'The problem with life is that its so daily,' said Wood Allen once. Another problem - if it is that, is that life is very short.
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Once again autumn has come to us. It is sheer gift. There is a moral aspect to it (as you will note below). I am always somewhat somber and sad as fall days unfold.
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So my father's oldest sister, the only sibling remaining, is celebrating her 102nd birthday in this month of April in the year of our Lord - two thousand and seventeen.
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My father died in March of 2007. I wrote this shortly before he passed through . . .
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We wake, staying over at friends, and the day is heavy with falling snow. The large, slowly falling flakes flicker and shift and gently touch the ground. There is no wind.
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“Teach us to number our days that we might apply our hearts unto wisdom.” – Psalm 90: 12
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"Since I am coming to that holy room,
Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore,
I shall be thy music; as I come
I tune the instrument here at the door,
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The moments, days and years go by quickly. - All too quickly it often seems.
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Yes, hard as it may be to believe (to get my head around), there was a day when I looked like this. Way, way back - circa 1973 when I was still in Seminary.
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An old tractor in my friend, Bill's barn. Like all of us, it has a few years and miles on it and now it waits for winter in the steel quonset barn. We get to wait in warmer, nicer surroundings.
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I know Winter's coming, but I'm in denial.
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I have Raynaud's. They don't know what causes it or how to cure it. And it sure hurts at times.
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"All we can give back and all God wants from any of us," writes Richard Rohr in his book, Falling Upwards: A Spirituality for the Two Halfs of Life, "is to humbly and proudly return the pr
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So, when raking my leaves it feels like I've been learning the meaning of the word ‘eternity.
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Life's autumn falls, dark memories too,
We long to hold the life we knew;
The love, the face we treasured, gone
And death now silences the home.
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Maybe it doesn’t matter – it’s not all that important to set out to do some thing perfectly, with excellence.
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To sit and rest, think or write; to muse and get one’s thoughts out on paper – or perhaps a photo.
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The seasons come 'round as promised following the Flood. Hope spring fresh from the garden of new life . . .
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So, there is this little line or squiggle between the birth and death dates on many tombstones. Life is what happens along the squiggle.
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Too soon the Summer goes and then the bright Autumn, fading into the cold and snow of Winter. I love the Seasons - but it's all going far too quickly 'round.
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I once heard well-known Christian speaker and writer Tony Compolo encourage a room frull of Christians to live life to the full.
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I may think and respond in 360 degrees, but my father was able to think and create in 3D. I envy that ability.
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Every year a few scraggly tulips come up in our front garden. We never planted them. There was only one there our first spring, years ago now.
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I wrote this a few yhears ago, when my Dad died.
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Ontario winter,
and roots in black soil of century past,
white covered, snow laden.
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One always wonders what’s just around the bend.
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Unlike the warmth and splendour enjoyed and even taken for granted in some parts of the world, at present, my garden and environs are encased in the cold white and grey of winter.
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Can it be that the end of things paves the way for the beginning of the new? Yet, it’s hard to let go when the new is not yet apparent, has not yet arrived.
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