“This is my commandment that you love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends.” John 15:12-13
In this first hour of March 23, 2022, I find no sleep so I may as well write. It would be my brother’s sixtieth birthday, the first since his passing. I suppose I will always feel protective of his memory just as I feel I should have been protective of him in childhood. I’ve written the following in observation of his birthday, and in honor of his proudest moments. If it sounds sad, it’s because I am sad he left so soon. Life can be sad, but life is still good, and he’d be the one to say, “Oh well…”.
THE RIFLE SHELL
A VFW gun salute shakes the silence of the air,
and over the flag covered casket is said a final prayer.
Lil’ Brother, a dad, a friend laid to rest
wearing his dress blues, the sun in the west.
Memories fill our hearts and flood our eyes
as the shots ring toward the cold blue sky.
A brass shell casing picked up from the ground
has a design inside where six points can be found.
I see one point for the courage to say “I will”
and one for the sacrifice because the risk is real.
One point stands for loyalty to country and brother,
and one for humility, heroes they claim, is someone other.
One point is for pain, in body and mind
as they endure training and leave home behind.
The last point, for loneliness, though in a sea of the same –
where all wear proudly a common name –
yet all left all familiar to them alone. And now once again he travels on.
Heroes don’t always die in active duty. They may bring home a scarred heart and torn life they die trying to paste back together again. Still others survive to live out a full and beautiful life, and become someone else’s hero. Thank you to Mark and all service men and women for your courage, sacrifice and loyalty to country and each other. I am sorry for the pain and loneliness you felt, and the humility with which you carried it all. Even though Mark isn’t here, I couldn’t let his “big six-o” go by without a special “Happy Birthday”. Love, Sis
“Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.” I Peter 5:6-7 (NKJV)
Recently I saw a good example of casting your care upon the Lord versus dangling it into the water, near the bank and watching for a nibble of concern. To set the scene for you, it was the first day of March, a beautiful breezy welcome from winter’s stuffy hold.I had the pleasure of being amused all afternoon by an excited six year old, great nephew Grayson. Of the day’s many activities, his favorite at my house is “findin’ worms”.Following his frenzied search for earth worms, and swinging a Mason jar ofhis treasures by the wire handle, he asked, “now what?” I suggested we could put them back in the ground to live in the garden. Looking up at me with one eye winking at the sun, he sheepishly said, “Well I guess we could see if some fish want to eat them”.I’ve never had that line used on me before! Unfortunately, I only had available to us my old cane pole with a short line, a weight and a rusty hook, as well as a crappie pole, with little more line and a bobber. With a six year old’s enthusiasm and confidence, this pitiful assortment seemed enough. So off we went to the pond, bait and poles in hand.
Once we had positioned ourselves on the pond bank and he dug a “fat juicy one” out of the jar, I speared it onto the hook. He exclaimed “I’m gonna cast it out there in the water now!” Cast? With limited line and no rod and reel. Explaining the need to have a reel to ‘cast’ was a waste of breath, for he had already determined this was the only way to fish. As I ducked and dodged the flying hook again and again, Grayson cast with abandon and trusted he would any minute pull in a big bass. Bait on, a whip of his tiny wrist, and optimism was cast without doubt. I suspected his real goal was to use up all his newly acquired bait. My method was to slowly bring the line behind me, often snagging my bait in the brush, then gingerly toss it out as far as my short line would allow me to drop the baited hook while I explained all the reasons why we shouldn’t expect a bite on a breezy day before spring. Is this how I cast my cares on the Lord? Do I cautiously offer a short line I can keep an eye on, snagged in worry, while explaining all the ways it won’t work?
Lord, let me cast like a six year old! Just fling it out there, too fast to snag it with other worldly cares and with weighted hope, expect to reel in a big blessing!No wonder the Lord said we’d need to become like little children! Trusting, enthusiastic and hopeful – the examples I need for casting my line before the Lord, knowing he will take the bait of cares and replace them with peace.
