Spring still makes spring in the mind, When sixty years are told; Love makes anew this throbbing heart, And we are never old. Over the winter glaciers, I see the summer glow, And through the wild-piled snowdrift The warm rosebuds below. —Ralph Waldo Emerson.
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'
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 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
A New Year’s Wish May each day bring thee something Fair to hold in memory— Some true light to shine Upon thee in the after days. May each night bring thee peace, As when the dove broods o'er The young she loves; may day And night the circle of A rich experience weave About thy life, and make It rich with knowledge, but radiant With Love, whose blossoms shall be Tender deeds. —George Wharton James, 1909
This is the month, and this is the happy morn, Wherein the Son of heaven's eternal King, Of wedded maid, and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring. - John Milton
— Sir Francis Darwin, 1920
Since east of Eden, the sands of time are stealing away, and the world spiraling down to its eventide. While the promise of entering His rest is to come, His ceaseless fountain of eternal riches is still available for all.
Because the holy God does not lie. By His oath and promise, He continues to watch over His sheep. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow His people, all the days of their lives, and they shall dwell in the house of the LORD forever. So it is the apostle Paul concludes, “to live is Christ, and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21).
On Thanksgiving Day, the object of our thankful remembrance, surely, must be Christ’s grace and mercy. It is He who ransomed and redeemed us from the pit of destruction, set us in His pasture green, and gave us a new song of praise to God.
L'
Who said November's face was grim? Who said her voice was harsh and sad? I heard her sing in wood paths dim, I met her on the shore so glad, So smiling, I could kiss her feet! There never was a month so sweet. —Lucy Larcom
The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown; Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on. —Emily Dickinson
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