I’ve recently adopted a new Saturday morning tradition. I’ve been making french toast from my whole wheat sourdough to enjoy with family-gathered Michigan maple syrup and strawberries. A bite of the before-mentioned and a sip of ‘half-caf’ pour-over coffee hits the spot every time. Typically some quiet reading is to follow.
I’ve recently been challenged by E. M. Bounds’s book, Power Through Prayer and have been endeavoring to labor more in that regard. Charles Spurgeon’s All of Grace has likewise been an encouragement and challenge. I couldn’t commend either of these titles more highly.
A friend of mine has been visiting from the east coast this week. Yesterday I took him down the trail I frequent to listen to the Wood Thrushes. I had hyped it up with a few helpful statements like, “You’ve got to hear them” and “It’s just the coolest sound and melody”. Yet, we left disappointed and perplexed because we couldn’t find them, nor their songs rattling through the leaves above. By the time we had arrived last night the sun had just about set, so I thought, “Maybe we’re too late, we’ll try tomorrow”. Well, we’re trying tomorrow, now, but the cicada-sung hedge isn’t graced with a wood thrush song. They’re not here.
Alas, I can only guess they’ve flown south for the winter. It’s an empirical fact the leaves aren’t showing the slightest tip of autumn but the birds’ silence speaks volumes––fall looms.