“Then Jesus called a little child to Him, set him in the midst of them, and said, ‘Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven’.”Matthew 18:2-3 (NKJV)
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)
First, a very happy birthday today to my 12 year old niece Isabella Claire, who has been a ray of sunshine in my life! The sun as well, is a beautiful gift from God today and I’m looking to it to continue healing. I am tired of feeling and looking like a slug; sick of taking care of only our household and not being able to reach out to others. Most thankful today for warm homes, drive-thru windows, and good medicine, I hope the Covid fog is about to lift.
The day I wrote the following was a good day, with a cherished visit from my brother’s daughter Sara and her toddlers as well as my sister and her young grandsons. The kids laughed and ran about so cute, having a ball, and the three of us, aunts and niece, had a good and much needed visit. The following day brought a new sadness to our family and one through which I am still processing via pen and paper. The events of the week hindered my tree-taking-down until the following Saturday afternoon; but the rest of my holiday decorations remain gathering dust, awaiting a time of wiping down and wrapping up. Snowmen stand smiling as if nothing changed; a small group of old world Santas seem oblivious to the calendar and uneaten candies have lost their taste for me. No longer fresh greenery shatters each time I pass it. In retrospect, I may reconsider the ‘bad luck’ in leaving a tree standing through the new year; not really sure.
Events of the past few weeks have left my mind and body craving newness but Covid is still pulling the reins on my strength, and sadness of my brother’s passing shadows my writing. In weak effort to pick back up and rejoin life, I am publishing this January 4 writing as I planned to do on that sweet morning.
January 4, 2022: Taking Down The Tree: Times of Tradition
We never used to leave the Christmas tree up into the new year. Mama said it was bad luck to have it up on New Years Day, but I doubt she believed it because she wasn’t normally a superstitious person. I realize now she simply needed it out of the way before getting back into her usual busy work week. I carry most of her traditions leading up to Christmas Day, which leaves me too tired to take it all down the week after, when I finally get to relax and enjoy it. (How DID she do it?) This year I’m really dragging it out because I am expecting company today who didn’t get to be with us on the 25th. I want her littles to get their gifts from under the tree. As I look upon the ornaments, dreading the process of taking it down, there’s one front and center taking me down memory lane so far I lost track of time.
Walking down the aisle of Kroger December 2009, I saw a rustic red wooden star with a fat little snowman painted in the center. Two points of the star were longer than the others, and they reached right into my heart. I stood holding it, sobbing, there in the middle of the grocery, thinking, “this – this very ornament is exactly what Mama would have given me this year” – I just knew it. Never before had I bought an ornament in the grocery, nor had I seen one I thought would have been given to me. But this one. This one was going home with me and now, Christmas 2021, it still adorns my tree and I can smile instead of cry.
I remember crying as I pushed my cart through Kroger a couple, maybe four or five times, I don’t know, I lost count actually that summer and autumn following her passing. I stand wondering this year, why. What about the grocery did that to me? Standing here today looking at my star, I just figured it out. For my entire childhood, from before I could remember, Mama and I did the grocery shopping together on Saturdays. That stopped of course after I married, but even then, if I dropped by on Saturday and she was gone, I knew I could find her at Owen’s Food Market, or the beauty shop.
Mama enjoyed recalling the times when I was a toddler, we would go ‘bumming’ on Saturday. We’d go to a dime store soda fountain in Cleveland, Ohio where she would lift me to a stool and we would share an ice cream soda. Afterwards, we’d get her shopping done. Her only day off for years was Saturday afternoon so the tradition continued, as two more children came along and we all four traipsed the aisles of Johnson’s Grocery in Murray, KY Saturday after Saturday. She bought ice cream and cokes for us to have a Saturday night treat, and I also recall getting to pick out a Little Golden Book for us on many of those trips.
Mama depended on credit in those days, so she remained loyal to one grocer at a time. When Mr. Johnson closed, she continued the tradition at Mr. Owen’s. They knew she would pay as soon as she could – and that’s as good a tradition as anyone needs – a good name.( “A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches, Loving favor rather than silver and gold.” Proverbs 22:1 NKJV. ) Holding my star, I know she was the star of our Saturdays, our Christmases, and many of our traditions. I’m glad I broke the one about taking down the tree on new year’s eve. Otherwise I wouldn’t have had the pondering time today, leading me on the grocery cart ride as I figured out twelve years later why I felt such loss in the aisle, and why I latched onto my Christmas star. May you find your own beautiful stars living in the traditions and memories of love. Trisha
Colt and Jameson 1-4-22Isabella Claire, ruthless opponent! 1-1-22
What do you do when torrential rains are falling, and New Year’s wishes are calling? If you are like me, you light a favorite candle, play soft music and write. This morning, my seed of inspiration came when my friend Linda sent a link to a blog in which the writer was stating her sadness for the world’s ills, from her own heartbreaking situation to those of her extended community. We can all say, “I hear you!”, unless we have our heads in the sand. I too, hurt deeply for those who’ve met with disaster, heartache and illness. But for some reason, I never see it as clearly in my own life. Sometimes I feel guilty for having it so easy, or it’s like I wear rose colored glasses. Remember that song?
Was it three or four years ago we had the total solar eclipse? Remember the little cardboard sunglasses everyone was grabbing to be prepared for the once in a lifetime event? I had the pleasure of spending that day with my sister and her granddaughters. We made a party of it, (she is like that) and I will never forget being able to witness such a phenomenon. If not for the special eyewear we would have either missed a part of the experience, or suffered eye damage. Wearing them protected us from harmful rays we could not see!
A good pair of sunglasses is another protection and vital to my bird watching pleasure. Our bluebirds perch on an electric line where the sun’s glare makes it impossible for me to admire, much less identify one bird from another, until I remember to wear sunglasses. Then I am able to see the beauty while blocking the glare. Same principle you experience for driving safety or vacation vistas. We just do not need to look right into the brazen blazing heat of the battles.
It seems God provides rose colored glasses to soften the glare of life, to protect and enable. If I were to sit down and start naming all the stuff I wish wasn’t there, I most likely would miss the beauty living right alongside the beast. I’d get so far down in the trenches I couldn’t see the light of day. Unlike the song, these glasses aren’t to “show only the beauty and hide all the truth”. Instead, these dim the glare of life’s ugly, helping me see more of the beauty – just like the sunglasses. For some, the way of escape is highlighted; others see how to execute a plan to make a change, none of which could be seen while squinting at blinding rays of our world’s woes. When we face a situation that feels unbearable, there comes a buffer from the heart of God and we know we’re going to make it one more step, one more day. A shield between us and the enemy, is “the shield of faith with which you will be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked one” (Ephesians 6:16). “We walk by faith, not by sight.” (II Corinthians 5:7) Thank God, I do not need to see everything past, present and future to get where I am going – what an inconceivably amazing mind is that of our God, Who does see all! And then He lets me see through the eyes of faith all I need to know, where I need to go, and a glimpse of eternity’s rosy glow.
I would be blind and unkind to minimize the struggles the past year has held for so many. But I know God offers shelter from the storms, rest for the weary and grace for when I forget to acknowledge His provisions. Life does have sharp edges! It does get ugly. It makes me cry. I just cannot look at all of it at once. Wearing God’s rose colored faith glasses, I see the rosy glow behind a sunset’s clouds. I clearly see Him carrying us through, conquering our enemies, and giving peace that passes understanding.
My “happy new year” is a bit late due to my choice to set the writing aside for a while and enjoy many blessings. A good hot meal to cook, in a dry warm house; the company of a good husband; visit from nieces here who taught me to play Chinese Checkers and Spoons; and texting with my precious friend and family too, are the rose colored glasses God gave me today.
May your 2022 be just bright enough – not blinding, and not dark. But when you do (and we will) get to those places of too much or not enough, have faith in the Lord Jesus Christ who walked this way already and knows exactly where you need to place each step.
