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The river wends in unexpected places
Just some passing thoughts on transience and seasons -
Our church is gaining a new pastor, a new shepherd for our little flock. We've been 'on our own' for this past year and it is rather like a marriage, the finding of a pastor, the pastor finding us. I am leading a class again this fall, it still feels so foreign to me to the teacher instead of the taught. I wonder if anyone will come.
In my imaginings and creative heart I dream over watercolors and empty paper. I write of tales that have captured my muse and it is a wondrous flight over new lands. And yet - I feel as if I have somehow abandoned my 'good old gang', the writers of Middle-earth. I miss them and still...it is not where my hands take me. I hope one day I will either rejoin them for a time or (that grandest and most selfish hope) that some might even follow me, but until then the wayward writer's heart is harder to direct than I expected.
The season turns to summer, and the old blooms give way to new leaves, different but also beautiful.
I visited my grandmother today, the one that had a stroke this past fall. She didn't speak, but simply held my hand in her soft, wrinkled one to her cheek and trembled. All around me my family spoke of passing issues with paperwork, about selling her car, about choices to be made. I rubbed her back, she is getting so very small, so small, and she held my hand, and her eyes were not wandering or blank, she saw me. I know she did.
Our church is gaining a new pastor, a new shepherd for our little flock. We've been 'on our own' for this past year and it is rather like a marriage, the finding of a pastor, the pastor finding us. I am leading a class again this fall, it still feels so foreign to me to the teacher instead of the taught. I wonder if anyone will come.
In my imaginings and creative heart I dream over watercolors and empty paper. I write of tales that have captured my muse and it is a wondrous flight over new lands. And yet - I feel as if I have somehow abandoned my 'good old gang', the writers of Middle-earth. I miss them and still...it is not where my hands take me. I hope one day I will either rejoin them for a time or (that grandest and most selfish hope) that some might even follow me, but until then the wayward writer's heart is harder to direct than I expected.
The season turns to summer, and the old blooms give way to new leaves, different but also beautiful.
I visited my grandmother today, the one that had a stroke this past fall. She didn't speak, but simply held my hand in her soft, wrinkled one to her cheek and trembled. All around me my family spoke of passing issues with paperwork, about selling her car, about choices to be made. I rubbed her back, she is getting so very small, so small, and she held my hand, and her eyes were not wandering or blank, she saw me. I know she did.
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It is hard to see those we love grow old.
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This post of yours is so beautiful, it is speaking to me on so many levels of heart and hopes.
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I'm sorry about your Grandmother but am glad she "knew" you :) I know that feeling well of seeing them grow "small"...I noticed it with both my Mom and Dad ;(
I am also glad to hear that you like the new pastor :)