Tag Archives: gratitude

June 17

17 Wednesday Jun 2026

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Gardening 2026

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Actually, some pictures may not be worth anything; but we keep attempting to capture something — something we can’t quite put into words. If I had a picture of my mother’s love, it would be a collage of wonderful deeds that I certainly cannot put into words. It would be a picture of my biggest inspiration in life. I’m sure you too, have someone in your life, whose picture would be awesome!

In June, 1977 Mama was canning green beans the day my son, her first grandchild, was born. I will keep growing green beans for as long as I am able.

On June 17, 2009, Mama left us (and I bet reluctantly) for whatever God had awaiting her. Among many beautiful plants, she left a lovely bed of dianthus, and her first grandchild saved a handful of those and gifted to me. They still multiply and grow beneath my roses, as you see in the photo on the right, and I will cherish them for as long as I am able.

In spite of being advised — with the best of intentions — to stop having a garden, it is in my blood (middle picture, don’t laugh; I’m not a professional, just an old girl who loves a hoe in her hand in the morning.) Even though the weather has been less than cooperative, along with the residual chemicals from last year’s field crop, I am again coaxing a few vegetables to come together to make a garden. I expect I will keep doing so for as long as I am able.

I love to walk through my garden (pitiful as it is these days) in the early mornings and late evenings. As I was chopping through it a couple evenings ago, I was surprised to find the baby green beans you see in the first photo. I immediately remembered the year Mama was already canning hers by June 20. We had had no rain that spring; so little in fact, that the crops, including ours, were burning up in parts of the county, so either they were living right, or they had been watering their garden to have such a bounty of beans. My first baby wasn’t due until July and we had sold our house trailer, bought a farm and house that was not ready for us to move into yet, and had camped at my parents’ house just two days before. My grandma, no longer able to care for herself, lived there with them, and my younger sister and brother were still at home. So her three bedroom, one bath house was already full, and here we were, two more — just becoming three — in her apron pockets. Daddy was trying his hand at farming once again which he hadn’t done in many years, and that comes with its own very full apron pocket. So, amid all this, on June 20, she drove me to dig potatoes where my husband and I had lived just days before. Next, she had to put all her cares and duties on the back burner with the beans, and drive me (in denial that I could be in labor) to the hospital. After her daughter and grandson were safely rescued by a surprise cesarean section, I imagine Mama found a quiet dark place in the wee hours of the night to have a good cry, and pray for strength. And help. And space.

One week later, on June 27, my husband brought his new family back to Mama’s house, where she had recovered nicely, with accommodations made for us to enjoy our new baby until our house was ready. She had a large meal on the table for my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s birthday, and to celebrate the arrival of her first grandchild. My wonderful aunt had taken Grandma home with her for a while, and little brother’s bed was nestled in a very large utility room. Mama was now making space, as well, for a family of five coming from West Virginia to visit with our new baby. Women of my mother’s generation were absolute champions of adjustment; champions of change and accommodation; champions of big hearts and love in action. I do not know how she did it. But every year when the first green beans begin to form, I remember. I remember Mama becoming Granny, our champion; and how all the moments of her 77 3/4 years came together to make one lovely collage of a life well lived, and more love than I am able to put into words.

“Strength and honor are her clothing; she shall rejoice in time to come. She opens her mouth with wisdom, and on her tongue is the law of kindness. She watches over the ways of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her.” (Proverbs 31: 25-28

May you be blessed with amazing ‘thousand-word pictures’ in your memories. Love, Trisha

Remembering my Mama, Sept. 16, 1931 – June 17, 2009

In A Moment

23 Saturday May 2026

Posted by in In Memory, Life, Reflections

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It’s been a moment or two since we met here. My moments have not easily shared with the computer lately, but today I am prompted by how quickly time alters the very ground we walk on. Your shaky ground may be as simple as waiting in line with the cramps and a crying baby. Or, it may be of the magnitude that leaves your life never the same. Whatever the moment holds, remember it will change, and with all the good moments to help, you will survive. I read in a book by Martha W. Hickman, (and I wish I could find the exact quotation) that the interruptions into what we thought was our life, are not interruptions at all, but are indeed our life. The moments, all of them, become the life we are living, and how we survive them, is most likely, who we are.

