In the midst of crisis, recession, and impending financial collapse, let us turn our heads upward and contemplate grander notions. Consider our position. Compare it with where we’ve been, and where, say, our grandparents and great-grandparents once were. The doom that so recently besets our horizon shrivels in the winds of grace that have borne us up the rise of a centuries-high mountain of blessing. Despite crags in the climb, he who looks down will swoon from the height of our perch. We face beasts beside, fissures afoot, caverns afore, and vultures yet above; yet what can we fear that our Father-Eagle has not lifted, sheltered, shielded us from before?

He brought me up out of the pit of destruction, out of the miry clay, And He set my feet upon a rock making my footsteps firm (Ps. 40:2).

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. . . . He shall cover you with His feathers, And under His wings you shall take refuge; His truth shall be your shield and buckler (Ps. 91:1, 3).

My grandfather lived through the Great Depression. His father had started with nothing. In the days of great-grandfather McDurmon, nearly every seventh child born died within a year. In 1950, 1 in 34. Today, only 1 in every 143. Blessings, gradual. They had no cars, no phones, no internet, computers, etc. They walked, rode horses and wagons. Yet they had fresh bread, apples, pears, hogs, chickens, eggs, milk, butter, land, house, barn, a mule, and homemade wine. They had a home-grown gobbler on Thanksgiving, and they could speak a book on the topic. Excepting sugar and salt, they produced everything on their own land. For a real treat they walked the long dirt road down to the bottoms and veered into the woods. There at the base of burly oaks gleamed the wrinkled smiles of those gnarly gems of the forest floor: morels. We who have tasted, for the mere memory of that blessed savor, Give Thanks.

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