Raining...

Once again I hear the welcome beating of the rain on my roof. According to the weather lady, we can expect it all day today, and maybe a portion of tomorrow. It's ok...we've had drought for so long, it'll be worth it to have every drop.

Rain always brings the memories of our camping trips. One memorable time, we took our gear and headed north, from East Hampton to New Hampshire. It was our first trip to that area of the state, and we chose to go to North Woodstock. For some reason, we'd been playing a game of 'let's visit all the Woodstocks in the country" before our camping days were over. (By the way, we haven't visited a place with that name in years... then again, we haven't done much camping lately either.)

We wound our way along the back roads, which is our habit when traveling, rather than taking the non-scenic, drag strip called the Interstate. Enjoying every moment together and remarking at a waterfall or someone's flower garden, we followed the map and found N. Woodstock without incident. We discovered a place called "Waterest Campground." Stopping at the log cabin office, we asked if we could take a ride through and see the site before making a choice. Getting approval from the very nice couple behind the counter, we took a tour through the campground. It was set above and beside a roaring creek. The sites were all 'rustic' wooded spots, good sized, with a few water faucets. Both of those were great according to our list, but there was one thing that we weren't thrilled with. There was no bathroom ...just a privy...and no showers.

So...we left, and drove over the creek bridge to the next campground...a KOA. One look at the facilities, a laundry room, game room, pool, shower house, bathroom facilities, and a huge, grassy "parking lot" with camp sites made up our minds. We went back to the Waterest. Open fields camping can in no way compare to the woods.

Again entering the log cabin, we rented our space, and went to choose a spot to place our big, canvas, two-room home for the week. We chose a spot overlooking the creek, just where the water tumbled over the boulders. It was beautiful, serene, and comforting to hear the water. We set up camp...tarps under the tent, and one over the roof, and set about unpacking. I don't think we'd gotten too far before the rain started.

Ralph and Ruth, the owners at the office had no tarps in their camp store big enough for us. They told us where the nearest hardware store was, a little way up the road, and up at the top of the hill. We jumped back in the van and went in search of a large tarp that would completely cover the tent. While there, Mike refilled his ever-present bottomless coffee mug.

By the time we made it back to camp, the rain was really falling. We fixed the tarp over the tent roof, and tried to figure out what dinner would be, since cooking wasn't an option at that point. I don't remember for sure, but I believe we went to the Woodstock Inn, formerly an old train station. There was a ticket booth inside, and the decor was geared around old times. There were old-fashioned bits of clothing on the walls, as well as railroad lanterns, suitcases, etc. The tables were thick-tops set upon treadle sewing machine bottoms...pedals and all! A charming place with delicious food.

I digress. We went to sleep early that night, to the sound of pouring rain drumming on the tarp. So much for the wonderful creek sound rolling over rock and rill! Before the week was over, I believe we purchased nearly every large tarp in N.Woodstock, and as a result, received free coffee every time we entered the door of that hilltop hardware store. Our camp looked like tarp city. We'd even figured out how to stretch a tremendous one between the trees in such a way that we could drive the the van under it, so we could reach our food items in the rear without getting wet. We cooked under that tarp, ate under that tarp and lived under a number of plastic sheets for our whole vacation! It's a long-standing joke between us that, though there was no running water installed in the campground, we had running water! We have a photo of me, holding a kettle under the water pouring off the tent tarp.

As I listen to the rain on my shingled roof here, many, many miles from that time and place in New Hampshire, I smile. Rain. Life giving, memory making rain. Thank you, Lord!

New Construction/New Decorating

A few months ago we made the decision to do 'something' with the area of the yard outside of our kitchen's sliding doors. After determining that a patio wasn't 'it', we went through all the images in our minds, from wooden deck to roofed deck, to screened-in deck to walled, roofed porch room. We ended up with a 16 x 24 ft 'finished' sun/screen room. I say 'finished' because it has wood wall covering and a beadboard vaulted ceiling, but since it doesn't have any heat, it's not really finished. It's a three-season room, for all intents and purposes.

You may know from experience how projects, which started small, have a tendancey to grow. Yes...from deck to 3 season room is a big jump. From screens to ten windows is a "biggie" too. On top of that, the too-narrow sliding glass doors were moved over to the center of the kitchen and replaced with wide French doors, both of which open. The window, which was where the French doors are now, was moved to where the sliding doors used to be.

