Moments Before We Fly

28 Sunday Jun 2026

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It’s fledging time. With a ring-side seat last week, from first our living room windows, and then from the kitchen door, I watched the activity of our barn swallow family, as the young fledged their mud-nest home. Each year we allow one family to build over the kitchen door at the end of a long porch. We get scolded by the parent birds, threatening us to keep our distance, as well as a terrible mess of their droppings deposited beneath the nest at our threshold. In return, we get a natural airborne exterminator for flying pests. And we get an entertaining show of parenthood, of growing up, and of beautiful aerodynamics. I was captivated by the similarities between the subject of my spying, and our growth as humans.

After a few days of seeing their little heads pop over the edge of their nest, I was not surprised to find five young barn swallows precariously perched on the porch rail, and on our bench, making feeble attempts at flying. One tumbled into the bed of 4 O’clocks below the rail. Continuing to observe them, I made several notes, as follows.

Parent birds fly near, perch beside them and the young’s mouths gape open for the usual feeding; but mom knows that to keep hand-feeding will result in weak children unable to fend for themselves. Disappointed fledglings watch as mother flies away, calling out as she does so. I think about how our own children, as well as children of God, wait eagerly for parental care — handouts, only to find we do not get everything we want. We need to be coaxed into reaching out, gaining strength, and learning to be responsible. So we pray, study, and grow.

Mother flies in, mouths fly open. Teetering on the brink of leaving.

Oh, the messes they make!
Huddled in anticipation

Let there be no doubt, the young do not simply fly the nest! There are fumbling, tumbling and fluttering moments with much clinging, and faltering baby steps. Imitating the parents, they begin preening, and taking short lift-offs and landings; all the while, expecting the continuous feeding. And the mess they make follows them to their new perches while trying to balance on the rail as well as a small dinner bell attached to the porch wall. They seem to be trying to get nearer the airfield Mother Swallow is expected to use. After a period of time known only by the mother’s instinct, she resumes the feeding as they huddle on the dinner bell and arm of the bench.. She is aware her young still need sustenance. So, while the parents are using tough love to teach the young to survive, they continue their care tediously, tirelessly, and tenderly. Our Father God has always chastised His children, and blessed them tenderly, for the sole purpose of their spiritual well being and safety; and that they will become their best image of Him. Many messes are made by all children as we grasp, cling, fumble and fall. Learning to be what we are meant to be is not easy. Grand effort is made as well, by all parents worth the salt in their bread, to bring their young to maturity, enabling them success when they’ve flown the nest.

Building their strength along with their courage over a few hours time, each fledgling eventually gives it a try. Unwilling to allow me to look for the first jumper, Ma Swallow threatens me to stay away, and I know she will coax that one as well, from its hiding place below. She will not give up her guarding, coaxing, and nourishing; tediously, tirelessly, and tenderly. Jesus’ parable in Matthew 18: 12 explains her concern, as well as the action God takes for His jumpers. Even one out of a hundred is worth going after.

Though the young are now very near the size of the parent birds, a little observation shows their instability and her quick, sure maneuvers to show who is who. I watch the gaping (identical to me) mouths all lined up, as she swoops in with bug after bug, and I wonder how does she know whose turn it is to eat. In her absence, the babies toddle about, look up toward the nest they’ve left, and I imagine a look of “well guys, there’s no going back there!” They trust the care will continue. They walk around each other with those halted steps on the old wooden bench. One live bug, the size of a fly, dropped from the beak of one young bird. Mother saw it and swooped back in, picked it up, and swallowed it. How many times have our moms waited for leftovers? Or perhaps she taught another lesson — waste not, want not. She is still the boss; and so is our God. Once we have walked with Him, we know we never want to go back.

Perhaps you are a bird enthusiast too, and enjoy the activity, the similarities and differences between them and other animals, and the reminders of our own lives. Watching them, I sensed how tediously, tirelessly and tenderly our Father has cared for His children, always. As we are reborn to become His, He provides the word to nourish us, tenderly leading us in paths of righteousness (Psalm 23:3). He gives us a shield and strength (Psalm 28:7); He disciplines and corrects those who are His (Proverbs 3:11-12, Hebrews 12:6). We mess up; He waits. We falter; He encourages. We eventually fly; He rejoices. “The Lord your God in your midst, the Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing.” (Zephaniah 3:17)

All mouths in same direction.
Wondering what to do next!

Someday I shall be ready to fly. He will have prepared me, supplied for me, and protected me to take the final flight from the nest and I will soar, never to return. In the meantime, I wait, hoping in the Lord and renewing my strength, and then I shall mount up with wings like eagles, being neither weary nor faint. (Isaiah 40:31) Have a wonderful week, Trisha

June 17

17 Wednesday Jun 2026

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Gardening 2026

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Actually, some pictures may not be worth anything; but we keep attempting to capture something — something we can’t quite put into words. If I had a picture of my mother’s love, it would be a collage of wonderful deeds that I certainly cannot put into words. It would be a picture of my biggest inspiration in life. I’m sure you too, have someone in your life, whose picture would be awesome!

In June, 1977 Mama was canning green beans the day my son, her first grandchild, was born. I will keep growing green beans for as long as I am able.

On June 17, 2009, Mama left us (and I bet reluctantly) for whatever God had awaiting her. Among many beautiful plants, she left a lovely bed of dianthus, and her first grandchild saved a handful of those and gifted to me. They still multiply and grow beneath my roses, as you see in the photo on the right, and I will cherish them for as long as I am able.

