Entering into His gates with thanksgiving this morning, and His courts with praise collected through the week. Reveling in rest and recuperation of the body emerging slow from illness, and from VanWinkle-like sleep!
beauty through a winter window: snow-highlighted shrub grown tall
sitting with my bruised Bible, prayers within
a pen in hand that scribes smooth
sweet peach pie husband made and froze last fall, resurrected from the freezer
slightly sour pickle relish on a hot hamburger
just right, just perfect burger beef, fresh and lean, healthily grass-fed and local
three green graces in winter’s gray:
frosted multi-colored moss on rock
dipping branches of evergreens sheltering remnant green of grass
parsley peeking through the snow, still pluckable in January
slashing of sleet on window glass, underlining inside warmth
strong bong of a faithful clock, keeping hours near a century
off-key whistling, indicating contentment in the off-key whistler
hot cocoa on a cold day
Something above me, something below me, something beside, something beneath me: “Oh the deep, deep love of Jesus,” “the ocean of His love,” as “it lifts me up to glory… for it lifts me up to” God.
Grace in sickness:
needs all met by His love and care, coincidences and surprises
surprising quiet in the day, noisy outdoor work suspended, tires snow-muffled on the road.
comfort of warm flannel reaching to my toes
snuggly “spa jacket,” warming yet more in bed
warm room, fluffy blankets, to sweat away a fever
freshness of sudden cool air, startling me awake on opening its morning door
cold swallows of icy orange juice in a dry throat
stars surprising at midnight rising, out a darkened pane
sleep — deep, repeating sleep, satisfying a body greedy for it
Nothing I can do but sleep; yet His love flows full, requires no noble works, no heroic performances, just trust and rest. Grace. All grace.