Category Archives: Nature

In The Garden

24 Monday Jul 2017

Posted by in Faith, Nature

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You know, life’s just all about the garden! It did start there after all, in a place called Eden. (Genesis 1) Today, for example, started with a beautiful morning of worship (weeding out the week’s overgrowth of worldly cares from my heart). Then home to a lunch of mango-jicama salad (what’s more like a garden than a big bowl of crisp veggies and fruits?) Next I was off to a wedding shower for a young couple who will soon be starting their own home; so in love that one could easily imagine cupids lacing strands of pink roses over and around them. (Love blooms so sweetly in the dawn of life – much like my rose garden when the year is young). Home again, to canning another seven quarts of green beans (gardens’ bounty this year) for my daddy’s table. (Those in the winter of life lose the ability to do such things, same as winter’s ground will no longer be able to produce the bounty.) Just as the last steaming quart was placed on the pad of towels to cool, it was time for the quarterly revealing of our Secret Sunshine Sisters. The best thing about this fun activity is getting to know more about a sister in Christ than we previously had a chance to do in our busy lives. Friendships blossom and set seeds for many years to come. (Without the re-seeding of many of our flowers, landscape would grow bleak after a short season.) I have a patch of Four O’Clocks that are from the seed given me by my great aunt Treva Jones Darnell. That was around 30 years ago. These wonderful fragrant blooms drop seeds that just keep producing more and more abundantly. I gathered those and was able to move their happiness with me when we moved..MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

There’s some degree of effort to saving seed, planting, and caring for growing things, but the results are so very worth it. Just what about all this labor of love anyway? We know where that began too! Yes, back in Eden. The beast and the beauty, the burden and the bounty; if a thing is worth having, there’s a price to pay. From preparing the soil, to preserving the surplus, it can be delightful or burdensome, depending on one’s frame of mind. The beast of sin was driven out by the beauty of God’s amazing grace when He decided to let mankind continue to enjoy the marvelous creation of earth. Albeit, more work than they’d ever imagined would be the price to pay!  Not too unlike raising children; we can’t deny the blood, sweat, and tears involved in raising them, but having looked into those spellbinding eyes and watching them blossom into their own, makes it all worth while. I’ve always said my kids were my favorite flowers in my garden of life! Who hasn’t? We might also claim they can be the thorns too at times, right? Still worth it all!  “I love them a bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck.” And I sure do miss my butterfly kisses:)

From our hour of laughter and gifting this evening, we were privileged to end our day with another hour of worship. Praising together our mighty God, the Healer of our souls; sowing seeds of fellowship; gathering grains of truth and wisdom; strolling hand in hand with Jesus through the garden of prayer.

I leave you with a quote from an English poet:

The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the birds for mirth, One is nearer God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth.  (“God’s Garden” lines 13-16 by Dorothy Frances Gurney)

Fishing Line and HE Washing Machines

05 Wednesday Apr 2017

Posted by in Children, inspiration, Nature

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I must be one of the most hard-headed people I know! How many times have I instructed family members to empty out their pockets before adding clothes to the  hamper? And yet here I am – pulling out clothes, my clothes, with fishing line tied around each piece. Even in my 6th decade of life, I am so much in the learning phase. Can you identify? Please say I am not the only one who acts without thinking, or takes on a task without planning ahead. Whatever you want to call it, action without forethought usually has regret attached. The fishing line was a partial spool I tucked into my jacket pocket two days ago just incase I broke a line. But in my washer, it was as big a problem as all the tissue particles that covered my jackets, jeans, and my husband’s socks. Now, with the line wound back around the plastic piece, and the dryer taking care (I hope) of the remaining tissue, I am reminded of a few things. One, is how little fragments escape our internal library of ‘lesson learned’; also, how grace is bigger than regret; and third, we sure can haul in more than fish when we go fishing!

Saturday was a beautiful day and I had the privilege of spending it with an eleven and a half year old “Little Man” who calls me Aunt Pat. We met on the day of his birth, and that’s another story. How did he get to be so grown up so soon? I have two children of my own, adults who grew up at the speed of light even though I tried to hold onto every hour. We know they do that, right? Yet don’t we still put off things we meant to do with our loved ones, believing ‘some days’ will get here before the ‘too lates’? I’ve known for at least 6 fishing years that this little fellow would someday know whether or not I was really fishing, or just out there to enjoy the great outdoors and let him think he was fishing. My husband had bought two new poles, the modern metal version of a cane pole which came with hook, line and sinker. Really! All I had to do was tie the line onto the end of the pole after extending it the full 13 feet. Well, that just looked like too much line, so my young assistant Ryan and I cut it with the clippers in his nicely stocked tackle box, and the remainder went into my pocket. Had I thought to figure out ahead how to use this pole still wrapped in plastic after a year(!), or restock my son’s melted, stinky contents of his old tackle box? No, that would just be too easy, I say with a smirk. To keep this from being too long, let me just say that Ryan is now fully aware of Aunt Pat’s fishing deficits. I’d say he knew that when I had to call my dad to see what the bass would be biting, and then had to borrow that green lizard from Ryan. A good sport about sharing his bait, he also didn’t laugh when my self-cut line didn’t quite reach the center of our pond. We threw back my first little fish, and he caught a couple nice ones with his spinner bait on a rod and reel. Good job! Not to be completely humiliated, I patiently kept trying and did add the third catch to our supper plans.

Did I mention taking on a task without planning? Have you cleaned and prepared fresh fish lately, with a spoon and a dull paring knife? (Thank you Ryan’s parents for stocking his box with a fish scaler!) Next time, I may consider Ryan’s first idea of throwing them all back! But oh no, I was going to have fresh fish for supper – over a fire yet! The end result was grilled fish, bone in, over charcoal; delicious for all except Ryan who thought hotdogs looked more appetizing. The fire pit was fun for him to start but not in time to cook (who forgot to bring the firewood over?) except to roast marshmallows for dessert.

Several times throughout our day, I mentioned things like “what a beautiful day God made” or “I’m sure God knew when He created this or that….” We decided to bury the fish heads and entrails in my garden which I said would thank God for our catch by fertilizing the ground. I hope when Ryan remembers our time together, he recalls that Aunt Pat gave credit to God for all things good. I hope I remember what I really caught: good memories and good lessons. Those are, first, when I forgot to check my pockets, it ‘tied up’ some time so to speak, so I need to remember the lessons of the Lord’s Word, which saves many hardships over going it our own way. In Proverbs we read, “My son, do to forget my law, but let your heart keep my commands; for length of days and long life and peace they will add to you.” (Proverbs 3:1) My second thought was that I wasn’t fully prepared but my friend Ryan had what I needed. Jesus knows our every weakness, and oh, what a friend we have in Jesus! Paul wrote to the church at Galatia “Grace to you and peace from God the Father and our Lord Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for our sins, that He might deliver us from this present evil age, according to the will of our God and Father.” (Galatians 1:3-4) Last, my methods weren’t the best, but with patience I caught a fish. So, I’ll try to be patient, wait on the Lord, and be supplied. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” (Psalm 23:1)

I’m sure glad Ryan wasn’t watching today as I pulled the extra line out of my washer. I’m glad God was, and enables me to share some lesson reminders. Even without a great deal of planning, the day was packed with fun and blessings, some of which were sunshine, laughter, friends and family, a hawk soaring over the trees, geese honking, and the reward of delicious food shared with loved ones. With my lack of preparation, I didn’t deserve such a good day. With our human error, missing the mark, we sure do not deserve all that God has done for us, but we have opportunity to receive anyway. Because he loves us.

I felt almost guilty using my son’s tackle box, because I didn’t make the time, nor find the know-how to take him fishing when he was little; and he sure turned out great anyway. Those ‘somedays’ I mentioned slipped by me and were followed by regret. However, I am thankful for the grace of loving forgiving hearts, and second chances. So when I mess up and leave tissues and fishing line in my pockets, I need to extend that grace to a certain family member who does the same. Even if I let busy-ness crowd out time to call my loved ones and spend more time with them, God keeps giving me more. More time, more opportunities. I am eternally thankful for them all, and I want to seize that time before there is no more, to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly. (Micah 6:8) I want to grab the opportunities to soar above the storms with wings growing stronger as I wait for the Lord to work in my life. (Isiah 40:31) More than anything else, I am thankful that He forgives when we forget to do life His way, and that He keeps putting more blessings on my hook than I could ever imagine hauling in.

It just occurred to me that if I’d had my old agitator washer instead of this high-efficiency washer that I’ve complained about so much, I’d have been in a much worse mess of tangled fishing line! Small favors!

LATE SUMMER’S DAY

08 Saturday Oct 2016

Posted by in Nature, Poetry

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I’ve looked through my posts and do not see if I ever posted this poem. I feel like I did, but I can’t find it. I wrote it one September, possibly late August, and today reminded me of it. Probably five or so years ago, sitting on my front porch watching  my friend/like a sister/former patient ‘in waiting”s little boy play, I was in awe of this time of year.

The birds’ cheerful singing with the wind chimes a ringing

Give voice to the breeze as it blows.

Warm air that feels cool, sky as blue as a pool,

Make the day as good as I’ve known.

Little boy Ryan with popsicle lips and butterflies sipping at zinnia tips:

Two special sights to behold.

The greens are much darker and serve as a marker,

With the gathering streaks of gold,

Of the promise that Autumn hovers; and a peacefulness covers

The summer’s long dry breath of air.

Cicadas chip through the still afternoon

And echo my thanks to be there.

P.Ward

Til The Last One’s In

12 Tuesday Jul 2016

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The man I married is barely recognizable. I mean, who is this man? Oh, he has enough of the same physical resemblance for anyone to know him, with just the usual aging changes. I’m talking about the things he has learned to care about, his preferences, as well as some ‘prefer nots’ if you will. As far as that goes, I’m thinking he would prefer that I not say these things, but then again, he has changed, so maybe I won’t be in too much trouble.

About four, maybe five years ago he was at an auction outside Sedalia, Kentucky where  he saw this Purple Martin apartment was to be sold. He became interested and had the privilege of meeting and talking to the man who built it. Learning only a minimal amount of Martin care, but with a promise of future contact for more info/support, he decided he couldn’t come home without that big, heavy, permanently-attached-to-an-iron-pole apartment house that I named Dorothy. It reminded me of the Dorothy from the movie “Twister”. So, this man who used to pay absolutely no attention to birds, was now going to play host to a gang of Brazilians. I was impressed.

Six gourds and five Julys later we again are watching another generation of young Purple Martins flying,  with approximately 30 pair of adults swooping, gliding, diving, and feeding the young. I had quickly grown accustomed to this man of mine pulling out a chair and just watching, amazed at the show as well as the concert of sounds the Martins make. But tonight was a new twist. All day we knew the babies were on the ground; well at least one or two. Another one could be seen flying outside Dorothy. By the end of the day, only one was still on the ground, and we could see that he wasn’t going to fly. He flopped his way over to a Maple tree and actually tried to climb it. With that much strength, we figured he would eventually learn to fly. Now, this part of raising Martins is not in the literature we’ve read, so assuming he fell out and wasn’t ex-communicated for being a bad bird or something, my husband said, “I can’t go in and leave that bird for something to get it in the night.” I was concerned that it wouldn’t get food, because Martins are fed until they can catch their food in flight. We were threatened by the excited adults flying over us, but have learned that their threats are only carried out against small animals, namely our cat. Said cat has spent the last four days inside because we knew it was about time for the young to leave the nests. They also escorted a Hawk off the property one day.

I was then told by this good man that I needed to go pick up the bird and put it higher in the tree and then it might fly, or be assisted by its relatives. That little rascal moved fast! After three tries with my Martin man yelling “pick that bird up and hold on to it!” I finally set him (the bird, that is) upon a metal fence post that was initially used to anchor Dorothy’s pole in cement.  But as we watched, the little bird never moved. At all. No one came down to help him. And night was drawing near. My Martin man left, drove to the shed and returned on a backhoe. He said, “we’re puttin’ that bird back up on the house so they can feed him. Pick him up, get in the bucket and I’ll lift you”. That’s about a 15 foot lift. No problem. Again, three times picking up and chasing because I didn’t want to hold tightly and hurt him, so he would escape and fly just above the grass for a few feet, then stop. Third time I was able to get my hold around his whole body, wings and all. With my backhoe driver shouting over the motor, “hang onto that bird” little Martin was placed onto the lower deck of Dorothy, and we backed off. We soon returned and he took his post on the patio, watching until at last he said with great satisfaction, “He just got fed!” In a moment, he added, “He just went inside one of the rooms” and with that this father-figure took the bill of his cap, swooped the air, and proclaimed his job done. “I can go in and rest now that that little fellow is safe”, was heard as he walked toward his own house.

Did you picture all those beautiful graceful acrobats filling the sky above us? Strong, able to do what those of the swallow family do, and yet there was that one little somewhat bug-eyed awkward one on the ground; unable to do what he ought to do. The others were busy. They were excited about their new parental responsibilities. They were competing perhaps for nabbing the nearest meal and dropping it off at the proper porthole. To us it seemed the whole bird world had forgotten little Martin. But there was one who would not leave one seemingly insignificant bird on the ground. My man.

Isn’t that the parable of Matthew 18:10-14? “Take heed that you do not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you that in heaven their angels always see the face of My Father who is in heaven. For the Son of Man has come to save that which was lost. What do you think? If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them goes astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine and go to the mountains to seek the one that is straying? And if he should find it, assuredly, I say to you, he rejoices more over that sheep than over the ninety-nine that did not go astray. Even so it is not the will of your Father who is in heaven that one of these little ones should perish.”

