Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
- Jane Kenyon, Let Evening Come
A survey of recent comforts:
- rich mashed potatoes and gravy
- sunshine and warm temperatures in the midst of bleak midwinter
- birdsong in the morning
- hugs from russell
- praying the hours
- sitting silently with j
- words put together in just the right way - novels and psalms and poems and lenten reflections
- working with people like dan and callie and don and sharon and jim
- cross-country check-ins
- communities that can mourn death and pray for healed 14 year old hearts and welcome new baby boys all in one day
- southern pecan beer on tap
- being welcomed with slow, sweet, mississippi accents
- my dog-nephew wendell escorting me from my car to the front door
- a huge mug of hot coffee
- the winter sun setting into pink and purple bursts behind bare branches standing straight