Saturday, Jan. 15, 2005 - 11:27 a.m.
A Light at the End of the Rope
I see Your Hand at work. Thank You, it may be a slow, arduous work because they are related to me, but the time it takes is part of Your plan, also, isn't it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A prayer written by Amy Carmichael has been my prayer as long as I have been a mother, and I pray it now for my grandchildren: Father, hear us, we are praying, Hear the words our hearts are saying, We are praying for our children. Keep them from the powers of evil From the secret, hidden peril, From the whirlpool that would suck them, From the treacherous quicksand pluck them, Holy Father, save our children. From the worldling's hollow gladness, From the sting of faithless sadness, Through life's troubled waters steer them, Through life's bitter battle cheer them, Father, Father, be Thou near them. Read the language of our longing, Read the wordless pleadings thronging, Holy Father, for our children. And wherever they may bide, Lead them Home at eventide. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The snow is hanging on, and on, and on. This is the most snow and the longest holding in several years. Perhaps our drought is broken. We should always expect dry condition because this area is classified as high desert, but the dams and availability of irrigation water over the last 75 years make us forget that all was once covered by sand and sagebrush. Even the sagebrush is mostly gone now. There is a variety called rabbitbrush that is often mistaken for sage, but it is not the true sage that grew so tall and covered so much of the land. Tumbleweeds were more of a mark where I was born in Washington. Lots of sandy ground, but the stickery tumbleweeds marked the land for me more than the sagebrush down here. Of course, Mamma remembered the sage. She often spent the days on her horse, going with the cows to graze on the desert. There is a picture of her doing that. I must get busy scanning more of her pictures.
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