Now that the construction is finished and the compressor, nail guns and power saws are gone, I am faced with furnishing and decorating the area.
The furnishing isn't so much a problem as we've had a wicker couch and chairs for years. We've got odds and ends of tables and lamps which I think I can bring together with some sort of cohesiveness. We inherited a heavy pine dining set from my brother. We've got some large cotton, rag rugs to put in the eat-in area and in the 'conversation' spot. Theres a small, old, cast iron pot-belly stove that we'll put in the place which is reserved for a future fireplace. All sorts of little, rustic antique items will accent the room. We've got a great collection of old lanterns that will live nicely out there. I think we're going for a sort of 'Cracker Barrel' decor.

My most monumental problem seems to be the window coverings. What was I thinking, adding ten new windows and a door to the room with two windows and a French door in the kitchen wall? I'd given no thought to the prospect of curtains or what-ever or the cost of that undertaking. I'm not sure how I want to dress the windows, so I've been doing a lot of looking at style, color and prices. Being an A-1 bargain hunter, it sends me into heart palpitations to see the prices of window coverings! Where have I been all these years? I can tell you...thrift shopping.

Reality hits home, though, and I realize that those wonderful mullioned panes of glass with the pine trim need something. They look so naked. Since the wood walls and trim are light and natural colored and the room will have plenty of natural light, I think there needs to be some color. Color, yes, but nothing to bright or too dark. I don't want flimsy curtains because when the sun gets too hot or brilliant, I'd like to be able to filter it a bit. I hate blinds, whether vertical or horizontal, and I feel almost the same about any sort of window shades.

I will cover the chair and the couch cushions with a coordinating fabric and color. That won't be difficult, I don't think, once I settle on how to dress the windows. I'm at a complete loss.

Help!!! Does anyone know the phone number for one of those HGTV decorators?

Preserving Memories

For a few years now, following my interest in genealogy, I've also been interested in creating scrapbooks. Since I'm an avid photographer, it seems to be the natural course to take.

Digital photography, and digital scrapping don't interest me, and I haven't a clue how to go about it. I'd much rather have the paper and assorted 'stuff' at my fingertips, and create 'live and in person'. Although this can get pretty expensive, it's also quite a satisfying undertaking for those of us who are interested in this sort of thing.

For as long as I can remember, I've been a paper freak. I love stationery, drawing papers, painting papers, wrapping papers, and now...scrapbook papers. I love trying to choose just the right paper to be the background for a photo, so as to 'tie in' with the subject matter in the image and yet to not draw your eye from the image. It's a challenge! Then there are all the 'doo-dahs' to decorate the pages with...tags, ribbons, buttons, snaps, clips, gems, stickers..., oh my! The possibilities are endless, at least for now, while scrapbooking is a fad.

I have taken note, however, that the 'hands on' supplies in the craft stores seem to be fewer than they were when I started this endeavor. Does that mean that this 'rage' is becoming a thing of the past?! Oh no!! That might mean I should head to Michaels and Hobby Lobby and buy everything while the gettin's good! I fear that because of the digital options (and the fact that, these days, one is hard-pressed to find a non-digital camera) that scrapbooking, for as long as it endures, is going digital fast and furiously!
I won't do it! No...I will NOT! Call me a purist. Call me old-fashioned. Call me anything you like, but this crafter is sticking to her double-sided tape and other available adhesions!

In time, the contents of bottomless boxes of photos will be nicely placed on color coordinated pages, dated and labeled, some with journaling that tells more of the story than the pictures do. Each of my grandchildren will have their albums chronicalling the life he or she has lived. Each one of my children will have one too. (Actually more likely it will be more than one each!) Both sides of my husband's family histories will have their own thick books, as will my own.

You may think I've got lofty dreams, but each of these albums has been started... and I believe they will be finished, or at least will go for as many years as I'm granted. I so enjoy doing this, and cannot fathom ever stopping. There are stories to be told, lives to be honored, memories to be preserved. It seems it's my blessing to do this for all these whom I love. Life is good...

Uncovering Secrets

When my husband and I were engaged, he was lamenting about the fact that he had only one cousin, the son of his mother's sister. He'd heard my stories of my family history and thought it was pretty special to have a knowledge of a large family such as ours was. He wished he knew more.

