Iowa

I’m from Iowa.  I’ve lived in Iowa most of my life.  Most people who aren’t from the Midwest, when I tell them where I’m from, say something like, “Iowa.  Isn’t that where they grow the potatoes?”  No, it’s not.  That’s Idaho.

There’s something about this small state in the middle of the country that I find beautiful.  I’ve said that to several people, and usually I get weird looks and maybe a chuckle.  They think I’m kidding.  I’ve been to Israel and stood looking out over the Mount of Olives and the Kidron Valley.  That’s a beautiful sight.  I’ve been to the state of Washington and watched the sun set behind the mountains, camped in the Boundary Waters and watched a thunderstorm roll powerfully across the lake at twilight, stood on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean and gazed at the miles and miles of water stretched out before me.  I’ve hiked in the Lake District in England, walked the National Mall in Washington D.C., and glimpsed the Promised Land from Mount Nebo in Jordan.  All of these are absolutely beautiful places, but there’s something beautiful about Iowa, too.  It’s a different kind of beautiful.

I drive about forty-five minutes to work and back each day.  It’s not a very exciting drive, but most days, I find myself marveling at how beautiful this state is.  And it’s always changing.  During the Fall, it’s awash with colors that take your breath away.  In Winter, the trees sparkle with ice and frost.  Spring always reminds me how much I’ve missed the color green as the leaves and grass begin to grow again.  And then there’s Summer, where day by day the corn grows taller in the fields and the sky seems more blue than I imagined.

There’s something about Iowa—the wide open spaces, the run-down farm homes and red barns, the grazing cows, towering silos, and of course, rows and rows of corn.  All of this I find beautiful.  Maybe it’s simply because all of these things represent home to me.  I love running outside during a thunderstorm as lightning streaks down from heaven or lying in bed listening to the rain on the roof and the thunder rattling the windows.  I actually like the heat and humidity that wraps around you like a blanket during the Summer.  I enjoy the rambling creeks and rivers, the slow rolling hills or flat farmland stretched out as far as you can see.  Sweet corn stands set up along the side of the road, farmer’s markets spanning city streets, bike trails through the forest—all of these thing are part of Iowa, part of home.

I’ll admit, I hate the winters, hate the cold wind that sucks the breath from you and freezes your lungs, hate donning my heavy coat and boots every time I walk outside.  But it does make Spring all the more wonderful.

Perhaps even the simplest, most ordinary things can be beautiful.  I know most people don’t think much of Iowa, but I don’t know that I will ever stop marveling at the acres of farmland and the dilapidated barns that dot the landscape.  This is home to me.  And that makes it beautiful.