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.

Night Moves

The sound woke us up at about 3 a.m.

I keep one window cracked open, and I was the first to hear the repetitive, sharp sound.

Only a few seconds at the window was needed to determine that the sound was coming

from the garbage cans by the carport. 

Figuring it out was pretty much a no-brainer, in view of the pork roast debacle of the day before:

there were two juicy, raw and mostly rotten slabs of pork in those garbage cans 

AND 

raccoons stalk our garbage cans.

There you have it --- a recipe for disaster.

My Brave Husband went out with his biggest flashlight and tried to scare the raccoon 

away from his feast, but how intimidating can one be in blue boxers?

Maybe if he had worn camo boxers...?

In the morning, this is what we found. 

A guilty young raccoon all alone in the can. 

No pork and no accomplices to be found, pressed flatly to the bottom

 of the can, hoping and maybe praying for invisibility.

Even after the can was kicked over, he hung around until we gave up spying on him.

A pretty bold kinda 'coon.

 

Speaking BAT

Late summer nights are edged with a bit of magic, don't you agree?

All you gardening folks with datura (witches' weeds) just opening when the sun goes down - 

I've been watching your now-mature bushes do their thing as I'm driving by in the evenings.

And my moonflowers are finally strutting their stuff out on my front teepee.

Their huge round blooms seem to almost glow in the dark! They send their thick fragrance wafting around in the mysterious darkness of the front yard - it's romantic, all right!

When I'm up in the night, if there's any moon at all, I pull the drapes all the way open on the french doors in our bedroom, climb back in bed and wait to see if I can spy any nighttime critters en route to rob my greenhouse. 

And one night this summer, as evening came into our yard, I discovered ---

 I SPEAK BAT

I was talking to the dog who was romping through the zebra grass, not really talking to the bats. My Youngest would be quick to remind that it was the waving that started it all, and that's true. 

They just work so hard, flying floppily over our small acre, gobbling up pesky bugs!

 So I greeted the first little brown bat of the evening with a friendly wave, and we imagined that it seemed like he had seen us. As if the bat had dipped its wings, so to speak, in return greeting.

Hey, we're out in the country - the only possible witness is the spinster neighbor, and I'm pretty sure she's seen me do much crazier things than wave to bats.

It became plain that I speak bat  as I was calling to the dog in my special dog voice. 

You can probably imagine what that sounds like. 

The bat I had been waving to earlier swooped dramatically toward our perch on an old stump. We ducked, clutched each other's arms and ... tried it again. 

This time the bat swooped low enough to clear us from the stump, and it was proof positive ---

I DO SPEAK BAT.

Cottage Garden Party.