I'd been digging for information on my family for some time, as I still am.
At the time, we lived in an area where all of my family had been since the area was established in the 1600's, so it was easy to collect written materials and documents about my people. It was so exciting to me to discover that my grandfather was a part of one of the crews which caught the last right whale off of Amagansett in 1907. It thrilled me to know that my Great Grandmother's brother, Owen Chase, had written a detailed diary of the whaleship Essex (out of Nantucket) after he survived the attack by a white whale. Herman Melville borrowed the original documentation of the whale attack and used it as the base storyline for Moby Dick. Other less special stories were mine.

Mike knew of nothing. His parents had divorced when Mike was four years old, so all he knew was his mother's immediate family...one living aunt, and her son, grandparents, uncle and his wife, all deceased. He knew nothing of his father's side, and his Mom wouldn't talk about the relatives on that side. As a surprise for him, I looked up his surname on the internet, and discovered 13 listings in the phone books around the country. I immediately eliminated four of the listings, as they were his immediate family, his half-sister and himself. I took the remaining list and wrote letters to each one of them, hoping to find someone who was related and might have some of Mike's family information for us. I received a phone call one night, from a man in Texas. He was the first cousin of Mike's father. He told me he'd send what he knew, but would contact another first cousin, a woman, who had all the family history.

The morning of our wedding, I received a long letter from Betty, with copies of pages from Mike's great grandmother's Bible, listing family members, places and dates. She told us that there was a mystery concerning the arrival from England of GrGrandfather W. There was family lore that he'd arrived alone, at the age of 14, that he may have been a stowaway, that he'd had a wicked stepfather who beat him, who knows?
I'm still trying to unravel that, but with no success. It's been said to me that GrGrandfather never spoke of, nor heard from, anyone from his home country. Betty included photographs of family, faces and places unknown to us before. One of those photos was of GrGrandfather, taken
when he entered the United States. He looked far younger than 14 years old.

What joy it was for me to hold this special gift in my hands, and in my heart, until I could reveal the secret to Mike after our wedding festivities!
We rejoiced in the fact that he did, indeed, have other family around the country, and a history to be revealed in time.

Since then, I've kept digging...through questions asked of his mother's sister (who lived to be nearly 98 years old!), by wading through the scrawl of old census records, through books, on the internet, through inquiries to historical societies and libraries. I've found piles of information on Mike's family lines and photos too. What he thought he didn't have, he's discovering he has and always had!

Still, as delighted as he is to know of all these people and some of their stories, there is a sadness, too. Until the day she died in 2007, Mike's mother would never speak of his father or the family he came from. She had no idea that we were searching for that side of the family, as it would have upset her. She had no idea that we'd discovered that Mike would have had a chance to meet his greatgrandfather, his grandparents and a half-brother, if she'd given him the information in time. As it is, all three died before Mike was eighteen years old.

Our family albums have grown to thick volumes. The scrapbooks contain photos of our ancestors, their stories, their work, their own families and their lives. There is much left, I'm sure, to discover, and so, I will continue to seek those sources who hold the keys to uncovering secrets of the past. Just as we have a goal to know where we are going, we owe it to ourselves...and to our children...to know from whence we came.
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Organization..I hate that "O" word!

Why can't it just happen? Why can't things just make their way to their own special place, without my help? I need to get organized...but it's not my strong suit, and I'm not particularly apt to forcing myself to find a home for these things that need their own place to be.

I have to admit that, in this my 6th decade of life, I have gotten better about putting things where they belong. I certainly spend far more time THINKING about where they'd be best put, anyway. It also helps to have a new, larger home, with a room dedicated to my craft items. (read between the lines and see that what I'm really saying is that this is one gigantic 'closet' where my craft items are, in all their disarray.) I actually use these items, but in a different room...either in front of some silly chic flick or court TV...or at the 5 foot square dining table.

Like another blogger, my surfaces tend to 'collect' piles of things....mail that has been sorted, read, and should then be filed either in the circular file or an actual cabinet made for the purpose, unread magazines with articles which are being saved for 'quiet' time, well...you get the picture.
I've been known to repeat many times over the years that the surfaces in our home ought to be on a slant so that they can't hold anything!

I have to force myself to fold the laundry. I don't know why it's such a big chore, but I hate doing it. Good grief! The machines wash and dry them, why can't I fold them without such an effort. In reality, I just make more work for myself (ie: ironing!) because I don't do it immediately. I'll have to work on that.

One of my daughters always used to come home and say, "Mom, I'll help you get this organized if you want me to." No, I didn't want her to, thank you very much. I HATE for someone else to get into my stuff! They have a different idea of what's worth keeping and what isn't. Another of my girls says, "Mom, you have too much *x%t !" Maybe...but it's mine, so keep your mitts off!

