For some unexplained reason, I have browsed many of my old blog messages. This one grabbed my attention and I feel compelled to publish it again.
No matter what else you are doing
From cradle days through to the end,
You are writing your life’s secret story–
Each day sees another page penned.
Each month ends a thirty-page chapter,
Each year means the end of a part–
And never an act is misstated
Or even one wish of the heart.
Each day when you wake, the book opens,
Revealing a page clean and white–
What thoughts and what words and what doings
Will cover its pages by night?
God leaves that to you–you’re the writer–
And never a word shall grow dim,
Till the day you write the word finish
And give your Life’s Book back to Him.
On second thought, maybe not so odd?! As I sort through decades of “treasures” (downsizing) I am reminiscing about people and events. Recently, I hung stained glass decorations in my kitchen windows. They have been packed for more than nine years; my husband, Donald Edwards, and I bought them at a “street faire” near Griswold’s, in Claremont, California, over thirty-five years ago. In Scottsdale, Arizona (1977 or 1978), we bought the Ironwood carved turtle. (I had many live Desert Tortoise for many years!! At one time, I had a large collection of decorative turtles. Do I keep this or donate?) Likewise, this (expensive) pewter Nativity set (designed by Michael Ricker) came from Scottsdale–and I have no place to display it. (I have a large collection of Nativity sets.)
Thoughts of my children are uppermost in my mind as I handle memorabilia that we shared. (It would be nice to share my treasures with grandchildren.) ~~ All the volunteer hours can not compensate for the mistakes I’ve made; all the charitable donations can not repay the debt I owe my sons.
My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors;
He worketh steadily.
Oftimes He weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the underside.
Not ’til the loom is silent
and the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
and explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the Weaver’s skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
~~ author unknown ~~