Oh my. The book of essays, Thoughts of Home, is one of my top-five favorite books of all time. I told you about it here. 

I bring this treasure with me when we go yard sale-ing so that, should I tire of looking at tables full of books and well, junk, I can sit inside the car, instead, and read while Tom --who never, ever tires of yard sales--can browse in peace.

Below, is a paragraph I read today, one which still haunts me, for the world tells us that selfish ambition is the way to go. That if we do huge, impressive things, we'll be important and remembered by people upon this Earth. But I prefer this:

"I will tell you what I remember most about my grandmother, though. I know she loved us. I know because one year she had deteriorated badly over the winter I was too young to understand how sick she was. When two days passed after our arrival and she had not performed her usual ceremony, I tiptoed into her darkened room to ask, 'Ganny, when are you going to open the toy closet?' I know she loved us because she slid out of bed and onto the floor, then hand over hand and baluster after baluster she began to haul herself up the stairs to the third story. I know because when my own distressed mother came running upstairs to stop her, my grandmother said, 'I don't know how much longer I am going to be around. I want my grandchildren to remember that I loved them.' And I do, Ganny. Forty years later, I still do."

By Spencer Harris Morfit


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I stepped out the door this morning to get the newspaper and all the raindrops on the iris' made me gasp. (Click to enlarge, it's kinda cool.)




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"... But the greatest of these is love." ... from 1 Corinthians 13


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