In spite of being advised — with the best of intentions — to stop having a garden, it is in my blood (middle picture, don’t laugh; I’m not a professional, just an old girl who loves a hoe in her hand in the morning.) Even though the weather has been less than cooperative, along with the residual chemicals from last year’s field crop, I am again coaxing a few vegetables to come together to make a garden. I expect I will keep doing so for as long as I am able.

I love to walk through my garden (pitiful as it is these days) in the early mornings and late evenings. As I was chopping through it a couple evenings ago, I was surprised to find the baby green beans you see in the first photo. I immediately remembered the year Mama was already canning hers by June 20. We had had no rain that spring; so little in fact, that the crops, including ours, were burning up in parts of the county, so either they were living right, or they had been watering their garden to have such a bounty of beans. My first baby wasn’t due until July and we had sold our house trailer, bought a farm and house that was not ready for us to move into yet, and had camped at my parents’ house just two days before. My grandma, no longer able to care for herself, lived there with them, and my younger sister and brother were still at home. So her three bedroom, one bath house was already full, and here we were, two more — just becoming three — in her apron pockets. Daddy was trying his hand at farming once again which he hadn’t done in many years, and that comes with its own very full apron pocket. So, amid all this, on June 20, she drove me to dig potatoes where my husband and I had lived just days before. Next, she had to put all her cares and duties on the back burner with the beans, and drive me (in denial that I could be in labor) to the hospital. After her daughter and grandson were safely rescued by a surprise cesarean section, I imagine Mama found a quiet dark place in the wee hours of the night to have a good cry, and pray for strength. And help. And space.

One week later, on June 27, my husband brought his new family back to Mama’s house, where she had recovered nicely, with accommodations made for us to enjoy our new baby until our house was ready. She had a large meal on the table for my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s birthday, and to celebrate the arrival of her first grandchild. My wonderful aunt had taken Grandma home with her for a while, and little brother’s bed was nestled in a very large utility room. Mama was now making space, as well, for a family of five coming from West Virginia to visit with our new baby. Women of my mother’s generation were absolute champions of adjustment; champions of change and accommodation; champions of big hearts and love in action. I do not know how she did it. But every year when the first green beans begin to form, I remember. I remember Mama becoming Granny, our champion; and how all the moments of her 77 3/4 years came together to make one lovely collage of a life well lived, and more love than I am able to put into words.

“Strength and honor are her clothing; she shall rejoice in time to come. She opens her mouth with wisdom, and on her tongue is the law of kindness. She watches over the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her.” (Proverbs 31: 25-28

May you be blessed with amazing ‘thousand-word pictures’ in your memories. Love, Trisha

Remembering my Mama, Sept. 16, 1931 – June 17, 2009

Moments

04 Thursday Jun 2026

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Here is the quote I was trying to find as I wrote my last post, and I believe I credited the wrong book and author. It was C. S. Lewis, and I should have known! He is a great one to read when looking for more meaning for the moments we live. Just thought I’d share now that I recovered the quote.

As I sit here with the dampness of evening wrapping my arms, my heart is full. The music of many bird songs, the rich tapestry of sun setting behind a wispy cloud curtain, and time spent with my great niece today, are just some of those ordinary moments that make up an extraordinary life.

God is extraordinarily good!

Enjoy your moments!

Love, Trisha

In A Moment

23 Saturday May 2026

Posted by in In Memory, Life, Reflections

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It’s been a moment or two since we met here. My moments have not easily shared with the computer lately, but today I am prompted by how quickly time alters the very ground we walk on. Your shaky ground may be as simple as waiting in line with the cramps and a crying baby. Or, it may be of the magnitude that leaves your life never the same. Whatever the moment holds, remember it will change, and with all the good moments to help, you will survive. I read in a book by Martha W. Hickman, (and I wish I could find the exact quotation) that the interruptions into what we thought was our life, are not interruptions at all, but are indeed our life. The moments, all of them, become the life we are living, and how we survive them, is most likely, who we are.

You know, the moments we live, can drag on like cold molasses, or they can vanish, literally in a breath. One example is that as I write, my daughter is awaiting twice-delayed departure times from an airport (slow moments); then suddenly the plane that was late arrived, boarded, and in the blink of an eye she will be hundreds of miles away (fast moments). These moments come and go quickly, even if we are waiting impatiently in a very long line; and breath by breath, we are passing them one by one. Moments, and the people who live them, are what tickle my writer’s yen. Because every one of them matter, we do well to take notice of not only how we are using them, but also, how the world around us is faring through their moments. We both know some moments are mere inconveniences, while others have grabbed you by the shoulders and spun you around and you may still be spinning. Either way, they are your moments, and they are important. Today, I’m just focused on our surviving them. One thing about moments I have noticed, is that they are always shared. Because I believe in the eternal all-knowing God of the universe, I know our moments are not alone.

All spring I have been concerned about the drought; crops, water levels, and trees with too little water in the soil. Now, as we are in our — what, third or fourth day of rain this week — should I worry about them all sliding downhill, or toppling over with soggy roots and heavy tops? Nothing stays the same. But this time, I wasn’t worried. After fifty plus years of farming, we learned to enjoy the good, and wait a moment, for God will take care of us through the bad.