“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.” James 1:17 (NKJV)
It is Christmas Eve morning, predawn, as I sip coffee in the glow of our Christmas tree. I wonder, will I get it all done in time to make more happy memories for my loved ones. Menus are ready for ingredients I’ve stowed away for weeks and I’m getting the usual anticipation jitters that I’ve forgotten something. There’s baking, arranging and cleaning to be done, but for now the house is quiet with sleep except for the snoring of my little lap dog. A star-lit sky is about to welcome dawn, and as I gaze upon our tree ornaments, I recognize the beauty of reflection.
A decorated tree is pretty by daylight, but the magic happens when the little white lights are glowing, and there in the dark, each ornament twinkles with life. They reflect memories of love and fun. In the stillness, my tree reflects the joys I received from each person who’s given these keepsakes. A mama bear reads to her baby bear by the tree lamp’s glow as she has since 1999. Thirteen little Hallmark ornaments are as happy as the day I received each one a year at a time, and I remember the precious little girl, and her mom who brought them to my door each year. My little clothespin ponies have shiny faces reflecting the love with which they were sent from West Virginia. Many snowmen from friends and family are dazzling as they dance in the lights and I reflect on the occasions and names of each one given. Flying cardinals and sitting cardinals reflect my mother’s love as well as that of those who’ve added to the collection, and the love they learned from her. Glass orbs with meaningful words twinkle and never grow old.
If I were a Christmas tree, would I reflect the true light, the Giver of all good and perfect gifts? Would God’s love, as He sent His Word to become the flesh and blood baby Jesus, glow in my life? Would I shine with the love Christ demonstrated for us as He gave the ultimate gift? If I were a Christmas tree, would I make others happy?
I’m sure the history of the Christmas tree is interesting, but honestly we don’t care. What it is to me, as it was to my parents, for as long as I can remember, is a place to store gifts we give each other. Most importantly, it is where the adornments of our Christmases are displayed; a first, someone’s last, treasured gifts, fond vacation memories, favorite things…all reflecting happy times and warming our hearts.
One of the first things I thought of in the wake of December’s rare tornado, was so many would have had their own ornaments out, vulnerable to destruction, and my heart ached for them. Life IS vulnerable; treasure it. My prayer for those folks is they are able to hold the happy memories in their hearts and keep making new ones.
Merry Christmas! In the midst of all life’s common and uncommon difficulties, may you make many warm memories – ones that reflect the joys in your life and entice others to seek the joy of the true Light.
” If these United States can be called a body, then Kentucky can be called its heart.” – Author: Jesse Stuart
“Then God saw everything that He had made,and indeed it wasvery good.” Genesis 1:31a
I admire how an author can bring to life the feel and the sights and sounds of a place, as a painter does on canvas. I was introduced to the writing of Jesse Stuart in the eighth grade by Ms. Ann Woods. She also taught me to never again say “Oh it’s just homemade”, but to say instead, “thank you, it was handmade just for me”. For these things, I love her still. Every year as the hickory nuts fall I remember the school grounds with the enormous trees and a wise teacher. And I do get the feeling all this nature was handmade just for me. Kentuckians are proud of their people, and their crafts and their land I think, like I am sure most are of any state they call home. But I am partial to what is familiar and comfortable to me. Like autumn in Kentucky.
On several days this month, I stood like a kid watching the circus leave town, and almost waved goodbye to the warmth of the scarlet colors and the November air. I believe I actually did blow a kiss toward the sky. Perhaps knowing Autumn is a fast moving train is one of it’s attractions. I anticipate her arrival with such gladness I hardly think about her departure leaving us cold in the wake.
Another of my favorite authors is Rick Bragg, though I believe he never mentions our state. Rick Bragg can almost make Alabama and Louisiana sound desirable, the way a new recipe in Southern Living can make plain old food more enticing. However, nothing he has said makes me want to move down there, not that we’ve been invited. I do like living on the edge – the edge between South and North – neither one, but the best of both. Do not misunderstand, I truly love Rick Bragg’s stories like I love my roses. It’s just the adjectives of Alabama are more like the thorns on the roses; but the rest of his stories, the people, are the vivid colors and fragrances of our rose beds. I do believe Mrs. Bragg raised a mighty fine writer who makes even hot muggy red clay of the South alive, rearing camaraderie and family like no other.
