Category Archives: MONDAY MUSINGS

Oh What a Gift!

27 Monday Apr 2026

Posted by in Nature, MONDAY MUSINGS

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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

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

Living

09 Monday Jun 2025

Posted by in MONDAY MUSINGS

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Two small flip-chart calendars were given to me a whole lotta living ago. One was from a classmate as we graduated from nursing school. The other is from a sweet friend who roomed with me one of the years we helped with mission work in Guyana. Both calendars stand for memorable times in my life. On both, each day of the year has a quote, or a verse, rather than the day of the week, allowing me to continue using them year after year. The one from 1996 is at my bedside, where I can recall the friendship and her kind words written inside the cover. I have tried, unsuccessfully, to find her so I can thank her, and to tell her how her written note, as well as the quotes within the calendar, have inspired me. I let too much living happen between her Christmas cards, and now I cannot reach her. Christy, I hope you are well.

The second calendar, from my Guyana days, rests atop a small chest in my closet where I can read the day’s quote when I put away my pajamas and put on a new day. On the page for May 27, a quote from Emily Dickinson says, “To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.” Beautifully basic. Some things are so basic, so simply true, they need no explanation. (But you know I can’t pass it up.) Ms. Dickinson explained in one short statement, why we find the distance of day to day life, replacing good intentions. Or, why I can’t get everything done in a day. We mean to do more. We mean to say wonderful things. We mean to encourage the people who have our attention; to cherish those who hold the moments of our lives. And then living happens — a moment at a time — filling our lives with all the wonderful, awful, sincere, silly, precious moments of living.

Emily Dickinson’s statement reminds me of this quote by C.S. Lewis. “The great thing, if one can, is to stop regarding all the unpleasant things as interruptions of one’s ‘own’ or one’s ‘real’ life. The truth is of course that what one calls interruptions are precisely one’s real life — the life God is sending one day by day; what one calls one’s ‘real life’ is a phantom of one’s own imagination!” The interruption IS our life. Life — living — is easier to manage when we see all those interruptions as the life we are given. And it certainly is. What your life would be at that moment, without that interruption, is — well, non-existent. Startling — in a good way, or not, we are living our lives a moment at a time. I need to be there in those moments, and not waste a one.

If some of the living, if some of the interruptions, are trials, then the present conditions, according to James, IF we are patient, will make better who we are. “My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect works that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing” (James 1: 2-4)NKJV.

Another point that may be made in the first quote is, if I am truly living my life, I have no time to live anyone else’s. I wonder if Ms. Emily was thinking of busybodies.

Standing outside tonight (as I am writing on Sunday night), there is almost a full moon. The dew is heavy; the night creatures are making music beneath a wispy fog. It is tempting to think this is the first time I have ever seen a night just like this. Startling. Take time this week to really take in your living, with all your senses. Your life, given to you, none other exactly like it, full and rich — startling. Taste your cup of coffee in the morning like you’ve never tasted it before.

June 8, from my 1996 calendar: “It is good to praise the Lord…to proclaim your love in the morning and your faithfulness at night.” Psalm 92:1-2 NIV

Amidst the Tangles

02 Monday Jun 2025

Posted by in MONDAY MUSINGS, Through my window

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So why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. (Matthew 6:28-29) 

Some of us are what you call “nitpickers”, or, critical of minor things that most would not find important. While it is not a complimentary label, we know it’s used figuratively to refer to someone who over-scrutinizes details. I do not like this about myself. As I am growing older, though, I really do not mind being criticized, because I can rest in knowing that at the end of the day, it is my Savior’s opinion which ultimately matters. But as a yard and garden lover, I just cannot let go of wanting my gardens to be pleasing to others. Therefore, I am my own worst critic — picking out the flaws and fussing about them; complaining about not having time nor energy to get it done right; and of course, blaming anybody else for whatever else I can. Having said all that, I will make my point. There is no denying life (and gardens) can get pretty tangled — so tangled, in fact, that we fail to see what IS nicely aligned.