When we got ready to move from that house to this one,9 states away, my packrat husband and this recycler/crafter/saver/ wife of his had to make some choices. We did clean out ...not that anyone else would notice, but we did! Still...we have too much. Other packrats, crafters and recyclers would understand us, but most people don't. There really are good uses for old mayonnaise jars and coffee cans! We put all of our dry pantry goods in the jars, and use the cans for nails, screws, etc for the shop area. By the way, a skein of yarn in a coffee can, with a hole for the strand of yarn in the plastic top, keeps the skein free to unravel as you will, rather than rolling around the floor . Oh well...some people will never understand that sort of thing.

Anyway, Spring is coming. I can feel it in the air. I can see it in the blooming Jonquils and hear it in the songs of the returning birds. And yes, I hear my heart scolding...'Get organized....get organized...get organized." I HATE that 'O' word!

DREAMS

Dreams are funny things...they come out of who-knows-where, and control themselves with little rhyme or reason.

Sometime in the dark hours of last night/this morning, I found myself in the LVIS thrift shop in East Hampton. I had found a suit...a red suit with a designer tag. I tried it on and it fit, but I needed a purse to match, so I went to the section where the pocketbooks were in search of the perfect bag. There on the shelf was a just-the-right color, just-the-perfect-sized clutch bag. It was rather heavy, so I found myself slinging the strap over my shoulder. (note that clutch type purses don't HAVE straps!) I next found myself, outside the store, with the purse, but not the suit.

Before I could figure out what was happening, I was at the home of a friend who lives in Florida. I've never visited this place, her new home, but I understand it's quite a show piece. In the dream, Marie's house was an estate, a huge and preposterous place. I was there, working as a babysitter! There was a sporty,red car in the driveway that was supposedly mine and in it was the red purse. Apparently I'd discovered, at some point, the reason for it being so heavy. It was full with personal items, wallet, money, and the usual stuff women deem necessary to carry everywhere.

Throughout the dream I was plagued with the idea that I must get this purse back to its rightful owner. And then the thought came to me that my own bag was among the missing. Oh no! I'd have to go through replacing all of the identification papers, I might lose my checkbook and money to whomever had it now. I was being tortured in my sleep! Finally I spoke to Marie's husband and told him that I must get that red clutch purse back to it's owner. He made arrangements, and as luck would have it, when I returned the red purse, I automatically received my own, with no problems.

That's when I awoke. I am not one who believes much in 'dream interpretations', but this time I knew the feeling that 'when you do the right thing, you will be rewarded.'

New Dawn...

It's a new day. To quote the line from a song an old, dear friend wrote, "Light of a new morning shines on my face...I feel I've been gifted, been granted a new kind of grace." Yes...every new morning is a gift holding within itself unseen possibilities and surprises you'd never dream were to come.
It always amazes me at the end of a day what has occured during the span between waking and sleeping. Sometimes its 'mundane' and 'routine' things that are most obvious, but often there will be something so out-of-the ordinary that just 'makes' the day. This winter, on a number of cold days, there were icey 'growths' of about 2-3" coming up from the loose areas in the ground. We've yet to figure out why these oblong bits grew, or how they did, but the little ice gardens were fun to observe and to wonder about.
One morning I was in Watermill, and I needed to go to the post office. Since the one in my hometown was usually difficult to get to, and I was already parked there in Watermill, I decided it was the perfect time to 'get in and get out' quickly. There was a line of three or four in front of me, and as I stood, I took note of the desk clerk. She was patient, she was friendly, and she was talkative. I also noted that she was somewhat 'decorated'. All over the front of her blue uniform shirt, she had rhinestone brooches pinned. There were flowers and bugs, butterflies and dragonflies, among others. In here pierced ears were dangling earrings that reached nearly to her shoulders...and the one on the left didn't match the one on the right. Her large eyes were made up with purple eye shadow, and her cheeks were bright with a creamy blush. She was a light-skinned African-American woman, and she'd clipped her hair tight to her head, nearly a 'crew cut'. She'd bleached it a platinum blonde, and decorated it with a small hair clip which held a butterfly on a spring, so that everytime she moved her head, the colorful butterfly would sway.
When it was my turn to be serviced, the woman gave me a big, toothy smile and a cheery 'good morning'. I returned the gesture, and offered that she shone like a Christmas tree. I meant her personality, but she looked down at her shirt and said, "I do, don't I? I LOVE pins!"
Following that lead, I told her that I admired her ability to step out of the ordinary mode and just be herself. She thanked me and said she'd always been that way. Somehow we got into a conversation about writing, and she asked me if I could wait a moment while she took care of the last person in line. She wanted to show me something. I waited.
The clerk came around from the counter and led me to a bench on the sidewalk near the street. She told me the story of a homosexual man who had lost his partner. She'd written a beautiful poem for the survivor and she gave it to him. Months later, he had it put onto a bronze plaque. It was installed in the sidewalk, beneath the bench which was donated in memory of the deceased man.
Ruby Dee showed me in less than half an hour how you can make a big difference in someone's day. Treat everyone with kindness and with a big smile. You never know but you might be the person they remember, the way I remember that brief time with Ruby Dee.

