“I’ve got pieces of April, I keep them in memory bouquet. I’ve got pieces of April, but it’s a morning in May.“* All the hopes that sprang in April now blossom in May. Remember what your Kindergarten teacher told you, because it is true: April showers bring May flowers! {*Pieces of April, a song by Three Dog Night, naturally}
Tara Jean, Stephanie May and Gemma May: all born in springs’ most surprising and spirited month. They’ve each taken on those characteristics!
Stephanie let me make her a 4-layer, wedding-white cake with buttercream icing, topped with baby’s breath and scattered caramel macchiato macarons from Happy Bakeshop in Longmont (Cake design inspired by the amazing Constellation Inspiration).
Fully leafed trees, that bright, light, spring-green thing that happens. And carpets of lush green grass, chlorophyl all around!
I love these bright, sunny days that give way to sudden, dark, thundery showers, then perk right back up to sunlight and a spring song. The sunsets are more colorful, the air is cleaner, and the grass even greener.
Memory: splashing in curbside puddles after a spring rain as a kid. Wish I’d done that more. I wonder what the neighbors might think if I…
Store-bought tomatoes (at the best markets) are beginning to have some flavor again while my heirlooms are settling in their soil, gearing up to give me brag-worthy homegrowns come July.
I painted my nails with purple polish to match my pansies and freshly potted petunias, but it didn’t last, not even 2 days, because it’s May! Yes, of course I have very pretty sky-blue gardening gloves. But sometimes, you must sink your hands into the soil, to really understand the essence of living. I came from the dust of the earth. Plunging my hands deep as I plant, I am home…
It is the anniversary of our very first date, Dave and I. He said today, on Facebook, “The beginning of my life…” I melt. I didn’t know it was a date (I hoped), he did. It involved a Rock Hudson movie and Barry Manilow. And it has worked out for us, I am happy to report. Dave is the one. :)
The world’s favorite season is the spring.
All things seem possible in May.
Edwin Way Teale
I love the month of May and wish we could have another 3 weeks of it, at least. And I love making lists. May all things seems possible for you today! In May… :) xoxo
When the buds unfurl, when the pear trees blossom, as the lilacs burst forth in their purple glory, when the grass grows green and the gardening bug bites, you can bank on it:
some freak winter storm will zoom through the valley in a mix of wet and white, create a rush on milk, eggs and toilet paper, and break the branches on our flowering trees, generally creating havoc.
Never you mind that we always need that moisture in these arid parts. By this late date I just want to be living in flip-flops!
Shame on you, Home Depot and Lowes, for enticing shoppers with those tender tomato plants and petunias.
People, dear friends, do not be deceived by this. Wait until after Mother’s Day to plant petunias, zinnias, squash, beans, tomatoes, and cukes! Wait, I say, waaaait!
April 28, and the forecast is rainy mixed with snow = heavy, wet slush. There go my lilacs, darn it!
On a bright, warm, sunny Saturday morning, just minutes after she arrived home, she just sort of sat down and collapsed and gasped a few times and she was gone, her hair shimmering like silver diamonds in the morning light on a soft bed of fresh spring-green growth.
Dave was with her. “It’s ok, you’re home now,” he said. Then he told her it was ok for her to go. And so she did.
She came.
We got Sandy almost exactly 14 years before she died.
Steph was a college student working part time at the BFI landfill office near Denver International Airport. Some one had abandoned this woolly, frightened mutt there and she was running wild, looking for food and afraid of everyone and her own shadow. Stephanie spotted her and started working on becoming friends. She mentioned maybe bringing the pup-dog home and did not get an enthusiastic response from me. Not at all.
But for some reason, Dave went to see Steph one day and he returned with this crazy-looking, fuzz-exploding full-grown dog.
She was afraid of her shadow, this canine, afraid of us, afraid of the freak spring-snow we’d just gotten; she was afraid to move off the oval rug, her feet planted firmly as though she were hoping Scotty would indeed beam her up and away from our staring eyes. Her little spirit had been broken, somehow, by the completely stupid idiots who had dumped her at the landfill. Their loss was our total, joyful, utter gain!
We always joked that we found a junk-yard dog and she never quit looking like she was fresh from the junkyard. She loathed baths and thought any sort of grooming was pure torture. She was a trembling, hairy mess, but we quickly saw the rich sweetness of her, the deep pools of love and loyalty behind those brown eyes.
