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.

A Sweet Savor

We sat, watching the sheets curl their corners at the will of a late summer breeze.  A day like this makes even "watching sheets dry" an exciting experience.  At times the wind seemed to threaten to tear at the sails, as in an attempt to move a boat from its moorings, but each subject was securely fastened with sturdy clips.   While we watched, I imagined the fresh scent that we would enjoy when climbing into our beds tonight, and the crispness of the folds.  Heated dryers, though convenient, seem to rob clothing of that outdoors-clean smell and feel; leaving things limp and lifeless and often with a man-made, "fresh air" scent that is unfamiliar to our natural senses.

Modern conveniences, in my opinion,  can truly add minutes to our day (and I partake in several of them myself), but as in the example above, some may take away more in our later enjoyment of the finished product.  Just as an example, I grew up with stiff towels.  Summer or Winter, our clothes were hung to dry on our side porch.  It seemed that our front door was there solely to serve in giving us access to the clothes line.  Here the clothes were put out wet and gathered in dry, or stiff as a board and almost dry, as in the case of zero degree days.  In today's world, I experience some towels that are so soft and limp that they do not absorb water and feel as if they might fall apart in my hand.  Good old stiff towels not only dry your back, but I've often thought, they give you a back scratch at the same time!

I read today from II Corinthians 2:14-17.  Verse 14 says, "Now thanks be unto God, which always causeth us to triumph in Christ, and maketh manifest the savour of his knowledge by us in every place."  It is God who causes us to triumph in Christ!  No modern way has been invented to give us a shortcut to growth in the Lord Jesus.  We still come to God in "the old fashioned way" when we trust Jesus' shed blood upon the cross for our only way of salvation; then we grow in Christ by the way of prayer and Bible reading, depending upon the Holy Spirit to open our eyes to the way we must walk.   Verse 15 then says, "For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ, in them that are saved and in them that perish."    No seminars or new methods will make this "savour of His knowledge"  manifest any faster than the way God has set forth in the Word.

Like the sheets on the line, sometimes the winds can "tear at our corners" while we are walking along in the way the Lord is leading us.  These winds come in so many different forms and would attempt to knock us completely off course.  I'm so thankful that my ship is anchored fast to the Rock.   Some of my favorite verses in the Psalms are from chapter 18. Verses 1-3 say, "I will love thee, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower.  I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised; so shall I be saved from mine enemies."

Fresh and ready to be used.  We gather the sheets in now, while their clean scent rises as incense into the air.

I hope that, first of all, you are in this right relationship with the Rock or our salvation.  I pray that your way is clear today and, though you may experience stumbling blocks; whatever comes in the path of a child of God will lead them closer to the Lord as they walk along the road with Him.

A Picture in the Birches

We are praising the Lord for safety that He has given through recent floods and high winds. In the recent hurricane, only the end of our road was lost for a short period of time, rendering travel to the hilltop impassable, but it was fixed before noon the following day. We lost power for less than 24 hours and are very thankful for high ground!

As we looked over the property on the hill after the storm we saw no damage from the winds. Even the graceful and tender birches survived the blasts, though we saw two that seem to be having a rough go of it. The most recent winter ice storms have bent them low and now we see their leaves, small and withered. Upon closer inspection, the bark shows cracking up the entire length of the trunk. Birches are resilient in so many ways, able to bend to the ground, often without breaking, and then return to their upright position again. In studying them I see a wonderful lesson.

On the way to the Hill, we pass by a stand of birches on a nearby neighbors' property that was cleared of many pines and a few hardwoods which had stood between the lithe and graceful, white beauties.  These particular birches had grown extremely tall and had most of their leaf-growth at their tops.   Through the years since the thinning, these poor birches have lost many of their branches; appearing as though someone had taken clippers and performed a very poor pruning job.  Some have toppled over and others have been  snapped off by high winds.  They had been sheltered by other trees for so many years and had grown extremely tall in their attempt to reach for the sun.  Once their support system was taken away, they yielded to the beatings of wind and weather.

The birch stand on Darling Hill had started out in a clear field.  Their thick trunks are solid and roots are well grounded.  These did not grow nearly as tall because they have had ample sun throughout their entire lives.  The branches begin only eight or ten feet up from the ground and are sturdy enough to hold the weight of the heavy snows that are oft put upon them.  Only the thick coatings of ice that adhere to them one or two times a winter will lay certain long branches and an occasional leaning tree right down to the ground.  These thirty weathered pioneers have had little support from others around them.  They've been through the winds and storms with only the help of the sun and rain to feed and nurture them along.

What a picture of resilience!   It reminds me of a passage from Galatians chapter 6.  Verse 2 says, "Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ."  Verse 4 goes on to say, "But let every man prove his own work, and then shall he have rejoicing in himself alone, and not in another.  For every man must bear his own burden."  This is not a contradiction at all.  We must each bear our own burden; depending upon the Son and His Word for our nurture and strength.  There are times when we do need the support of others; or times when we ourselves need to lend our support to others.  Neither we nor they should depend solely upon the support of other people though.   We are put through trials for a reason.  When we stand alone, with only the Lord, these trials serve to "prove" us and ready us for others that may still be to come.   Romans 5: 3-5 says, "tribulation worketh patience; and patience experience; and experience hope; and hope maketh not ashamed because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us."

Lord, may I stand alone for you; depending upon you, the Son, to shed your light upon me.  When you bring the support of another along, use it to point my eyes back up to you.  Thank you for the help of loved ones and for the opportunities you give to let me lend a shoulder to another also.

I'm  thankful for the picture drawn from the beautiful birches.

We're Baaaacckkk!

How I've missed writing a post on the blog.  I am still alive but working many hours and just can not concentrate on too many things at once - sad, I know.  If it involves anything I really have to THINK about and be creative with, I must have silence! I'm laughing.

Actually, too many days away from my house does truly throw me all off.  I am a home body and like to shoot for at least three days a week at home.  This has not happened for some time.  It was so nice to have yesterday - yet, did you see a post on the blog? NO!

We used Labor Day to labor.  Though it was raining, it didn't matter.  Syd set up an Easy-up tarp outside the front door and backed his truck partially under it.  There he set up his table saw and put his chop saw on the tailgate, and away we went!

The construction treads were still on our stairs and everything was still open.  When Coco comes to visit I always feared losing her down through a hole and having to fish her trembling little body out from under the stairway.  Today Syd remedied the situation.

As you can see...such an improvement!

My project was in the kitchen.  We had bought used cupboards, so did not really mind what they looked like, just that they were actual wood.  I had always intended to paint them but, like so many things, had not gotten to it yet!  I had used this same linen paint on the couch Syd built and also the "center island" which is partly in this kitchen picture.  I cannot believe how much it has lightened up the whole space!  

and now....

So, as you can see, this post today was not at all my normal "reflective writing" - I guess I have to ease back into it gradually.

I am sorry for those of you who kept checking.  I heard from some of you.  I felt bad that I just had nothing to share, or not enough time to put it down on paper (or computer).  Lord willing, I will be setting aside quiet time in the next two weeks.  I hope you haven't given up on us on The Hill.  Autumn is starting to peep through; so many leaves are already changing.  It is my favorite time of the year.

I hope you have a wonderful day and we'll be talking soon!