I was going through some old photos and came across these from back around two years ago. Ah! Makes me miss those long summer days!
out on the water
enjoying the St. Lawrence.
real hungry! Nothing like a riverside pizza pie!
Saturday, April 27, 2013
out on the water
enjoying the St. Lawrence.
real hungry! Nothing like a riverside pizza pie!
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Spring has sprung! Warm breezes, exilerating zephers, rainy afternoons, the smell of spring and the flush of green, buds budding, bulbs peeping, birds singing, SPRING!!!
Today was just one of those days that Jesus felt so sweet and so close. In going about the daily "grind", I found His peace and joy at every trial, every little inconveniance or tumult that I would be tempted to gripe at. He is showing me in such a wonderful way His love and mercy and compassion. How He could love such a one as me. The change He is working in this imature, shy, timid, self righteus, selfish little girl is incredable! It just goes to show how AMAZING God is. There is no life too messed up to be changed by His awsome power!
The Trade of God
A tailor, a gardener, an artist and a writer, all sat under a tree.
Said the tailor to the gardener, "Of all of our trades, who do you suppose God would be?"
"Well," answered the gardener adjusting his hat and tightening his grasp on his hoe.
"Of course He’s a gardener, just look at the world, all the green that’s grown and sowed.
How He’s planted the trees in clusters like berries, planted ferns in their shade.
How He’s strewn seeds of the poppy, hid the bulbs of the lily, without aid of spreader or spade.
He’s cared for the cactus bloom in the desert, grown orchids in the humid jungles’ steam.
Wild berries and rice, melons and apples, He’s tended for us to glean.
He’s raised trellises of pine and oak while still green and alive,
For the wild grapes to climb and twist as they cluster on their vine.
He waters the grass with droplets of dew, and when needful, sprinkles the rain.
His burdock and chicory He strengthens to grow, though we call them ‘weed’ and ‘pain’.
On high, lofty crags He shelters the shrub, in the desert sustains the tree,
Now gentlemen I say, with all of this wonder, a gardener our God must be."
The tailor, he smiled and clipped at his thread, saying, "I know that is not so,
For needle and thread, a gardener has not, but our God doth surely know.
The blanket of the sky our God measured and cut, His cloth of meticulous weave,
Of the golden sun’s rays, and the brilliant strands of the bright and merry sunbeams.
Rainbow colors He stitched of bright blues, and greens, and scarlet orange and red.
He chose the moon as His needle and the silvery moonbeams He thrust in as His thread.
He selected trimmings and lace of the clouds that sail in a silken blue sea,
He spread it out and gathered it in with buttonholes of His galaxy.
Buttons and sequins He chose from among His many planets and stars,
He held fast the black velvet of the night sky with buttons of Pluto and Mars.
Then He spread it out and stitched the hem with the light of the rising sun,
And at the horizon’s end, He let it set, and said, ‘My work is done.’."
Now the artist who’d been gazing afar, turned to his gentlemen friends.
"Ack! Know you not that this earth is a canvas of a painting that never ends?"
To clarify his thought and get a picture in mind he lifted his artist brush,
And measured the sky and the distant peaks with the aid of his slender thumb.
"God has swept His brush o’er the magnificent sky with blue, and white, and gold.
He dipped it down just a touch to the tips of the awesome mountains of old.
He swept over His canvas in swift, fine strokes to form the field and meadow,
Then delicately added the flowers and quail, the clumsy bear and dainty roe.
He spread wider strokes still, as over the sea He made the thrashing waves,
From sandy shore, to barren cliffs, and oceanic caves.
Then His strokes became slow, His brush grew gentle, the bristles small and fine,
As He carefully formed the faces one by one of all of mankind.
So He drew a brush over all this world from barren crag to city skyline.
So it is clear that He is an artist my friends, to have painted a world so fine."
Said the tailor to the gardener, "Of all of our trades, who do you suppose God would be?"
"Well," answered the gardener adjusting his hat and tightening his grasp on his hoe.
"Of course He’s a gardener, just look at the world, all the green that’s grown and sowed.
How He’s planted the trees in clusters like berries, planted ferns in their shade.
How He’s strewn seeds of the poppy, hid the bulbs of the lily, without aid of spreader or spade.
He’s cared for the cactus bloom in the desert, grown orchids in the humid jungles’ steam.
Wild berries and rice, melons and apples, He’s tended for us to glean.
He’s raised trellises of pine and oak while still green and alive,
For the wild grapes to climb and twist as they cluster on their vine.
He waters the grass with droplets of dew, and when needful, sprinkles the rain.
His burdock and chicory He strengthens to grow, though we call them ‘weed’ and ‘pain’.
On high, lofty crags He shelters the shrub, in the desert sustains the tree,
Now gentlemen I say, with all of this wonder, a gardener our God must be."
The tailor, he smiled and clipped at his thread, saying, "I know that is not so,
For needle and thread, a gardener has not, but our God doth surely know.
The blanket of the sky our God measured and cut, His cloth of meticulous weave,
Of the golden sun’s rays, and the brilliant strands of the bright and merry sunbeams.
Rainbow colors He stitched of bright blues, and greens, and scarlet orange and red.
He chose the moon as His needle and the silvery moonbeams He thrust in as His thread.
He selected trimmings and lace of the clouds that sail in a silken blue sea,
He spread it out and gathered it in with buttonholes of His galaxy.
Buttons and sequins He chose from among His many planets and stars,
He held fast the black velvet of the night sky with buttons of Pluto and Mars.
Then He spread it out and stitched the hem with the light of the rising sun,
And at the horizon’s end, He let it set, and said, ‘My work is done.’."
