Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer
My perspective of age has changed over the years. Perhaps that’s because I’m on a different side of it than I once was.
I still look ahead in anticipation, but now I look back with more gratitude for where the Lord has brought me and how. The how is very important, because it wasn’t always a pleasant trip. Quite often, the road was rough and the soles of my shoes wore thin. But it was the soul of myself that grew and strengthened and learned to rest in the Lord’s embrace along the way.
Author and literary scholar, C.S. Lewis, says we should not regard all those difficult or unpleasant times as interruptions of our “own” or “real” life.
“The truth is of course that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one’s real life—the life God is sending one day by day: what one calls one’s ‘real life’ is a phantom of one’s own imagination.”
Rather than choose such a radical acceptance, I suppose I could use the vernacular of the day and say “I identify” as a much younger woman. But I’d not give back one year the Lord has allowed.
Besides, what I truly want is to “identify” with Him.
By now I’ve learned that the important things are not what the media and human mentality tell us we should aspire to. Oh, what discontent I could have shed along the way if I had not bought into the hype that I should look, be, follow, or behave a certain way.
I hope my children and grandchildren do better than I.
For my recent birthday, my family planned a wonderful surprise – a gathering of friends, memories, and blessings – priceless treasures indeed. Thank God that my times are in His hand.
My times are in Your hand.
“It’s a will,” he said. “Old-fashioned, hand-written, but it looks legal to me. Names you as heir to this property.”
Her breath caught. She fingered a decorative button on her blouse, staring at the ribboned paper and stalling. Was it good news or bad to be named an heir? She could be in crushing debt, depending on the mortgage.
As she slid the ribbon from the parchment and unrolled the document, Hugh let out a long breath. He was right about it being old fashioned—even her parents’ wills had been processed by typists. This looked old. And it was, dated the day of her fifteenth birthday, April 11, 1903.
The year her aunt and uncle had homesteaded in Colorado.
Rebellious tears fell, robbing her vision and clarity of thought. She pushed the parchment toward him. “Would you read it to me, please.”
His blue eyes went soft, but his jaw tightened. Compassion seemed a painful conflict for Hugh Hutton. ~Hope Is Built
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