“Whoever pursues righteousness and kindness will find life, righteousness, and honor.” Proverbs 21:21 (ESV)
May I introduce you to Miss Maple, the 21 year old transplant, whose fiery tones of orange and red have graced our otherwise bland lawn with the radiance of autumn. This photo was taken on a sunny October morning. Each day since, has brought bolder colors to her outreaching arms, reminding me of the spreading goodness one small act of kindness can bring to others. Miss Maple is the result of one such kindness years ago.
On a drizzly day in early autumn 2005, I got a call from my mother — another reminder to “please come dig this little seedling” from the foundation of her house. It could easily have been whisked away all year; instead, she carefully guarded the growing maple, knowing I would need new trees for our lawn. We’d just moved into our new house in May, established a lawn, and needed all the help we could get with filling it. Just one little thought for someone else, became a seedling held and guarded, with several kind reminders to dig it before it grew too large to be moved without damage to the roots. With some protest, the little tree came out with one woody root which grew parallel to the ground, shaped like a tap root, and about a yard long. The several shorter feeding roots were no problem, but that yard-long one! Thankful for the gentle rain, I dug the usual hole you would for a small root ball, but added to the side a trench to hold the slender tap-like root. Looking back now, with the one horizontal root, I wonder if the tree grew on love and hope. It was odd looking, to say the least, until covered with the damp dirt and a prayer. Twenty one years later, on another drizzly morning in early autumn, Miss Maple brings a glow to the gloom; like a stop light reminding me to stop and consider what one small (even unnecessary) deed can do. It just may grow into a singularly important part of someone’s day, or life, or lawn.
Through the window, a blazing reminder of life’s radiance in any season.
“I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.” Copyright Credit: Joyce Kilmer, “Trees” from Poetry 2, no. 5 (August 1915): 153
One of the first poems my mother taught me to love.
In whatever season you are living, I hope you are enjoying many happy returns of kindness given, and kindness received.
It’s fledging time. With a ring-side seat last week, from first our living room windows, and then from the kitchen door, I watched the activity of our barn swallow family, as the young fledged their mud-nest home. Each year we allow one family to build over the kitchen door at the end of a long porch. We get scolded by the parent birds, threatening us to keep our distance, as well as a terrible mess of their droppings deposited beneath the nest at our threshold. In return, we get a natural airborne exterminator for flying pests. And we get an entertaining show of parenthood, of growing up, and of beautiful aerodynamics. I was captivated by the similarities between the subject of my spying, and our growth as humans.
After a few days of seeing their little heads pop over the edge of their nest, I was not surprised to find five young barn swallows precariously perched on the porch rail, and on our bench, making feeble attempts at flying. One tumbled into the bed of 4 O’clocks below the rail. Continuing to observe them, I made several notes, as follows.
Parent birds fly near, perch beside them and the young’s mouths gape open for the usual feeding; but mom knows that to keep hand-feeding will result in weak children unable to fend for themselves. Disappointed fledglings watch as mother flies away, calling out as she does so. I think about how our own children, as well as children of God, wait eagerly for parental care — handouts, only to find we do not get everything we want. We need to be coaxed into reaching out, gaining strength, and learning to be responsible. So we pray, study, and grow.
Mother flies in, mouths fly open. Teetering on the brink of leaving.
Oh, the messes they make!
Huddled in anticipation
Let there be no doubt, the young do not simply fly the nest! There are fumbling, tumbling and fluttering moments with much clinging, and faltering baby steps. Imitating the parents, they begin preening, and taking short lift-offs and landings; all the while, expecting the continuous feeding. And the mess they make follows them to their new perches while trying to balance on the rail as well as a small dinner bell attached to the porch wall. They seem to be trying to get nearer the airfield Mother Swallow is expected to use. After a period of time known only by the mother’s instinct, she resumes the feeding as they huddle on the dinner bell and arm of the bench.. She is aware her young still need sustenance. So, while the parents are using tough love to teach the young to survive, they continue their care tediously, tirelessly, and tenderly. Our Father God has always chastised His children, and blessed them tenderly, for the sole purpose of their spiritual well being and safety; and that they will become their best image of Him. Many messes are made by all children as we grasp, cling, fumble and fall. Learning to be what we are meant to be is not easy. Grand effort is made as well, by all parents worth the salt in their bread, to bring their young to maturity, enabling them success when they’ve flown the nest.
