Saturday, 18 October 2014
I am from . . .
I am from an old hand carved wooden box of the Oregon Trail sitting on a faded and threadbare picture carpet my father brought from Sicily atop our television . . . from a big box of Tide soap smelling clean and fresh, and cartons of Orange and Apricot flavoured Beep, and glass milk bottles left on the porch.
I am from war time military housing, each one a cookie cutter stamp of the next, but what we called home . . . each one made our own by all the bits and bobs we carried around with us from place to place . . . like a turtle carries his home on his back.
I am from pine scented forests and clear woodland streams, rolling orchards and misty harbours full of fishing boats . . . anchored and resting . . . and rocky mountain meadows full of wild flowers and babbling brooks . . . meandering rivers and rushing torrents . . . fireflies and sheets of light which ripple through starlit Northern skies at night.
I am from a grandmothers Molasses cookies, warm from the oven, and from always being right, from Nina and Elmer and Henrietta B, and all the staid and ordinary folk that came before me. I am from the salt of the earth and hard working hands, hearts that cared and eyes that cried tears made of salt and soul . . . from bowels filled with the milk of human kindness.
I am from pioneer men and strong women who weren‘t afraid to leave all that was familiar and theirs behind . . . crossing oceans to venture into new lands, making new starts built on hopes and dreams of golden futures and new beginnings.
I am from a God who loves even me, with all of my shortcomings and weaknesses. He uses them to make me strong and carries me when I can no longer carry myself and sets my feet upon higher ground, lifting me up to places I never dreamed of going or knew I wanted to go.
I am from the wilds of Glasgow and the loins of Boyd McNayr, from Phillippe and Anne and the cobbled streets of French Aristocrats . . . from baking powder biscuits, Saturday night baked beans and butter tarts . . . and Hockey Night in Canada.
I am from the hearts that were broken and spirits that were mended and stiched back together with the love of family . . . from am ancient Uncle who fed me humbugs on an old lady’s porch whilst telling me stories of wars in far off lands and shattered dreams put back together . . . from the patchwork that is a family hewn from scraps and stories and roots that run deep in the soil of small mountain villages looking down on clean valleys.
I am from the boxes of photos that lay in my mother’s home, black and white images of stoic faces and honest people . . . with work worn hands, big hearts, twinkling eyes, and stories whispered and legends told,ancient memories of humble folk and sturdy stock. I am their future, their hope, their dreams . . . they live on in me and those who will come after me . . .
That is a family . . . my family . . .
A thought to carry with you through today . . .
When other's demand approval
in defiance of God's commandments . . .
may we always remember whose disciples we are,
and which way we face.
~Elder Lynn G Robbins
Baking in The English Kitchen today . . . an Almond and Apricot Filled Breakfast Cake. Seriously delicious and so easy to make.
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Have a fabulous Saturday!