Deborah and I walked the old part of the cemetery on Thursday. We climbed up and down hills, stepped over broken stones, and stared up at gargantuan trees.
Cracked and broken headstones always make me sad. This entire row of stones lay face down on the ground, like pieces of an old sidewalk, under a bed of fallen leaves. Did they all fall at once? Why they fall in a row? Are they all part of the same family? Did they always do things together? Were they practical jokers?
I've probably said this before, but as a very small child I had unexplained attraction for cemeteries, especially on beautiful spring days when there was a funeral taking place. It looked like a party in a rock garden to me, a celebration, and I wanted to go. I think, in my early childhood mind, was the memory of a family gathering in a cemetery, perhaps my grandpa or my uncle. The sadness of loss was lost to my innocent mind, or maybe the hope of resurrection was so strong that I only picked up on that...
I stayed home yesterday aside from a quick run to buy a canister of oatmeal so I could make apple crisp. My daughter was here with her little one and I soaked in a few snuggles. I had supper in the oven on time and we actually ate at the table with a few of our kids. By the end of the day I was feeling refreshed and relaxed.
I am a work in the hands of the Master Potter. I pray that His fingerprints are all over me as I walk through this life. This is my journey. Thank you, Jesus, for not giving up on me.
I am mom to seven beautiful grown ups and grandma to ten beautiful grandchildren.