You know, the moments we live, can drag on like cold molasses, or they can vanish, literally in a breath. One example is that as I write, my daughter is awaiting twice-delayed departure times from an airport (slow moments); then suddenly the plane that was late arrived, boarded, and in the blink of an eye she will be hundreds of miles away (fast moments). These moments come and go quickly, even if we are waiting impatiently in a very long line; and breath by breath, we are passing them one by one. Moments, and the people who live them, are what tickle my writer’s yen. Because every one of them matter, we do well to take notice of not only how we are using them, but also, how the world around us is faring through their moments. We both know some moments are mere inconveniences, while others have grabbed you by the shoulders and spun you around and you may still be spinning. Either way, they are your moments, and they are important. Today, I’m just focused on our surviving them. One thing about moments I have noticed, is that they are always shared. Because I believe in the eternal all-knowing God of the universe, I know our moments are not alone.

All spring I have been concerned about the drought; crops, water levels, and trees with too little water in the soil. Now, as we are in our — what, third or fourth day of rain this week — should I worry about them all sliding downhill, or toppling over with soggy roots and heavy tops? Nothing stays the same. But this time, I wasn’t worried. After fifty plus years of farming, we learned to enjoy the good, and wait a moment, for God will take care of us through the bad.

I met a new organism last week; one I do not care to ever encounter again, because apparently rhinovirus enjoys hanging around and creating havoc, but my body does not share the enthusiasm. I have formed all sorts of immune responses along with medical community assistance, but one lobe of a lung is still harboring resentment. A whole week of moments, gone — and like my lung — I resent it. This is life however, and I’ll take it, even with the bugs. And the prednisone and rest — wow, I had forgotten how good it could feel to walk without pain.

Pain — What a multilayered word! In a moment last weekend, a young wife and four children lost their hero. I did not know him personally, but the wife grew up with my daughter, and these are good people. How can we be going about our routine, and suddenly find ourselves scrambling for our footing and gasping for breath? In a moment. So much changes so quickly. My heart hurts for that family and I pray for their strength, and the courage to keep walking moment by moment into their changed future.

More recently, my daddy’s brother passed away this week. At 84 years old, he lived a full, busy, satisfying life; seeing his son grow up to care for him and his own family, and having an adoring wife and many relatives who care deeply for him. Uncle Glenn had a work ethic that escapes most of our generation and those who follow ours. He has had what most would call more than his fair share of suffering, but he would not complain for long. Instead, he would be right back out in the cow pasture, or the garden (gardens quite large enough to feed a community), or pulling something around somewhere with a tractor. And this was just in retirement. Before retirement, he was a dedicated employee and manager in a physically strenuous job, and still did all these other things, filling his moments completely and, in my opinion, not wasting a one. He took many years of moments on and off, to go to his happy place in Calico Rock, Arkansas. There he was able to share moments of fishing and nature with friends and family. I would love to have seen him in that surrounding, but it was not to be in the moments for me. I’m happy to know he got to do what he loved to do, fill so many moments with positive energy, and enjoy telling about it.

We have to wonder why; why are some lives made of many moments and others so few. We wonder why — and it is natural to wonder because God gave us the ability to do so — why do the moments for some last only two years, but for others, 84 and more. You won’t hear me say things like, “God took good old aunt Flossie…” because I know God is not a taker. While Job said “the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh”, for me this was his euphemism for life ain’t always grand folks so watch who you’re pointing at. And Job said it first — the Lord gives. How can we blame a being Who gave us the amazing people in our lives in the first place, knowing all our moments will finally run out someday. The same God who put in all the wonderful, is present with us through our awful, loving, tragic, exciting, depressing, ecstatic and dull moments in life, and gave us all kinds of people to live them with us. He promises strength for our fallen times; encouragement for our depressing times; and life-long moments of love and memories and people, to bind up our broken hearts. Recall Isaiah’s promise from God; not that God would spare His people from waters, rivers, fire and flame, but that He would walk us through it all. (Isaiah 43:2)

