I have nothing to add. Well, perhaps just one word…
I sat tonight, prepared to write. Pages, I thought. Thanksgiving Day is upon us. The year has been brutal. And emotional. Sad — yet, filled with joy.
I had verses to quote.
Let the peace of Christ overwhelm all else in your heart…And, be thankful. (Colossians 3:15 ~ my paraphrase)
I will praise the name of God with a song, and will magnify him with thanksgiving. (Psalm 69:30 ~ KJV)
I have wisdom to share.
But, I can’t get past that voice I hear in my head. …
Stitches, one after another, become the fabric, the stuff of life.
The hands of the artisan grow old and slow, and still the pattern unfolds.
Changes come, direction reversed, and the stitches are altered.
No matter; they yet follow what’s been woven before.
The hands falter; the count is lost. With a glance back, the pattern is recalled.
Dropped stitches picked up, the passage ahead is clear once more.
Through the whole of our lives the fabric is crafted, with integrity, one would hope.
But, with or without, the cloth unfolds, one day to become the narrative of a life.
What will be read in my history? …
The rain is again falling outside, an answer to prayer for some — an annoyance for others.
I’m in the former category.
No, I’m not worried about wildfires, as my friends and family in the American West are. Fire has devastated, and continues to devastate, the landscape out there right now. Homes are burning. Livelihoods are scorching. Nature is being tortured. They are still praying for rain. With good reason.
In my home area, we’ve had summer rains along during the hot months, not as often as we’d like, but often enough. …
I’ve written with increasing frequency about unhappy subjects of late. Like a flood of epic proportion, they have overtaken me — and, it seems, most of us. Death, sickness, natural disasters, and so much more.
I want to quit dwelling on the negative things before me.
I have, just tonight, realized anew that I have been standing — figuratively — at the water’s edge, watching the level rise. Mesmerized by the current and its power, I have awaited it’s inevitable surge above flood level.
And, watching the flow, I suddenly hear music.
No, really. Music.
Away, I’m bound away,
Across the wide Missouri. …
A lot different. Face masks with social distancing are the rule of the day. Outside classes. Meals in the quad. Tents under the trees, and a stage thrown up in the large grassy area.
A lot of work has gone into the preparations for the resumption of school in this time of uncertainty. All are hoping the unseen enemy may be held at bay by the weapons and schemes being utilized.
Time will tell.
On a recent afternoon, I walked up to collect the Lovely Lady, who works there. It’s not a long walk. …
The troubled young man reached out his hand as I prepared to leave. We had been speaking of serious matters. I expected nothing from him, but here he was, obviously with something to offer.
I took the small object and turned it over.
“An arrowhead?” I mumbled, confused.
I thought he might have found an ancient keepsake out on the hillside, but wasn’t sure why he was giving it to me.
“I made it myself,” the man said proudly. “For you.”
We spoke of the work it had taken to produce this gift for a few moments. Then I thanked him and tucked the flinty object into my pocket as I headed for home. I regretted the decision to tuck it away there more than once as it dug into my leg when I moved my foot to the brake and the accelerator. …
The red-headed lady who raised me was the first person I heard say those words. I suppose it’s not unusual to learn truth from your mother. Her truths came mostly in short, easy-to-remember maxims and sometimes, in long run-on sentences with Bible verses thrown in for good measure.
Those truths, I remember. Some, I even still live by. Especially these days, I remember often that you can’t believe everything you read.
I never expected to learn anything from a fortune cookie. It’s probably a good thing.
We’d been cooped up in the house for weeks on end, waiting out the virus. Restaurants were closed; drive-through lanes, the only way to get food we didn’t have to cook ourselves. …
It wasn’t anything special, just two sentences on a popular social media site. Still, he was kind enough to return a note of thanks, with a little something added.
I wasn’t sure I wanted the little something.
You see, some words are light and carefree. There is no expectation of — and little need to consider — further action. Words like, “Thanks for thinking about me.” Or, “I had a great day, thanks!”
Unfortunately, he didn’t choose light and carefree.
These words were compelling. …
“I think the word moment would work better than minute in this instance.”
I’ve mentioned before that the Lovely Lady acts as an unofficial editor, a filter of sorts, for me in my frequent ventures into writing. Most mornings after I post one of these essays, I find an email in my inbox which bears her return address.
The terse, one-word subject helps me to be prepared for the bad news. All it says is Blog.
As much as I love reading her notes (she always ends them with an I love you and, for some reason I kind of like that), I don’t want to be told I’ve made an error. …
It’s a pejorative, isn’t it? You know — a putdown. It’s the only way I’ve ever known the phrase to be used.
Some folks use the term to describe a rascal. Others use it to avoid saying something more coarse; what my dad used to call a minced oath.
I don’t (not in recent history, anyway) use curse words, minced or otherwise, but I almost wanted to the day I saw this fellow. Scrawny little thing he was. Kind of nondescript. Shifty. Bobbing around, flitting from one place to another.
I wouldn’t even have noticed him if it hadn’t been for the Lovely Lady. She stood looking out the window one afternoon and asked nobody in particular, “What would a woodpecker be doing on the holly tree?” …