From my clothesline, I turned to walk back toward the house where our sunroom and the intended landscaping around it, are most visible. I caught my breath at the burst of yellow that has popped out recently. It kinda slipped up on me; mostly because I’ve been looking through my inside window into the midst of the flower/tree/weed/vine patch we call the landscaping. From there, I only saw all the work that needs to be done. (So crowded and full of overgrowth, that I may have run the mower just a little ways into the front of it all, just a few days ago.) However, as I turned, on that laundry day, from the back of the lawn, I was pleased to see the ever-thriving Stella D’Oro lilies in full bloom, from one end of the landscaping to the other. I refused to go closer for fear my old nitpicking habit would overcome me.

In life, or in gardens, there is always work to do — especially on myself. As long as I am breathing air, there will be things to learn, to improve, and to share. I have discovered many lessons as I putter around in my gardening — lessons the great Master Gardener placed….well, placed anywhere His willing children will be able to learn. For me it is in the miracle of a resurrected seed, an unfolding bud, the parenting of bluebirds, and in every turn of the spade. The Stellas were reminding me to look at the big picture and enjoy the beauty; to avoid getting bogged down in the details that can be worked out in time, with His help. Those weeds will be there for someone else to contend with after I am gone. “For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory…For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4:17-18b) While I am here, I just want to share the flowers, whether in the form of encouraging words, time spent, a favor done, or a literal bloom on a stem. It depends on what God has given us to share.

If you look closely at my flowers outside the sunroom, you will also find weeds, vines, tree suckers, over zealous black-eyed Susans, and that hateful grass. But don’t miss the lovely purple garden geranium in the midst of the tangles. Stella D’Oro seems to be shining her light so I can enjoy the beauty of her geranium friend, as well as inspiring me to keep on trying, and to be less tangled up in nitpicking.

I could pick at all the reasons my landscaping and gardens have suffered, but for every negative there is a positive. The rain hindered, but the Stellas thrive in it. My knee replacement hindered, but it gave me time to finish a writing project. Last year’s wayward grass seeds that fell into the flowerbeds are a nuisance, but the lawn is thick and green. The weeds are rough, but they inspire me to stretch my back and exercise my mind as my hands work. There is a strange satisfaction found as one works her way through the tangles to find the beauty in its midst.

Now, I have a bit of news! Several things I’ve mentioned in today’s blog about lessons in gardening, are explored in more detail in “Gifts From the Garden Path: Encouragement Through Our Seasons”. This little book of encouragement in softcover, is available through the online bookstore of my publisher, WestBow Press (https://www.westbowpress.com/en/bookstore.). It can be searched by author’s name, Patricia J. Ward, or the ISBN 9798385047482. The eBook will be available around June 9. To say I am grateful to God for His guidance through this adventure, is an understatement. I pray I will never run completely out of gardening days, but my 71-year-old body says it’s ready for me to do more writing and less digging. I have a few writing projects on the back burner, so I suppose I shall buckle down and focus on one at a time, for as long as the Lord is willing.

Have a wonderful week, taking in the big picture, and giving yourself time for the details to untangle. Have a cup of coffee; and remember, life is too short to skip the cream.

Come To the Table: Part 5 in Old Tables and Old Times

26 Monday May 2025

Posted by in In Memory, MONDAY MUSINGS

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Recall the kitchen table of your childhood — the one you knew held your next meal and where you’d find your people. Are you picturing a chrome table with armless chairs? Perhaps a large modern one, with a highly polished finish and upholstered chairs; or a dull oak table, worn with serving generations before you, comes to mind. If you are fortunate, you have something firmly seated in your mind where loved ones (whether two of you or twenty) gathered to share a meal. Perhaps like me, you also recall sitting at the same table doing homework, listening to the AM radio station, telling your teacher in your imagination, oh yes I can concentrate with the music playing. Are the children in your memory stifling giggles because daddy said “you don’t laugh at the table“; or are they racing to see who gets dessert first? Was there a greasy pair of salt and pepper shakers, a butter dish with little finger prints? Was the blessing asked; was the food cooked by one, or a team effort? Were there paper napkins, or paper towels; a tablecloth, or a bare table under your plates? Did everyone get matching glasses, or was there a mix of mishap leftovers, as mine are now? Was there chaos, or peace? Each of us will likely remember something different than the next. I am willing to bet, however, the one thing shared by all, is that there was a particular time for this gathering. The time may have been something-o’clock on the dot; or not timed by the clock on the wall, but understood by all concerned, that it would be according to the sky. When the work load consumed all the daylight hours, supper was timed when you saw dark approaching. Such was often the farmer’s suppertime. But, most importantly, in spite of it all — with the members around that table being imperfect — was there a sacrifice made and love shown, by the presence of the table?

This Sunday morning of Memorial Day weekend, our wise and kind brother who presided over the Communion table, appropriately pointed out how Memorial Day reminds us to remember the sacrifices that have been made. At the table of communion, we are also remembering — remembering the life and love, the sacrifice and selflessness in the death of our Savior Jesus Christ. Unlike our home kitchen tables, where everything and anything in our arms lands on the table, our Lord’s table has been cleared of everything except the unleavened bread and the fruit of the vine, the body and blood of Jesus. A place for His children to gather, at the appointed time, to share the meal prepared by the Father; this is our memorial time to honor Him — Jesus. Where I worship, we do this every Lord’s Day. I look forward weekly, to gathering around this table and quietly seeking Him.

As for the table of my childhood, I looked forward to being called to that table too. Even in the midst of complaining and criticizing, falling apart and falling from grace, there was an abundance of laughter and love, gratitude and grace offered, sharing and shining, as our family gathered to partake of Mama’s good cooking and live out the forgiveness we always sought from one another.

Sitting on my vinyl covered chair at our chrome kitchen table, I heard my daddy promise me fifty dollars if I was the valedictorian of our eighth grade class. In the spring of 1967, I scooped up that fifty bucks. Many promises were made and some were broken around the table; birthdays were celebrated and vacations planned at the table. Tears were shared, but so were stories of achievement; Weekly Reader was enjoyed, report cards discussed, as were articles in the Ledger and Times. No matter what the mood, regardless of the activity, one thing stood sure — we were part of a family who shared in a common meal, and everyone ate the same thing because that’s what Mama had fixed. And when Sunday morning breakfast was finished, we left the table to fight over the bathroom time, to get ready for church, where we would be gathered around the greatest table of all time. I urge you to hear His call and come to the table.

And when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, “Take, eat; this is My body which is broken for you; do this in remembrance of Me.” In the same manner He also took the cup after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in My blood. This do, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of Me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death till He comes. (1 Corinthians 11:24-26) NKJV

The reason we observe Memorial Day each year is to set aside a time to formally remember and honor the sacrifices of American military personnel who have died while serving their country. My sincere gratitude to them for taking from their lives, to make our lives more secure, free, and enjoyable! Thank you, to those men and women, for what you have brought to our tables; for the homeland where we gather around these, our tables; and for the privilege to gather freely in our churches.

Running From Bears and Hiding in Hope

19 Monday May 2025

Posted by in Faith, MONDAY MUSINGS

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An excellent lesson last evening on fear, and conquering it through the promises of Isaiah 41:10, reminded me of a draft I had started a few years ago. I brought it out and brushed it up, so we will take a break from the “Old Tables and Old Tales” series.

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10) ESV

Stifled sobs from my shaking body awakened my husband, who in turn woke me from a nightmare. I couldn’t stop sobbing, even after getting to my feet to shake the troubling images from my head. I went straight for my phone not even caring what time it was. My son answered quickly, and by that time I was in the kitchen where I saw it was only 10:45. But the depth and distress of the dream made it seem like the middle of the night.

The question of where do dreams come from has never been answered to my satisfaction. It seems the mind just goes on random thought tangents with no boundaries. While common sense is sleeping, the little imps of imagination play. Obviously, some dreams are the result of fears – even those we have hidden away. Like dreams, real life can surprise us around any corner with a jack-in-the-box, either scary or funny. It’s only natural to hide from one and hope for the other.

I recall a recurrent nightmare from childhood. Three times at least, over a span of time, I dreamt that I was in my aunt’s house, the square-style house with four rooms all connected without a hall. You can start in the kitchen, go left into the bedroom, turn left into the next bedroom, turn left and enter the living room, then left again into the kitchen where you started. In my dream, there was a wooden highchair in the kitchen. A bear would begin to chase me, through the circuit of those rooms, around and around. Just as it was gaining on me, I would dive under the highchair.  The bear in my dream would stop, sniff around the chair, and the pounding of my heart would wake me. I’m pretty sure I know the fear behind the bear; and the hiding place being in that particular house, had to be that I always knew I was safe and loved there. Love conquers fear.