God does allow us all kinds of wonderful, from watching a day awaken in blazing sunrise, to watching our aged loved ones in peace, at last, close their eyes. There is no denying He allows us to live through some terrible things brought on by the very real demon of this world, but — oh my friend! Never forget, God is the arm holding you up when you don’t know how. He is the bird’s morning call singing you survived. He is the friend’s flowers, the parents’ touch, the young child’s laughter, and the sunrise and sunset you will experience again, in your moments He has granted you. His grace will sustain your moments until, as His child, you will have the never-ending moments of eternity where all mysteries are known, and you get to live with the love of all love, bigger than all the bad moments we could ever know.

Please be assured, I am not at all making small of big problems. Since the world began, there has been disaster at all levels. I only want to share that God is bigger than all the disasters, all problems, all disappointments. He is the fixing of the problems; He is the coming together of solutions; and He is the giver of all life and the moments within.

Love, Trisha

Mother’s Day

10 Sunday May 2026

Posted by in In Memory, Life

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“Honor your father and mother,” which is the first commandment with promise. (Ephesians 6:2)

Mother’s Day, (no matter how wonderful and love-filled it is with our children, friends, and relatives), has a little blue cloud in it if you aren’t able to talk to your mother. You may have had a mom, momma, mother, grandmother, or some other title of selfless love; I had Mama. My sister, brother, and I were blessed to have our Mama until she was just short of her 78th birthday. We’d have kept her forever, but for her sake, God gave her a blessed rest.

My own children generously spent their time, and their money, to give me a sweet and fun-filled weekend of togetherness. I couldn’t ask for more. They tell me with their words and actions how much they love and appreciate me, so there is in no way, anything missing in my Mother’s Day pleasure — it’s my mother’s Mother’s Day that I miss; that has a little blue in it.

I miss her tattered old housecoat. I miss her glistening eyes as she tried to make me understand how much she loved us. I miss her asking for “just a little bitty bite of that”. I miss her grand roast beef, carrots, potatoes and chocolate pie. I miss the beautiful impatiens she invested way too much money and energy in each spring. I miss the way she leaned nearer me in church to hear me sing even though I gave her that look that said, don’t embarrass me. I would give a pretty to have her there leaning near me again. I miss her one and only tone-deaf tune as she sang her lullaby Bye-oh Baby Bye-oh, as she rocked her grandbabies. I miss the genuine, from-the-heart advice, given because she cared more than anyone in the world could care. I miss, oh how I miss, seeing her drive up the driveway, knowing that whatever she saw, heard or sensed, she was going to say something positive and encouraging, and make us believe we were the best thing since sliced bread. I want so badly to tell her how loved and missed she is. But then, I feel quite sure she knew it already.

If we had the perfect life, with a thousand top-notch children, friends and relatives, and not a thing missing, except our mother, we would without a doubt, feel the missing part. Because we only get one — the one and only — Mama.

If you are fortunate enough to still have your mom in your life, cherish her. Enjoy every opportunity to spend with her, and give yourself the gift of her life-earned wisdom. If you have seen her pass to the next life, live to honor her memory. Live life with all the joy and love that she would want you to.

Have a wonderful week. Trisha

Oh What a Gift!

27 Monday Apr 2026

Posted by in MONDAY MUSINGS, Nature

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Who doesn’t enjoy a gift? No one; we all like receiving gifts. “Just what I always wanted”, or “Oh what a nice surprise!”, or “now, that’s different”, might be our comments upon opening a present, or a gift. The best gifts may not be wrapped at all. As my husband has prayed, “thank you Father for the air we breathe”, among other things we tend to take for granted. And sometimes — just sometimes — a whole day is one big gift. Such was today, Saturday, April 25, 2026, with a flawless blue sky, gentle breezes, and short sleeve comfort without being hot. As the day unwrapped itself, I figured out why gifts are sometimes called presents; to be fully present in a moment, we are able to see the gift in it.

