SWEET SILENCE

There is a sweetness to the silence
Of the early morning...
Wrapping around me, bringing peace
To ragged edges of my soul.

Loneliness does not afflict me
At this golden hour.
Each pore and cell revives..
Soothed....strength flows in.

It's that lovely morning hour.
The best of all the day.
A time to think, a time to pray,
A time to get in touch with God.

Out my window
I see lightly falling snow.
Wind, so crisp and fresh
Blows vitality over all.

Creativity rises within...
Shouts to be heard!
Spontaneous words of praise
Pour forth unto the Lord.

Touched by beauty
In morning hours...
Sweet silence
A gift to me from God.

Excerpted from "From A Cry of Anguish to a Shout of Praise" by Crystal J. Ortmann

LITTLE THINGS

A dewdrop sparkling in the rain.
The smile when love breaks through the pain.
Soft gentleness of a kiss from the one you love.
Tender words spoken when you feel down.
The honest acceptance by another.
A friend...one who listens and still loves.
The sun, after days of gloom, spilling gold in every room

Talents...always there, yet newly discovered.
The love of your child.
The earnestness of your husband as he shares his hopes and fears.
A little compliment dropped your way.
The smile of another that made the day.
The touch of a compassionate hand.
Walking through the sand barefoot.
The sound of wind in the trees....
Sometimes a breeze, sometimes causing awe.
A glass of water.
Aroma of coffee.
Doing something for others, especially when they don't know who did it.
Making someone happy.
The scent of fresh-baked bread.
Roses, violets, lilacs...all the beauty of sight and smell.
Blue sky, fluffy white clouds.
Walking where it isn't crowded.
Laughter.
Peace.
A good book.
The smell of the forest after rain.
A roaring bonfire on a cold night.

So many little things planned by God to bring us happiness.

Thank You, Father.

Contentment in My Own Backyard

Contentment in My Own Backyard

By
Crystal J. Ortmann


Drifted snow dazzles as the sun brushes glistening strokes across a canvas of white. Tiny prints create a webbed design in the almost flawless covering. Larger, less aesthetic tracks make deep indentations leading up to the bird feeders.
Deep contentment wells up in me as I lug suet, birdseed and water up the hill. Hushed chirps whispered in the trees above remind me I am being watched. The feathered crowd supervises and I can almost hear them say, “Cool. What a spread!” I move slowly in order not to startle them.
Millet and sunflower seeds drop on the ground for the sparrows and other ground feeders. Someone obviously took a bath in the birdbath and didn’t wash out the tub, so I scrub a little before filling it with clean water.
A low watt heater keeps the bath open in the icy weather. While filling the other feeders the sounds of impatient chirps in the branches above become louder. It’s a very mundane job, but somehow I feel as though I’m doing something very significant—helping those who cannot always care for themselves. It’s an opportunity to provide sustenance when outdoor conditions are adverse.

I like to think I bring joy to a twittering group of unlikely comrades. Although many are normally enemies and the pecking order is strictly followed, there is enough for all and, for the most part, harmony reigns (until the starlings arrive!!! They are the original dysfunctional family of the bird world). Contentment comes knowing that my caring made life a little easier today for those feathered creatures.

Old and Rusty: Many Tales to Tell

There's just something about old barns and rusting vehicles that thrills me. I love to think about the stories behind each one. On the way out to a forested hiking place my husband and I love, we drive along a winding road. Dips and heights and forests and low places, it's all so beautiful.

An old barn, weathered from years of use and the elements, looks about to fall down, yet is still there many years after we first laid eyes on it.

I stop to take a picture of it and the rusting hulk of a truck, now covered with blackberry vines.

My mind runs wild thinking about the settlers that cultivated this patch of wilderness. Where are they now? From where did they come? How many hopes and dreams went into the plowing and harvesting? Why did they leave?

I'll never know the answers to those particulars, but I like to think about the way I find beauty in old and rusty things, just as God does in me. I'm getting old and for sure feel quite rusty at times, but He loves me anyway. The difference is, He knows my story and there is no mystery or sense of worthlessness there.