Building their strength along with their courage over a few hours time, each fledgling eventually gives it a try. Unwilling to allow me to look for the first jumper, Ma Swallow threatens me to stay away, and I know she will coax that one as well, from its hiding place below. She will not give up her guarding, coaxing, and nourishing; tediously, tirelessly, and tenderly. Jesus’ parable in Matthew 18: 12 explains her concern, as well as the action God takes for His jumpers. Even one out of a hundred is worth going after.
Though the young are now very near the size of the parent birds, a little observation shows their instability and her quick, sure maneuvers to show who is who. I watch the gaping (identical to me) mouths all lined up, as she swoops in with bug after bug, and I wonder how does she know whose turn it is to eat. In her absence, the babies toddle about, look up toward the nest they’ve left, and I imagine a look of “well guys, there’s no going back there!” They trust the care will continue. They walk around each other with those halted steps on the old wooden bench. One live bug, the size of a fly, dropped from the beak of one young bird. Mother saw it and swooped back in, picked it up, and swallowed it. How many times have our moms waited for leftovers? Or perhaps she taught another lesson — waste not, want not. She is still the boss; and so is our God. Once we have walked with Him, we know we never want to go back.
Perhaps you are a bird enthusiast too, and enjoy the activity, the similarities and differences between them and other animals, and the reminders of our own lives. Watching them, I sensed how tediously, tirelessly and tenderly our Father has cared for His children, always. As we are reborn to become His, He provides the word to nourish us, tenderly leading us in paths of righteousness (Psalm 23:3). He gives us a shield and strength (Psalm 28:7); He disciplines and corrects those who are His (Proverbs 3:11-12, Hebrews 12:6). We mess up; He waits. We falter; He encourages. We eventually fly; He rejoices. “The Lord your God in your midst, the Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing.” (Zephaniah 3:17)
All mouths in same direction.Wondering what to do next!
Someday I shall be ready to fly. He will have prepared me, supplied for me, and protected me to take the final flight from the nest and I will soar, never to return. In the meantime, I wait, hoping in the Lord and renewing my strength, and then I shall mount up with wings like eagles, being neither weary nor faint. (Isaiah 40:31) Have a wonderful week, Trisha
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 youand 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 spreadsout 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
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
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.
“For the earth will be filled With the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, As the waters cover the sea.” Habakkuk 2:14 NKJV
Awaking on a muggy July 3 it is already hot at 6:30 am. My dog and I make a short trek down toward the boat dock. A bum knee forces me back to the safety of my sister’s lake house. The view out the window says its a beautiful morning in spite of the heat and humidity. And in fact, it is.
Kentucky Lake
Life has its hot moments, for sure; life feels like a heavy wet blanket when troubles loom large. Backing away or retreating for a moment into the Word of the Lord refreshes and brings the big picture into perspective. God is still God; good and gracious. In the midst of troubles, He provides a rest and brings us out into a clear day. The heat will pass. The word of God endures forever.
Bless the name of the Lord. His glory covers the earth.
“Casing all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.” I Peter 5:7
The sky has darkened, wind is gusting and rain is falling. Our resident hummingbirds dart in for another of many meals throughout the day. As the wind picks up, one female is left to continue receiving the nectar and eventually a gust tosses her under the covered porch and whips her back out into the crepe myrtle limbs. She disappears a moment, and as I hear her clicking chatter resume she circles the feeder triumphantly, resuming her natural duty – survival.
Neither the gathering clouds, nor rain, nor rumbling thunder gave these tiny troopers pause in their itinerary. I, on the other hand, pretty much close up shop; at least head for the cover of a porch. And if lightening joins the fun, I am done. Inside, checking with Alexa for the latest storm warning, and lighting a candle, I nearly forget any purpose I had for the day. With a fresh cup of hot coffee, I stand at the window and observe the way of nature.
In my observation, I remember the One who created the birds of the air; the One who sent rain over Noah’s ark; the One who calmed the storm. With one breath, one word, one touch of His hand, all creation – even the wind and the waves obey Him. “And they feared exceedingly, and said to one another, ‘who can this be, that even the wind and sea obey Him?’ ” (Mark 4:41)
I allow too many clouds to overshadow my joy. This is not good. If I hide from the storms and run from the rain, I miss the beauty of knowing I am already in good hands and receiving the peace this brings. Leaning into the storm, I find the One, Jesus my Savior, who already has command of my life. “For He commands and raises the stormy wind, which lifts up the waves of the sea.” (Psalms 107:25)
Lovely little hummingbird, I learn from you. God provides; I must not fear. “For He satisfies the longing soul, and fills the hungry soul with goodness.” (Psalms 107:9) My survival in this stormy world of chaos, and the darkness that persists in a world who has rejected God’s way, depends on the sustaining nectar of God’s Word. Go ahead storms, toss me around like lady hummingbird, and I will be directed back to His way by the breath of His word.
