As surely as one day follows another . . . the seasons must change. New life is always coming, a sure reminder that one must never dwell overly long upon the past. As soon as a crop is harvested, plans are being made for the next years garden . . . when petals fade upon a rose . . . there is pruning to be done, which results in another, lovelier rose. As sure as lilacs bloom and die in the springtime . . . we know that it won't be long before another colourful bloom takes it's place in our hearts. Life goes on.
I sat for a brief moment of warmth in the garden yesterday, the sun had peered through the cloud and for a few minutes it beat down upon my head . . . shedding upon me the last warming vestiges of it's waning summer power. I thought a bit about the days which have followed one another over the past year, and all the things that have happened . . . the mundane and the miraculous. It seems as if it were only yesterday that I had been afraid that I might have cancer . . . and yet . . .
It was a full year ago. The fragility of life became very real for me in those few frightening weeks. Everything became that tiny bit sweeter, and a very valuable lesson had been learned. There is nothing which can bring one up as short as the thought that our days may be numbered, and yet it is a reality we all must live with . . . for, from the very day that we are born . . . we are marching towards our death. I thought about all those that I had loved through the years that were no longer with us . . . who had never walked upon the grass of our back garden, and yet . . . they have always been here with me, walking in every one of my footsteps . . . I carry them in my heart.
More young soldiers killed in Iraq . . . it seems there is at least one about every second day or so . . . and my heart goes out to their families. I remember the dead fallen long ago . . . their bodies laying beneath white crosses in foreign soil, and at once I am their mother, their sister . . . their lover. I do not consider myself to be a very wise women. As I have these thoughts I wonder why it is that I am still here, alive in this garden . . . while others are not. I breathe in the smell of damp and rotting leaves . . . wet grass . . . the wet earth that now lays fallow waiting for the springtime planting. I know not why the flowers must fade and die . . . why young lives pass away all too soon, and yet . . . still here am I.
But . . . there is something which I do know with a surety . . . in this world there is always something of new beauty, of grace, of loveliness. There is a meaning to this passage of days, of seasons, of months, of years . . . deep under the vestiges of the external lays something which goes on down through the deep ways of time. There is a beautiful immortality built into each living and breathing thing. Something very tangibly forever in the first cool crocus of early springtime, the beauty of the green of a freshly podded pea . . . and in the slow fall of the first golden leaf against the breast of an autumn wind.
I sit there alone . . . drinking all of this in, and pondering these thoughts in my heart . . . and there comes to me something else which I know with a surety. There is a God, and He is real. We . . . and even the smallest of his creations . . . do have a meaning, even if we do not know why, and He loves us, and that love is real and tangible. Everything else fades amidst that knowledge, merely being shadows in the sun . . .
And I am glad to be alive and to know these things are true.
It will be good to be at church today. I love Sunday's. They are the day of the week which I use to recharge my spiritual battery. It is always nice to see people we have not seen since the Sunday past . . . and to sing and to praise and to partake of the sacrament together. I love the hymns . . . and the way they make my heart swell with love for my Saviour. I love the talks . . . and each pearl of wisdom and thought that they bring into my heart. I love the lessons, again . . . which bring me knowledge and help me to ponder the deeper meanings of the scriptures. I just love the pause church brings to a week which is always otherwise busy and sometimes hard to hold on to . . .
"I believe in Christ like I believe in the sun . . . not because I can see it, but because by it . . . I can see everything else."
~C S Lewis
A delicious pudding for the weekend in The English Kitchen today . . . Cranberry, White Chocolate and Waffle Pudding. Decadently deliciously moreishly wanton . . .
Happy Sabbath to you all.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Your comments mean the world to me, and while I may not be able to address each one individually, each one is important to me and each one counts. Thanks so much!