Yesterday was such a deliciously windy day.
It started out with solid cloud cover, but by ten thirty, the clouds were breaking up and moving fast across the sky. I went out to check on the garden and was immediately enamoured of the weather.
Shortly thereafter, I was out for a walk. Things did not go smoothly though. For one thing, my ankle socks kept creeping down into the heel of my sneakers.
I tell you what, there is no hindrance to a wonderful time of worship so effective as a slipping sock. Eventually, I had to stop and laugh, and retie my sneakers. My hair, by the way, is long enough that when I am bending forward to tie my laces, the ends of it got caught up in the knot.
I cut the walk short and headed home. The house seemed impossibly stuffy and stale; I threw open as many windows as I could. All day long the wind moved sweetly through the house.
Keith came home early. He is so happy these days, now that his job is not driving him to frustration on an hourly basis. He threw on shorts and tee-shirt and disappeared into the garage with Abby, to work on his RC vehicles.
In the evening, I joined him there. We sat on the tailgate of the HD and watched the quiet street, all lit up by orange street lamps, and the quiet sky above. The wind had died down, and almost all the clouds were gone. The sky was that kind of liquid dark blue, the kind of color that suggests impossible depth.
Today I woke to driving rain. I opened the French doors to sheets of it and a frothy pool and a spray covered patio.
The girls froze just moments before heading happily out to do their business; their ears flattened against their heads in dismay. I received a few looks of deep reproach from them. They crept backward, having quickly changed their minds.
We are expecting guests today; a childhood friend of Keith and his fiance are stopping here on their way to a vacation in Florida. The plan is that they will spend the night and then head on to their destination.
Last night I finished Amy Carmichael's devotional. I have a deep and warm appreciation of her, and a sense of recognition.
I have moved on to my next book, The Weight of Glory, by C.S. Lewis, but that is much slower going and sometimes I can't grasp his point. I can only read a small amount, and then must put it down and think it through.
His longing and deep reverence for God come through at every turn. I read this and thought it quite beautiful:
"The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things- the beauty, the memory of our own past- are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself, they will turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited."
-C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory
