Diamonds are Falling!

     Diamonds are falling from the sky! We are moving and getting tough with Mademoiselle Attic. Unscrupulous and indulgent toward us and our four children, she has accepted every possible form of donation for 21 years, be it single socks, worn out sneakers, knitting needles, Hardy Boy books missing both covers or useless fans. Now we are paying for her poor judgment. Mostly in books.

    From up above, books are raining down. Ross shoves them by the dozen into boxes and bags and slides them through the pulldown stairs onto the laundry room floor. After one thinning, there still are 2,000. How did we ever get 2,000 of them?

    Well, we love:

                          History of all times and places
                           British authors
                            Gardens and trees
                               Food through the ages
                                 Birds and fish
                                   Sailing
                                    Housekeeping
                                      Children's classics
                                       Devotional classics
                                        Word studies
                                          Southern writers
                                            England
                                             Saints

    But no one is buying books. Twenty years ago, Ross could take a box to a bookseller and return with $100 ($250 in today's money?). Yesterday, the local dealer arrived to inspect four rows of 50 spines each neatly laid out in the library. He took exactly zero.

    Ross was disappointed, but put a brave face on it. "I understand," he said. "The man's store is already full of books no one is buying, and he's looking for first editions, rare books, specialty books." Still, it felt like rejection. Ross's books are beloved friends. It's not about the money; it is all about finding good homes for the children.

    But, back to diamonds falling from the sky. Here is one that I scooped off the floor: Humility, by Andrew Murray. The book is pocket-sized,  faded brown and worn to the cloth on the spine. A long stemmed rose graces the cover. I open it at random to page 30:

                      I cannot too earnestly plead with my reader, to pause and ask
                      whether he sees much of the spirit of the meek and lowly
                      Lamb of God in those who are called by His name.

                          Let him consider how all...sharp and hasty
                      judgments and utterances, so often excused under the plea
                      of being outright and honest; all manifestations of temper
                      and touchiness and irritation; all feelings of bitterness and
                      estrangement,--have their root in nothing but pride...

                      (Note to self: He is saying ALL???)

                          Let him begin to ask what would be the effect, if...
                      believers were really permanently guided by the humility of
                      Jesus; and let him say if the cry of our whole heart, night and
                      day, ought not to be, Oh, for the humility of Jesus in myself and
                      all around me!

                      (Another note to self: What am I crying to God about? someone else's
                       bad behavior?)

          I will hang that diamond around my neck today, keep it close to my heart. Humility. A bowed heart. A soft, open, malleable heart. (I'm remembering that sharp directive to Peter yesterday: Can't you break down the boxes any faster?)

                                                  Help, Lord!