thinking of her

These photos were taken within minutes of each other: waiting for tea in the kitchen, then drinking it in the living room. Don't let the light in the second picture deceive you. Houston weather is still overcast. Very gray. It's not even raining. Just gray. Such weather makes me and Johnny slee-py. In the kitchen I thought, "Why even bother turning on the lights?" I usually sit near big windows in the living room, hence the deceptive light.

But I am here to tell you that tea does actually taste better in that white forest pottery mug. No joke. I'm thinking any hot beverage would taste better in that mug. What I love about this vessel is the craft - the design - and that I must put down whatever I'm doing and hold it with both hands. Inhale the aroma. Thank God for the tea while I sip.

As I burned brandied pear + vanilla candles, I tried to justify purchasing a star bowl. I decided it is too pricey right now, but I'll keep it in mind. Stars inside our house? Yes, ma'am (or sir).

Other than mug-love, Johnny is gone away to another gig while I, well, sit here. I'm having a hard time getting through Eat, Pray, Love, but my plan is to finish Gilbert's journey through Indonesia tonight, and move on to another book. Elizabeth Gilbert is a great writer and funny as all get out, but I can only read so much Eastern spirituality. It lacks in any real logic, thus it hurts my brain.

Last night, I had to put that book down and read a few poems by Jane Kenyon to restore my sanity. I came across one that recalled a heroine of mine: Billie Edwards. She recently passed away in the nursing home near our Church. I visited her fairly often before I felt so sick and oh my, what a lady. I was not led to that old nursing home for a charitable contribution, but to meet Billie. She encouraged me, not vice versa. Truly, it was my great honor to befriend Billie and her husband, Allen.

Billie possessed the most radiant faith, such courage, and a palpable peace. Her favorite Psalm was 91, and whenever I read it aloud, her face was quite literally starlight. She smiled. She looked past me, upward, and past the walls of her room. I know where she was looking; where she is now - with Jesus.

This poem is for Billie.

"In the Nursing Home"
(by Jane Kenyon)

She is like a horse grazing
a hill pasture that someone makes
smaller by coming every night
to pull the fences in and in.

She has stopped running wide loops,
stopped even the tight circles.
She drops her head to feed; grass
is dust, and the creekbed's dry.

Master, come with your light
halter. Come and bring her in.