"For us, our house is not insentient matter—it has a heart, and a soul, and eyes to see us with; and approvals, and solicitudes, and deep sympathies; it is of us, and we are in its confidence, and live in its grace and in the peace of its benediction. We never come home from an absence that its face does not light up and speak out its eloquent welcome—and we can not enter it unmoved." —Mark Twain, 1896 ______________________________
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Burning logs in the fireplace warm the room where I am.
Overcast and cold, day becomes night.
I languidly embrace the silence,
and wander into the best part of me.
That part where you are.
On these days I push out to sea and just drift away.
He makes the clouds his chariot and rides on the wings of the wind.He makes winds his messengers [angels], flames of fire his servants. (Psalm 104:3, 4, NIV
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