Dear Diary,
I woke up before the sun had made much of a stir. Sister Mary Claire was still asleep beside me under the patchwork quilt, and Mini, snug at our feet, gave a little sigh when I wriggled out. The air was hushed and cool, like it was holding its breath.
From the top of the bluff, I looked out over Indian Creek and the valley below. The green stretched wide in every direction—brighter and deeper than I’ve ever seen it. Sister says this has been one of the rainiest seasons on record, and it shows. The trees are thick with leaves, and the prairie grass sways in every breeze like it has something to say. Laura Ingalls would’ve written about a morning like this, I just know it—with the mist rising and everything lit soft and silver.
While walking the bluff’s edge, I found something nestled near a cedar root. It was smooth and heavy, shaped just right for a hand, with a groove worn deep across the middle. Sister said it’s an Indian stone hammer, likely used long ago to pound grain or crack bones for cooking. We think our tent might be pitched on an old Ioway camp. That made my heart skip a bit. I imagined a girl like me, maybe with braided hair too, using that hammer with her mama by the fire.
For breakfast, we warmed our biscuits over the little fire and then spread on wild raspberry jam. The sweetness melted into the warm bread, and everything smelled like home. I placed one biscuit on a flat rock and said a quiet thank you before we ate. It reminded me of today’s Gospel reading. Sister read it out loud—Jesus feeding the five thousand with only five loaves and two fish. He had gone away to be alone after hearing about John the Baptist, but when the crowds followed Him, He didn’t turn them away.
Even when He was hurting, He still loved them. Sister said that’s the kind of love Heaven is made of. “There is no need for them to go away,” Jesus said. That part made me want to cry, just a little.
Mini played hard all afternoon and is now curled in a sleepy little heap, ears flopped sideways. Sister and I watched the sun sink low across the valley, lighting everything gold.
I wrote my evening prayer in my diary.
No comments:
Post a Comment