My life is full of texture.

The cut flowers on my table are petal soft in the middle and a bit dry toward the ends.

I need to change the water in the vase, or change out the flowers completely.

My yard is a wonderful panorama of crunchy reds, yellows and browns.

I need to do some raking. But I delay because I love the colors so much.

The fleece I’m wearing is soft and warm.

It’s one of the newer things that I own.

My table and countertops are smooth, but more often crumby.

It’s hard to keep up with everyone’s mess.

My children’s cups are sticky.

Why do they never have clean hands?

My leather journal has stiff paper and a stitched binding I can pick at with my fingernail.

It is dear and full of thoughts.

My Bible is crinkled and worn.

It has a life of its own and an air of comfort.

My husbands arms are firm and strong and gentle.

What a wonderful texture.


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