Another sacred Sunday morning appearing out of the darkness. Reminds me of the way a flower blossoms. A tiny bud slowly opens, hinting what color it will be.
Our holiday poinsettia is beginning to lose a few of its leaves. Oh, she has been a faithful soldier in our home, serving with grace, honor, and dignity. Poinsettias are that way. They speak a language for all to understand, and they command a reverence that makes one feel like genuflecting. Her Majesty knows we enjoy her presence, because I make it a point to say something nice to her every day when I moisten the soil she lives in.
I'm downstairs by myself as I write, the other two still upstairs sound asleep. I'm perched in the snuggler beside the fireplace. Coffee is perked, and a coffee mug awaits hubby. We've got this jumble of souvenir mugs in our cupboard that we use for everyday. The gypsy in me likes them, because they remind me of our wanderings. It's silly to think that I may be the only person in the world awake at this moment, but that's the way I feel. I'm feasting on small-town Sunday morning silence.
Just had a thought. Wouldn't it be something if Our Creator is keeping an album for each of us? Imagine if every day is a clean sheet of paper and our actions are the crayons. When we die, Heaven will host a celestial ceremony exhibiting our daily drawings for God and all to observe close-up. Our Album will then be given back as the only tangible thing we can take with us to Eternity.