Of Mists and Morning

A quiet morning; a cup of coffee sits on the table; like an old friend, awaiting my occasional attention.

The open Bible; words springing from its pages, speaking to my heart and soul.

The rain's rhythmic plinking against the tin roof subdues even the misty glow outside the window, making it feel like the house is enveloped within a clock, sitting upon the huge mantle of life.
"Tick, tock...tick, tock"; it leads one to retreat to a chair in the corner with a book and warm mohair throw.

But morning still calls...calling more heartily now.  It knows that the easy chair is waiting; a mohair folded on its arm.

The coffee finished; the Bible returned to its place until the evening. 
"There are those dishes",calls morning.
My foot now taps to a new tune of rain plinking against the pane before the sink.

Teach Us to Number our Days

They say that "a picture paints a thousand words".  This shot paints a poem of Fall on Darling Hill.  A walk through the leaves and a spring in the step! ...in both their steps!  I think that Ruger looks like a big black rabbit here!

Each time we walk up our lane, the carpet of orange and gold becomes more lush and the trees more sparse, allowing sunlight to filter through and sprinkle the way with countless specks of gold.   Here and there a bright green or yellow leaf is illuminated and resembles a piece of phosphorous that glows alongside the unlit road on a dark night stroll. 

This is a season of senses being awakened.  The Summer heat is behind and crisp breezes carry a woodsy, perfumed scent that only Autumn affords.   Enjoy it; these days are numbered.  It seems that this is the most fleeting stretch of weeks throughout the entire year. 

The Bible says, "so teach us to number our days; that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom."  Moreso than Autumn, all of our days are numbered.  The believer is to be guided by and used of God every day of his or her life.  Like the spicy scent of this wonderful time of year, our prayers and sacrifices should be a sweet savor in the Lord's nostrils. 

On Darling Hill, the extent of our physical walks are always in the confines of the property.  In our walk of life, the Lord launches us out into the world.  We touch others lives daily, by way of words, in a look or by an action.

Lord, may we be atune to your Word and your leading, applying our hearts unto wisdom, so that your Son can shine through us and strew sundrops to light another's path today.  And may this prayer be answered so that you, not we, will be glorified.

Songs in Late Summer

During lunchbreak yesterday I traveled up the hill to see mom, make a little lunch to eat with her and to drop off the big black kid who stays with us.  He was so excited that his eyes shone and he wiggled with delight, all four feet prancing on the driveway.  Ruger always does this at the mention of his favorite person, Grammy!  He does love her, obvious by the way he approaches and leans against her legs (so she can better pet him), but I often think that it is partly because the words "Grammy" and "walk" are so often used together.  When we leave our house to see her in the evening, we are usually going for a walk, and when Ruger meets her in the yard she is either returning from or getting ready to go for a walk, which Ruger invites himself to join in on, of course!

After getting our lunch together, Mom and I sat on the swing watching the leaves turn color.  At any given point we could count at least two flitting butterflies, seeming to search for just one live clover head, and often flying by, as if on a mission.  Mom said, "I wonder where they're going in such a hurry".  We watched the jets fly over, leaving their tell-tale stream of white which eventually would become one of the many long and straight clouds that we saw streaked above the horizon.  A large gaggle of geese honked their way South to escape the impending Winter that still seems distant on a beautiful day as this (I must say, this would just be too many things to see in one sitting; we did not actually see the geese fly through until 6:30 that evening, on our walk to see Grammy.  I add it now, only for effect!).  The young maple just off the porch seemed to be turning redder before our eyes as Mom spoke, "I hate to see the leaves changing so quickly.  The summer sure has flown by, like these butterflies and that jet." (And the geese, I might add).

I wonder, sometimes. why the end of Summer lays so heavily on my heart.  I hate to think that it is because I am getting weary of Winter and the heavy snows that will soon be upon us.  I absolutely love the bright sun on white and the cold air that freezes around my nostrils on those frigid days of January.  Still, something seems lost when all the leaves turn and fall to the ground, and I find myself almost dreading the dying of Summer and then Fall.  I sensed this in Mom's voice yesterday and it made me realize that it happens to the best of us (as, she IS the best!)  As a believer, I have everything to look forward to.  Every day is put before me for a reason and brings a new adventure and opportunity to the path.  

While these thoughts flew through my mind, the deafening sound of a cricket under the porch broke through, when Mom (always in tune with any spark of nature) exclaimed, "Hear that cricket.  She has not stopped singing since we have been out here."  I realized then that I had been hearing her for months. She lives down there and just sings her heart out ALL the time, though, thankfully she does sleep at night.   

