It’s the Little Things in Life

It’s the little things in life.

 

A few weeks ago, our church had its annual Jubilee (revival meeting), which was amazing, by the way. We had a singing tour group come through and I told Kenzie, my cousin, that I was excited to hear the group because when I had heard them sing during previous years they had sang one of my favorite songs. I don’t know the song on CD or anything so I was super excited because I thought they were going to sing it. I was disappointed when they had an entirely new lineup of songs and it wasn’t on the list.

 

Then, yesterday, we were sitting in church and our pastor asked for the special music. The man got up to sing and as he was playing his guitar and going through the first verse I thought “Hmmm, this sounds familiar. I know this song.” He got a little bit farther into the verse and it hit me. This was my song. I glanced over at Kenzie and she beamed at me. She had noticed, too. I was finally going to get to hear my favorite song again, this time sung Bluegrass style. I loved it.

 

It really is the little things.

 

–Abby

One With The Sun

Summer Field
By A.F. Moritz
Child
one with the sun
in trackless fields
of yellow grass and thistle, scent
of humid heavy air and the wing music
of bees and flies.
Child, slender
nakedness to itself unknown,
true colour of the light
dispersed invisibly
or glowing around the black hulls
of distant thunderheads, around
the grasshopper’s countenance,
solemn, vigilant and wise.
Green apples, poured full
of density, of crispness, float unmoved
under leaves on the slope. Brown
fallen apples nest
in secret whorls of grass. The apple tree:
alone in so much space. And below
in the woods by the water
a sweet dead branch
cracks lightly
in the shadow in the wind.
But here is an old track
through the grass head-high
to a child: who
made it? They must have
passed and passed by this one tree,
by the abandoned, tireless car
where rabbits peer out, and the circle
of black embers,
cans, springs, skeletons
of furniture. They too
passed here many times
on their way from the street’s end
to the oaks that screen
the river. There
the sun is nesting now, night
rises with pale flutterings
of white wings from roots
of plants and the black water.
–Abby