Sweet things. Strawberry soy and chocolate wafers.
Life is good. God is good.
He is faithful til the end.
And did I mention that I love beieng in love?
I am in love and it's so good.
26.5.11
16.5.11
things are changing
Things have been a little stressful and unsettled these days. But God is good, and I'm choosing to believe that this season of my life is one in which I have the chance to learn more about what it means to depend on Him... to trust Him and have faith that He will remain true to His promises.
I want to find beauty and focus on the little things in my life -- the blessings which are right in front of me, that I encounter daily, and never want to let slip through my fingers, unappreciated and unaccounted for.
This is: Lunch with Susie, Potato stamps (Haven't made those since I was in grade 2!!!), Card making...
Finally, (though something seemingly insignificant and not all that exciting) an update after far too long. x
I want to find beauty and focus on the little things in my life -- the blessings which are right in front of me, that I encounter daily, and never want to let slip through my fingers, unappreciated and unaccounted for.
This is: Lunch with Susie, Potato stamps (Haven't made those since I was in grade 2!!!), Card making...
Finally, (though something seemingly insignificant and not all that exciting) an update after far too long. x
1.5.11
"Believe me, it's not easy when I look back." His wrinkled face pulled and slanted toward the white glow of the afternoon light. Whisky in his flask, and on his breath and in the air, He continued, "I've got many things. I've got a room full of photographs. I haven't looked at them in 20 years. I have boxes full of things that were my sons, my daughters, my wife's. I haven't touched them."
The room was small, his chair was dark brown, with an afghan hanging on the back. He never reclined in his chair, though it was a possibility for him to do so. The room was full of little things, covered in dust and completely forgotten. Doilies, his wife's touch, flower pots filled with dead and dying plants, crumbs on the floor, and stacks of books in every possible space.
His thick glasses sat on the end of his large nose. He slowly took them down, rested them on one knee, and rubbed his face, his baggy, sad eyes. He stopped and stared out the window. Dust floated all around him and would never stop.
His mind went to the time he drove his pickup truck to Michigan. He sat and told me about it. He and his brother Ralph, a wooden boat in the back, two rods and some tackle, not a care in the world. They fished there, in the Upper Penninula. The boat had a little leak, so they kept an old margarine container with them to scoop out the water. It would come in slow, and had never been a problem, except once.
The leak grew, and while they were out in the water, the boat filled so fast, it sank, and they had to swim to shore. They bid their old boat farewell, and sat on the bay and drank whisky. They talked about life, as they would while fishing, but they didn't catch any fish this time. Out of the two young men, Ralph caught the bigger fish -- he always did. It was a bit of a mystery. But not today. They forgot about fishing, and lost themselves in laughter and talking nonsense. They stayed there a long while, until they were drunk and sleeping. They woke in the morning, and bathed in the water. They got breakfast in a diner nearby and headed back home.
It was easy to think about these times. Times like these, they were the good times. The rest was painful. It was near impossible to think of, because the fear was so great. The pain, too. The pain was great. He never did tell me of these dark and weighty things. He did away with painful times, and chose to remember fishing instead.
He would sit in the afternoon light, his face aglow with the purity of the sun, and he would drink his whisky. With his many things in his many boxes, with his books he'd read only long ago, with the flowers he'd never watered. Dying, they were all dying, while he sat.
The room was small, his chair was dark brown, with an afghan hanging on the back. He never reclined in his chair, though it was a possibility for him to do so. The room was full of little things, covered in dust and completely forgotten. Doilies, his wife's touch, flower pots filled with dead and dying plants, crumbs on the floor, and stacks of books in every possible space.
His thick glasses sat on the end of his large nose. He slowly took them down, rested them on one knee, and rubbed his face, his baggy, sad eyes. He stopped and stared out the window. Dust floated all around him and would never stop.
His mind went to the time he drove his pickup truck to Michigan. He sat and told me about it. He and his brother Ralph, a wooden boat in the back, two rods and some tackle, not a care in the world. They fished there, in the Upper Penninula. The boat had a little leak, so they kept an old margarine container with them to scoop out the water. It would come in slow, and had never been a problem, except once.
The leak grew, and while they were out in the water, the boat filled so fast, it sank, and they had to swim to shore. They bid their old boat farewell, and sat on the bay and drank whisky. They talked about life, as they would while fishing, but they didn't catch any fish this time. Out of the two young men, Ralph caught the bigger fish -- he always did. It was a bit of a mystery. But not today. They forgot about fishing, and lost themselves in laughter and talking nonsense. They stayed there a long while, until they were drunk and sleeping. They woke in the morning, and bathed in the water. They got breakfast in a diner nearby and headed back home.
It was easy to think about these times. Times like these, they were the good times. The rest was painful. It was near impossible to think of, because the fear was so great. The pain, too. The pain was great. He never did tell me of these dark and weighty things. He did away with painful times, and chose to remember fishing instead.
He would sit in the afternoon light, his face aglow with the purity of the sun, and he would drink his whisky. With his many things in his many boxes, with his books he'd read only long ago, with the flowers he'd never watered. Dying, they were all dying, while he sat.
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