I met a new organism last week; one I do not care to ever encounter again, because apparently rhinovirus enjoys hanging around and creating havoc, but my body does not share the enthusiasm. I have formed all sorts of immune responses along with medical community assistance, but one lobe of a lung is still harboring resentment. A whole week of moments, gone — and like my lung — I resent it. This is life however, and I’ll take it, even with the bugs. And the prednisone and rest — wow, I had forgotten how good it could feel to walk without pain.

Pain — What a multilayered word! In a moment last weekend, a young wife and four children lost their hero. I did not know him personally, but the wife grew up with my daughter, and these are good people. How can we be going about our routine, and suddenly find ourselves scrambling for our footing and gasping for breath? In a moment. So much changes so quickly. My heart hurts for that family and I pray for their strength, and the courage to keep walking moment by moment into their changed future.

More recently, my daddy’s brother passed away this week. At 84 years old, he lived a full, busy, satisfying life; seeing his son grow up to care for him and his own family, and having an adoring wife and many relatives who care deeply for him. Uncle Glenn had a work ethic that escapes most of our generation and those who follow ours. He has had what most would call more than his fair share of suffering, but he would not complain for long. Instead, he would be right back out in the cow pasture, or the garden (gardens quite large enough to feed a community), or pulling something around somewhere with a tractor. And this was just in retirement. Before retirement, he was a dedicated employee and manager in a physically strenuous job, and still did all these other things, filling his moments completely and, in my opinion, not wasting a one. He took many years of moments on and off, to go to his happy place in Calico Rock, Arkansas. There he was able to share moments of fishing and nature with friends and family. I would love to have seen him in that surrounding, but it was not to be in the moments for me. I’m happy to know he got to do what he loved to do, fill so many moments with positive energy, and enjoy telling about it.

We have to wonder why; why are some lives made of many moments and others so few. We wonder why — and it is natural to wonder because God gave us the ability to do so — why do the moments for some last only two years, but for others, 84 and more. You won’t hear me say things like, “God took good old aunt Flossie…” because I know God is not a taker. While Job said “the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh”, for me this was his euphemism for life ain’t always grand folks so watch who you’re pointing at. And Job said it first — the Lord gives. How can we blame a being Who gave us the amazing people in our lives in the first place, knowing all our moments will finally run out someday. The same God who put in all the wonderful, is present with us through our awful, loving, tragic, exciting, depressing, ecstatic and dull moments in life, and gave us all kinds of people to live them with us. He promises strength for our fallen times; encouragement for our depressing times; and life-long moments of love and memories and people, to bind up our broken hearts. Recall Isaiah’s promise from God; not that God would spare His people from waters, rivers, fire and flame, but that He would walk us through it all. (Isaiah 43:2)

God does allow us all kinds of wonderful, from watching a day awaken in blazing sunrise, to watching our aged loved ones in peace, at last, close their eyes. There is no denying He allows us to live through some terrible things brought on by the very real demon of this world, but — oh my friend! Never forget, God is the arm holding you up when you don’t know how. He is the bird’s morning call singing you survived. He is the friend’s flowers, the parents’ touch, the young child’s laughter, and the sunrise and sunset you will experience again, in your moments He has granted you. His grace will sustain your moments until, as His child, you will have the never-ending moments of eternity where all mysteries are known, and you get to live with the love of all love, bigger than all the bad moments we could ever know.

Please be assured, I am not at all making small of big problems. Since the world began, there has been disaster at all levels. I only want to share that God is bigger than all the disasters, all problems, all disappointments. He is the fixing of the problems; He is the coming together of solutions; and He is the giver of all life and the moments within.

Love, Trisha

Mother’s Day

10 Sunday May 2026

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“Honor your father and mother,” which is the first commandment with promise. (Ephesians 6:2)

Mother’s Day, (no matter how wonderful and love-filled it is with our children, friends, and relatives), has a little blue cloud in it if you aren’t able to talk to your mother. You may have had a mom, momma, mother, grandmother, or some other title of selfless love; I had Mama. My sister, brother, and I were blessed to have our Mama until she was just short of her 78th birthday. We’d have kept her forever, but for her sake, God gave her a blessed rest.

My own children generously spent their time, and their money, to give me a sweet and fun-filled weekend of togetherness. I couldn’t ask for more. They tell me with their words and actions how much they love and appreciate me, so there is in no way, anything missing in my Mother’s Day pleasure — it’s my mother’s Mother’s Day that I miss; that has a little blue in it.

I miss her tattered old housecoat. I miss her glistening eyes as she tried to make me understand how much she loved us. I miss her asking for “just a little bitty bite of that”. I miss her grand roast beef, carrots, potatoes and chocolate pie. I miss the beautiful impatiens she invested way too much money and energy in each spring. I miss the way she leaned nearer me in church to hear me sing even though I gave her that look that said, don’t embarrass me. I would give a pretty to have her there leaning near me again. I miss her one and only tone-deaf tune as she sang her lullaby Bye-oh Baby Bye-oh, as she rocked her grandbabies. I miss the genuine, from-the-heart advice, given because she cared more than anyone in the world could care. I miss, oh how I miss, seeing her drive up the driveway, knowing that whatever she saw, heard or sensed, she was going to say something positive and encouraging, and make us believe we were the best thing since sliced bread. I want so badly to tell her how loved and missed she is. But then, I feel quite sure she knew it already.

If we had the perfect life, with a thousand top-notch children, friends and relatives, and not a thing missing, except our mother, we would without a doubt, feel the missing part. Because we only get one — the one and only — Mama.

