Something about Sunday had me wanting to go home.

To the country, a big white house, grandma’s house.

It was a sneaky kind of longing all around a breakfast choice, wishing for breakfast at my grandma’s…doors wide open to the wrap around the front screened-in porch.

I always loved the narrow little side porch, a good place to be tucked away.

Last Sunday morning, I found myself wanting what couldn’t be again.

That kind of floating around in your mind of all things changing.

The knowledge of not being able to be in that place, with those people again, not a cumbersome sadness dragging around all Eyoreish….

Just an almost sweet ache. I had written about the look on my son’s face at graduation, and my sister-in-law commented:

“Feeling melancholy, sis?” Dianne

And it stuck.  Why yes, I believe I am and by the way, Thank you for putting a name to my longing, my wistful thinking

Also,  thank you for calling me “sis”.

That made me smile in the simplest and sweetest of ways.

Melancholy feelings on a Sunday morning,

Wishing for, what back then I thought silly, odd old people ways.

I opened the refrigerator for milk, thinking I’ll have cereal and banana for a change.

Instead of protein boredom and sameness,  I immediately thought corn flakes in the big white, bright rooster box and I went for the closest we had in the cabinet.

Remembered the wilted,  golden floating, softened flakes… me, at Bama’s tipping the bowl to get every last drop of milk flavored with thick sweetness of cream.

I was thinking about my grandma’s sweet milk, tiny pancakes and coffee with cream from a can, poured into the saucer of a cup to cool so I could then sip along with her.

So, instead of two percent,  I grabbed the pint of light cream purchased earlier for something, can’t even recall.

I poured it over my flakes and bananas, its creaminess settling amongst the fruit and flakes, finding its way into the ridges of the flakes and sinkin’ into the bananas.

I tasted home, sweet country dirt road, playing  baseball with my cousins on the clay front yard home.

The sweetness of simple, of sparseness, of sameness…of small things that happened with spontaneity.

Again on Wednesday, I thought of Bama, my grandma.  I moved into my morning, the lingering melancholy of accepting change, difference, good and worthy transitions…blue, nonetheless.

Waking up feeling complacent, doubtful…needing to surrender but not really feeling hopeful or too thrilled with letting go…

I journaled in the quiet marking my little notes to self. Remembering my grandma in the dim tiny light, her Bible in her lap. I made more notes on prayer.

Lately, God has called my heart and beckoned my attention towards prayer. That morning, empty house except a snuggled down beagle and lab puppy (like a toddler)  waiting beside the door, I sang in the shower;  free, confident and joyously affirming  “Tell it to Jesus”  Lisa.

Are you weary, are you heavy hearted?
Tell it to Jesus, tell it to Jesus.
Are you grieving over joys departed?
Tell it to Jesus alone.

Refrain

Tell it to Jesus, tell it to Jesus,
He is a friend that’s well known.
You’ve no other such a friend or brother,
Tell it to Jesus alone.

I’m linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee and am thankful for a chance to Tell My Story, His story. http://jenniferdukeslee.com/tellhisstory-the-first-step-to-authentic-friendship/