For the previous 24 hours, I had the sinking feeling something had happened to our Eastern bluebird couple who are incubating six beautiful blue eggs in a box at the back of our lawn. First thing this morning, I waded the dew to check the box and found it still egg-filled, but no parents, just like my last box check last evening, and throughout the day yesterday. As I peered into the nest this morning, I heard a faint snap, snap, snap…but could see no birds nearby who might have given the warning snap. I carefully closed the box, and retreated to the patio to watch. As I sat down, I saw the beautiful blue-feathered friends perched on the electric lines over my potting shed. Relief washed over me as I looked upward whispering thank you, and found even my coffee tasted better without the thought of six orphaned eggs. Then, Mr. Bluebird flew to their box, looked in, then leaned in, and satisfied all was good, he backed out and flew to a nearby perch, and seemed to give a nod. Mama bluebird then took her cue and entered the box to sit with her soon-to-be family. I noticed daddy bird sat for a moment or two longer, then flew out of sight. What a gift to know nothing had happened to them, and moreover, to witness the careful attention they give to their nesting duties. The way he scans the area, and gives her the “all clear,” is a treat to witness.

Soon the air was filled with our Purple Martin colony as they began their winged feeding and demonstrating their unique aerial skills. Their calling is like a multi-syllable song that begins and ends with tapping and an alien-type clicking from the movie Signs. I have no better way to describe it. They are fascinating, and this year all 18 of our gourds are hosting these black beauties, thanks to my husband’s diligent efforts to fend off the offending house sparrows; not to mention 12 new and improved gourds that are easier to view and tend. Breakfast and a show!

A beautiful song directed my attention to the tip top of our Brandywine maple tree, where a Baltimore Oriole was perched, singing his morning melody. What a treat just to see and hear this one. I did have to look online to be sure of his identity as I had only seen him once the day before — and in the exact same spot. By this time, I was joined by my husband who has caught my birdwatching addiction. Nearer to where we sat, is a Hawthorne tree whose branches hold a wren house covered by a bent license plate. The hardworking wren (which I believe is a common house wren) had finally gotten a taker on his nest of twigs and he was singing his little lungs out. She (I have to suppose, because the male and female wrens look alike) flew in and out of the little house so quickly I couldn’t decide if she was feeding young, or adding her touch to his nest-building skills. These small quick birds make up for their size with their loud voices and tenacity. Other visitors to the back yard this morning were: song sparrows, two brown thrashers, a pair of goldfinches, a cardinal, the resident mocking birds, a cedar waxwing (versus a tufted titmouse, not sure), and a male house sparrow whose attempts at setting up housekeeping nearby were thwarted by the tenacity I just mentioned, of our wrens. For a bird watcher, these visitors were a gift in themselves, only to be topped later in the day by the king of birds.

As the day went forward, I made a visit to a neighbor who was recuperating, where I was met cheerfully by her dog. Cheerful was good, because he was quite active and rather large; as my mother would say, he was as fat as a town dog. He was as slick as a seal and just as playful. Obeying his mama, he retired to his crate on the porch while we visited, but when I rose to leave, Haney (the dog) came out of his crate to walk me out, so to speak. He then left me, only to return quickly with a stick of about 12 inches long, and promptly held it up for me to take. I did so, and thanked him for the gift; then threw it for him and he did the fetch thing and brought it back and placed it at my feet. Just one gift after another! I mean, this day just kept becoming more and more in need of a large bow and scotch tape.

