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

Notifications

15 Saturday Nov 2025

Posted by in Reflections, Through my window

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Friday, 11/14/25

I recall (not so long ago) when a little red notification dot, or bell, or whatever symbols lived in my phone and computer, were welcomed reminders that I had mail. Or news. Or an appointment. Or a friend had news of interest. Although I reluctantly embraced the modern technology routes of e-mail, smart phones, and Facebook, I still use and enjoy our snail mail, and the daily local newspaper. Deciding I would not rely solely on these, nor on local television broadcasting, nor NPR, as I once did, has been a double edged sword. Truth is, my respect grows for each of those in their intended purpose; not so much for some more modern modes. However, my favorite source of modern media became the blog site where I may type my heart out with no real expectations. As I have not yet mastered the inner workings of this platform, my social media realm stops here. Recently, I have been toying with the idea of detaching from most of the aforesaid communication mediums. Why, you ask? The answer is simply, commercialism.

Ironically, the very thing which supports and brings us practically any media, is also that which has ruined it. Commercials, which bring us television shows, cannot be selected as the networks and scheduling can be; many are beyond repulsive and smell of propaganda more than profit. Comparatively, the cost of a postage stamp seems small — thank you U.S. Postal Service. I appreciate the notification by way of first class postage, as to whether or not it’s legitimate mail. Although I worry about all the trees involved in junk mail, my first stop from the mailbox, is the trash can. Ad-free music can be had, if you want to pay the fee. And I do. But I am getting off my intended subject.

Notifications — the ones that say “you’ve got mail” and so forth — have begun to seem like little liars. Very few of my notifications serve any purpose beyond commercialism. The most aggravating of these come from Facebook. Most of my — what do you call it, the profile stream, or activity — anyway, posts visible to me, are ads, AI, and anything other than my friends’ posts. I am, as they say, over it! When I realized all the ads my blog readers were subjected to as well when visiting there, I forked over the money for a site in which you may read without having to hopscotch over unwanted solicitation.

E-mail has become for me a dread! The more I unsubscribe, the more I have awaiting me to push out of the way — just in case any of the hundreds of weekly e-mails are actually important. Several of them are, and I have missed a few just because of all the junk! Oh, that’s not even counting the scuds of spam and junk in their own folders!

However, not all media is high on the complaint scale. As for the local paper, I suppose we would have to wade through many pages of advertisements if not for the price we pay (and still a pretty good deal) for a subscription. Thanks, Murray Ledger and Times. The last time I checked NPR, there were very few ads, but we are a spoiled society for variety, so there’s that. Still, when I want classical music and straightforward news, I enjoy public radio.

I did mention smart phones, and my experience there, is that pleasure or pain are directly in proportion to the amount of social media and apps I choose to install, download, upload, or otherwise clutter up my phone. Those lying little notification symbols that tell me I need to open my phone, keep me patting my hip pocket like a former smoker would his shirt pocket. I mean, what would I do if I lost my phone?? Our lives are in those fibbing little voracious eaters of our time.

As I type, my attention is caught by a couple of deer in the field outside my window. The afternoon sun warms the room as a slight breeze tickles the air, encouraging my recent tendency to unplug. I find myself envious of those deer, who roam and do whatever is their daily purpose, without so much as a nod to technology. My initial reaction is to grab my phone, take a picture and post it. As if my friends hadn’t had a million of those moments already! My friends, we are hooked. Each time I try to detach from something, I find it would leave a dangling thread – OH, that is the word I was searching for, our Facebook thread!

So, the question becomes, where can I cut back to be less irritated? I cannot drop e-mail — there are too many important connections, and business that must transpire via AOL. I will not drop my blogging — where and to whom would I rant? (And share, and praise.) We certainly cannot let the smart phones go — we cut the landline cord! I cut out TV streaming and we are fine, until I feel the pangs of evening with no local news nor Wheel of Fortune. Local news on a smart phone is just not the same. So, for a fee, we see the same programming over and over. I even pay a fee for ad-free, which only works part of the time. What does that leave? Oh yes, Facebook, and as often as I’ve threatened myself with deleting it, myself has said, “what about keeping up with all the great stuff going on in friends’ and family’s lives?” I fear also I might get desperate for mutual admiration of all things gardened. Still, I must ask, does it really require the relentless pushing of products and propaganda; the tremendous volume of advertising?

I may indeed take a break, before I get to be a bitter old naysayer. My cell phone number hasn’t changed in years, and I like texts; although I imagine that will change, since I started getting spam there, too. For now, texts are about the only notification I am happy to see. If you believe you have been blocked from my phone, then you can be assured your number was spoofed, and (not recognizing it) I blocked it to avoid further solicitation. I’ve never understood how the FCC has allowed spoofing of phone numbers — the numbers you and I pay a great deal to own — so the spoofers can solicit us — WITHOUT a notification!