Nothing, however, about red clay, red tide football, nor red bulgy-eyed crawdads tempt me to abandon the sweet bluegrass of Kentucky. As I do not understand football, and being a basketball girl myself, I’m still holding out for a true blue and white rebound. I do love a good basketball game as much as I hate politics. So do not try to debate me out of my comfort zone. Anyway, ‘my old Minnesota home’ or ‘my old Alabama home” just doesn’t sound right, does it?
As far as northward is concerned, I have been up through Illinois and I saw their rich black soil, so rich the flowers bloom neon colors. Their crop yields require grain bins on each end of the field and large wagons in the middle to dump the overfill. But I wouldn’t trade our warm brown Kentucky earth for losing my ears to the wind I felt coming off the lake in Chicago one March.
I do envy any state’s close proximity to fresh seafood. You may actually have me on that one. I think though, I’ll just wait for a good shipment of shrimp, back here in the shade of our maple trees. Few things in my humble opinion, rival a drive along the Bluegrass Parkway, or skimming over the water of Kentucky Lake.
I consider myself southern, if I had to pick one over the other. But to me, the best locale descriptor is “I’m a Kentuckian” where we usually get to see a January morning poured out like marshmallow cream as far as the eye can see, and watch March flowers pop up thirty days later as we loft a kite in our short sleeves. Then, when a hoodie of heat and humidity slides over me, I hear someone from the deep south tell me how much worse it gets down there, and I catch my breath in the breeze that’s never more than a few days away. Spring and summer showers induce a radiance of fall color popping against a frosty October morning canvas. Never in Kentucky do the days drone into weeks because nothing is as changeable as Kentucky weather. Hardly ever a dull moment, and as they say, variety is the spice of life.
This time of year, (and what I really started out to say) I am starstruck by the deciduous display of gemstone colors. I’m sure pine trees are nice, when Alabama can get a wind singing through them, and pine needles do make great mulch (which still probably isn’t enough to get a lot out of red clay) but just give me the red, purple, gold and orange of maples and dogwoods, sourwood and sumac, poplars, sweetgums and hickories. While we do not claim to own the only beautiful trees in America, with nearly half our acreage in hardwood, it is a jaw-dropping, totally in-love experience to live a Kentucky autumn!
“For a great and effective door has opened to me, and there are many adversaries.” I Corinthians 16:9
NKJV
Who knocks on doors any more? With little yapping house dogs, the popular door bell, and (rudely, yes) car horns, there doesn’t seem to be much door knocking lately.
I was recently given a brass door knocker inscribed with my dad’s last name. As I began to count those of my paternal grandparents’ descendants who could possibly use it, the thought occurred to me how rarely we knock, literally and figuratively, on doors. Likewise, how often do we miss a knock on the door. The last time I knocked on a door I got sore knuckles and no answer.
Opportunity may come knocking; guests, maybe; hard times sure can come a knockin’ and the proverbial wolf at the door may have slipped through. Will I answer? When fear of the unknown halts my hand from opening, I’ll never know what stands on the other side. Open it anyway. It doesn’t mean I have to let it all in. Greet it bravely; hope for the best, embrace the potential to be the good someone needs. Perhaps we will be called outside our threshold of comfort; or we may seize an opportunity to draw someone from their cold circumstances into our warmth. Be kind and if kindness demands a parting of the way, be kind still. When the wolf is at the door, be thankful for the smallest things and he will flee from you. When the hand of goodness is extended to you, grab it. Offer grace to the not so good, for you may see it again someday, transformed by your grace.
