At Last, One Which Makes the Heart Run Over

“We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is a last a drop which makes it run over. So in a series of kindness there is, at last, one which makes the heart run over.” - James Boswell.

15 February, 2023

Dear B_:

Life's tapestry is constantly stitching and unstitching. Whether we dance in the gentle breeze under a warming sun beam, or moan in the crucible of doom, God knows. God’s wisdom and ways, as apostle Paul declared in praises, are far beyond the understanding of us human beings. Because His grace transmuted us, we are now His portion. So through it all, God guides the paths of our life journey. He will keep the feet of His saints, and uphold them with the right hand of His righteousness (1 Samuel 2:9; Isaiah 41:10).

By His general grace, God has given us our friendship. He has also guided and upheld it by His tender mercy. Even though all of us are getting older in the sands of time, still, He has blessed us with the indelible footprint of memory - so our yesterdays remain. In the unpredictability of our world and lives, He has given us hope - so our tomorrow waits. And, even though not seeing each other as friends - so our today is one of recherché. O, how I would you a “sunset in a cup” at each dusk, overlooking the Huntington Harbor.

Ethereal memory, hope, and friendship are precious gifts you and I possessed and shared in this life time. It is God who bestowed these gifts to us. Truly and eternally, He has deigned to be our friend and counsel yesterday, today, and forever (Psalm 25:14; Hebrew 13:8).

Sooner or later, and more so in our old age, we become feeble in the yoke of sickness and disappointment. Yet by His grace and love, He will strengthen us upon the bed we are languishing, and carry us through (Psalm 41:3; Isaiah 46:4).

As always, you are the apple of His eye, and in the shadow of His wings.

L'

And Fain Would I Call You Mine

The Old Valentine

I sent my sweetheart a valentine on one St. Valentine’s day,
A long time ago, when my hair was brown, ah, now it is sprinkled with grey!
My sweetheart was pretty as she could be, a wild rose bloomed in each cheek,
Her auburn hair rippled down to her waist, her eyes were tender and meek.

And, O, my sweetheart was dear to me, though nobody could have guessed
From my careless glance, or my careless word, the tenderness in my breast.
I sent my sweetheart a valentine, a flowery and foolish thing,
All covered with blue forget-me-nots, and cupids gay on the wing.
Two hearts pierced through, a ruffle of lace, a knot of ribbon, a dove,
And, better than all, a space whereon I could write a message of love;
So burning the midnight oil I wrote with infinite patience and care,
This one earnest verse (for rhyming came hard) to send to my lady fair:
“I love you, I love you with all my heart, And fain would I call you mine,
My Mary, my darling, my beautiful girl, 
Let me be your valentine!”

This yellow old page from the book of youth was put in my hand to-day,
As I growled, “Our Tom has fallen in love in a nonsensical way;
He is making a fool of himself—ha! ha! he is writing poetry now,
To his Anna’s lips, and his Anna’s hair, his Anna’s beautiful brow.”

“Why what rubbish is this?” I asked my wife, a portly but sweet-faced dame,
Who smilingly showed me the verse underneath which I had written my name;
Shamefaced, I read it again and again—let me confess to a truth—
I felt like disowning the yellow thing that belonged to the days of youth.

Till I pictured myself an excited lad penning the words of care,
Knowing her answer would fill my heart with rapture or dark despair.
It was yesterday, who says we are old? “I do,” says Mary, my wife,
“But age has nothing to do with it, since the choosing was done for life.”

I bowed my grey head over her hand, “my sweetheart,” I whispered low,
On this Valentine’s day I tender you the verse written long ago.

“I love you, I love you with all my heart,
And fain would I call you mine,
My Mary, my darling, my beautiful girl,
Let me be your Valentine.”

Jean Blewett, 1897

What Matter Though the Sky Be Gray?

What matter if the sun be lost? 
What matter though the sky be gray? 
There's joy enough about the house, 
For Daffodil comes home to stay. 

- Bliss Carman, 1921