Weary Beauty

Old and banged up. 

Rusted and worn. 

Still sharing a weary kind of beauty, 

appreciated by some, cast off by others. 

The original function of these watering cans is long in the 

past. No longer do they tote an early morning drink for 

the roses. Never again will one be used to rinse mud 

from toddler toes or to bathe a wiggling pup. 

Leaky seams, missing spout heads, 

and split handles prevent that. 

But position one just so in a springtime planter, 

and you have something unique.

So much to ponder there, friends.

The kindness of flowers in a time of grief is another ponder-worthy topic. 

The gentle joy a vase of blooms lends to a house of sorrow far outweighs the cost. 

I'm beyond thankful for this version of generosity. 

My January newsletter is up on Substack. 

Click the link to take a peek. 

Life Specs

 The older I get, the sharper the focus on my life specs. 

Life specs? You have them, too. 
It's the way you see the world.
The way you see life.

The way you see YOUR life. 

How do you choose to view the twists and turns of life here--as 

random splashes of blessing mixed with strokes of bad luck? 

Perhaps you believe with me that there is a greater plan. 

Right now, life has become a rougher ride than I enjoy, 

and my specs have been bounced around. 

But I'm holding fast to the good news that God's grand plan 

is always going forward without a hitch. 

Will you hold on with me? 

Find out more here and here. 

Waiting Rooms

How do you feel about spending time in a 

waiting room?

In general, I don't do very well in a waiting room of 

any kind. As one American among many, I know I'm not alone. 

We tend to think waiting times should be minimized--

time is precious and must be well-spent, and if the 

waiting time is too long, well ... I'm going to leave. 

I barely had a minute to wait in this room, the lobby 

of my dentist's office, but I'm occupying other waiting rooms. 

Most of them don't have chairs, televisions, or snacks. 

Life has all kinds of waiting rooms, and the Lord often places me 

in one sort or another to learn, gulp, patience. 

Oh, and don't forget perseverance, trust, and faithfulness. 

Some days, I do well and am a peaceable waiting room dweller. 

Other times, I complain loudly and check in 

at the desk every five minutes. I've been known to kick a chair 

or two in these figurative waiting rooms--it's not pretty. 

Waiting is hard. 

What waiting rooms are you in right now? 

More about waiting well here. 

 

A New Beauty

All dried up 

and beautiful in a new way.

The hard work of nodding in spring breezes complete,

sun-dried daffodils decorate a rusty toolbox. 

Parchment paper lily of the valley in blue glass 

bottles recall wedding bells and ivory veils.

Last year's weathered hydrangeas reveal an 

inner framework strong enough to make it through 

a long winter.

I signed a contract back in 2019 with Familius Publishers for a 

project about dogs and reading. The product has made a few twists and 

turns over the course of three years. Recently, I was notified that 

the final copy went to print. 

Teach Your Dog to Read will release this November! 

 

True Colors

 

Suddenly, fall is almost finished on our one Kentucky acre. 

This year's color change was slow to arrive, but just before they fell, 

the leaves put on a dazzling show of color. 

Just like every year, sunlight and 

temperature changes signaled chlorophyll to stop its work. 

And the greens of summer faded away while I was busy carving 

pumpkins and puzzling out costumes.

Without the influence of chlorophyll, 

what the leaves packed in during their spring-and-summer lives 

finally surfaced to create ...

... a grand spectacle of fall color pointing to the 

glorious nature of a wise and extravagant Creator. 

* photo taken on a Smoky Mountain getaway

It might be a life lesson, whispered to anyone  

with an ear to hear. 

Seasonal Updates

I picked up this ornamental pepper plant

on the last business day at a local plant nursery. 

"Wow--last day! You must be so excited to have some time off."

But the nurseryman didn't seem thrilled. 

At least not as thrilled as I was for him. 

The tiny peppers were all purple, then turned 

a lovely, seasonal orange.

I got outside with my "real" camera on a foggy 

morning this week. Mist laced every spiderweb 

with delicate droplets. As the sun burned through 

the haze, it turned the drops to diamonds.

My heavenly blue morning glory vine is finally showing off. 

The vines have tangled themselves into a crown studded 

with sun-pointing buds. The base of the vine is as 

thick as a young tree--amazing.

Consider the Lilies

It's been a summer of the richest blooms. 

This year, I watched for the last daylily bloom 

and made sure to admire and enjoy it. 

Of course, lots of years have passed in which 

I didn't notice or care that the daylilies 

were almost gone, and I certainly 

didn't take note of the last one. 

Surely we rejoice that we have a
hope-filled future, brimming with 
unimagined amazements and 
exceeding great joy. 

But looking forward to these doesn't cancel 

the wisdom of savoring what's before us in the now. 

So consider the lilies in your life—savor and enjoy. 

This may be wisdom born of years, friends . . .

since I'll be fifty-five this year, 

I can say things like this. 

For a picture book that will drive 
home the message and maybe 

give you a good cry, check out 

Let Me Hold You Longer by Karen Kingsbury. 

Have tissues at the ready. 

At First Glance

A visitor to my Kentucky acre might believe this curly willow to be dead. 

At first glance, that's understandable. 

"Just cut that down and make room for something new," 
my visitor might say and donate a casual kick. 

But, the gardener knows better than any visitor. 

Time and attention have been invested in this tree—hours of staking, 
pruning, and watering. The considerate gardener knows that 
it's a mistake to hoist or chop in haste. 

What's true in the garden also proves trustworthy in the greater arenas of life:

parenting
friendships

aging
career

So, wait a while. Slow down and look the other way. 

Sometimes, not every time, but occasionally 

 when you look back, you'll find those longed-for signs of life.

------------

Learn how to root curly willow branches here.  

I just cut a long "whip" and leave it in a bucket or a tall vase of water 
until a decent root ball forms. 

Awake

Summer is buzzing along outside my doors.

Temperatures have been mild, so we've had lots of open-window nights.

The music of night creatures accompanied by wind in the chimes is a magic 

carpet straight to dreamland. Where I want to stay until morning. 

But ... now that I'm older, I have lots more time for pondering in the hours when 

the rest of my house sleeps. Maybe you can identify. 

These days, with no rhyme or reason, my eyes just flutter open and I'm awake.

Am I awake to pray? Undoubtedly. 

Am I awake to worry? Often.

Am I awake because I'm almost fifty? (sigh) That's what I hear. 

I love how Father Tim, main character of the Mitford novels, prays his way through 

the town of Mitford during his nighttime waking hours. 

Following his literary example, I turn the fan up a notch and settle back in bed to pray my 

way through the rooms of my home, for every beloved who comes and goes through these doors. 

Then I turn my nighttime prayer walk in the direction of my nearest neighbors.

Though still in bed, I stand in front of their homes and ask for blessing, mercy, wisdom.

In my mid-night prayers, I wander our church asking favor on those who minister there.

Sometimes, I even prayer wander to visit our missionaries on far foreign fields ... 

are you getting sleepy yet?

I wish I was.

Everyday Celebrations

I know some of you would be horrified at the carbon "footprint" my household 

stomps into the earth. Especially during large family gatherings.

When we host the entire tribe of extended family, I break out the paper 

plates, plastic forks and styrofoam cups. 

(sigh) I'm not proud of it, but there it is. I'd like to list all my excuses, but I'll spare you.

But look what I scored at a recent yard sale:

Vintage "pressed glass" goblets in all colors of the rainbow!

The home owner was selling the contents of her mother-in-law's

 home to pay for her stay in an assisted living facility.
"We have to pay a little extra, doncha know, because Mama needs her hair done every Friday."

Her mother-in-law is 103 years old.

My husband and I admired the collection, but drove away, only to return an hour later to 

scoop up what was left. We purchased nineteen goblets and contributed a 

little extra for Mamma's hair needs.

It seemed appropriate to store them in our Hoosier cabinet. 

When I open the doors, it just looks like a party in there. 

I've resolved to use these every time we host a family gathering. My younger self 

would have kept these only for good, only for the very best occasions. 

But now that I'm (ahem) older, wisdom urges me forward with the earned understanding

that every gathering qualifies as the very best occasion, and

every single family dinner is an occasion to celebrate with 

fancy, rainbow-colored, antique goblets.

Basking in Sunshine

These hosta emerge as purple nubs in early spring.  

I noticed them studding the wet ground weeks ago.

Then while I wasn't watching ... all this!

It's one of my favorite plants because of the leaf texture. 

Deep veins with a seersucker surface make it unique. 

Seersucker—WHAT? I know. Is that a weird word or what? 

SIDE NOTES:
* I keep all (most) of my plastic plant tags as a sort of catalog of perennials I've purchased over the years. There are  definite patterns: blue and purple flowering plants, sturdy beats frufru, and hydrangeas must be had! Tip: If you buy from a garden superstore and your plant dies, you can usually return it if you have the tag. Just dump the dead plant in an old store container, stick that plastic tag back in the dirt, and slug it off to the store for a replacement.
* Cowbirds invaded my feeders this year. I usually grind my teeth about spring starlings, but this year—COWBIRDS are the birdseed gluttons. But I did spot a pair of rose-breasted grosbeaks at the feeder two days in a row! I tried to talk the lovely couple into staying longer, but they said my feeder attracted too much riff-raff. Dang cowbirds!
* Speaking of riff-raffy gluttons ... I'm listening to a library audiobook called Made to Crave. After six months of intensive study at The Lord's Table, it's making a lot of sense. God is revealing new parts of my heart and helping me see just how grateful I can be for His finished work on that cross!I highly recommend both books.
* Back to spring gardening: I usually swoop through garden centers at this time of year, on the hunt for new plants or crazy bargains. But yesterday my mom and I took a Mother's Day jaunt and wandered through a local greenhouse, savoring the color combinations and vast array of plant varieties. It was fun to recall what aunts or uncles favored which old-fashioned annuals: Great-Grandpa loved zinnias, Uncle Mike loved cockscomb ... remember when your cousin pushed you into the cactus bed at the conservatory? 
Yes. Yes, I do.  During our greenhouse stroll, I had a couple close calls—I almost fell (keeled over backward) into a huge display of geraniums as I admired the colors and lost my footing. And I found out just how far it is to the half-person bathroom in the check-out area—VERY far, especially if you're trying not to laugh or drag one leg behind you. 
* I'll only be forty-nine for four more months. Oh, man. I'm twenty-five on the inside! Which reminds me of Wanda. Have you heard her poem? Here it is.  

The Christmas Cloth

A Christmas story ...

Elda sorted through the top drawer of her bureau with both hands. Finally feeling the distinctive stitched edges of the linen, she drew out a small folded square of painted fabric. In this sacred time of year, her heart swelled with anticipation at what her Savior might do in the next few weeks.

She moved with brittle, short steps through the sitting room of her small apartment in the senior community where she had recently settled, clutching the Christmas cloth as she went. Elda recalled the cloth as it had been when she'd purchased it as a twenty-year-old girl in the dime store one block from her seminary quarters. Once stiff and proper, and now so threadbare! Just like me, she mused, as she held the cloth up to the afternoon light that pressed itself through the block window over the tiny second-hand couch. Elda smiled and shook her head, I was stiff and proper too, but now I'm thin and soft with all my dignity worn away. She yielded praise for the uncanny wisdom of her Lord and removed the framed photos from her coffee table. 

Her knobby hands spread the festive fabric over the wooden surface and stroked the creases smooth. This foldable Christmas token had traveled the mission fields of the world with her over the last sixty years. Always tucked securely in the bottom of her leather satchel, together they slipped down jungle rivers by canoe, crossed mountain borders by train, and trekked miles of remote pathways. 

Every December, countless tiny, brown fingers caressed it with curiosity while she waited patiently for the questions which always followed. 

What is this cloth? What does it mean?

It was her chance to share the Gospel through the story of Christmas. Elda remembered the joyful faces of those who had knelt with her in grass huts or curtained alcoves, and on so many dirt floors, to be born anew into the Kingdom of God. Wherever she had been, in whatever discomfort was necessary, those moments were her favorite gifts every December. 

Peace on Earth had come to many whose hands she grasped over this very cloth. Now, as she spread it again, she wondered who might join her this year, her ninety-first, to celebrate the newborn King. Father, if You will, let this old missionary woman share the Good News one more time this Christmas. 

Elda's doorbell buzzed and the door swung open to admit the nurse on duty for her corridor of apartments. She smiled a welcome to a thin young woman who wheeled a metal cart piled high with pills and syringes. The nurse made small talk with Elda, telling her about the weather and reciting the dinner menu. Her tasks completed, she packed her gear for a quick exit, but stopped short when her gaze fell upon Elda's Christmas cloth. 

“What a pretty old cloth! Where did you get it?” 

- Susan Holt Simpson

More Than a Momento

 I have a copy of A. W. Tozer's The Pursuit of God. This small, worn book was published in the late 1940s and belonged to one of the great mentors of my life. She passed it on to me years ago, and I have to admit that I kept it as a memento,  and cherished it mostly because she wrote her name inside the front cover. 

 When I was a younger me, the emotion my elders expressed over the handwriting of their elders seemed a little excessive to me. I remember my mom saying, "Look at this - that's Dad's handwriting!" I just smiled and nodded, never sensing anything unusual. Now, here I am at the end of my forties, and I get it. I'm not sure if I inherited it or if I'm just finally old enough to understand it, but seeing my friend's name, written in bold ownership on that cover, causes emotion to wash over, or maybe through, me. 

