My heart leaps out of my mouth at the sound of the winds in the woods. I, whose life was but yesterday so desultory and shallow, suddenly recover my spirits, my spirituality, through my hearing... Ah! if I could so live that there would be no desultory moments ... I would walk, I would sit and sleep, with natural piety. What if I could pray aloud, or to myself, as I went along by the brookside, a cheerful prayer, like the birds! And then, to think of those I love, who will know that I love them, though I tell them not ... I thank you, God. I do not deserve anything ... and yet the world is gilded for my delight ... my path is strewn with flowers... O keep my senses pure!
Gramma died 25 years after she stopped mothering me.But she left me something special, and I hear it whenever the need occurs.A tune wafts in unexpectedly when I am kneading bread or hanging laundry on the line.The opening phrase of an oldhymn bursts from my mouth:
"Are ye able," I suddenly sing out.
"To believe that Spirit triumphs," I can hear Gramma picking up the next line.The verses poses a great question about faith, but I am thinking about what Gramma gave me.
"Lillian," I answer, "thank you for my voice."