You see when folks get old, well some of them complain. But complainin’ isn’t what they need to do. The tears they cry, they need them, and then they can offer them up to the Man Upstairs, or that place within their hearts, where love is born and where our souls can live forever as our memories still offer joy from those shining Fields of Gold, like they are in Cloutierville.
We change, for sure, as we grow old. Our bodies, they can fail. And so can the talents we once had, those measures of our lives we treasured in our youth. But from our miracles, some bits and pieces of those treasures can appear, especially when we need them most, in times like this as they sometimes do for me and all of you.