As darkness wrapped its muggy blanket around my back, my face was toward the Purple Martin apartments, watching the last ones flying in home. Their yodel-ish chatterings quieted down, the air became still, and heavy with contentment. Their last one was in. And so were we.

 

Tranquility: Stillness to Experience More

16 Wednesday Sep 2015

Posted by in Faith, Nature, Reflections

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Sunday, September 13, 2015

Anyone in western Kentucky is enjoying one of those days that is simply indescribable. Worship, rest, play, visit, work – whatever we are doing today, is a notch better than usual due to the combination of warm sun and cool breeze. This is the time of year, as I’ve always said, when I come to life and my writing picks up a little. After church I made a small lunch and we hit the patio chairs for a sunny snooze. (Boy are we getting old or what?) After an hour or so – who’s counting? – my writer’s bug bit me, and here it is.

Monday, September 14, 2015:  OK, rather than remain seated yesterday to finish writing, I chose to call for a couple of bright-eyed fellow fun-lovers to finish off that scrumptuous slice of day. Knowing my younger great-niece wanted to learn to ride her bike without training wheels, I ended up with two giggling little girls and running a “keep up with the wobbly bike” marathon. I really didn’t think I could run any more than a few feet, but when a five-year old trusts you to catch her, you run along side for all you’re worth! It now comes to me that the rest and meditation earlier in the afternoon prepared me for the run of the day. Aha, Lord, I believe I see yet another everyday proof of your wisdom! The more we stop to meditate on your word, storing up your truth, donning the whole armor of God as in Ephesians 6: 10-20, the more we are able to withstand, persevere, and become ambassadors for the gospel of Christ in this race of life.

Perhaps, at this point I want to insert what I wrote Sunday as I sat with my husband after lunch.

I know I should be doing something, but I am completely mesmerized by this day.

I’ve watched the tufts of white clouds which appeared as hypnotized as I, slip magically away.

We’ve basked ourselves in the perfectly warm sun, and cooled under the umbrella, with the breeze.

I’ve listened to that first faint rustle of the drying pre-autumn leaves.

We watched the busy hummingbirds chase each other away, sip and chat loudly – proclaiming victory or daring others to play.

The cat is just as contented as I to merely watch the butterflies ; and I hear my husband whisper ‘thank you Lord’ resting body, mind and eyes.

So, a deep breath again, I enjoy the aroma of a distant tobacco barn in the sweet cool September air,

As I watch a little brown and yellow moth explore my hand, test and taste without a care.

He now perches on my pen as I dawdle, and then write (for that is what I do);

And I think to myself, for all of this and so much more, Heavenly Father I thank you!

 The cat now ready to do life again pounces on a grasshopper, and I’m entertained by the two.

My husband, now strengthened from his rest, gone to whatever he had to do.

Like the Lord’s sabbath and His will for us so still to be

and know that He is God, must be why He provided such a day of tranquility.

“Be still and know that I am God;” Psalms 46:10

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight oh Lord my strength and my Redeemer.” Psalms 19:14 (emphasis mine)

“The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament shows His handiwork…” Psalms 19:1

Wednesday, September 16, 2015    Today would have been my Mama’s 84th birthday. She had a bitter-sweet taste for these beautiful days of Fall. She had loved this time of year so much, then she lost her daddy in October and later her mother and sweet sister in two years of Septembers. Fall took on a cloak of sadness for her; although she still was comforted by the beauty in it. So today Mama, I know you feel the warmth and bliss that you once did on days like this; when you were young, full of faith and hope. But now young forever, knowing now the one in whom your faith took hold, and all your hopes now live fulfilled. I’m so blessed to be your daughter, and a daughter of the King who created all this that is good.

CLOSE OF AN AFTERNOON RAIN

30 Sunday Aug 2015

Posted by in Nature, Poetry

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Ending things has never been my cup of tea. All of my life, I hated for parties, sleep-overs, and movies to end. I cried at the end of each stage of my children’s lives, although I knew full well those were perfectly healthy normal milestones. I cried on the last day of my just retired from position at the hospital. I should have been skipping and giggling all the way out. But, no, with tear brimmed eyes I turned in my  badge to the operator after clocking out, fumbled my belongings out to the car, and felt lonely. Going home to a house full of love and excitement at my being able to turn the page and retire, I was weary from a very long exhausting day, and yes, sad; for an ending, I guess. And here we are at the end of another season. Summer on August 30, is pretty much ending. When most people are hailing the end of seasons, I am clinging to all the ‘but I wanted to do this, or that and time is flying’ clichés.