What shall we name her, we wondered? We toyed with Chewbacca (“Chewie,” for short), for she was similarly furry and gentle. But we couldn’t resist the name of the dog from the Annie movie the kids had grown up watching and since her hair was a millions shades of beige and brown, gold and copper, silver and cool grey, plus black and brown – “Sandy” seemed appropriate.
Ever heard the song from the musical, Annie, “Sandy?”
True he ain’t pedigreed, Sandy, there ain’t no better breed.
And he really comes in handy,
‘Specially when you’re all alone in the night
and you’re small and terribly frightened it’s
Sandy, Sandy who’ll always be there!
Well, our Sandy was a girl. But those very words could have been written of our dog, “it’s Sandy, Sandy who’ll always be there…”
She actually got to play Sandy in a community theater production of Annie. This was a publicity shot in 2010.
She won our hearts
So we had this wild mutt. She became one of us immediately. She fit. She was born for us, for our family, I am completely certain. Sandy-the-dog was perfect for us.
We didn’t know her age, but she was full-grown. An early vet visit declared she was “4,” but another one several years later also declared her “4.” So, we know she was probably 1-2 years old when we got her fourteen years ago.
But she was an old soul, right out of the gate. She was able to navigate our huge family (5 kids, high school and college age) and our loud house full of friends and visitors. She was wise and deep in her devotion, love-filled and loyal, generous in adoration of her people and affectionate, loving those belly rubs and declaring anyone who would take the time to pet her to be her best friend for life! She just made sure you knew she was right there if you needed her.
My mom and Sandy, summer 2009. They’re like sisters from different mothers, personality-wise. It was as if they’d always been close.
She was Steph’s dog, then Steph got married and she became Rocky’s dog. Then he got married and she was Stormie’s dog. Then Stormie bought a house and she became my dog and I didn’t even really want that, but good grief, how had I lived without that? She was my buddy, my friend, my shadow. She worked with me in the garden, or she napped lazily there while I worked, but we loved spring and sunny days together.
She sat as close to me as possible at all times and was my most trusted confidante during hard times and when I cried, she would move in close, place her paw and her face on my knees and look me straight in the face, as if to say, “There, there – everything will be ok. I’m right here.” She caught my tears when they fell.
She lives for love and lives to love. The slightest kindness or gentle word from me and Sandy thumps a Morse-Code message of affection back to me with her ample tail.
Sandy was totally undisciplined, as “good” dogs go, never really trained for “show.” She lived her life with us sort of free–form and relaxed. She feigned deafness when it suited her, but could hear the crackling of a bag of chips from miles away. Her breed, German Wire-Haired Pointer, hunts birds, so she’d bark her head off at a bird flying overhead, then just lie quietly, her head on her paws and watch little birds bathe in her water dish on sunny days on the patio. She’d even welcome them to her food, gentle spirit that she was. Or fraidy-cat, whichever. :)
But she was a good dog. Because a good dog teaches us so much about love and loyalty and forgiveness. Sandy did that for me. She was affectionate and humble, sweet and protective, saving me from many a solicitor at the front door. Her bark could scare, but we always laughed that had a burglar just reached out to her, she’d have given them anything and everything they wanted.
I loved her stretch, her behind in the air, back-back-back, then forward lunge, with her face to the sky, all the while making a loud old-man stretching sigh. Or how she’d grab a dryer sheet and waller all over it, so she’d smell nice for us, I assume.
A few months before “the day”
My old Sandy-girl, she was faithful and loving and loyal to all of us, the whole tribe of us, including each new grandchild as they came. Once she learned on the first grandchild, how to love and protect, she always understood, new baby by baby. They trusted her, too. She was our dog and we were her people.
Sandy with my grandson Kai. He was 1 3/4. About 6 months before Sandy died.She patently waits, hoping he’ll send chicken her way.
Sandy never met a human being she didn’t want to love zealously with her whole heart and to forgive if they didn’t like dogs or just couldn’t return her affection.
Oh, she was a lover.
The end.
We were planning to put her down soon, as ailments of old-age were taking a toll, but on that Saturday morning, when my husband took her into the backyard on the brightest and loveliest of spring days, she just dropped and gasped a few times and he gently gave her the ok to go.