The gut-wrenching fear that spurred my more recent nightmare is one I believe all parents have in common. We do not want to see our children lose their hope – oh not the hope of Christmas Eve or birthday eve when kids know a fun-filled morning will follow – but true hope, an expectation, a belief that some yet unseen, good thing can and will happen. As adults we have seen enough ice-cream cones plop, to make us guard our hope. We’ve had earthly plans and hopes fall through, and we’ve also seen promises from God fulfilled as He held our world together. This is our hope to keep on trying. That’s what we want for our children isn’t it; to experience enough good so that good becomes their expectation. And to know their hope is tethered to the sure promises of God.

I believe the incidence of mental illness, suicide, and physical ailments are directly related to the loss of hope – hope that there is something, someone, greater than this shaky world. The natural tendency is to hope in this world’s goods and accomplishments, because that’s where we started as children, when we thought hope was in wishes. With maturity, the hopes and losses get bigger. Love, friendship, trust – the big ticket items –  hurt much more if lost, than getting the wrong Barbie, or having your birthday party rained out. I remember my Mama telling me it was so much easier to treat my skinned knee with a bandaid and a kiss, than to treat my heart aches. I didn’t appreciate that until I had children of my own. After enough bumps and bruises from this world, we gain appreciation for stability – yoked, tethered, and anchored to our true and living God – all-knowing, unmoving, and strong enough to stop the bears that cause our fear. And we want to see our young realize this true hope – the strengthening, helping, upholding hand of God. (Isaiah 41:10)

What we never want to see as they grow up, is one slap, one punch, one blow after another, until they don’t feel they can get up. We want them to keep being excited about life; to know that good overrules evil, and right is never wrong. We want to see the gleam in their eyes until we close ours the final time. Their happiness is more important to us than our own. That is why we must, MUST show them the hope that never fails. We must take the time to talk our God knowledge out loud, to show them real hope lives, and it sure as shootin’ ain’t in the shifting times we’re living! God gave us a world of beauty, fun, friends and abilities; but more than that, He has promised that no matter how this world goes, His children have Him walking them through it all.

I’ll wake up one morning, far from those nightmares, where fears are no more. No sobbing, no shaking, no heartaches and no dashed hopes. I know this because I have read God’s promises, along with the proof of His faithfulness. No matter how much we have now, we will never have it all, until we rest in the Lord. Until then, nothing in this life is certain. We’ll keep running from room to room until the bear dies and the house is turned over to God.  I thought I had turned my fears over to God, but apparently some still simmered in the background, producing bad dreams of lost hope. If my hope is really in the Lord, I won’t be hiding in fear with my heart pounding, but hidden in hope, away from fear’s chase, secure in Jesus Christ.

So, who is the bigger giant here? Is it hope, or is it fear?

Fear is big that is for sure! But hope stands higher as the cure

Fear chases like an angry bear. Hope is the rock that seals his lair.

Fear is strong, but stronger yet, is the hand of God – the help we get.

Fear can slap you to the ground, Hope in the Lord will make you sound.

Fear is daring, I can’t deny. But for our hope the Savior died.

My first favorite verse of scripture was Isaiah 40:31. But verse 30 includes our youth, so I have amended my favorite to include both verses. I love my children, and my nieces and nephews so much; and I pray their fears are conquered, their hope in this life realized, and their true hope in the Lord to be more than they dared ever dream.

“Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” (Isaiah 40:30-31) ESV

A Hebrew lexicon explanation of “but those who wait” is the word “Qavah” meaning “to wait, look for, hope, expect”. (Strong’s Hebrew 6960)  My prayer is that we, all generations, will hope in the Lord, that we will run, walk, and soar with the eagles.

The Round Table: Part 4 in “Old Tables and Old Times”

12 Monday May 2025

Posted by in Children, Family, MONDAY MUSINGS

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Roundtable discussions “are informal gatherings characterized by equal participation, active listening, and the exchange of ideas…roundtables encourage a more open and interactive dialogue, often facilitated by a moderator.” That’s what the internet says. In a child’s world, it is an endless sphere of participation (play-like or real), activity (of reaching, climbing, circling), and interactive ideas (imagination as troops and trucks run their courses of construction and destruction).

