the Place of Sage story—sometimes only slight as a feather, but in the end, the impact will be a wave.

And when your pain is too great . . . He says, “I am here, take My hand.”

So when I asked, “But are you sure you want me to do this? . . . a rainbow sprung from the mesa, shot straight up, and arched over Place of Sage. At that point, I knew for sure, if I had done anything else, it would have been wrong.

Sometimes, something big comes along and takes our life by surprise . . . sound incredible? I know . . . and He is.

I’ve waited a long time to share this story with you. “Everything must be in place,” He said. And finally, everything is.

Welcome to Place of Sage!

—Lyn Diane Nielsen