I wasn’t ready…
And even though I ran out, dropped to the ground and called to her, Sandy-girl, hey girl, are you ok?, Hey Sandy, come here, girl...trying to woo her back, gently jostling and petting my old dog to awaken her, she kept on going.
The birds were singing in the blue, blue sky, and the old trees were filled with youthful, green buds for a new season, a new life; and the day was alive, humming its spring melody, so perfectly beautiful – just like every day Sandy gave us for 14 years.
Hey, Sandy-girl, dear old devoted dog. You are not forgotten. Your people still love you…
True story: Within 45 minutes this morning, Stef from the Holyoke homestead contacted me for my Broccoli Soup for a crowd recipe, my dad called from rural Indiana to have me help him “make up” a chicken-veggie-and-rice casserole, and my son Rocky texted from northern Colorado asking for the ingredients and recipe for his Aunt Julie’s famous Corn Casserole so he can make it for Thanksgiving dinner this week! Ahhh, the fam! :)
Dave and I with the ten little grandbebes, ages 6 months-12 years
It’s in the air, excitement around the year’s biggest meal. All of my best day dreams and plans for the future include being surrounded by the people I love the most, sharing some kind of amazing meal together. Sometimes that is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich under a tree at a park with little grandbebes. Once a year, it includes a turkey and all the trimmings – enough to induce a food coma. But at least we get to do it together. Food + Family = JOY!
Which brings me to the television part!
Breaking Bread with Brooke Burke
Affiliated links (below) provided for your convenience. :)
As the holidays approach and it gets colder outside and darker earlier, I start looking for those great shows and holiday specials that warm you inside and out. So I was totally excited when Feeln asked me to preview their new series, Breaking Bread with Brooke Burke!
Feeln is the movie subscription service of the Hallmark Hall of Fame (Hallmark cards) and you know they have got what you want to see, especially around the holidays!
“Breaking Bread with Brooke Burke” is a food-oriented lifestyle talk-show that “celebrates the joyous interplay between family and food.” It features celebrity guests and in the first episode, Brooke meets with Mrs. Brady herself (Florence Henderson)! They share memories centered around special meals Florence has enjoyed with her family at a neighborhood Italian restaurant and get some amazing recipes from the chef .
I totally loved the episode I watched! It felt warm and inviting, the conversation was interesting and authentic, and Brooke fairly sparkles as she extends genuine hospitality and enthusiasm for her guests. I have one thing against Brooke Burke and it is that there are no visible physical effects on her from her passion for pasta. I want to know how that happens!
To help get the word out on the new series, Breaking Bread with Brooke Burke has launched a tongue-twister challenge. You HAVE to try this – you could win prizes!
Just grab your phone and create a video of yourself saying BREAKING-BREAD-with-BROOKE-BURKE 5 times really fast!
Submit your video on Twitter, Instagram, Vimeo or Facebook
I tried the tongue-twister. It didn’t go well. I have my pride. I didn’t submit it. But I got Hunter and his friends to give it a go. {see here}
#BBwBBchallenge
It’s all in good fun! I hope you’re having a fantastic week. Here is the link for viewing the first episode of Breaking Bread with Brooke Burke {CLICK}. If you’re like me, you’ll really enjoy it and want to see more!
I decided to try something this summer-just-passed and I have been pretty good at keeping with it. I took note, via the weather app on my iPhone, of the time of each days’ sunrise and especially, each sunset.
I was inspired by my experiences in Maui, the two times I have visited. I loved how people rang dinner bells on their back porches and local restaurant personnel would all stop and invite you to notice, not time-to-eat, but rather, sunset as it occurred. There it was, the burning sun, hanging over, then sinking into the ocean, coloring the sky. The islanders invited us all to pause and observe the moment, the beauty of the setting, paying homage to the end of another day.
Why can’t we do that here, I wondered?
I was at a party and stepped outside to take a call, just a few minutes past sunset. The blue hour is intoxicating. Plus, my mom is thrilled by any photos of flags. This is at Tara’s house, so she’ll be proud of her granddaughter. :)
So I have been doing it. Originally I meant to try through the summer, but I’ve continued. I have enjoyed many sunrises (at least 50%, I’d say), and I can watch them from the comfort of my bed through the wide-open window, if I desire. But the sun-settings, I’m seeing almost all of them, at the very least 4-5 days out of each week. I just watch as the light of day fades into night, the light sky turning blanket-blue, a quick azure, then indigo. I try to be outside somewhere, watching, noting the passage.