If you are fortunate enough to still have your mom in your life, cherish her. Enjoy every opportunity to spend with her, and give yourself the gift of her life-earned wisdom. If you have seen her pass to the next life, live to honor her memory. Live life with all the joy and love that she would want you to.

Have a wonderful week. Trisha

Oh What a Gift!

27 Monday Apr 2026

Posted by in MONDAY MUSINGS, Nature

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Who doesn’t enjoy a gift? No one; we all like receiving gifts. “Just what I always wanted”, or “Oh what a nice surprise!”, or “now, that’s different”, might be our comments upon opening a present, or a gift. The best gifts may not be wrapped at all. As my husband has prayed, “thank you Father for the air we breathe”, among other things we tend to take for granted. And sometimes — just sometimes — a whole day is one big gift. Such was today, Saturday, April 25, 2026, with a flawless blue sky, gentle breezes, and short sleeve comfort without being hot. As the day unwrapped itself, I figured out why gifts are sometimes called presents; to be fully present in a moment, we are able to see the gift in it.

For the previous 24 hours, I had the sinking feeling something had happened to our Eastern bluebird couple who are incubating six beautiful blue eggs in a box at the back of our lawn. First thing this morning, I waded the dew to check the box and found it still egg-filled, but no parents, just like my last box check last evening, and throughout the day yesterday. As I peered into the nest this morning, I heard a faint snap, snap, snap…but could see no birds nearby who might have given the warning snap. I carefully closed the box, and retreated to the patio to watch. As I sat down, I saw the beautiful blue-feathered friends perched on the electric lines over my potting shed. Relief washed over me as I looked upward whispering thank you, and found even my coffee tasted better without the thought of six orphaned eggs. Then, Mr. Bluebird flew to their box, looked in, then leaned in, and satisfied all was good, he backed out and flew to a nearby perch, and seemed to give a nod. Mama bluebird then took her cue and entered the box to sit with her soon-to-be family. I noticed daddy bird sat for a moment or two longer, then flew out of sight. What a gift to know nothing had happened to them, and moreover, to witness the careful attention they give to their nesting duties. The way he scans the area, and gives her the “all clear,” is a treat to witness.

Soon the air was filled with our Purple Martin colony as they began their winged feeding and demonstrating their unique aerial skills. Their calling is like a multi-syllable song that begins and ends with tapping and an alien-type clicking from the movie Signs. I have no better way to describe it. They are fascinating, and this year all 18 of our gourds are hosting these black beauties, thanks to my husband’s diligent efforts to fend off the offending house sparrows; not to mention 12 new and improved gourds that are easier to view and tend. Breakfast and a show!

A beautiful song directed my attention to the tip top of our Brandywine maple tree, where a Baltimore Oriole was perched, singing his morning melody. What a treat just to see and hear this one. I did have to look online to be sure of his identity as I had only seen him once the day before — and in the exact same spot. By this time, I was joined by my husband who has caught my birdwatching addiction. Nearer to where we sat, is a Hawthorne tree whose branches hold a wren house covered by a bent license plate. The hardworking wren (which I believe is a common house wren) had finally gotten a taker on his nest of twigs and he was singing his little lungs out. She (I have to suppose, because the male and female wrens look alike) flew in and out of the little house so quickly I couldn’t decide if she was feeding young, or adding her touch to his nest-building skills. These small quick birds make up for their size with their loud voices and tenacity. Other visitors to the back yard this morning were: song sparrows, two brown thrashers, a pair of goldfinches, a cardinal, the resident mocking birds, a cedar waxwing (versus a tufted titmouse, not sure), and a male house sparrow whose attempts at setting up housekeeping nearby were thwarted by the tenacity I just mentioned, of our wrens. For a bird watcher, these visitors were a gift in themselves, only to be topped later in the day by the king of birds.

As the day went forward, I made a visit to a neighbor who was recuperating, where I was met cheerfully by her dog. Cheerful was good, because he was quite active and rather large; as my mother would say, he was as fat as a town dog. He was as slick as a seal and just as playful. Obeying his mama, he retired to his crate on the porch while we visited, but when I rose to leave, Haney (the dog) came out of his crate to walk me out, so to speak. He then left me, only to return quickly with a stick of about 12 inches long, and promptly held it up for me to take. I did so, and thanked him for the gift; then threw it for him and he did the fetch thing and brought it back and placed it at my feet. Just one gift after another! I mean, this day just kept becoming more and more in need of a large bow and scotch tape.

Just before sunset, I was invited by hubby to listen for a couple of owls he had been hearing throughout the day. The owl makes a tone out of my hearing range and the man continues trying to get me to hear them. As we sat in an area between his equipment shed and an old stock barn, we suddenly became aware of a large presence coming over us. Looking up, we were surprised to see an eagle soaring overhead, (the king of birds I mentioned earlier). It seemed to just barely glide above the tallest shed, but you know how the memory exaggerates the contents of a surprise. He was, however, closer than I had ever been to an eagle for sure. Just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, westward and away. Giving up on the hooting of owls, we turned toward our house, to see a parade of deer sauntering along the back of the field, toward our pond behind the house. We eased up the driveway and onto the patio to spend our sunset watching the deer. A group of four, we determined, and we watched as they took turns stepping up onto the pond bank, then downward out of sight to get a drink, and back up again. As the first one returned to her herd, the second one repeated her actions. Our attention was diverted by the evening birds on the lawn, as well as the eagle returning, and hiding itself in the oaks beyond our pond. We were feeling quite blessed by a day of many gifts, not the least of which is health good enough to be out and about, and the beauty of the day wrapped around us. But then — just as I was looking back out to the deer — I saw them startle and jump away from the pond bank. I looked in the direction they were looking. At that moment we had the joy of seeing the eagle mount up triumphantly from the pond with a fish, large enough we could see it in his talons. Carrying its supper away, it left my husband and me just open-mouthed in awe. Now, for many frequent lake-goers, this would not be a spectacular experience, but for an old farm couple in Hazel, Kentucky, who had only been spotting bald eagles high up and away for very few recent years, this was a thrilling evening. Sunset found us giddy with excitement — excited about life, and just being present in the day — a day of gifts!