If I have offended anyone, oh do please NOTIFY me, one way or another. (I have picked up a bit of sarcasm via notifications.)

I am going out to watch the deer and birds play, and feel the blood pressure drop with the beautiful sunset I expect to see. I’ll send you a pic, lol.

Saturday, 11/15/25. After starting the day with fresh ground coffee beans, great- nephews’ basketball games, French toast with my son and my husband, and an afternoon of outings with a terrific seven-year-old named Jack, I felt a lesser need to post this Notifications than before. Amazing what the sunset last evening and the fresh air today did; how the laughter of a child lifts me; and how hearing from sweet friends sweetened my mood!! Still, it felt so good to type out my irritation over commercialism in our communication, I thought, “hey, I’ll indulge myself a bit more and actually post it” — commercial-free!

P.S. I realize that in the whole realm of world problems, commercialism sneaking into our private media sources is not the largest of them. My reaction to this and any other issue, is more important to my well-being, than the issue itself. If I cannot change it, I must choose to avoid it, or live with it, and control my own involvement. I’m not intelligent enough to get into the philosophy I’m teetering on here, so I will close with a beautiful verse from God’s word. “Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, and whose hope is the Lord. For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters, which spreads out its roots by the river, and will not fear when heat comes; but its leaf will be green, and will not be anxious in the year of drought, nor will cease from yielding fruit.” (Jeremiah 17:7-8) NKJV

September 16

16 Tuesday Sep 2025

Posted by in In Memory

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IT'S your birthday again, 
     and I know what you'd say —
"Write a little poem for me;
     you know it makes my day."
You'd say my little poem 
     and the flowers were enough,
Since you knew there were times
     I couldn't buy fancy stuff.

YOU'D remind me that "to have a friend
     you need first to be a friend";
To get my answers all from God,
     for life's questions have no end.
You'd find delight
      in the simplest flowers,
 Yet smile on our lives
      with your finest hours.

THE grave cannot hold 
     the essence of mankind.
A mother's true worth
      is in what's left behind —
     the light of her smile and her gentle touch,
     her words of wisdom, and her acts of love.

Happy birthday Mama. Love, Trisha  9/16/2025


Something Good in All of Us

07 Sunday Sep 2025

Posted by in Encouragement, Life

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“There is so much good in the worst of us, and so much bad in the best of us, that it ill behooves any of us to find fault with the rest of us.” James Truslow Adams

To look at these tired bug-eaten bean plants, you would not expect anything worthwhile to come from them. Do we ever look at people that way? Do we feel like giving up? Last week I was ready to pull up the vines, hoping to make a less withered-looking garden spot. But, in true bean-lover form, I thought I would take one more look. Hot dry weather, a gardener who lost her will to weed, time and bugs, have worked on them for sure. People, too, get beat down, worn out and tested, but God — how many times in scripture do we read “but God…” — made it better, or saved entirely, a dire situation. Example: “And the patriarchs, becoming envious, sold Joseph into Egypt. But God was with him. ( Acts 7:9)

Now look at that little one-gallon ice-cream bucket there beside the row. Beneath these spindly Blue Lake bushes, remained the little moisture and will to live, given by the Lord Himself. Underneath the bushes, I found long tender beans just waiting to be noticed.

As a gardener in a garden, God the Father plants us, waters and nourishes us with all good spiritual gifts, sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears for us, and prepares a table for His expected harvest. He did not give up on you or me nor all humanity. He sees. We search. He loves. We try again. “Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.” (I Corinthians 15:58)

By the time I finished both rows, I had two of those little buckets full; and a heart full of resolution to look harder for the good in everyone, as well to surrender the “I’m too old to be useful” idea. Like Daddy’s little ice-cream buckets, we can be repurposed and useful as long as we last. I’m not pulling up those green bean plants. I saw several blooms and baby beans that, who knows, just might make it to another dinner table. I don’t see them giving up until we, or Jack Frost, tell them to.

Never give up — on yourself, or anyone else — while there is life there is hope. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13)

The In-Between of August

31 Sunday Aug 2025

Posted by in Life, Through my window

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How can it be the end of August? I couldn’t chase July away no matter how much I wanted to see the end of it. One day it was “Ah, August at last!” And the next seemingly, it was “wait — you can’t be leaving?” It’s impossible to put a label on it, but there is something about August I love. While some of the pleasures of summer remain, there is a welcome hint of fall in the air. Neither a fresh new start like spring, nor the golden beauty of autumn, August is somewhere in between, leading from one to the other; not too unlike the middle child who has neither place as oldest nor youngest, but is doted on by all. Yes, August is dry, and at the onset it is still hot, generally speaking. Stories from my mother told of unbearable heat, driving from Cleveland, Ohio to Kentucky in August, with no air-conditioning, no interstate highways, taking most of two days, and a strong desire to see family propelling them on down the road. Her memories should have made August a dreaded time, but not so. In between the hot highways and getting home, were rest stops — tales of grassy areas to enjoy a cold drink, a bologna sandwich, and kicking off their shoes. The sights, sounds, and feel of August in Kentucky are some of my favorites!