It has made me so much more aware of the passing time and how I spend the hours I have. And let me just tell you, so much of what passes between the bookends of a sunrise and a sunset daily, even in the mundane rituals and running of everyday life, there is great treasure. It waits to be found and if we’re wise, we’ll observe these blessed two moments daily, first with anticipation, then thanksgiving and gratefulness.
Morning Sunrise Prayer:Wow, Lord, the sun! I am going to arise and shine because Your glory is risen upon me! Give me eyes to see all the things You see. I am so thankful for these new mercies and another day You have entrusted to me. I wonder what will become of these next day-lit hours? “Christ in me, live this day.”
Evening Sunset Prayer:What a day. Thank You for [list it all here – everything you can recall], and I trust You to redeem and restore [anything broken or marred; may as well list it, He knows]. I am so grateful to have had this day, knowing You were with me all the way. Now I rest, and let You tend to what needs tending…
Yep. I am STILL learning that last part!
10.31.15 Sun-up, 7:28 am; sunset, 5:59 pm, Denver time. Just in case you wanted to know!
Remember to set your clocks back tonight. You get an extra hour! :)
Oh, it’s a long long while
From May to December
But the days grow short
When you reach September
I refused to loosen my grasp on summer, as if it would cause it to remain. And we have had an unusually warm and dry Autumn, temperatures soaring daily in bright sunshiny days regularly, so it has been easy to pretend.
Hunter catches and runs in the touchdown!
But the colorful-Colorado drive to the mountains a couple of weeks ago, yellow and orang-ish Aspen leaves tumbling and floating down the higher in elevation we got, the season changed for me. *snap* Just like that. I guess it really is fall.
When the autumn weather
Turns leaves to flame
One hasn’t got time
For the waiting game
On our way to the top. Near Allenspark.
Oh, the days dwindle down
To a precious few…
Our niece Lori”s place in Estes Park. She always has a room for us.
This Season
The days are shorter, the evenings are cooler. The grass is greener, enjoying the break from relentless summer heat. The garden has gone wild, producing madly, somehow knowing the end is in sight. Cool-season crops, planted in August’s warmth, are deliriously happy this year. Radishes, lettuce, kale and arugula can be seen dancing in the moonlight. With a little love and occasional cover, who knows? Maybe we’ll harvest for the Thanksgiving table? It doesn’t have to be the end {yet} of the gardening year. But it’s close.
I brought in a shopping bag full of tomatoes, zucchini and peppers three days ago…
September…November…
Guess what?
If I were a garden vegetable, I would be a tomato plant. Of course I would. Search this blog for the word, “tomato” and you’ll see why. The homegrown tomato is my all-time favorite, for no flavor like them can be purchased anywhere. They arrive all spring green and exciting on bushy-leafed plants and then become blood-red and juicier over time. Like we do.
Aging actually defines and colors who we are, what we bring to the proverbial table.
But the September and October tomato isn’t as flashy as the summer tomato. The fruit is smaller, even as the numbers increase. Nearing the end, the tomato creates a veritable flurry of flowers-to-fruit, propagating itself for posterity. It’s like it is saying, “I won’t be around forever, these days are getting awfully short and I’m losing sunlight, but I’ll make sure to leave you with plenty to enjoy and seed for the future.”
It isn’t about being maudlin or morose, but I know things now I didn’t know 20 years ago. I know “the days dwindle down.” I recall my irrepressible youth. I couldn’t see the end of the blue-sky, sunny-summer days ahead and even though we always heard “We’re never promised tomorrow,” being young also makes you certain tomorrow will always be there.
Like my annual tomato plants, we have a certain number of days, the seasons set and measurable with some variations. We have a limited supply of sunshine and rain. And then our days are gone. And we hope we will have produced life-giving, good fruit and plenty of it and have left extraordinary children and grandchildren to make the world better for the future.
