I’m on my last camping trip of the year, I believe. While yesterday’s high was 82, the next few days will be in the 50’s with rain. Not a problem for me…I see naps in my future. I love listening to the sound of the rain on the roof. I’m camping in very dense woods. I can hear the katydids skritching at each other over the steady drum of tree frogs and crickets. Soon, these night sounds will be put to bed until spring.

I drove through the New River Gorge yesterday and decided to go to Babcock State Park to see the grist mill. I went into the gift shop to buy some fresh ground corn meal or flour, but unfortunately the terrible floods they had in southern WV this summer damaged the sluice box. There has been so little rain since then that even if the mill were operable, they couldn’t grind.

As I sat on a bench across the way from the grist mill, I thought of all the circles within the confines of that building…from the large waterwheel to the gears at the elbow to the millstone…each circle has a purpose. Each is built for a certain outcome. They take in rough, coarse grain and work it between heavy stones to wear down the tough outer covering. They continue to work…round and round till the final product is usable. With very little effort, that product can be turned into a variety of healthy, nutritious foods that feeds us and keeps us alive. We are like the grain in God’s gristmills. He can turn hard winter wheat into the softest cake flour. He can also turn the hardest of hearts loving and soft. He turns the stone and works on us all of our lives.

As I sat there, I said a prayer for my cousin, Margie. She lost her fairly brief fight with cancer when she was released from her pain Wednesday in the early morning hours. Her trip through life’s grist mill was a rough one, but she was a strong woman and fought hard. Her wish, in lieu of a funeral, was for the family to come together for a meal. I love that. She was always at the family dinners that I attended. I will think of her in the changing leaves, the crisp air, the rush of water over the flywheel of the mill. I will remember her when I rub soft flour between my fingers. She is the sweetness of the cake…the texture of the bread. God rest your sweet soul, Margie. You are free to fly.

❤️

“Grain for bread is easily crushed, so he doesn’t keep on pounding it. He threshes it under the wheels of a cart, but he doesn’t pulverize it.”‭‭

Isaiah‬ ‭28:28‬ ‭NLT‬‬