I use to get splinters as I stacked the wood my family used to heat our home in winter. Dad used gloves but I hated them. Even in winter, I preferred the feeling of bark against my skin, it gave my little hands a better grip.
First, we stacked it in rows behind the garage, then before winter we would all take turns loading the back of the truck, or even sleds with wood and moved it indoors, throwing it down the old-fashioned wood shoot. Once it was inside the word still wasn’t done, it needed to be stacked again to make more room for another load of wood. Back and forth back and forth…
We spent our time doing the necessary. Then when winter hit and the furnace was fired up we spent trees whose rings represent all the time they gathered into their trunks year after year, expanding, giving life to the world.
What a gift their end was to our family.
What a gift our time was to each other as we hauled each load and stored it for those cold Canadian months.
Each moment we spend time, but have you ever thought about whose time you are spending? It’s almost never just yours.
Are you an open book to family, friends, and even strangers?
Some might view this as a bad thing, but is it really?
An open and honest heart is a beautiful thing. It means there is natural trust flourishing inside. The gates are not closed. A guard and a lookout are always important things to place at an entrance, and it takes practice to get the balance of open and careful right. But someone who can trust, someone who can share… Their halls are filled with light and trust me, a warm welcome doesn’t mean there aren’t exciting mysteries to discover while getting to know them.
I have often been called an open book in the past, but I found myself losing that natural trust in the last few years.
Today my prayer is we would all learn to once again open our gates and trust.
Did we ask to exist? Think on it… A sentient thought that Could whisper to a woman’s whom “I’m ready.” Or… Perhaps, As the scene was written The ghosts within the mind of God Asked for life, And he let them free. Maybe, We itched with in his ear. Or twined inside his being. Pulling, Begging, To be. But perhaps not. Perhaps we were but silence, Pregnant with potential. A question ready to be asked. A lesson waiting for the right Scholars interpretation And that was He. Maybe…