Now the artist who’d been gazing afar, turned to his gentlemen friends.
"Ack! Know you not that this earth is a canvas of a painting that never ends?"
To clarify his thought and get a picture in mind he lifted his artist brush,
And measured the sky and the distant peaks with the aid of his slender thumb.
"God has swept His brush o’er the magnificent sky with blue, and white, and gold.
He dipped it down just a touch to the tips of the awesome mountains of old.
He swept over His canvas in swift, fine strokes to form the field and meadow,
Then delicately added the flowers and quail, the clumsy bear and dainty roe.
He spread wider strokes still, as over the sea He made the thrashing waves,
From sandy shore, to barren cliffs, and oceanic caves.
Then His strokes became slow, His brush grew gentle, the bristles small and fine,
As He carefully formed the faces one by one of all of mankind.
So He drew a brush over all this world from barren crag to city skyline.
So it is clear that He is an artist my friends, to have painted a world so fine."
And so they debated and disagreed until the writer lifted his head.
He had sat there quietly listening to all that had been said.
Now in a voice, quiet, yet firm, he shushed their noisome dispute,
And his hand ‘round his pen, paper on his knee, he no longer remained mute.
"Our God is like a gardener indeed, (and here the gardener smiled in glee)
For to plant the world with flower and shrub, vine and mighty tree.
Yet also like a tailor, (tailor and gardener winked at the artist in jest),
For I am certain His hands are skilled with His needle as well as with His thread,
And an artist He must be (they smiled together) for the splendid universe,
To have a painting so grand, and so fine, and wonderful as this beautiful earth."
Then he paused for a moment, lost in thought as he stared at the arching blue sky,
Then he brought down his face, leveled his gaze, and looked each man in the eye.
He had sat there quietly listening to all that had been said.
Now in a voice, quiet, yet firm, he shushed their noisome dispute,
And his hand ‘round his pen, paper on his knee, he no longer remained mute.
"Our God is like a gardener indeed, (and here the gardener smiled in glee)
For to plant the world with flower and shrub, vine and mighty tree.
Yet also like a tailor, (tailor and gardener winked at the artist in jest),
For I am certain His hands are skilled with His needle as well as with His thread,
And an artist He must be (they smiled together) for the splendid universe,
To have a painting so grand, and so fine, and wonderful as this beautiful earth."
Then he paused for a moment, lost in thought as he stared at the arching blue sky,
Then he brought down his face, leveled his gaze, and looked each man in the eye.
"But a writer also is He, for He holds the pen of time,
As over the pages of History, He carefully writes each line.
His masterful hand guides the pen to make a masterpiece,
To those who are willing to watch Him write and not to intervene.
Each of our lives is a story, each of our days a page,
When He will begin a new chapter, which of us can say?
But if He so chose to close this one, and start on something new,
Let’s not try to claw our way back, but watch what He will do.
He adds characters into our lives, intertwines the stories of some,
He alone can start another’s tale, and tell when it is done.
He writes sometimes a merry dit that makes us laugh aloud,
Other times He writes a somber writ that settles like a shroud.
Oft times it seems our tale is long a toilsome, and boring narration.
But we must tarry through those parts til the next with anticipation.
At times our story seems to run in interesting, intriguing lines,
Others with dread suspense and horrible chapters at times.
Yet He holds the pen with Mercy’s ink that runs over the page,
He alone can form the perfect work, He alone can write our way.
As over the pages of History, He carefully writes each line.
His masterful hand guides the pen to make a masterpiece,
To those who are willing to watch Him write and not to intervene.
Each of our lives is a story, each of our days a page,
When He will begin a new chapter, which of us can say?
But if He so chose to close this one, and start on something new,
Let’s not try to claw our way back, but watch what He will do.
He adds characters into our lives, intertwines the stories of some,
He alone can start another’s tale, and tell when it is done.
He writes sometimes a merry dit that makes us laugh aloud,
Other times He writes a somber writ that settles like a shroud.
Oft times it seems our tale is long a toilsome, and boring narration.
But we must tarry through those parts til the next with anticipation.
At times our story seems to run in interesting, intriguing lines,
Others with dread suspense and horrible chapters at times.
Yet He holds the pen with Mercy’s ink that runs over the page,
He alone can form the perfect work, He alone can write our way.
So gentlemen remember this, that you have no good in your hands;
Just stop struggling, hand Him the pen, and let Him take full command."
So the writer rose and put on his cap, tucked his papers under his arm,
Then with a grave bow and a nod, he left them all feeling disarmed
Soon they returned to their respectable trades, but each with a belief in his heart,
That no matter what others may say, God had the writer’s part.
-A.M.L.
Just stop struggling, hand Him the pen, and let Him take full command."
So the writer rose and put on his cap, tucked his papers under his arm,
Then with a grave bow and a nod, he left them all feeling disarmed
Soon they returned to their respectable trades, but each with a belief in his heart,
That no matter what others may say, God had the writer’s part.
-A.M.L.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Rain. It always gives me a feeling of warmth. To sit at my desk writing, occasionally glancing out my window at the rain when it begins to come down especially hard, or blows against the sill. Staring out the window as the car weaves through dripping traffic, or glides down a country road past rolling cornfields. To take a walk and listen to the quietness as the rain falls gently around me, or stand, awestruck, below a tree as torrents pour down from the heavens. Rain. It puts one in a mellow-dramatic mood. Like now. Curled up on a couch at work, too sick to help finish the cleanup, listening to the cry of a red-wing black bird while I type, occasionally glancing out the window at the damp world. Rain. It does that to you.
"For as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater:" Isaiah 55:10
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