I’m somewhere past the middle
Where am I now, September? October? I’m somewhere in the middle, over half my days are gone. I need to kick it into high gear, for goodness’ sake! :)
It has taken me the wisdom of the years I have lived to understand so many things and, wow, I have much left to learn. But so many seasons have come and gone and the people planted in my life’s garden to begin with are the ones still to tend, you know? Many wonderful friends and acquaintances pass by and we enjoy the love, the meals, but my people remain for me. Along the way, every possible distraction, possible (probable) offenses and seductive “once-in-a-lifetime” opportunities beckon. New things and flashy adventure present and they are wonderful, but the home garden is where the best nourishment remains even as, and especially as, the days grow shorter.
Over half my days are gone, but the ones that remain are bushel-baskets full of sage advice, wisdom, love (oh the love), nurture, insight into the future (I’m further along – I can see things ahead you may not yet have seen, my sweets); there’s discernment I can share and prophetic words I am anointed to speak and though the fruit on my vines is not the flashy, all-knowing fruit of my youth, I bear prolifically now, enough for my household and those who need refuge. Come one, come all…
So spend your days wisely, the endless supply you seem to have now. And feast on the days your most important people have to spend on you, receiving the grace of years humbly and gratefully.
And these few precious days
I’ll spend with you
These precious days
I’ll spend with you
This is Kai. Age two. We walked around the park and he blew dandelion dead-heads and a great future for the yellow flowers into the air, again and again.
We shall not discuss the merits (some might call them a bane) of the dandelion’s existence. I doubt one could argue the beauty of the yellowest yellow against green grass, nor dispute its’ place as the #1 child-to-mommy bouquet annually.
We just know that in its’ short life, it blooms pure yellow-happiness. Then dies. But the story isn’t over for the dandelion, oh no. The slightest breeze, a person shuffling by or an exuberant, puffing 2-year old can give the dried up ‘old dandee’ another chance. A lot of other chances, actually. The life is in the seed.
So don’t give up your day dream, as they say, even if it’s looking dead. Every possible chance for it to live again is in the shriveled, dried up grain of a plan, a hope, a heart’s wish. You never know who might come along and give you another chance, or even more. The life is in the seed. *poof!
Hot coffee and ice-cold watermelon. It’s what’s for breakfast. Although, this morning, it was actually a luscious peach from Colorado’s western slope. Oh. my. word! Mmmmm!
2.
Memory: The best summer meals I ever ate were as a kid at my Aunt Rosie’s house: grilled burgers, garden fresh tomatoes and corn on the cob, straight from her backyard. Watermelon for dessert. The tomatoes and the corn were all I really needed, though. Still.
3.
Garden Talks:: I approached the chorus of 6-foot sunflowers near the back line this morning, after a 2-week absence. I am quite sure they hadn’t heard I was home, as they had their gazes firmly fixed eastward, probably wondering where on earth I had gone. “I’m back,” I announced, “you may now heliotrope to your heart’s content.” Hopefully they won’t be all stand-offish and soon I’ll see their gaze coming my way. West, my sweets, west.
The pumpkins required a stern talking to, spreading out and covering the sage and butterfly plants as they were. They do require a great lot of space, to be sure, but they mustn’t just override their garden companions with no thought for the ‘morrow. They are safely tucked about now, room to spread and grandly producing round spheres for autumn pies.
Some tiny varmint is eating the white petunia petals and I don’t wonder why, scrumptious as they are, all frilly and pretty in the late summer sun. But still, this may require a squirt of cayenne pepper sauce to dissuade their voracious appetites.
Left to her own accord, the basil is attempting a one-woman show in glorious floral bloom. “Not yet,” I must insist. For once the flowers burst forth, the plant’s usefulness is limited. There is more pesto to be enjoyed, more hand-crafted pizzas to be flavored. She’ll get her stage soon enough.
Naturally, while I was gone, the thistles and goat-heads thought they could safely become one of my garden family, just tucking themselves in here and there. Not a chance, little outlaws. I am coming for you!
All the potted flowers and veggies are moaning a bit under the distress of timed waterings instead of being coddled and cooed over daily. The tomatoes, my garden’s royalty, are fruit-full, yet sort of droopy and whining laments. A little extra attention twice daily should have them perked up soon enough.
4.
Family reunion. 38 of us gathered in mid-America, or was it 39? The mamala and papasan, their children (we original 5 + spouses), most of our children’s children and some of theirs (the greats).
