Bouncing through the underbrush in our golf cart out by the Lost Lake burn pile Mr. Keith and I came upon this old, moss covered, leaning shack. I can't see one of these relics without thinking about Wm. Paul Young's book "The Shack", which I enjoyed immensely several years ago. We couldn't resist walking through the abundant scotch broom to look inside. Too bad — there was nothing in there but junk piled up to the rafters and a few curious sounds of maybe a critter making a home there. The boards were coming loose and the floor had rotted away.
Sometimes I feel somewhat like an old shack myself. This old house isn't as strong as it once was! I feel a little mossy, and I lean a little from Mr. Arthritis, tottering around with my cane. Like the shack, though, I'm in a beautiful setting, with tall fir trees, a meadow, and blue skies.
Unlike the shack, I am not filled with junk — well, maybe a little, with some old memories I'd just as soon forget. I'm working on tossing all that out. I'm hoping, as in Mr. Young's book, that my house is filled with the glory of God, with contentment, with gratitude for life. My fireplace is burning warmly with the love of my family and friends. My heart is full with the wonders I've experienced in my life. My windows are clear and unbroken, allowing me to view the world with optimistic and wise eyes. This old shack will not crumble, but instead be made into an eternal dwelling place for all that is good, forever!