Along the road, high up in the mountains, there is a
pipe carrying spring water that never stops flowing.
If you were driving the speed limit, you may never notice it.
After a day of fishing, reading in the vehicle during a summer
rainstorm, looking for moose, deer and elk, filling my pockets with
rocks to take back to camp, that cold, refreshing water quenched
areas deep within me, even as a little girl.
I didn't know I was empty until I experienced being filled.
Remembering, I can share my joy with you, but I can't keep it from
leaking out of the holes in your heart.
We are living in this beautiful place for a short time, yet I saw
two people that I knew at the grocery store today! The excitement
of new friends spilled over as I shared with you.
As we headed south last week, I pointed out the fence posts with
white frosting on the north side-maybe I've been spending a lot of
time baking? I can make you look, but I can't make you laugh.
Driving in the valley, as I admired the fifty shades of brown and green,
with the dribble of orange dripping down the draw; did you only
see the rain?
Sitting at dinner this evening, you reminded me of how cloudy it was today.
Little dog and I had been out, seeing the big buck lope down the road
in front of us. As I was peering at the new mushrooms popping up in the
warmth, the sneaky grouse thought he was avoiding being spotted!
HaHa! We saw you!
Bitterness is like battery acid. It punches holes in the engine block of your heart
and seeps outward, leaking havoc on the loved ones around you.
Sometimes it seems like you're more comfortable this way, wearing your sweatshirt
of hurt. Stealing joy is easy, giving thanks a stretch.
I haven't given up sharing my delight with you, that deep down quenching-
like drinking from a mountain top spring. As I carry my bucket with both hands
it sloshes, overflowing onto the dry, dusty ground you inhabit. Most of it runs
right off; I can't make you drink.
Comments