As the 1960s were ending, people were starting to see the value in antiques. Not museum people with historical antiques – regular Joes who had the new age, moderate-income, furnishings of the 50s and 60s. Such was the time when my mother was led to an auction by her friend whose son had gone into the “antique business”. Looking for old gems hidden by dust and paint, in need of some repair perhaps, became the weekend hobby for many. Sadly, folks were realizing grandparents had given up real value for light weight, inexpensive furnishings. In my family’s case, fires had taken most of the keepers, and the thought of finding something similar, was enticing. One find for my mother and her friend that day, was a sizable table covered with what we called antiquing, which was enamel paint covered by a dark glaze. Covered in, I believe, early 70s green, with a small chip out of one hinged area, was a coffee table with leaves dropped to the floor, which when raised, made a complete circle. A drawer in each end made the table even more useful. Mama bought it. And the seven grandchildren of her future benefitted from the purchase in the many decades to follow. Her great grandchildren, as well as friends, continued to find pleasure in the playground of the roundtable world. I am so thankful the table was saved from the fire that took my parents’ home in 1978.

Before the round table went to live at my parents’ house, her friend had her son to “strip and refinish” it. This brought out the beautiful solid maple finish of its original state, which is still its condition today – plus the many scratches, dents and wear of four generations since then. I believe my son was the first to put a scratch in Granny’s lovely table, with a toy (seems like it was one of those little silver-colored pistols, but could easily have been one of the hundreds of little animals that have trekked the terrain of the table land; he thinks it was his Hot Wheels racing). My daughter stashed “office papers” and crayons in the drawers as she opened and closed them a thousand times in her world of teaching and office work.

Next came my sister’s first child, a girl, who I am told, turned a long handled bell (another of Mama’s collections) upside down and hammered it into the table top several times. Sister’s second child, a boy, added his own marks of character, playing many sessions of Old Maid; as well as adding his sons (you see the younger one on the table in the photo above), to the activity of his Nanny Betty’s/Aunt Trisha’s table. I recall my brother’s first daughter especially enjoying the Christmas trinkets and music boxes Granny placed on the table. By the time he had more children coming along, Mama had passed the drop-leaf table on to me, and redecorated her living room. How in the world did she have the courage to place a new glass-topped table at child level? Surprisingly, it did survive. OH! That’s right, it wasn’t a round table. Far less activity could be had with four corners in the way, a smaller surface, and – like the glass-bottomed look-out towers – who can put their weight on something that looks invisible?

In my house the old drop-leaf round table continued to supply new ground for race cars, farm equipment, horse racing, army battles, board games, play-doh creativity, coloring and painting, checkers, and climbing in general. Six of my great nieces and nephews have made their own history of discoveries, battles, and masterpieces on the round table. Our friend ‘little man Ryan’ had his own activity for a short while before potty training, but we will just leave it at that. He also drove Match Box cars around and around that table, giving me great pleasure as my mother’s table continued making happy days for those we love.

I see the days of discovery for our round table coming to a close. I do hope the “informal gatherings characterized by equal participation, active listening, and the exchange of ideas” continues over this, as well as all our tables, for years to come. But it was the endless imagination of those tots who made this table so precious to me. Complete with its dents and dings, one drawer now out of function, and one detached slide-out leg that holds the leaf on that side, I have plans for repair and passing it on to someone who appreciates solid value. It is truly vintage now, and due to age, likely could soon be antique, but surely has some good days ahead in her. She now holds books, pens, and the trappings of an avid John Deere man. She comfortably holds the weight of great nephews; she doesn’t mind our feet being propped upon her, nor popcorn, coffee cups, and sippy cups.