Just before sunset, I was invited by hubby to listen for a couple of owls he had been hearing throughout the day. The owl makes a tone out of my hearing range and the man continues trying to get me to hear them. As we sat in an area between his equipment shed and an old stock barn, we suddenly became aware of a large presence coming over us. Looking up, we were surprised to see an eagle soaring overhead, (the king of birds I mentioned earlier). It seemed to just barely glide above the tallest shed, but you know how the memory exaggerates the contents of a surprise. He was, however, closer than I had ever been to an eagle for sure. Just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, westward and away. Giving up on the hooting of owls, we turned toward our house, to see a parade of deer sauntering along the back of the field, toward our pond behind the house. We eased up the driveway and onto the patio to spend our sunset watching the deer. A group of four, we determined, and we watched as they took turns stepping up onto the pond bank, then downward out of sight to get a drink, and back up again. As the first one returned to her herd, the second one repeated her actions. Our attention was diverted by the evening birds on the lawn, as well as the eagle returning, and hiding itself in the oaks beyond our pond. We were feeling quite blessed by a day of many gifts, not the least of which is health good enough to be out and about, and the beauty of the day wrapped around us. But then — just as I was looking back out to the deer — I saw them startle and jump away from the pond bank. I looked in the direction they were looking. At that moment we had the joy of seeing the eagle mount up triumphantly from the pond with a fish, large enough we could see it in his talons. Carrying its supper away, it left my husband and me just open-mouthed in awe. Now, for many frequent lake-goers, this would not be a spectacular experience, but for an old farm couple in Hazel, Kentucky, who had only been spotting bald eagles high up and away for very few recent years, this was a thrilling evening. Sunset found us giddy with excitement — excited about life, and just being present in the day — a day of gifts!

More than ever, I felt the truth I had been hearing about being in the moment. I had experienced it the evening before as I walked my fur baby, letting him meander the roadside, and taking the time myself to touch, smell, and name as many of the wild plants as I could. In full bloom were honeysuckle, wild privet, and what I hope are blackberry vines. The cedar is laden with tiny light blue berries I enjoy seeing each year. None of this was new; it was new in a different way, as I forgot about hurrying back, or any other concerns. I didn’t even concern myself with the need to walk for exercise, as my guilty conscience usually thwarts the pleasure of any evening stroll. No, I just looked at each thing in our path with eyes only for that moment. There were scents of sweet, lemony, and evergreen; and a dozen different shades of green; with a symphony of calls and croaks. (Yes, I did taste the honeysuckle nectar. Several times. As sweet as ever!) Inhaling, seeing and listening — all those gifts of the senses God gave us — using them to appreciate the other gifts from Him, were helping me be present in the moment. This is the way to approach God’s word as well. I plan to be much more in the moment as I listen to God speak from His word — no distractions, just holding each phrase with an open heart, looking at it in it’s context, without trying to prove or disprove anything, and letting it connect me with God’s own heart.

In Gary Chapman’s book, The One Year Love Language Minute Devotional, he states, “Giving gifts as an expression of love is universal. A gift is a visible token that says, ‘I was thinking about you’ “. He points out that some people speak the language of gifts as they express their love. I can believe that, because the One in whose image we are made, gave and continues to give the very best gifts! “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning” (James 1:17).

Have a wonderful week! Perhaps we will have the gift of rain without a great deal of storm damage. Remember to be present in your moments. Trisha

CHASING SPARROWS

13 Monday Apr 2026

Posted by in MONDAY MUSINGS, The unexpected

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Do you ever get to thinking you’re chasing sparrows, more than accomplishing anything? I’ll tell you, I sometimes feel I spend half my life chasing down something I mislaid. The other half of the time, I’m chasing intentions and feeling hopelessly unaccomplished. As Saturday opened its front door of potential, I felt sure we would enjoy a quick breakfast in town, pick up a couple items and get a set amount of work done before enjoying some relaxing moments in the backyard. Ha! We spent the day chasing sparrows — sparrows of one kind or another.

It seems our lives consist primarily of our own interests, and more importantly, the interests of those precious blessings we call family and friends. The other elements in our lives come from the pop-in experiences, or the happenstance — some like the pair of welcome hummingbirds who just zoomed through; and some like sparrows. They (the sparrows) are not what we call desirable pop-ins; but as sure as life, they are there, and must either be ignored, or become a part and parcel of what we do.

My husband and I have been blessed with retirement years at home together; albeit, strewn with physical ailments of one sort or another. All in all, we get to enjoy some pretty good things. Some of those good things in our lives have been a backyard of beautiful and melodious feathered friends. I think God created these just for me (wink); well, for sure for people who aren’t chasing little league, or tournaments, or bucket lists, and such as that. Though we aren’t the best of landlords for the birds, we take great pleasure in providing good housing and we are learning as we go. They, in turn, provide great entertainment for us. I’d say the highlight of our day was a scene at the back corner where two young apple trees are blooming. In one, perched two goldfinches; in the other, a male bluebird. Wow! What striking colors! So, instead of chasing things to do and buy and want, we chase sparrows. Literally. If you know, you know.