More than ever, I felt the truth I had been hearing about being in the moment. I had experienced it the evening before as I walked my fur baby, letting him meander the roadside, and taking the time myself to touch, smell, and name as many of the wild plants as I could. In full bloom were honeysuckle, wild privet, and what I hope are blackberry vines. The cedar is laden with tiny light blue berries I enjoy seeing each year. None of this was new; it was new in a different way, as I forgot about hurrying back, or any other concerns. I didn’t even concern myself with the need to walk for exercise, as my guilty conscience usually thwarts the pleasure of any evening stroll. No, I just looked at each thing in our path with eyes only for that moment. There were scents of sweet, lemony, and evergreen; and a dozen different shades of green; with a symphony of calls and croaks. (Yes, I did taste the honeysuckle nectar. Several times. As sweet as ever!) Inhaling, seeing and listening — all those gifts of the senses God gave us — using them to appreciate the other gifts from Him, were helping me be present in the moment. This is the way to approach God’s word as well. I plan to be much more in the moment as I listen to God speak from His word — no distractions, just holding each phrase with an open heart, looking at it in it’s context, without trying to prove or disprove anything, and letting it connect me with God’s own heart.

In Gary Chapman’s book, The One Year Love Language Minute Devotional, he states, “Giving gifts as an expression of love is universal. A gift is a visible token that says, ‘I was thinking about you’ “. He points out that some people speak the language of gifts as they express their love. I can believe that, because the One in whose image we are made, gave and continues to give the very best gifts! “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning” (James 1:17).

Have a wonderful week! Perhaps we will have the gift of rain without a great deal of storm damage. Remember to be present in your moments. Trisha

Havens, Hideouts, and Heart of a Child

20 Monday Apr 2026

Posted by in Encouragement, Faith, MONDAY MUSINGS

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(I began these thoughts on havens last year as the field corn was growing tall, enclosing our lawn and giving us a feeling of seclusion. The rains had been generous. So, this weekend’s wonderful rain reminded me to bring out the draft and finish it.)

He calms the storm,
So that its waves are still.
30 Then they are glad because they are quiet;
So He guides them to their desired haven.
31 Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,
And for His wonderful works to the children of men! Psalm 107:29-31

Often our memories from childhood can be evoked by a fragrance, or perhaps a glimpse of a thing, as well as by certain feelings. Sometimes just the smell of freshly mown grass can transport me to the Brunswick home of a young couple and their little girl. I am that little girl, and though I was less than five years old, I have a spot in my memory of a little green back yard, with a rabbit cage holding my white bunny, situated between our small white frame house and a wooded area. Sandwiched there between the back wall of that house and the woods, I was secure and happy, a memory so dim it’s actually only a feeling — safe, private, and mine. A haven is a haven, not because of how it’s constructed, but because of the shelter (real or metaphoric) that it provides, and the feeling associated with it.

Last summer, the feeling of a cozy, secluded haven or hideout returned to me in our open backyard; the kind of cozy you had with quilts stretched over the kitchen table where you lived under it in a tent… well at least until supper time. Time and place for feeling that kind of cozy, are few and far between in adulthood, but with a child’s heart, sitting in our backyard, I found memories creeping over me of clubhouses, tree houses, and a closet in my aunt’s house. It was a large closet, the size two six-year-old girls could stretch out in and color in their coloring books, with a cigar box full of old crayons and a new box of 64 Crayola crayons that made me about as happy as a little girl can be. With a wall of coats and clothing hanging over the perimeter, and the door closed, our little hideout became an artist’s gallery, or a spelling bee, and often a dueling arena as my cousin and I settled differences of opinions. My haven was in a house where I found acceptance, love and safety. Fast-forward to our backyard last summer, surrounded entirely by the lushly growing corn crop, where again I experienced the feeling of a private clubhouse, a haven, or an adult-sized coloring closet.

A ripened corn field, when it is dark and fragrant, is a magical place, surrounded by tall jade-green walls and a roof of blond tassels. Visited by members only — a deer who seems surprised to find anyone else in the clearing he had found; our resident rabbit who scampers from under the potting shed into an emerald room, and disappears into the walls. Music playing is that of the Purple Martins, a wren, the lonely call of a Bobwhite, and the chatter of the bluebirds. Someone forgot to turn on the climate control for this hideaway, so my stay is brief this day, but my temporary clubhouse would continue to entertain me each morning and each evening until the walls would come down in the autumn. It is a peaceful sanctuary, a private place, and it is a gift. A haven from the din and dilemmas of today’s world, it reminds me of the haven the Lord God promises as He quiets our storms and stills the waves of uncertainty. There — in God’s haven — we find a place of peace (John 14:27), a personal relationship with the Lord (Psalm 139:1-6), and a gift (Acts 2:38).