The cricket was a reminder to me that this is just what we are supposed to be doing!  The coming Winter does not hinder the individual who knows that they are in the environment that the Lord has created them to be.  I am in this place for a reason and it is exactly where the Lord wants me, so I  am to be singing constantly for Him, no matter what lies in the future.

I hope that these beautiful Autumn days are as much a joy to you as they are to me.  May the Lord use everything around us to point to Him.  Have a great day.

A Hundred Miles to the Sea

The sky is gray-white, peeking between leaves turning from their Summer green to gold and russet.  The steady raindrops fall from leaf to leaf; from tree to tree; seeping, finally into the waterlogged floor under my feet.  These waters gently cascade like a fountain, stirring the spirit to relaxation. Somewhere beneath the earth streams are flowing and escaping by way of springs, taking these very droplets to the nearest rivulet, on to stream and brook; then a mighty river carries them a hundred miles to the sea.  I wonder how many raindrops have gathered to create this ribbon of water flowing past my shoes.  A tiny river, it falls over broken shards of stone as if, to that ant, it were cascading waterfalls roaring down a mountain pass.

A rock affords itself, appearing from under a cropping of ferns.  The damp surface and mossy face send up a scent that hangs heavy in the air.  Our name is written beneath this very stone; beneath the many rocks that are buried deep in this land.  Perhaps here is where my grandfather paused; taking his rest from the heavy weight of the axe.  My young mother crouched, waiting for the cows to finish getting refreshment from the nearby brook on their return trip to the barn as the late afternoon sun sank behind the trees.   The stones that lay about are the offspring of others that unearthed in long-forgotten days.  These now rest; piled in a staggering line that runs the entire length of the property.  The walls remain; a testimonial to long-forgotten days.

These large trees were only saplings then.  Their bark scarred by barbed wire and even a granite post can be seen growing from the side of some.  If we could hear their voices, the story would thrill and reveal more rich history than has already been handed down to us.  We would know of the cow that bore her young in this cove of evergreens; or of the hay wagon that overturned on that embankment.  They might tell of children who were camped here, in a temporary attempt at leaving the warmth of their own homes.

I step into a wide opening and stand before a small stone memorial of a tiny baby who's body was laid to rest here.   This has been kept clear; as a sanctuary among the heavy tree-cover.  Its contrast to the dark woods makes one think that they are in a wide open field.  The sun streams down and lights the spot.  I suppose that is why this special family member has kept it so.   There are no marking on the stone; no name or date etched into its surface but being here, one knows that it is a place set apart.   I love to come here and see the large opening to the sky, so far above; and to think of the life of this little one who never saw the light of day on earth, but knows the glory of heaven.

It is quieter  now; only the steady raindrops fall from leaf to leaf; from tree to tree...eventually a mighty river carries them a hundred miles, to the sea.

 

A Friend from Afar

We've been blessed to have a friend from SC this week and a half.  Mike was up and we've had a great time together.  He decided to come for the "World's Fair" that he's heard so much about.  We went on our usual trip Downeast too (Kittery Trading Post), but never made it to our favorite nearby lighthouse.  We were sad to hear that some other dear friends from SC were visiting that lighthouse the SAME DAY!!  Wish we'd gone and let the dog run on the beach, like I'd wanted to - though, I hate to say, "I told you so". Ha, ha!

We all went to the fair with a great couple, the Richardsons.  Ate lots of food and everybody won ribbons for some artwork we'd entered.  Ate lots of food...oh, I mentioned that already...the best part of the Fair.
Here's a pic with Mike (from Alabama) with a Yankee soldier at the antique displays.

Ruger really took to Mike, especially once he found out how much Mike liked and drove the Mule, which is a magnet to Ruger.  He hates riding in the bed, but LOVES the front seat!  He really loves his new buddy, Mike!

Well, that's our news from the Hill.  Hope you all have a great day and fun with friends!

An Excerpt from A Book

I have an unwritten book.  It's stored in my head and one day I hope to have it all down on paper.  There are excerpts from it scratched down and the leaves stored loosely in a folder on the shelf.  Today I share a short one with you:

Songs of the Wood

As the spongy, leaved carpet gives way to my steps, a sweet and spicy fragrance is released into the air.  Its incense awakes happy, childhood memories from somewhere deep inside.  I used to call it "the smell of Vershire" when I was a young girl.  Only at Grammy and Grandpa's house would I experience this woodsy sweetness, though I spent a great deal of time exploring any woods that afforded themselves to me.  