Well, my coffee has grown cold but I have enjoyed my short trip back over the 55 or so years since my mother brought the round table home. Her own nieces and nephews will testify that she had a roundtable approach to life that carried over into the grandchildren years. If she loved anything, it was children and watching them learn. Imagination spurs learning and she was delighted to turn her house over to them to grow and learn all they could. Her love surrounded them as they surrounded the table; her guidance encouraged them as they found acceptance and inspiration to be their best. I look at the softly curved feet of the table, the scratches and dents, the missing pieces; and I long to see a world that is as willing to sacrifice parts of itself for the good of others; a world that is strong for its children and softly holds them when they need it; a world like its Creator intended it to be.

Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ. (Galatians 6:2) NKJV

The Do-all Table – Having Its Purpose, Earning Its Keep: Part III of “Old Tables and Old Times”

03 Saturday May 2025

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Dreary, cool, and not what we want to see for the first weekend of May, is this Saturday morning weather. So, with a cup of Maxwell House, I am looking forward to telling you about my Do-all table.

I may have mentioned before that I have a profound fondness for old tables. I have made myself – ok, inadequate space made me – remove a few tables from the house in past years. My daughter now owns the square parlor table that came from my great-aunt and uncle’s home. I’ve sold the mahogany version with metal ball feet, that my husband and I found in an antique store (oh how I loved that table)! And, there is a smaller, walnut side table still in the attic. Why, I do not know. The little oak and metal ice-cream parlor table and chairs were taken by the mom of my son’s good friend. I bought it in an antique store for our breakfast nook while we were building, but it wound up in our sunroom, where I accumulated a couple more tables, and as you can see, it needed a much more worthy home – which it found. Now, our house is not large, so a table needs to pay for its room and board with some practical purpose in order to remain. Thus, the old painted drop-leaf table (you’ve seen a many of them in all kinds of used furniture stores) has kept its footing, by being so versatile.

Usually seen in its original dark varnished finish, mine had been painted with a cream enamel, as were the four chairs we bought with it in a flea market/antique store. Four chairs were not enough for a table that expands to seat 8-10! But with the two drop-leaf sides down, and the middle extension kept hidden under the table, it becomes a table for two, and a nice work table for puzzles, plant potting, mini green-house beginnings, bunco playing, and of course, having lunch in the sunroom. The expandable feature made it a good breakfast table-turned family-gathering-table, when odd chairs were added. But, when the original chairs proved unstable, my husband (had he caught my penchant for adopting tables?) replaced it with a very stable, perfectly sized, used, table-for-two for the breakfast nook- complete with two sturdy matching chairs. Parting with my old slide-out, drop-leaf, work table was not an option, and it resides in the sunroom to provide all the aforementioned duties.

I have visions of restoring it to the natural beauty it was before the wood and metal-tipped feet were covered with paint; but then where would I put it? There would be a heated discussion if I tried to replace the table my husband bought. I would lose the battle; because I really like it, and couldn’t let it go, either. Do you ever want your cake and eat it too?

I’m sure there are worse things to love than tables; although, I doubt there are many loves as hard to place in your home. You know it’s funny – with all these tables – I still drag out my old card table so often. Seating for the littles when company comes; putting puzzles together in a warmer place while March Madness rages on; and bunco seating, are the times I find the card table most useful. However, I do not like the feel of a card table; it is unsteady. I dislike the touch – cold metal and plastic. I do not like having to fold and put it and the chairs away; closet storage space is as much at a premium in our house as is the floor space for a stable, comfortable, pretty, old table that came from who-knows-where, with a story to tell. The card table was brand new, bought with S&H green stamps, oh so many years ago. No story to tell.

Wood tables, on the other hand, had a story to tell even when they were brand new; they came from a live tree, likely among a forest of friends, and being sawn and planed into a piece of furniture, deserve to be remembered – not ditched. (I do not need to digress into what a wasteful society we are.) I find myself wondering what meals were served on my do-all table, and who first saw it in a catalog or display window perhaps, and said, I must buy this one. Who and why was it distressed with new paint? Would they have guessed it made it perfect for my sunroom? I enjoy giving new purpose to old furniture, whether worthy or not, like us. God’s plan for us, continues to create and recreate in us, a heart of purpose for His glory, and a purpose in our world.

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. (Jeremiah 29:11) ESV

I hope you’re enjoying an old table somewhere, with a story to tell and a purpose to serve. Would you believe I have yet another drop-leaf table to share its story? The old maple standby has many years of service and stories to tell. See you then.