Come and gather around at the table
In the spirit of family and friends
And we’ll all join hands and remember this moment
‘Til the season comes ’round again
My great-niece-dog, Sadie
Family is so important to me. My family-of-origin is scattered across the nation. We’ve never all been living close together, not since the late 70s, before families of our own, careers and ministries…but the testament of our connection shows up semi-regularly.
Our very first Ross & Norma reunion was in 1995. My parents were celebrating their 38th anniversary that year (Dave and I, our 14th). In a few days, my parents will mark their 58th anniversary and my daughter Stephanie and her husband, Tristan, will be celebrating their 14th anniversary. Wha…?
Did that really just happen? Life, it speeds. No bumps can slow it down. You may quote me on that.
Let’s all try to smile for the picture
And we’ll hold it as long as we can
May it carry us through
Should we ever get lonely
‘Til the season comes ’round again
Indiana was filled with lightning bugs. And the cicada’s song, rock stars all, I tell you. And swooping bats (perhaps driven crazy by the loud singing?).
6.
The weather report:: The daily sun is hot in the bluest skies, but fading to gentle evenings, perfect temps and fire-y skies. Brilliant sunsets dazzle me. And remind me how quickly the days pass, making me a bit melancholy, too.
My mamala
But sunrises fill me with hope, every morning. There is an undeniable mercy in the gift of a new day. The early mornings have become downright cool now, requiring sleeves. The relentless sizzle of mid-summer when I left in late July is transitioning to something new, a season shift. It’s good, but it came so quickly. I am always tentative about change and concerning summer? I “never can say goodbye.”
7.
Summer songs. There is something about songs that remind you of summer, the ones you sang in younger days with the windows down after a DQ ice cream cone or a Dr. Pepper and McDonald’s fries.
“Summer Breeze,” Margaritaville” (a Moslander-reunion fav even though the bunch of us are tee-totalers); “Summer Loving” from “Grease,” “Indian Reservation” and “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” “Close to You” by the Carpenters! “Annie’s Song,” by the incredible Mr. John Denver and “Kung Foo Fighting,” because I had brothers. A weird mix, to be sure, but some of these just showed up during the summers of our youth and never leave our hearts. It is always about the song to me. Always.
Hope your summer is sweet.
As the blog header says, “Summer should get a speeding ticket.” It’s like getting bangs. You can work for-ever trying to grow long hair, but the minute you get bangs, they just grow right on out in like, a week!
Summer is like the bangs of a hairdo. We wait for a looooong time for it to arrive and then, BAM! Over.
I am quite aware of the sounds that find their way in to my house through my open doors and windows. In fact, truth be told, I can get a little annoyed that I am not living on a remote piece of land, unbothered by auditory clutter. But I just sometimes forget that some of me drifts out, too, to passersby.
“If your neighbor has wind chimes, you have wind chimes.” On my cousin’s FB timeline
These perfect, wide-open-window days and nights I hear things like:
The whistler. He lives across and down, a retired man, a gardener. His yard might be considered over-planted and a little too fussy with its’ stone deer and owls and whirligigs, but he provides us all with a dazzlingly array of flowers in shocking oranges and hot pinks only broken up by the perfectly coiffed green grass. His yard is tiny compared to ours, but he walks it, he tends it, he improves it and enjoys it. And he whistles, non-stop. He whistles from sun up to sun down. You are never unaware of his time outdoors, because. Whistling.
The doggies. I guess because I don’t have one now, I am more aware of the neighbor’s dogs. One comes outside and announces his presence. Down a few houses, another answers that he, too, is outside. Across the way a couple of pups excitedly get in on the conversation. Soon, from many directions, the dogs, in almost a chorus, yelp and bark and woof away for just a little while, catching up on the events of the day. Then, just as quickly as it started, it dies down. But they’ll gab over fences again soon, several times a day, without fail.
The birds are just delightful. I have a yard the birds love. At first light this morning, I pulled the curtains open to watch some blackbirds and robins searching for seeds in the cool morning grass. Some walk, some hop (**boing-boing-boing**).
A couple of stealthy squirrels were ambling down the neighbor’s roof-line, trying to wage a secret attack and eat whatever the birds had found first, but when they tried to shimmy down branches on a very young, supple tree, they fell 3 feet to the ground, ker-plunk! They were found out. The birds chirped some “I-don’t-think-so’s” their direction and went back to their search. Said squirrels scampered away.
