My car has been in the shop for two days now. It’s freezing cold outside, and although I’m native to Michigan, I have tropical bones and blood, so I’m shamefully going to admit to you that aside from going up and down the stairs, or back and forth to the dumpster, there has not been much exercise. I’ve rather spent the past two days reading, writing, ironing, & cleaning closets. And on one of my closet shelves with books from one end to the other, I was able only to move a couple of them to my “bathtub reading” shelf. Not one of them made it into a “donation” pile. Not one. I. Love. Books.
“Seasons of the Heart” caught my attention, and I opened the cover. “X-Mas 95, From Luther & Diane” was handwritten beautifully on the first blank page.
The book is in perfect condition. I don’t know who Luther & Diane are, and I can’t even remember from where this book came. Perhaps a secondhand store. But it made me wonder about Luther & Diane, who they gave this book to for Christmas, and how exactly it wound up in my closet. Did someone not want it? Did someone die, and it wound up in a secondhand store among all their other things? I’m sure Luther and Diane never guessed it would wind up here, but I am enjoying it, nonetheless! I guess it doesn’t really matter, after all, what someone does with our gifts or with our kind gestures. Even long after they are received, or even when they are not acknowledged, our kindness is never wasted. Never.
I eventually turned to page 104, where a poem named “April Showers” was, because, after all – it is April, and it is showering (snow) as we speak! Enjoy!
God whispers to each living plant
And wakes each bulb to flower,
With gentle rain that comes in Spring,
We call an April shower. He sends the sun to warm the earth
And grass begins to grow,
Then little buds form on the trees
Because He loves us so.
Though Winter storms may come and go
With icy winds that blow,
Plants wait for Him as though asleep
Beneath the drifting snow.
Just as the bulbs and grass and trees
Burst forth in one accord,
I, too, must learn to weather storms
And wait upon the Lord.
By Ruth Moloney Cowgill