The evening before, after mowing clean our verdant clubhouse, the plan was to tend our adjoining garden, with a rototiller. Before the tiller came three steps out of the garage, a large cloudburst soaked the garden, again. The tantrum I could have had, was blown away by a gentle cooling breeze, and the freshly washed green of the backyard haven’s walls, their blond roof waving softly with praise for the welcome water. Weeks later, as we try to visit this magical place, a warm wet blanket wraps our faces after the sun penetrates our emerald clubhouse. But during the earliest morning hours, we would be entranced for a little while, reverting to a pleasant childhood frame of heart, and meditate.

In the Psalms, the writer by inspiration of God, reveals to us the haven of peace and security our souls have in the Lord. He reminds us there will be storms of strife and winds of hardship in the world; but that He is not of this world. He abides in that Haven of all havens, where evil cannot invade, and from where He sees all, and works in all — all of this world’s wet blankets — to provide a reprieve and safety in His arms for His children. When I humble myself as a little child; when I follow the Shepherd’s call of safety; when I allow the Savior to pilot my ship to calm water, I find the haven of peace and security. There I clearly see the difference between the wrestling of the world, and the haven of God’s heart.

May you find your own place of peace and quiet this week, for meditation and refreshing from the ways of the world. If you already have that little hideout, then you know what I mean.

Have an emerald week! Trisha

CHASING SPARROWS

13 Monday Apr 2026

Posted by in MONDAY MUSINGS, The unexpected

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Do you ever get to thinking you’re chasing sparrows, more than accomplishing anything? I’ll tell you, I sometimes feel I spend half my life chasing down something I mislaid. The other half of the time, I’m chasing intentions and feeling hopelessly unaccomplished. As Saturday opened its front door of potential, I felt sure we would enjoy a quick breakfast in town, pick up a couple items and get a set amount of work done before enjoying some relaxing moments in the backyard. Ha! We spent the day chasing sparrows — sparrows of one kind or another.

It seems our lives consist primarily of our own interests, and more importantly, the interests of those precious blessings we call family and friends. The other elements in our lives come from the pop-in experiences, or the happenstance — some like the pair of welcome hummingbirds who just zoomed through; and some like sparrows. They (the sparrows) are not what we call desirable pop-ins; but as sure as life, they are there, and must either be ignored, or become a part and parcel of what we do.

My husband and I have been blessed with retirement years at home together; albeit, strewn with physical ailments of one sort or another. All in all, we get to enjoy some pretty good things. Some of those good things in our lives have been a backyard of beautiful and melodious feathered friends. I think God created these just for me (wink); well, for sure for people who aren’t chasing little league, or tournaments, or bucket lists, and such as that. Though we aren’t the best of landlords for the birds, we take great pleasure in providing good housing and we are learning as we go. They, in turn, provide great entertainment for us. I’d say the highlight of our day was a scene at the back corner where two young apple trees are blooming. In one, perched two goldfinches; in the other, a male bluebird. Wow! What striking colors! So, instead of chasing things to do and buy and want, we chase sparrows. Literally. If you know, you know.

I have had several successful years of chasing away the house sparrows from my bluebird boxes by hanging a shredded shopping bag over the box as soon as they have lain the first or second egg. Not too attractive, but it works. Two years ago we had 14 fledglings total, to successfully leave the nests. The bluebird parents will not allow a flapping plastic bag (called a sparrow spooker) to stop them from finishing their family. Whereas, the sparrows, persistent and tenacious as they are, do not yet have the family attachment to the box, and are frightened away from invading the nest as they are otherwise prone to do. Yesterday I discovered, sadly, this will not work against the wrens. In the past, I have had enough wren housing to keep them occupied. This year, I missed the mark — forgot the wren houses and the rest is too sad to relate. So, I am on a chase: watch for the next bluebird egg in whichever box they choose, hang a spooker, and count incubation days; watch the two wren houses I just repaired and hung where they’ve nested in previous years; and help my husband, who is working feverishly to keep the sparrows chased out of his Purple Martin gourds! We have torn out at least eight house sparrow messy nests since the martins arrived in mid-March. This will be a never-ending cycle because you CAN. NOT. STOP. NATURE. Thank Goodness; and I wonder if we have lost the good sense He gave us, for even trying.

As a matter of fact, should anyone have driven past our peaceful little patch of earth today, they’d have seen a woman in her pajamas, being hoisted up in a backhoe loader, taking a messy nest out of a gourd, with a flock of fussing martins soaring back and forth waiting for their territory to be vacated of its intruders. Such is the life of a sparrow chaser. In hardly any time at all, we will be chasing European starlings, and hawks, as we strive to protect the future Purple Martin young. There is a balancing act in knowing how much to get involved and when to stay out of their business. Not so different from interacting with the rest of the world, is it?

Like many other pop-up or pop-in facets of our lives, the house sparrows make an awful mess. Not only do they invade and destroy young song birds, they build in rafters and make a mess all over your vehicles. And so, we chase. Very few of these sparrows will meet any demise so not to worry, but perhaps we will have aggravated them enough and chased them enough that they will end up in your neck of the woods. Not likely.

All this chasing causes me to stop and ponder — does God approve of our chase? Is my chase benefitting anyone or anything; or am I spinning my wheels in the dust of deadwood? Can I better use the time and talents given me? It all depends. Moderation in all things is highly recommended. If I can pursue a beloved hobby, and continue to use my resources to help another; if I can work in my life’s objectives, and stop to appreciate the blessings; if I can indeed enjoy those blessings and still stop to praise the Creator and Giver of it all, then surely I will have His approval. Lately, I have been tempted to go over-board (if only I could just get through the landscaping ONCE) so I needed the pop-in aggravations of the day to remind me not be too focused on my own agenda. To my own interests, I need to add those of another, and be keenly aware of priorities.