I see the bunny, “Peter-Cottontale,” I call him. He first appeared the evening Sandy died, mourning with us. He munches on grass and co-exists with us. Every evening, as the sun is setting, I know he’ll be right there, just outside my window saying, “Yes, I miss Sandy, too.”
Through the open window, I hear the early birdsong and the all-day bird chatter. I hear a fly try to get through the screen, buzzzz-smack. Foiled. I hear the car horns toot, girls driving by a popular boy’s house across the street. Sirens in the offing. Conversations between neighbors are carried on the breeze. Children are playing on the sidewalks, lots of laughter, an occasional crying bout. Every morning a young dad and his two girls bicycle past, always talking excitedly, having genuine conversations. Then they come back on their way home, planning their day, enjoying each other. The mailman, heavy-footed stomping up, then down the stairs, talks loudly on his cellphone on my front porch. And passing cars with their windows rolled down “share” their music.
And what drifts out? I hope goodwill. I hope they aren’t annoyed that I sing all. the. time. I hope if they hear the song, they start singing, too. And I hope they don’t think badly of me for setting off the fire alarm several days in a row. I do hope they enjoy the wonderful smells coming from my kitchen. An open window is a two-way relationship. It’s good to remember this.
Is it sacrilegious to question this?
You know how everyone always says, “When God closes a door He opens a window?” It’s usually to try to placate us when something hasn’t worked out like we thought it would or when times are hard. But I’m not a fan of it. I think God knows I have a bad knee and climbing through a window would be risky. Plus, He doesn’t seem to be the type running around closing doors and locking them on people. He said Come, knock, the door will be opened to you. Not Ha-gotcha! Go find a little window to jump through! I mean, I might do that. But not God. Pretty sure.
I’ll just try the back door, thank-you very much. Or maybe just remember to knock and wait for Him to open it.
I did climb through a window once, though.
I did. I climbed out a window to go see a boy. I was 16 and *gloriously stupid.* I told my sister to leave the window cracked. I’d know my parents had discovered my absence if it was closed when I returned and I’d have to come in the front door and it wouldn’t be pretty. So, I went. I saw him and it was uneventful and certainly not worth the risk.
I came back and the window was closed tight. Closed! Dread, panic, doom, gloom…I felt nauseated, a rush of blood to my head, the tingle of hyperventilating stinging my face in chaotic patterns (having just run a mile home in the dark; see “*gloriously stupid*” above), scared-stiff! I pondered my options. Heart pounding, I tapped very lightly on the window, once, then twice, again…finally, my little sister got up, groggily, and opened the window. “Do mom and dad know I left?” I asked anxiously.
“No,” she whispered, “I just got cold.”
O-m-gee!!! I couldn’t be mad because she was keeping my secret, but geez! Even now, at fifty-something, I hope my dad doesn’t see this blog post!
A scripture about an open window, but not the one you’re thinking:
“We met on Sunday to worship and celebrate the Master’s Supper. Paul addressed the congregation. Our plan was to leave first thing in the morning, but Paul talked on, way past midnight. We were meeting in a well-lighted upper room. A young man named Eutychus was sitting in an open window. As Paul went on and on, Eutychus fell sound asleep and toppled out the third-story window. When they picked him up, he was dead.” – Acts 20.7-9
I know you were expecting the tithing scripture from Malachi 3 about not robbing God and then He will open the windows of heaven. But I thought this story from Acts was fun and different. Ends well, btw. Go. Read!
Open your windows! I suggest:
Let in the sweet spring air and the bright, lingering light. Hear the neighbor’s mowers and dogs and children. Speak a blessing out those same windows, let what drifts through your windows out to the world be good and godly, life-giving and love-filled. Think of the possibilities!
“Is the spring coming?” he said. “What is it like?”…
“It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine…” – Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Seeds.
How do they know? How can they be sure when I take them, tiny, dried and shriveled, torn from small packages and pushed into wet soil in little cups, into cold darkness – how do they know, I wonder, what to do?
Do they feel dead, useless, abandoned, lifeless, forgotten, put aside, finished, afraid, or misplaced? How does a seed buried come back from that, literally come alive where it cannot yet be seen and fully break free – emerging gloriously spring-green from its dark burial place?