There’s a particular feel as the humidity begins to drift away on late summer breezes; and with it goes our need to get out a couple hours earlier to beat the heat. As August moves along, the hot air moves out and the mornings are scrumptiously inviting. An 87 degree afternoon is quite bearable when the day begins and ends in the 50’s and 60’s.  I recall the relief of watching one tobacco patch after another empty out — out of heavy wet blankets of July work; out of the fear of summer storms’ damage; and into the more pleasant tasks of firing, or curing. The dusty ground left behind, and the smoke trail from the barns, had the feel and smell of success.

I love the sound of cicadas chipping their way through a quiet afternoon, when the traffic sounds have quieted from carrying the people to wherever they were going, and before their returning home in the evening. If I am lucky, it’s a day when the nearby train tracks send out the lonesome sound of a train whistle, and I always smile; knowing the train is somewhere in between it’s coming and going, places I don’t need to know — only that I love its sound. The corn fields are talking as the stalks have dried to a two-toned green and gold, leaves rustling and tan tassels whispering their way through the day. August is hummingbird jamboree, heard clearly as they chase and chatter, performing acrobatics mid-air. Their activity alone, is cause for some to look forward to August. We miss the songs of Purple Martins who began their trek to Brazil last month, but the sweet chirping of goldfinches in the drying sunflowers more than makes up for it.  The bluebirds aren’t singing as they did in mating season, but their laughter as they all return home to splash in the birdbaths, is unmistakably their own. 

Butterflies, a beautiful August sight, are more numerous now than in early summer, as if relishing every last blossom while they can. Zinnias and crepe myrtles make a strong southern stand, offering the butterflies and hummingbirds an all-you-care-to-eat buffet. Unfortunately, the departing humidity also took many of the bright colors we enjoyed in spring and summer. Even so, the brightness of Black-Eyed Susans and sunflowers, shines brighter against the paling or absent garden colors. But for a farm girl, the garden growing tired means less work; and there’s the pleasure of a pantry growing fat with newly filled jars. Skies are blue again like springtime; often so velvety cloudless, I feel I ought to be able to touch the sky if I just stretch a little bit higher. 

Although not everyone gets to turn a year older in August as I do, we all turn a page as students begin a new school chapter; farmers get to see a light at the end of their harvest tunnel; and we are all one season wiser, older, and richer in blessings. As Labor Day approaches, families have made memories visiting and vacationing, and now prepare for fall and winter activities. Wherever we are in life, may we pause a moment to salute one season rustling by, and look down the road, with hope, to greet another.  

“The day is Yours (O God), the night also is Yours; You have prepared the light and the sun. You have set all the borders of the earth; You have made summer and winter.” Psalm 74: 16-17 NKJV

June 2025 — Gone But Not Forgotten!

30 Monday Jun 2025

Posted by in Celebrating, MONDAY MUSINGS

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From Memorial Day to July, things change. I mean, really change — from 69 to 96 degrees; from clear to muggy; from planting to picking; and a swirl of colors throughout, taking turns on the dance floor. On Memorial Day weekend, I wrote, “I am in a sweatshirt hoodie, drinking hot coffee, watching the day slide into evening with layers of pink frosting spread across the blue sky. Con’t remember such a cool end of May. The Purple Martins are gathering one last meal for the evening. The bluebirds have just settled into their house with new babies. Traffic sounds have subsided and the evening songbirds are singing in the distance. The song “It Is Well With My Soul” comes to mind”.

We do not recall a spring or summer as wet as this one has been, as everyone else is saying. But look at the beautiful lush corn crops! Our garden, which was not large to begin with, has drowned twice and the replanted greenbeans are struggling. Tomatoes have blossom-end rot. Sweet corn looks lost in its own jungle. Cucumbers are running amok through grass; and zinnias are leaning this way and that. But – the okra looks great for now, and I won’t have as much work to do in harvesting it all.

For a few mornings this month, a person could sit out for an hour or so to enjoy coffee and bird watching. Now, the blanket of humidity and heat that wraps the evenings, awaits us in the early morning. Are we thankful for air-conditioning? The air smells of a dank musty basement, until I walk past the Four O’Clocks, or the wild honeysuckle that has wound itself throughout our barberry bush. Everyone talks of how difficult it has been to keep the lawn mowed, and we agree! But how easily the weeds, the million or so weeds, pop out of the soggy ground when I do brave the heat in effort to battle them. You know the routine — for every complaint we have, there are more blessings to uncover. June has indeed been a full month!

