When November Comes

When November comes,
the rain knows every window.
Leaves gather by the doorway like old friends coming home.
I pull your chair beside the fire,
though you're not sitting there.
Funny how a room remembers someone who's no longer here.
When November comes,
I feel the years somehow. The children have their own lives,
and I'm the old man now.
But I still thank God for every chair
that once surrounded me.
Some blessings become memories,
but they're blessings still to me.
There's coffee on the table,
a Bible by my side.
Your picture catches firelight,
and for a moment, you're alive.
Soon they'll come for Thanksgiving,
little footsteps through the door,
and this old house will breathe again
the way it did before.
Oh, when November comes,
I don't ask God for much.
Just keep my family close enough that I can feel their touch.
Let me hear them laugh together.
Let us bow our heads and pray.
Because someday we'll miss this November we're living through today.
Rain against the window, fire burning low.
Thank you, Lord, for everyone I've loved and everyone
I still get to hold.