Rain...

It's raining. I've always liked the rain. I love to listen to the sound it makes on the windows, or the roof, or the street. I like to hear it drip from the tree leaves or pour down the gutter pipes from the corner of the house. There's a personality about rain that nothing else in Nature has to offer. I can't describe it, it's just...there.

I like to walk in a warm rain and slosh through the puddles. Alone, I feel the solitude of it. When with my husband, it feels romantic. (He, being born and bred in the Northwest is used to the rain, and likes it too. He even claims to have webbed feet!)

Rain can cause a multitude of moods, I think. I don't know whether you can call them 'melancholy', but when I was an ultra-sensitive teenager, rain was the prompter of many written words...mostly sad words. I wonder if rain moves artists to paint or composers to write music? These days I don't feel sadness when the clouds send moisture, I feel a coziness, as if I'm shrouded in a soft comforter.

We certainly need this rain. The red clay of earth is thirsty, and hopefully this steady, light rainfall will continue until the deep crevices in the ground can heal. The new plants that are signaling the coming of Spring are looking parched. This watering will quench their immediate desire for moisture without having to drag out the garden hoses.

More times than not in this area, we get heavy downpours which may add to the reservoirs, but do very little for the gardens. Those rains just roll off the surface of the ground and into the drainage ditches or storm drains. At times like that, Mike and I like to go outside and watch the water rushing over the big stones we placed between the high and low areas in the ditch. It's like watching a rushing stream with little waterfalls. It makes it's own songs as the water flows.

We've much to do in the outside, and though the rain doesn't dampen my spirits, today will be used for inside things. The tax preparation awaits. (That does wreak havoc with my thoughts!)

MAINE

Mike and I have been to Maine a number of times. In fact we spent our honeymoon there. We were heading for Nova Scotia...in mid-June 1996, and we stopped in Maine for the night. I was so cold, I was wearing all sorts of layers, and we decided not to go farther north than Acadia. We were tent camping, and it was raining, as is often the case for the state of Maine. It rained, I believe, 14 out of the 16 days we were gone. It didn't dampen our spirits, though.

Waking in the heavy morning mist in a Bar Harbor campground, I was drawn to the see the water. I woke Mike up. He's a night owl, I'm a morning dove and he wasn't thrilled with getting up early. Being a good, brand new husband, he humored me and got up for a trek to the ocean. We marched down the damp, sandy road to the cliffside where the gulls screeched and the salt air was heavy with fog over the water. Suddenly there was the long, mournful sound of the foghorn. Oh! What a delightful sound that was! I was captivated. My insides somehow relate to minor key music, cellos, bassoon, and the wonderful melancholy tone of a fog horn.

We sat until the fog lifted and the gulls soared over the waves, singing without accompaniment from the distant horn that played the warning for sailors in the midst.

We must make it a point to visit Maine again...to eat the 'lobstah' and the New England clam 'chowdah', to feel the misty air, to smell the salt, to visit the lighthouses, and more important than all these, to hear the song of the foghorn that calls me now.

Writing Randomly

Random thoughts flow...nothing earth shattering, nothing of heavy interest. But, I want to write something, and since great authors advise that one should write 'something' every day, even if it has no intense meaning, I sit here and let my fingers dance freely across the keyboard, just to find out what is in my own head.

Actually, it seems to me that I am better inspired when I sit in a quiet corner with a tablet of paper and a pen that when I'm using my computer. However, this is where I choose to be at the moment, so this is where I'll seek inspiration.