We have enjoyed celebrating: the birthday of our first born, Father’s Day, two bluebird families fledged successfully, the air full of Purple Martins and their chorus, a comfortable house to hide from the weather, and one almost-blue hydrangea bloom. (If you’ve read my “Everyone Else Has Blue Hydrangeas, Why Can’t I?”, you understand that last celebration.) We’ve celebrated with family and friends, their special moments. We’ve come to love little league baseball. I finally got to the lake in June to enjoy an amazing crappie meal my sister and her husband cooked, and took the most peaceful boat ride, viewing a blazing yellow sunset complete with several bald eagle sightings.

As you see, there are no mentions of fantastic trips away from home, nor actually, anything extraordinary to tell. I think just observing the world around you with appreciation for what you have, can be an accomplishment through a month like we have had. Rain showers almost daily didn’t amount to devastating floods. An overgrowth of weeds and grass aren’t anything a good fall frost can’t handle. And did I say ‘praise the Lord for A-C’? Just when I was ready to dig up my poor virus-infected, black-spotted roses, Queen Elizabeth produced four beautiful pink blooms. And so, on goes the world, with its own first-evers; on go the families’ agendas — young and old alike. Diseases progress, and some are healed. Rain falls on the just and the unjust. We all get to enjoy the blessings. And God is still God, through all our seasons. Blessed be the name of our Lord! “From the rising of the sun to its going down, the Lord’s name is to be praised.” (Psalm 113:3)

Some of our June enjoyment:

A random visitor

More Thoughts On Living, Father’s Day, and Remembering

15 Sunday Jun 2025

Posted by in Family, Reflections

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6/11/25
Sitting in the front porch swing, the air of midday seems still, but just alive enough to catch my attention; and perhaps too touchy with humidity for me to linger —  that is, until I check in with my senses. Lifting my eyes from the crossword puzzle I had intended to work,  I sense a sweet aroma from the deep purple butterfly bush reaching upward behind me from its neglected bed. Its blooms, larger than ever, are visited by the hum of bumble bees.
My listening is captured by the simultaneous chatter of various birds – although upstaged by the mockingbird calls. 

A hummingbird zooms in for a sip or two at the feeder. Delicate white pre-berries of the Nandina, complimented by the deep red of my mother’s large astilbe, vie for my attention. Dark yellow Stella D’Oro blooms, nearly exhausted from their show, complete the colors against summer’s green pallet that spreads across my view. And I think, what a nice day to be alive. This is living.


With Father’s Day approaching I am as usual, thinking about my daddy. He spent many days outdoors — gardening, fishing and hunting, and farming for a few years— besides growing up on a farm where milking and raising crops were his parents’ income. They cured their own hams and bacon; raised chickens and gathered the eggs; and he gathered enough enjoyment from gardens that he shared it with his own growing family for years. I wonder what he would think today of the tacky little garden I have eked out of the frequent rains. I wonder what they did back in the day when weather just would not allow tilling, nor completion of the planting. I recall my mother saying (as she would try to console me during the drought years) “honey a dry year will scare a farmer to death, but a wet year will starve him to death”.  As I look at the lush tomato vines, cucumbers, and pepper plants I was able to hill up to avoid being washed away, I catch myself talking to daddy — maybe bragging just a little. I am sure he would advise me to get Sevin dust on those green beans. He might also say I’d done well to hoe out what I could before this last rain. Whatever he would say, he would be pleased that I have continued gardening, being outside, caring about living things. He might say this is living.


As his last year took all of his vision and hearing, daddy forgot the love he had for life. He could no longer recognize which child or grandchild was in his doorway. I feel like that was the worst for him, because he had, over time, regained relationships so dear to him. Now, unable to carry on a conversation, he must have felt so alone. But I am not remembering those last days; no, I am remembering the living he enjoyed, and shared. That was living.

6/15/25
Recognizing the changes that come with age in vision, hearing, and expression, surely reminds us that we all have differences as well, in how we listen and see — our perspectives; we dance with nature to our own music. Enjoy one another’s love for life while it lasts. “Be of the same mind toward one another. Do not set your mind on high things, but associate with the humble. Do not be wise in your own opinion.” (Romans 12:16) Understanding others — that’s living.

I am remembering the bibbed overalls, the fishing poles, hummingbird feeders, white cats, beagle hounds and large gardens. Thick curly hair, Old Spice, Buicks and Oldsmobiles, soup beans and fifty dollar bills at Christmas, and pea shelling. Mostly I remember “Trish, this is your dad.” I miss you daddy. And, this is living too — having memories, and remembering the living that was done.