As I travel deeper amongst the gathering trees the crack of small branches are heard.  They rhythmically sound off like the tic toc of a timepiece on the mantle.  These sticks have escaped the eye of my mom, as she makes her daily trek, carefully gathering the fallen boughs into extremely neat piles placed alongside the pathway.  I walk against the east side of a once-broken down stonewall, likely laid there by my own forefathers in their attempt to clear the land for sowing potatoes or corn, and for the dual purpose of fencing in their livestock.  My brother, Dennis, has dutifully unearthed the rocks and rebuilt the sturdy structure; each stone laid with purpose and care that this wall will be standing for generations to come.  I sit on an end capstone and listen to the songs of the wood.

There is a rustling which becomes ever louder as the stillness around me magnifies the sound.  I will stay to see what will appear over the knoll.  As my ear focuses upon this sound, it seems to move closer, though staying shrouded behind a stand of spruce or low beneath the hillock.  My patience grown thin, I stand and stretch myself to gaze beyond the edge of the hill.  There, a small chipmunk is rooting busily in a large pile of leaves; digging here then there.  "You're a noisy little guy", I say aloud as he eyes me warily, then resumes his business at hand.  He obviously has lot of work ahead of him in preparation for a long underground stay.  I can't quite make out what he is stuffing into his puffy cheeks, so I study the trees above him and I settle on beechnut.

The sun has slid lower in the sky and its light filters through the flitting leaves, casting shimmering dots along and beside my path.  I will continue to stroll along this starry path until I reach the clearing in the field below.

Friends, I hope that your day is full of surprises and that your senses will be awakened as Fall begins to descend upon us all.

An Old Friend and the Well Worn Way

I followed the once well-worn path that leads from the front yard up to the top of Darling Hill. Its strange winds and turns made sense to the one who habitually walked it for over three years.  The path was laid there by our dog, Ranger, who died four years ago.  The way is almost undetectable now but to the eye that remembers it, there is still a thin line through the grass.  I use it as often as I think of it, in his honor.

Ranger was a wolf hybrid who lived with us for 15 years.  He moved with us three times.  Our "big move" was  from a 1000 acre piece of property in the South to a home on a rural but paved road here in the North.  For five years Ranger made the best of his situation, enduring being hooked to a little house which we settled among the lilac trees.  When we were at home he was free to head up to the fields above the house to pursue his favorite pastime; hunting and eating field mice or woodchuck.

In the preparation of clearing the land and building our cabin in the woods, we had the opportunity to move closer to Darling Hill.  I took Ranger on a very long lead, around the perimeter of the new property.  As we entered the woods he became excited to be, seemingly, back in his "old stomping grounds."  I watched as he went down into a clearing in the trees, came to the end of his rope and sat quietly down, slowly turning his head in both directions, perusing the territory, taking in the scent of the forest.  He became his old self again and for almost five years he beat down trails that curved strangely in typical Ranger-fashion.  I called them "Ranger's well-worn ways".

After leaving this location we moved just 1/4 mile up Darling Hill.  When we were at work Ranger could be found back down on the old property.  Even when a new owner bought the little house, he would see Ranger laying up on his knoll, watching over everything that went on.  The new neighbor had no pets of his own and said that he liked having him there.  On our way home from work we'd drive up the road and Ranger would come to the end of the driveway and run behind the car to the top of the hill.
I believe that he finally decided that the very top of Darling Hill was really the best vantage point.  He eventually stopped visiting the neighbor and kept his careful eye fixed on the home property and its surroundings.  Here is where he laid his last, long, well beaten path from the top of the hill down to the birches, under which he laid down for his last time as he passed from life.  Things disappear as the years pass.  Ranger's path is almost undetectable now.  Those of us who traced it for three years can only barely see it anymore.

I think back on something that I read in a small devotional.  It tells of an expedition in Africa.  The leader of the hunt said of the thick terrain that covered the path through the jungle, "There IS no way...I AM the way."  This relates, of course, to the walk of the believer.  As we have entered through the "straight gate" of eternal life, we have a narrow way to follow.  Jesus Christ has already stated, "I am the WAY, the truth and the life; no man cometh unto the Father but by me."  The path that a believer is to walk is narrow and sometimes undetectable to the human eye.  The only way that we will successfully be able to walk it is by following hard after Jesus Christ, our WAY.  The leader of the African expedition told them that there was no way that those followers could find a path; only by following the leader would they make it out alive.

Praise God that, though we can't detect the way that we're to walk, Jesus is our Guide!  I love the words of one of my favorite old hymns; "Wherever He may guide me, no want shall turn me back; my Shepherd is beside me, and nothing can I lack; His wisdom ever waketh, His sight is never dim; He knows the way He taketh, and I will walk with Him."

In all thy ways (I was once told that the original Hebrew alluded to "well-worn ways") acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.