I have had several successful years of chasing away the house sparrows from my bluebird boxes by hanging a shredded shopping bag over the box as soon as they have lain the first or second egg. Not too attractive, but it works. Two years ago we had 14 fledglings total, to successfully leave the nests. The bluebird parents will not allow a flapping plastic bag (called a sparrow spooker) to stop them from finishing their family. Whereas, the sparrows, persistent and tenacious as they are, do not yet have the family attachment to the box, and are frightened away from invading the nest as they are otherwise prone to do. Yesterday I discovered, sadly, this will not work against the wrens. In the past, I have had enough wren housing to keep them occupied. This year, I missed the mark — forgot the wren houses and the rest is too sad to relate. So, I am on a chase: watch for the next bluebird egg in whichever box they choose, hang a spooker, and count incubation days; watch the two wren houses I just repaired and hung where they’ve nested in previous years; and help my husband, who is working feverishly to keep the sparrows chased out of his Purple Martin gourds! We have torn out at least eight house sparrow messy nests since the martins arrived in mid-March. This will be a never-ending cycle because you CAN. NOT. STOP. NATURE. Thank Goodness; and I wonder if we have lost the good sense He gave us, for even trying.

As a matter of fact, should anyone have driven past our peaceful little patch of earth today, they’d have seen a woman in her pajamas, being hoisted up in a backhoe loader, taking a messy nest out of a gourd, with a flock of fussing martins soaring back and forth waiting for their territory to be vacated of its intruders. Such is the life of a sparrow chaser. In hardly any time at all, we will be chasing European starlings, and hawks, as we strive to protect the future Purple Martin young. There is a balancing act in knowing how much to get involved and when to stay out of their business. Not so different from interacting with the rest of the world, is it?

Like many other pop-up or pop-in facets of our lives, the house sparrows make an awful mess. Not only do they invade and destroy young song birds, they build in rafters and make a mess all over your vehicles. And so, we chase. Very few of these sparrows will meet any demise so not to worry, but perhaps we will have aggravated them enough and chased them enough that they will end up in your neck of the woods. Not likely.

All this chasing causes me to stop and ponder — does God approve of our chase? Is my chase benefitting anyone or anything; or am I spinning my wheels in the dust of deadwood? Can I better use the time and talents given me? It all depends. Moderation in all things is highly recommended. If I can pursue a beloved hobby, and continue to use my resources to help another; if I can work in my life’s objectives, and stop to appreciate the blessings; if I can indeed enjoy those blessings and still stop to praise the Creator and Giver of it all, then surely I will have His approval. Lately, I have been tempted to go over-board (if only I could just get through the landscaping ONCE) so I needed the pop-in aggravations of the day to remind me not be too focused on my own agenda. To my own interests, I need to add those of another, and be keenly aware of priorities.

As one example of too much chasing, take this small writing table — full of writer’s paraphernalia, such as my journals, pens and pencils, dictionary, bibles, an Instant Facts book, and a laptop. Also by my laptop, is the sun visor and pair of gloves I used in landscaping yesterday. A bag of dog treats for one very important part of my life is accompanied by a plant, rooting in a jar of water, just begging to be transplanted. So much to do! Hopefully, I will see the cards hanging above the table from sweet friends, so I am reminded to be thankful for them. Also, there’s a box of cards I might use more often for jotting down notes to those needing encouragement. At hand too, is the study bible and devotional books just for a daily walk with Jesus. Life gets messy, and it’s important to keep the resources nearby to deal with it fruitfully.

As for our Saturday plans: the breakfast, a bust. The errands, one took forever and the other, no-go. The few jobs, still to be done. Some days are like that, and we just keep chasing. Someone once said, life isn’t interrupted by the unexpected; life IS the interruptions. I agree. I hope I can keep chasing the sparrows out of our loved ones’ lives, and keep finding a better and better me as I run along.

