Why do I ever stop singing? That was what I wondered after church on Sunday. The team was a magical combination with four singers, a violin, drums, keyboard, guitar, and bass. It went from an ordinary morning to a stellar one even before the congregation arrived. Where does that much positivity even come from? 

The service too was rich with meaning. The minister invited children up to put fat and skinny cows on the felt board, and watching them take the task seriously was food for my heart. He talked about those times of abundance, represented by the seven years of plenty in the land of Canaan, and it was easy to revel in the richness. I have known generosity. Kindness spilling over, with more than I deserve. Last summer thirty people arrived at our house to reclaim our unkempt yard, after the era of chickens had passed. I still marvel at their sweat equity, and the transformation that has endured. Later in the month dozens of  friends appeared to celebrate my birthday, and our children gifted me with a trip to visit them out west. Surely such a wealth of bounty could last me for a very long time. 

Then in the fall things with Benjamin escalated to a point where we felt unsafe, and he had to be hospitalized. Like the bovines in the story, the goodness was swallowed up by despair. 

But the message of the story that Sunday was about preparation. Store up the blessings that are spilling over, and save them for a time of drought. Someone in the discussion afterwards used the word savor, to express it. 

It turns out that I am forgetful. It took a moment to recall whether the episode behind locked doors was last September, or the one before. And this morning, when Ben shared his excitement with me to have found his favorite cereal in the cupboard, the remembrance disappeared altogether.