I have a counter full of seedlings springing up daily now, some perennials, pumpkins and squashes and decorative grasses, herbs and flowers to attract butterflies. The joy of watching them appear surprises me every time. I always live in fear they will not do it. I always wonder if I over-moistened the soil, or under-watered. Did I plant too deep? Was it a bad batch of seeds? Will these things really grow? And then – VOILA! They arrive.
I love it especially when I spy the tiniest green spec in a soil-filled egg carton section in the morning and by evening see this brand-new seedling has risen fully up to face the sun’s warmth through the kitchen window. How tenacious, how brave and resolute.
All of creation tells us the Story, THE Story. Jesus in a tomb, dark and cold. On the third day, He awakens, sits up pushing aside His shroud and somehow that stone is rolled away and He emerges victoriously: Life. New Life! All things are made new and nothing will ever be the same. How tenacious the Love of God, how resolute and steadfast.
What if you aren’t being buried, you’re being planted?
I saw this image on a Pinterest post {click here} and loved the hopefulness of it. What if...I mean what if we considered things differently, saw them from a different viewpoint? I am the worst at this! True confessions. But, really, what if...?
What if you weren’t ruthlessly expelled as much as thrown clear to keep you safe from harm’s way?
What if you weren’t unmercifully uprooted, but are being transplanted to a better location, a healthier place for thriving, a more spacious boundary line?
What if the delay, the seemingly endless wait wasn’t punishment or a sign of God’s displeasure, but part of His plan to bless you, set you up for amazing grace and favor?
What if the place you work, the classes you take, the house you live in, the people you know, the circumstances you find yourself in are part of God’s grand scheme to bless your community, to save a life, and to display His glory on the earth?
What if you don’t like what you have but what you want would hurt you?
What if the sun comes out and shines on the cold, dark soil of your current surroundings and the warmth and the rain and nutrient-rich burial ends up giving you nourishment and health you thought you’d never see again? It could happen. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
Just got back from a baby-birthing in Nebraska. I cry every time I get to see a baby born. Oh it is hard work. The things a woman goes through from look-at-me-easily-breathing-through-contractions to I’ll-never-make-it-through-this to *Ahhhhh*-I’ll-do-this-again…Ha! Well, it is truly, truly miraculous!
So she came to this beautiful familia, her mommy and daddy and a big sister and big brother awaiting her arrival with great joy and anticipation. So much preparation, anxiousness and planning. And then the time comes – the actual time of arrival and this mystical, other-worldly occurrence. Bebe is there in her hiding place, under the shadow, waiting.
And we wait. And we wait with patience and then patience wanes. And we wait with holy reverence and then we wait praying God will hurry things up. Please God, now, we are so tired…Then He does, and we are not certain we really wanted that prayer answered (yes, we are funny sometimes, aren’t we?)…Then…
At this intense moment of deep anguish, this rising tsunami-wave of hard-labor, this center-of-the-universe, roaring pain, from being swept helplessly away in the waves of birthing (only minutes ago having so powerfully breathed through each contraction, controlled and steady), from experiencing what seems like a certain death to a Let-there-be-light explosion of birthing to Life. LIFE! Again. Brand new life…From darkness to light. Weak yet strong. Poured out, yet able. It is finished.
And the mama, heaven and earth having just passed through her, trembles as she looks into the bebe’s sweet, small face. She knows the baby girl, and the baby girl knows her. And it is all worth it.
I won’t even attempt to wonder what birth feels like for the bebe before she emerges from the hidden place where the very hands of God have been knitting her together there in the secret place to being catapulted into bright light living?! That is a story for another day. But I can’t wait to tell it!
I get to be a doula sometimes {doula is an ancient Greek word that means “woman who serves”} and I am so honored and blown away each time. See this pretty baby? She makes me feel both young and old. The whole birthing experience takes me back and I remember again, the beauty of my own 5…but I feel the age I am at the end of the labor and delivery {Sayble @90 minutes old, honorary Nonna @much older and feeling it}.
And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.”And he said to me, “It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give from the spring of the water of life without payment.The one who conquers will have this heritage, and I will be his God and he will be my son. –Revelation 21.5-7 ESV
Welcome to the world, Sayble-J
Welcome to the world, fresh and pretty girl, all brand new.