One thing I have been encouraged to do in retirement is to spend more time writing. Partly because those dears know me and like my writing, and partly because it (my writing) has much improvement to take on, and practice makes perfect, right? I have been overwhelmed with the idea of so much to do, the closing of summer, so many people to see and get to do things with, and taking on part-time positions. Yes, busy people just stay busy, and it’s always going to be that way. So, I have been avoiding the urge to write. Until today. We needed a rain as there had been a small dry spell, and obviously I needed a rain to lubricate my writing hinges. It began to rain as I was in the midst of grading care plans for the students in the obstetrical clinical I have agreed to teach.  Soon I found myself moving out onto the front porch swing for a break. Most of the lightning and thunder was over as was the downpour, but the sounds of the tapering off triggered that writer’s need to put it into words.

Phrases to describe the sounds began tripping through my mind and the following poem was the result.

Trickling water sounds through the metal downspout,

Thunder rumbling farther away,

Hissing car tires make that splashy sound,

Drippity drops of nearly stopped rain.

Bold little croak of a nearby toad

and some flying creatures test the air;

The sky is getting lighter, puddles shine wider

Dampness crawls onto the porch to share.

Gently a breeze stirs the water laden trees

And the windchime makes a timid ting-ding.

A constant faint drizzle and a crow calls o’er the way,

A new dong with the ting-a-ding rings.

Blooms bob their heads as tiny drips fall

as if to be nodding adieu.

The freshness remains – an unnamed fragrance –

And the late summer rain has moved through.

 May you have a love wrapped ending to your summer, friends, as we look forward to that breathtaking joy we call Autumn. God is so good. Trisha

COFFEE ON THE WESTSIDE

25 Monday May 2015

Posted by in Nature, Reflections

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A deer crosses our field of young soybeans just about 20 yards from where I sit drinking an evening cup of Maxwell House, watching what is left of the sunset and a hummingbird taking one last drink. He’s in no hurry nor am I in a hurry to see the day end. I realize the cicadas have gone to sleep or whatever cicadas do when they quiet down. I feel a nice peaceful wrap sliding around my shoulders, with a bit of a chill in the evening air. It is late May, and the weather is damp and cool, more so than we expect at this time of year. The evening birds sound louder than they do when the day life is busily competing for attention. A frog of some sort croaking just beneath the porch rail  where I sit startled me, and I giggled as he and another farther out took turns calling back and forth.

This is Memorial Day, and I have been mindful today of the sacrifices made by the many men and women, and their families, to promote peace and freedom in our country. Without them in our ever-changing history, it is doubtful that I would have the luxury of taking in this evening in such a way. Thank you so very, very much. My heart is prayerful for all who have and are now serving our country.

Since the weather reminds me of the cool rainy season we normally have in April, my mind turns to an April day several years ago when I was riding with my husband on one of his ventures for farm equipment. He likes the company and help with maps and such, and I like the time to write, or read, or work crossword puzzles; so many are the times we’ve struck out on excursions looking for some truck or piece of farm machinery he has found in a publication or online. Anyway, one day in particular stands out in memory because of the striking glow of redbud trees in the wooded countryside. I recall writing a silly little poem about the portrait of Spring. Nature is the most poem-triggering inspiration for me.

It is dark now, my coffee cup is empty and the birds have also gone to nest I suppose for I cannot hear anything but frogs and other night sounds whose names I don’t know. I am going inside to relinquish another day, and to look for that old poem.

Found it, fiddled around with it a bit, and here it is:

PORTRAIT OF SPRING

Redbuds, popping out in vibrant lilac splashes,

on a quiet wooded, expectant canvas,

Soon to be joined by fancy whites and fresh new green

worked into the portrait of another Spring.

Redbuds, with humble unfrilled ease

pull the eye to the blur of late winter trees.

A glow at the edge of a dark rainy day –

They’re waiting for Dogwoods to come out and play.

Dogwood, a name for lacy young ladies in pink and white

who’ll come into their own over cool April nights.

Dogwoods, spreading their arms, hands joined in games

are allowed a short time for song and play

under thickening green mesh arbors of home

until they have leaves and shade of their own.

Redbuds and Dogwoods in unison sing,

“we’re the prettiest part in the picture of Spring”.

My mind with its business and day-to-day run,

stops in awe at what the Artist has done.

And as the years slip by with their speedy endeavor

I look forward to their portraits more eagerly than ever.     P.Ward

Suddenly I’m a girl of 9 or 10 years old again, joining hands in circle with the other girl scouts in my troop. I hear us singing, “Day is done, gone the sun, from the hills, from the (trees?) from the sky. All is well, safe at rest, God is nigh”.  I haven’t heard that song in way too long…Good night friends.