Why is it, I wonder, that the best ideas come to me in the middle of the night when I should be asleep? One might answer that it's serene then and the mind isn't being called upon to pay attention to a dozen other things. That may be an honest and true answer, but this body does not relish rising in the cold, dark night to find writing utensils in which to transform the mere thought into an array of words that make sense to a reader.

Cold floors are not conducive to returning to a peaceful sleep, although they certainly would be prone to inducing a desire to return to a warm bed! With that in mind in the wee hours, I tend to stay put, attempting to file away the idea for safe keeping until such time as I might be more willing to hunt up a pen. Of course, what generally happens is that the smidgeon of material will automatically begin to divide and multiply, causing what was left of the sleep hours to disintegrate with nary another wink. Why can't these inspirations come at a more opportune moment?

I suppose that I should just keep a pen and paper at my bedside. I could reach out in my drowsiness and scribble the idea in some illegible form that could be developed at another point in time. Somehow I doubt that I'd ward off my sleeplessness if I did practice that approach. Usually, once I wake, my brain kicks into high speed, and that's the end of rest for the weary. For the record, the brain I have been given has no concern for what the clock face says.

With that, I will close this rambling. Someday I'll let you know all about my dealings with clocks, but for now, I think I'll go find a sheet of blank paper and a pen. I'll tap the pen upon the page, hoping for something to pop into my head, come magically down my arm and out through the end of the ballpoint. Wish me luck....

LITTLE THINGS MEAN A LOT...

It's Valentine's Day. All over the country, lovers are sharing their romantic feelings with each other, and exchanging cards, jewelry, bouquets with each other. Diamond rings are being placed on fingers to signify a marriage proposal has been accepted. Weddings are taking place here or there. Little ones are enjoying the collection of goodies they've received at their school parties or from Grandma and Grandpa. Celebrations of love are unfolding wherever you look.

Over the years, I've received all sorts of gifts to commemorate this Cupid's arrow day. My husband is a big teddy bear, and he is one of a romantic sort. There have been flowers, sweet cards with even sweeter sentiments written in his hand, candlelit dinners which he's created with his amazing skills in the kitchen. (I'm not being sarcastic...he's a better cook than I am!)
There have also been lean times when there hasn't been cash on hand for anything extravagant, but still he finds some way to show how special I am to him.

We actually don't need a day set apart especially to show our caring. In fact, I prefer those 'little things' that just 'pop' into our moments unexpectedly. You know, those things that show that a person is paying attention to you in ways that you don't
even realize. My husband never fails to notice that the half and half that I drink in my coffee is in need of replacement, and he'll stop at the store and buy a new quart before I've even noticed that I've only got two days left in the old one. As a retiree, he sleeps later in the morning than I do, and he never fails to make the bed. When he was still working, he'd sometimes snip off a rose, carefully remove all the thorns, wrap it in a wet paper towel, and deliver it to me when he gets home from a job. When we were dating, we once attended a New Year's Eve party on a frigid, windy night. After a long night of dancing in heels, we walked quite a distance to the car, and by the time we'd reached the parking spot, I was shivering with cold and limping in those shoes! My Knight opened the car door, placed me inside, opened the rear door, and from his ever present gym bag, came forth with a clean and warm pair of his socks! After a gentle foot massage, he placed the socks on my feet, for a much more pleasant ride home! I think that his thoughtfulness was responsible for my
act of hanging hearts all over the house on Valentines Day in another year. Lines from love songs graced each heart that hung from the ceilings like rain, stuck to the doors, the lamps, the fireplace, anywhere that would hold a heart. That simple act is one of his favorite memories.

'Little things'...never underestimate them. They are cherished for years and will serve you well in the 'every day' hours.
Don't ever pass up a chance to say, with words or with deeds,
'I love you' .

Interest....

These days, there are many complaints heard regarding the interest rates lowering on mortgages and loans. These are met with cheers. However, whenever rates on mortgages are lowered, you can count on rates on investments lowering too.

As I often do, I woke in the middle of the night with a song playing through my head. This one was the line of a hymn, "And should it be that I should gain an interest in my Savior's blood...." As I thought about the words, I felt an overwhelming gratitude to God for all He has done for me. No amount of money could supply what the Lord offers me. He holds a vested interest in my life, and I gain from my interest in His ways.
What an investment, one in which I cannot EVER lose!

Just middle of the night thought that made it's way through the fuzzy mind to the blessed heart!