As one example of too much chasing, take this small writing table — full of writer’s paraphernalia, such as my journals, pens and pencils, dictionary, bibles, an Instant Facts book, and a laptop. Also by my laptop, is the sun visor and pair of gloves I used in landscaping yesterday. A bag of dog treats for one very important part of my life is accompanied by a plant, rooting in a jar of water, just begging to be transplanted. So much to do! Hopefully, I will see the cards hanging above the table from sweet friends, so I am reminded to be thankful for them. Also, there’s a box of cards I might use more often for jotting down notes to those needing encouragement. At hand too, is the study bible and devotional books just for a daily walk with Jesus. Life gets messy, and it’s important to keep the resources nearby to deal with it fruitfully.

As for our Saturday plans: the breakfast, a bust. The errands, one took forever and the other, no-go. The few jobs, still to be done. Some days are like that, and we just keep chasing. Someone once said, life isn’t interrupted by the unexpected; life IS the interruptions. I agree. I hope I can keep chasing the sparrows out of our loved ones’ lives, and keep finding a better and better me as I run along.

“to knowledge (add) self-control, to self-control perseverance, to perseverance godliness, to godliness brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness love. For if these things are yours and abound, you will be neither barren nor unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ.” 2 Peter 1:6-8

Have a beautiful fruitful week! Trisha

Southern Brick Wall

28 Wednesday Jan 2026

Posted by in Encouragement

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I gazed longingly at my old flip-flops abandoned in a corner of the sunroom. I knew it would be a while before my fur baby and I could run out quickly in pjs and flip-flops, he without his doggy sweater. Seven inches of snow and sleet with temperatures in the single digits and teens, assured me this would be with us more than a moment. With gratitude for a warm house, running water, food in the freezer, and hot coffee, I am content — until I see the worn out flip-flops; and I wish I were wearing them now. Life has a way of yanking us back and forth from sighs of gratitude, to collisions of complaining, to relief of respite. Please, if I complain about the heat next July, just slap me!

Still, the sheen of sunshine over a pristine blanket of snow is a sight hard not to appreciate. But what if we were without electricity as many of our southern neighbors are. Oh, I know what if…we have been there before — feeding fuel into a portable generator, packing coolers of water into the house, flushing toilets with gallon jugs of water, and gathering by the gas logs while the generator rests. I recall in our former house, which was over 90 years old, opening the cabinet doors and leaving the water dripping even with electricity, and then keeping the hair dryer ready to start thawing the pipes anyway! Oh yes, I know how quickly the beautiful, playful snow and sparkling ice diamonds can become a pain in the neck. And yet, I am content to watch the season play itself out, appreciate the beauty, and be prepared for the beast. Life is as unpredictable as our state of heart.

Yesterday the temperature was 15 degrees after the sun had shone half the day, and as I watched my little Auggie scamper around on the frozen surface, I reached out and placed my hand on the southern-facing brick wall of the garage. I could feel warmth through my glove. “Surely”, I thought, “this wall cannot be warm on a day like today”.  Other days, yes; but how can this frigid air not stand between my wall and the sun? With a glove removed, I reached out, and sure enough, the wall was warm. Just as I had experienced in cold — but not as cold of weather — my southern brick wall was still soaking up and sharing the warmth of the winter sun living in the southern sky. We all need a Southern Brick Wall. When the bad comes in blizzards, and the coldness of the world reaches out to chill our hearts, we need a warm brick wall. Standing between us and the howling winds of heartache and harm, they absorb the warm rays of the Lord, penetrating even the coldest of days.

Someone who can be your southern brick wall, is someone who faces God, as the wall faces the south; looking to God for the warmth of His love and the truth of His word, that he or she may exude the same upon you in your days of chill and change. Our southern brick wall holds a heart of warmth where we can lean for the support and respite we need to continue on, and not be rocked off our feet by a blast of bitterness. Our southern brick wall will not allow the world’s attractions to cause her to abandon us. Most importantly, our southern brick wall will tell you she is not perfect. She too, can crumble, and become unintentionally cold with her own shadows, but will always point you toward the Son, Who never changes. “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning” (James 1:17 NKJV). “The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God stands forever” (Isaiah 40:8).

Change is impossible to avoid, and as we await the mush of spring thaws, we can also watch for the daffodil shoots and look forward to the freshness of their aroma. We will be aware of the likelihood of spring storms, but we also know where our southern brick walls are. Look for that person in your life who knows how to stand strong for you; who has strengthened themselves on the riches of God’s word and can help you walk through the worst. Better yet, soak up the love of the Lord yourself that you may stand ready when someone you know needs a strong, warm, southern brick wall. 

LEFTOVERS

01 Thursday Jan 2026

Posted by in Celebrating, Reflections

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Give to the Lord the glory due His name; bring an offering, and come into His courts. (Psalms 96:8) NKJV

On this beautiful first day of 2026, I find myself thinking more about things left over from previous years, and how to make them work for good in time to come. Like almost everyone, I began wishing you a happy new year, just before Christmas. I’ve enjoyed reading a few posts concerning hopes for 2026 and comments on closing of the old year. My heart is full of more good memories and love, but my refrigerator is full; just full. As for past years’ happy and woeful, time has moved so quickly for me that I can’t recall what was going on in what year, but have instead, begun calling things, “some time ago”, and “currently”. It’s safer that way.

