This Old House.

I love our little house in the fall. On mornings like this, wet and cool, it's perfect for opening all the windows and listening to the rain hit all the leaves in the back. It's perfect for feeling the fresh air in the whole place and leaving the air off...perfect morning to catch the resident rabbit out early bouncing across the yard. Now I just need a big 'ole cup of steamed cider....
Or maybe I am just taking time to enjoy the outside of our house because the inside is a lot of chaos:).

Regardless, we have so much to be thankful for. It's amazing that I even HAVE a house, much less one that I enjoy. My husband has a JOB; we woke up this morning with food stuffing the kitchen; we brushed our own teeth and got dressed on our own because we have our health. We got dressed because we have clothes galore. We have happy, healthy kids that dance and smile all day along (amidst the crying and complaining, too). We have the joy looking forward to a weekend with lots of good friends. And even where sin abounds and despair creeps in, we have the gospel waiting to redeem it all.....reminding us that "it is finished."

It's more than we deserve.

COME, YE THANKFUL PEOPLE, COME

Come ye thankful people come,
Raise the song of harvest home!
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter storms begin;
God our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied:
Come to God's own temple, come,
Raise the song of harvest home.

All the world is God's own field
Fruit unto his praise to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown
Unto joy or sorrow grown;
First the blade, and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear;
Lord of the harvest! grant that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.

God shall come,
And shall take his harvest home;
From his field shall in that day
All offenses purge away,
Give his angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast;
But the fruitful ears to store
In his garner evermore.

Even so, Lord, quickly come,
Bring thy final harvest home;
Gather thou thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin,
There, forever purified,
in thy presence to abide;
Come, with all thine angels, come,
Raise the glorious harvest home.

Words: Henry Alford, Music: George J. Elvey