Running my finger over the faded blue lettering is irresistible; a way to touch the tiniest bit of the person she was when she made that signature. Someone who defied the conventions of her own times to live a peculiar life, one that included reading difficult books such as this one. She let her light shine brightly, and sometimes I had to sort of squint in her company.

Ten years ago, if you had asked me who among my older friends would finish well, I would've said her name without hesitation and added a fist pump or two. She would've laughed and refused to give me a high-five.

But age can be cruel, dear friends, even to the best and brightest among us, and we all know it. Even the most fervent followers in our company may, in their last years, mourn aloud the darkness of their own heart.

I know her Savior is near, that she is never alone, and that He is faithful. I tell myself these things and focus my thoughts on these TRUTHS when her present condition becomes overwhelming. 

Her younger self, the one that signed Tozer's thin volume when it was brand new, would tell me to read the book and stop being so silly and sentimental. She would remind me of this and tell me to trust this. So that's what I've been doing. 

She would encourage you to do the same. 

Read some of the hard stuff - rock solid theology from the last century's midpoint. Get a copy of anything by A. W. Tozer in your hands, hunker down and, in the words of a wise friend of mine - CHEW.

The one I'm reading is free at this website. 

We could read it together...?

Less is More

Somehow all the Christmas decor is in place, and it's only December 1st.

More seems to be less this season, and not ALL the usual items found their way out of 

the holiday totes. 

How sad for the ringing-bell-snowman who has taken his place in our living room every year for ... 15 years? 

*** Are we on the downhill decline to that  hazy spot where the entire holiday decor consists of one candelabra of colored lights in the front window? When the most exciting holiday treat is a box of chocolate covered cherries from the dime store? Is this how it happens? 

SOMEone had the idea to pile all the Christmas lights in a heap in the front yard, run an extension cord and plug it all in. 

Voila! A mountain of colored lights! Outdoor Christmas - CHECK!

Is anybody with me on this?

It didn't happen this year, but maybe someday ...

 just before we plug in the candelabra of colored lights 

and toast one another with the last two chocolate covered cherries.

The Bag Men

It's funny how age and experience can bring a certain variety of wisdoms, I think. For example ...

- The neighbor's cat is just going to eat a few birds. There's no fighting nature.

- That whole 'You can't judge a book by its cover' thing - really true.

- People speeding wildly in their vehicles can be oh! so easily explained.

- It's just reasonable (and economical) to keep a few different sizes of jeans in your wardrobe.

And now I've come realize something new about  those men you sometimes see carrying the purse. Not their own --- you can tell by the unwieldy handling. I must admit to some inward snickering and scoffing in the past, and yes, even to quietly pointing out the occasional sight of  a bag-bearing husband  for a quiet chuckle among friends. Especially that rare fellow who awkwardly shoulders his wife's purse, in order to have both hands free.

I have to say, I've tried to spare my husband this particular indignity 
among the many which I've managed to inflicted upon him - 

"Thanks, but I 'll carry that myself."  

Said too sharply, I know, because of the big ding that would put in my own pride. It just seems like a 
too-huge admission of weakness to not be able to carry my own purse, right up there with being 
unable to slip on my own socks.*  And Lord knows, I hang on to my (perceived) 'independence' 
pretty fiercely. He's still working with me on that.

*These seem like two of the most basic functions of everyday life. There are other, even more basic,
 of course, but I refuse to let myself even consider those for now.  

So recently, when My Wonderful Husband had to carry my bag to the house while I gripped his other arm, slowly making painful progress toward the house, the tenderness of his helpful gesture smacked me right in the face. "I can't believe you're carrying my purse..."  I managed to squeak, to which he began to swing it and sashay along, being careful to  not jar me too much. It was funny - he made it funny,  to diffuse my emotional response and defeat my pride.   "Not a big deal," he smiled, "Does it match my outfit?"  

I Can't Believe I'm Here is a refrain of my life, maybe of everyone's life,  and one that is sometimes accompanied by mournful tears. Now, laughing is generally better than crying, and we try to stick to that motto around here. But some moments pass by unLIVED if they are refused a recognition which may require tears, even tears mixed with laughter. Even though I can't believe it,  I am here, in a purse-surrendering-spot of life, and the bag-bearing husband is no longer an object of smirky amusement to me. 

He seems more like a hero, actually.