It's been a rainy, cold, and windy day in my part of the world, Western Washington. We put on our flannel shirts and decide to embrace our frizzy hair. Mushrooms have sprouted in my yard in spectacular fashion and I've considered whether I can simply put Christmas lights on them for the holiday season. The pets are only going outside when absolutely necessary, being especially fond of the rug in front of the heat vent.
This is the sort of day, when I was a girl in my grandparents' farm house, that I would spend looking through my grandmother's collection of photographs she kept in a large trunk on her upstairs landing. She never graced a scrapbooking class, so the photos were a fascinating jumble of unidentifiable ancestors. I could thrust a hand into the trunk and pull up faces of mysterious strangers to wonder about. I still like looking at old photos. I was given some of my grandmother's collection. Faces frozen for a hundred years look like they could yet be a sibling. When I look at the great grandmother I never knew, I can see a twinkle in her eye that suggests where my grandfather and my father got their senses of humor. As I write this, knowing my face will probably be just a mystery to someone a century from now, I pray that my unknown decedents will also be children of my Heavenly Father. God will not only know us all by name but also by heart.