“to knowledge (add) self-control, to self-control perseverance, to perseverance godliness, to godliness brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness love. For if these things are yours and abound, you will be neither barren nor unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ.” 2 Peter 1:6-8

Have a beautiful fruitful week! Trisha

Southern Brick Wall

28 Wednesday Jan 2026

Posted by in Encouragement

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I gazed longingly at my old flip-flops abandoned in a corner of the sunroom. I knew it would be a while before my fur baby and I could run out quickly in pjs and flip-flops, he without his doggy sweater. Seven inches of snow and sleet with temperatures in the single digits and teens, assured me this would be with us more than a moment. With gratitude for a warm house, running water, food in the freezer, and hot coffee, I am content — until I see the worn out flip-flops; and I wish I were wearing them now. Life has a way of yanking us back and forth from sighs of gratitude, to collisions of complaining, to relief of respite. Please, if I complain about the heat next July, just slap me!

Still, the sheen of sunshine over a pristine blanket of snow is a sight hard not to appreciate. But what if we were without electricity as many of our southern neighbors are. Oh, I know what if…we have been there before — feeding fuel into a portable generator, packing coolers of water into the house, flushing toilets with gallon jugs of water, and gathering by the gas logs while the generator rests. I recall in our former house, which was over 90 years old, opening the cabinet doors and leaving the water dripping even with electricity, and then keeping the hair dryer ready to start thawing the pipes anyway! Oh yes, I know how quickly the beautiful, playful snow and sparkling ice diamonds can become a pain in the neck. And yet, I am content to watch the season play itself out, appreciate the beauty, and be prepared for the beast. Life is as unpredictable as our state of heart.

Yesterday the temperature was 15 degrees after the sun had shone half the day, and as I watched my little Auggie scamper around on the frozen surface, I reached out and placed my hand on the southern-facing brick wall of the garage. I could feel warmth through my glove. “Surely”, I thought, “this wall cannot be warm on a day like today”.  Other days, yes; but how can this frigid air not stand between my wall and the sun? With a glove removed, I reached out, and sure enough, the wall was warm. Just as I had experienced in cold — but not as cold of weather — my southern brick wall was still soaking up and sharing the warmth of the winter sun living in the southern sky. We all need a Southern Brick Wall. When the bad comes in blizzards, and the coldness of the world reaches out to chill our hearts, we need a warm brick wall. Standing between us and the howling winds of heartache and harm, they absorb the warm rays of the Lord, penetrating even the coldest of days.

Someone who can be your southern brick wall, is someone who faces God, as the wall faces the south; looking to God for the warmth of His love and the truth of His word, that he or she may exude the same upon you in your days of chill and change. Our southern brick wall holds a heart of warmth where we can lean for the support and respite we need to continue on, and not be rocked off our feet by a blast of bitterness. Our southern brick wall will not allow the world’s attractions to cause her to abandon us. Most importantly, our southern brick wall will tell you she is not perfect. She too, can crumble, and become unintentionally cold with her own shadows, but will always point you toward the Son, Who never changes. “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning” (James 1:17 NKJV). “The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God stands forever” (Isaiah 40:8).

Change is impossible to avoid, and as we await the mush of spring thaws, we can also watch for the daffodil shoots and look forward to the freshness of their aroma. We will be aware of the likelihood of spring storms, but we also know where our southern brick walls are. Look for that person in your life who knows how to stand strong for you; who has strengthened themselves on the riches of God’s word and can help you walk through the worst. Better yet, soak up the love of the Lord yourself that you may stand ready when someone you know needs a strong, warm, southern brick wall. 

June 2025 — Gone But Not Forgotten!

30 Monday Jun 2025

Posted by in Celebrating, MONDAY MUSINGS

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

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

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

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

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

Some of our June enjoyment:

A random visitor

Living

09 Monday Jun 2025

Posted by in MONDAY MUSINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

26 Monday May 2025

Posted by in In Memory, MONDAY MUSINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12 Monday May 2025

Posted by in Children, Family, MONDAY MUSINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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