Once again a layer of ice has crystalized our countryside in Western Kentucky, though thankfully, it hasn’t paralyzed us as the 2009 ice storm did. Here at home we didn’t even lose electrical power, so we had the privilege of admiring the unbelievable sparkle of the outdoor world from a warm window, where I watched the nearby Hawthorne tree display colors as a crystal prism. Only the sun and the ice compose this dazzling artwork. Snapping pictures for an hour has not begun to capture the reality of what the eye beheld yesterday morning. My eyes, however, remained shifted away from the center of our backyard, where not all was beauty. There in the backyard is a Southern Magnolia tree I love because it was given me by my brother 12 years ago. Due to it’s size, the weight of accumulated ice was more than it could bear and many limbs lay on the ground, splintered ends pointing skyward. As I lamented my heartbreak to my family, we talked about how insignificant one tree is in comparison to the devastating losses so many have suffered lately. It still hurts; it will never have the beautiful shape it was before the storm. Thoughts emerged of life storms, splintered hearts and hope, and the healing we long for after the storm. Hearts scarred and broken from abuse and abandonment will awaken each day and be reshaped by not only the past but by each encounter and effort to recover and repair. Broken relationships leave gaping wounds, and when scars form, room is made for building new and reshaping old relationships. I believe none of this happens without design by the creator God, Who set the life seasons in motion, planning for scars to give rise to new growth; strength in healing from brokenness; beauty from barren canvases where we allow the master artist to create in us renewed hope and revived spirit. (Psalm 51:10) Just as there is beauty in the crystalized world outside my window even as the ice in its natural character does damage; and just as there is hope for my Magnolia to live on with its scars producing new growth and certainly new shape, we also can continue to be part of new growth and reshaping for others and ourselves after life’s storms. We are helpless to stop these changes of our seasons, but God is able to bring out of those seasons the beauty within us because it was He Who put it there in the first place. “It is He who has made us, and not we ourselves” Psalm 100:3. Give yourself the gift of allowing God through His word, to revive and reshape you after the storms of your seasons. “Then your light shall break forth like the morning, your healing shall spring forth speedily, and your righteousness shall go before you; the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.” (Isaiah 58:8)
The scul-uff, scul-uff, scul-uff of my house shoes is getting on my nerves, as is the beyond dry condition of my skin and hair. I am dulled by naps and headaches and ridiculous television shows, and so tired of trying to focus my eyes for anything useful. Winter doldrums are not my normal; but then what has been normal for the past couple years? Now that I am feeling ornery enough to complain, I do see light at the end of the tunnel. The Covid ‘fog’ is lifting; also the aura that surrounds the loss of a loved one is finding its place a few paces away from the immediate needs of everyday living. And for every complaint I have just uttered, I enjoy a dozen blessings. So the good does not nullify the bad, it just makes it easier to bear. The blessings do not blind us to the ills; the ills illuminate the blessings.
I rise up in the morning, thanking God the sunrise did not get lost; that I can see, and walk and hear, and feel the freezing air and the warm house. I thank God for everything from hot coffee to holly berries. I thank Him for the time we have had with loved ones; brief or extended, the time is a gift. I’ve spoken gratitude for modern medicine and vaccine and those who act out of compassion, or just passion, to accomplish better lives for us all. From dear friends to my fur baby, from my husband to my children to the sister my husband loves to taunt, our people are a blessing!
I complained this morning about a hawk who has just about left us without song birds, and watching those birds was my favorite winter pastime. A couple hours later a beautiful pair of cardinals visited the bird feeder. What a gift! I wouldn’t have appreciated this treat quite as much if not for the gap of time our feeders have sat lonely.
When your heart aches, or your earth quakes, consider the opposite. Likely there is something in contrast for which you have been thankful; something to hope for and plan simply because you are alive. The lonely times are real, and I hope brief. Soon life rekindles and revisits and the birds will return to the feeder.
“ Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” (Matthew 6:26 NKJV)
Each year I promise myself and anyone concerned, not to make myself one with the outdoor world as Spring turns into Summer. Spring has a gravitational pull like few others, and only becomes stronger as summer dawns. I truly intend each year to divide my time wisely between outdoor activity and indoor obligations. Just as surely as the sun rises earlier and earlier, I become more and more negligent of my pledge. Actually, ‘derelict’ may be a more adequate description of my summer self. To make things worse this year, our backyard population of House Wrens is captivating.
Now, I’m fully aware of one’s reality being one’s perception, so if for some inexplicable reason you aren’t fascinated by all this nature activity or if you do not hear the call of the wild, perhaps you can relate to some other distraction keeping you from being all you think you should be. You will likely think I am loony (and you’d be partly correct) but it’s kind of that trash and treasure idea – it’s all in our perception. My reality, I’m not getting any work done and it’s nature’s fault!
Thinking the rainy days would be my redemption time to clean, or write, or even squeeze in some extra reading, was folly. I refuse, however, to accept all the blame. April showers brought us amazing May flowers. Obviously the birds and bees thought so too, for I have been like a kid at Christmas watching our feathered friends. I go from fascination to frustration as I watch and defend them. My most recent angst has been a Sparrow Hawk who seems to think our Purple Martins came from Brazil just for his or her benefit. Judging by the tenacity, I’d say it’s a she, with a family of her own to feed. That’s beside the point. Aren’t there enough rodents out and about to feed a host of hawks?! Seriously, I’m about a shotgun shell away from committing a crime! On Sunday morning we witnessed said hawk taking an adult Martin down, in our backyard, from her own apartment house. I cried. The dirty bird better be glad it was Sunday! But I digress; I was about to tell you about the wrens, wasn’t I.
Six feet from my sunroom window hangs what remains of a wind chime. It is fashioned like a retro coffeepot, with a birdhouse door and a tiny little awning over the perch. The wrens found it desirable so I cut off the chimes and let them have it. This year it became the chosen one; of the dummy nests created by Mr. Wren, Mrs. Wren chose this one for real. I’ve been sitting in the window, rain or shine, watching them finish, fend off and feed. They are adorable. Other than one seeming a bit smaller than the other, the male and female are identical. They, and another couple near my rose garden, have sung their little hearts out all spring and still sing about anything from “here’s another bug my dear” to “oh what a beautiful morning”! As I write, one of the coffeepot residents has landed on a shepherd’s hook, looks into my window and sings WITH bug in beak, as if to say, “be sure you mention how hard I work”! As one waits for the other to feed their babies, his little wings are in a constant flutter, allowing him to hover a moment for his turn to hand off the groceries. Then he is off on another cross-country mission (across the soybean field to the fence row) for another haul.
From early spring until now, we have enjoyed, besides the swallows and wrens, a daily visit from geese and an occasional Great Blue Heron to our pond, so I get to see them from the sunroom too. We have had gold, purple and house finches; Robins, Mockingbirds, Bob Whites, Red-winged Blackbirds, Bluejays, Cardinals, Hummingbirds and the prettiest little Chipping Sparrows. My favorite is the Eastern Bluebird who has rights to a box I check and protect the best I can. These are the backyard guests that keep me spellbound.
I hate the English house sparrow so much that I will make no further mention of its name. Starlings have been less of a pest this year, but still do some damage. And now the hawk. But isn’t that life? We each see and strive to meet our own needs. Why oh why can’t we all be the gentle melodious Bluebird who just takes care of his own, instead of the screaming predator who kills and maims members of its own class. I know, I know, it’s nature. Not even Mother Nature can please everyone every time. Still, given the pleasures versus the pain, I think she is quite a lovely lady, our Mother Nature!
As I close, a Goldfinch whistling “hey you, hey you”, has joined our wrens in the Crepe Myrtle that shades and protects the coffeepot house. They are completely at peace with each other and my heart swoons. It is nearly noon, and my floors are tracked with tennis shoe prints and dry grass clippings; the furniture is dusty and I have no meal planned. The lawn needs mowing today so there is a multitude of clover and dandelion blooms making happy bees out there. Blame it on the rain. Oh no! An EHS just attempted to enter the wren’s abode! Just as I ran to knock on the window to scare it off, a beautiful blaze of blue swooped down and did the job for me. After a few minutes of peering out her port hole, Mrs. Wren escapes to continue doing what she does, safe and sound. Bluebird, you are my hero!!
Thursdays used to be my productive days. I’m afraid I’ve done it again! Happy watching!