“Let brotherly love continue. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels.” Hebrews 13: 1-2
I have, no doubt, left the door shut for fear it might be ‘hard times’, inconvenience, or an adversary. I imagine Jesus was on the other side inviting me to go with Him on some mission of good. I probably felt pushed for time, or resources (aka money), or more than likely felt inadequate to meet the challenge. A less honorable, and probably more truthful excuse would be laziness, pure and simple. It takes effort to answer the door. But if we do invite opportunity in, she may require shuffling some furniture to accommodate her or she might have dirty feet. I’m sure the images each of us see on the other side of our figurative door, are all different. Asking a neighbor to bible study; overseas mission work; prison ministry; cleaning house for someone disabled; watching a stressed momma’s kids while she takes a break, and the list is endless. I hope and pray we can all open when opportunity knocks, extend hospitality and in turn find the joy of working elbow to elbow with Christ; feeding the hungry, housing the homeless, clothing the poor, tending the sick and visiting jails. (Matthew 25: 35-37)
As I hold the smooth shiny door knocker in my hand, I feel driven to find a home for it. Hopefully my musing the matter of doors will propel me toward opening my closed and careful world to be more like Jesus.
Adopt the pace of nature. Her secret is patience. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Okay, that’s it! As much as I love nature, I’m afraid I may be losing my patience. Now they are IN the SHOWER! There was a time when I could ignore the little green nuisance. I stayed out of their way; their stink stayed out of mine. However, stink bugs have now taken first place on my list of ‘most unwanted’. Almost as numerous this year as the infamous tassel flies (hover flies), they are making me crazy! The odor is awful, and never have we seen so many at once! Over, under and throughout everything, these green, gray and brown pests are poised on doorknobs and thresholds, waiting to rush inside. One morning as I was about to raise the umbrella on the patio table, there were dozens of the crusted creatures clinging outside and inside the umbrella. As a scene from a scary movie, their effect broke the promise of a pleasant morning. Thus began my urge to rant.
In all the years past, I could avoid the raw stench if I just left them alone; not so now. Simply watering my outdoor plants stirs a stink. As I walk into my she-shed I start dodging the little devils, where they fly from their trenches in the windows. Just raising and lowering the windows is perilous – phew! The final straw? The vexatious visitors are eating the last of our tomatoes. If you love tomatoes like we do, you know how precious those last gems in autumn are! As I was looking for an unblemished tomato, a member of their colony flew right into my glasses; didn’t even phase it!
You may be a step ahead of me, and already know their real name and purpose if there is one. I really do not care what name they go by; I call them pestilence, pernicious, and nearing pandemic proportions. Okay, I couldn’t help myself from googling a bit about the little armored aggravation. Discussing this with my son, he pointed out there seem to be more varieties this year. Turns out, it’s true; the brown marmorated stink bug (BMSB) has only been seen in North America since 1998 and has been making its way westward since. Accidentally introduced from Asia, their population has exploded in the eastern United States. More serious than the pungent odor and unsightly gathering in the windows, is the crop damage caused by stink bugs. We queried possible explanations for the greener edge around our crops, but as it turns out this is indicative of stink bug damage. For now they are satisfied to eat into the outer edges of a field only, but as the population grows, who knows! Something about their piercing the seed pod prevents proper maturing and drying of the plant, referred to as the ‘stay green syndrome’. I’m indeed sick of them, and evidently our wasps and birds, too, have found them too noxious to develop a taste for the unusual urchins.
Stink bugs do have a natural enemy; a tiny samurai wasp, also introduced from Asia, known to parasitize the BMSB eggs. Yay nature! Yay wasp! Nature does make a way. I was thinking what an unusual name for a wasp less than a tenth of an inch in size. But evidently, bigger isn’t always better, and this is our only warrior against the enemy for now. So I am squishing, thumping and vacuuming every stink bug I can and holding my breath as I do. Wouldn’t we love to see a. natural enemy for the coronavirus! For that I am not holding my breath!
As for a stink bug purpose, I found none. Other than serving as a reminder of the pestilence sent upon Egypt one time in the form of frogs; indoors, outdoors, in bed and bath, frogs invaded the sanity of everyone and were intended to show God’s power and get the pharaoh’s attention. (Chapter eight of the book of Exodus) Well, this modern day malady has my attention! I am cheering for the Samurai, in hopes she will get rid of these stinkers and make life a little sweeter.
brown marmorated stink bug where they are hiding in the folds of my patio umbrella (note the white sections of the antennae)
Trisha's Coffee Break 