He's Got the Whole World in His Hands

Did I ever think that I would be living to this age? I want to travel  . . . but where and with whom and will there be enough money? Is that a foolish idea for a ninety-year-old lady? I wonder. I expect that I will have to choose another lady to travel with now that my husband has gone and she will surely snore in the middle of the night, I know. Probably pick her teeth and blow her nose and open her hankie to sneak a peek. Will she also balance peas on her knife?

Deep down inside me, I have a crying room where I yearn for long-gone "sit-and-rock-with-me" friendships. Here it is that I weep for those who were Heaven-bound and have hurried on by without a glance at that cup of coffee waiting on my front porch. Choice souls they --who have passed the finish line ahead of me.

This morning I think of what I should be doing, not caring that I sit here at my desk in night clothes, hair unwashed, last night's makeup fading, knowing that if someone should stop and knock at my front door, I should have to run and hide under my bed.

I have nothing to say today. Yet, I have written much. I have written much but said nothing. However, now I must deal with another day that must be shaken down into a meaningful something. A measure needs to be taken to examine the depth of my soul's melancholy.

But, honestly, in times like these I think a song is needed. There's got to be a melody around here somewhere. The sun is shining and the breeze is warm. No, not Yankee Doodle nor Three Blind Mice but He's Got the Whole World in His Hands.

And actually now, what greater assurance do we need?