On the day after Christmas, I started thinking about several leftovers. One was the decorated trees in our home, and the ornaments left from previous years. How I love holding each one and, with leftover memories, recite to myself the occasion or person responsible for each ornament being on our tree. Thankfully, many have the date written or else they would all be from the same time — some time ago! Much to the horror of those gone on before me, our trees are still up on January 1, and may be for several more days. The leftover fatigue of preparation may be partly to blame, but mostly I just like the time now for me to enjoy the sparkle and warmth of our decorations. However, this led me to realize the leftover intentions I never fulfilled. We also call these “what I forgot”. On the years my extended family meets at our house for Christmas, I have small ornaments they sign, date, and hang on our tree. Once or twice it was small bright red apples. Another, it was plain white balls; and a couple others, they signed red jingle bells. This year, I forgot my own tradition. And as always, the pickle was not even mentioned, so it hung in the sunroom tree until my daughter thought of it days afterward. Now, I have the leftover task of taking new bells, or balls, or whatever I can find, to each household and having them sign for Christmas 2025. Ah, leftovers!

The next leftovers that came to mind, are relationships. We all have them. People we thought we would stay in touch with but as time washes all the days together, we lose touch. Not that we don’t care about them or they us, but in healthy normal lifestyles, we meet new people, or form new relationships due to the paths our lives take, and before you know it a year has gone by and those important associations whom we love dearly, have faded into their own busy lives. Like good memories, they dangle just out of reach. We miss them, and we care about them, but (maybe because I am older) there are only so many minutes in a day and when some of those minutes take hours, well, it is just hard to keep up with a fast-paced world. You get it, right? I firmly believe in this quote my mother taught me: “Make new friends and keep the old; one is silver and the other is gold”. Cherish your leftovers and new ones alike.

You likely thought of food the instant you read the title of today’s blog. It is certainly an issue for this house. Why DO we prepare for legions of people when we are expecting 23 including tots and babies? As we ate leftovers (again) yesterday, I knew the line was drawing near, over which the left over food could become dangerous. Even partly cleaned out, our refrigerator is over-stuffed. We are a blessed people, but teetering on foolish, I’m afraid. Now, in my mind, Southern Living and Better Homes and Gardens were written to whet the appetite for cooking, not eating. I try new recipes, but cling to those left over from the — oh, some time ago — when I began collecting recipes from family and friends. So, the time honored traditions continue and are joined by the tempting new concoctions, filling my kitchen with hope, aroma, and yes, leftovers. There is a tin of Fantasy Fudge tempting me now from its place on the counter. I mean, what woman worth the salt in her bread doesn’t make Christmas fudge? I have a box in the freezer to refill this tin, if and when it is needed, which it isn’t. If any of you want fantasy fudge (delicious), please contact me and it is yours. Seems everyone is watching their weight and/or glucose levels, except me. And I should be. Okay, friends, it is a new year, so it is time to feed the trash can or freezer with your Christmas leftovers.

My left over resolution from years ago was to not make new year resolutions. It still stands. I hate to make promises I cannot keep, even to myself. There are however, some things I do try to get right for the new year, repeatedly. Some I have been successful with, like finally getting Gifts From the Garden written. I also began a more diligent study of biblical subjects, and I still need and plan to do more studying. I have been a teeny bit better with time management by letting social media rest more.

It seemed even the bluebirds knew it was the start of a new year this morning, as their excited chattering greeted me at the back door. As it turned out, a cheeping house sparrow had taken a shine to one of the bluebird houses, and the resident blues were quite in a tizzy as they flew in and out of the other empty houses and the magnolia tree, chattering away. Come to think of it, this too, is a leftover — an on-going rivalry over nesting sites. Who knew they’d start so soon? This leads me to some leftovers which are NOT desirable, as ornaments, relationships, and food are.

Can we try to let bygones be bygones, instead of leftovers? I wish I could teach the house sparrows this, so they would stop making trouble for hard working, peaceful songbirds. Let go of resentments and rivalries; move on to more pleasant matters.

Could I put my “money where my mouth is” and begin living out the life Christ has shown me to live? God really does not want the leftovers. I shouldn’t be willing to give Him the leftovers of my time and resources any more than I’d have served family week-old left over food on Christmas. “Honor the Lord with your possessions, and with the first fruits of all your increase;” (Proverbs 3:9) NKJV

Finally, I would like to be true to myself in what I hope to accomplish. Leftover intentions are a burden to carry year after year. This isn’t my first rodeo as they say, so why do I live like I have decades to get it right? I need to literally sit down and print out the things most important to me — things for the good of others, for the glory of God, and for the inner peace of myself. I hope to let go of ideas and thoughts I’ve had so long they’ve grown like bunions. Staying focused on what is “enough”, (as my sister would quote our late brother in Christ, Tommy Carraway), will be easier when I stop being distracted by shoulda/woulda/coulda.

Deciding what leftovers to keep and which to toss, will be my focus after I allow myself the relishing time I need. I feel a bit of purging coming down the pike; and I don’t mean food only. No resolutions; just determination to make this coming year count for good. If anyone has advice for making this easier, I am all ears.

I love you, sweet friends. If January 1 passes and you haven’t made some change you need to, it’s okay! With God, every day is a new year, a new opportunity, and the perfect time to turn leftovers into something spectacular. Happy new year! Trisha