A Messy Advent

The Advent season arrives on time, no matter the state of my readiness. 

I can't beg for just one more week tacked on the end 

of November--seven more days to declutter a pantry, 

lose the Thanksgiving pounds, and pen a 

comprehensive Christmas list. 

Instead, the season of celebrating the Incarnation rolls in, 

garbed in royal dignity, to adorn our humble home--

unconcerned with the state of my dining room table. 

The Spirit of Christmas, made manifest in a lowly manger, 

is not bothered by the chaos. 

So I'll stop to worship in the 

midst of real life, light the candle of HOPE, and 

gaze into the mystery of 

Emmanuel--

God with us. 

Invite Him into the middle of your mess and 

discover the real miracle of Christmas. 

 

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. 

A Worthwhile Practice

 

Gratitude. 

I haven't been the best student, but 

the Lord has been teaching me about this discipline ... 

my entire life. 

* dogwood blossoms turned to berries

Living where there's a turn of the seasons provides plenty 

of opportunities to cultivate a grateful heart. 

*heavenly blue morning glories on the courtyard trellis

In seasons of grief and loss, it helps me to look 

outward and upward, instead of inward. 

I've spent a lot of time outside on my one-acre, 

deliberately searching out beauty and 

stubbornly seeking the wonders He's provided. 

*sweetgum leaves as individual works of art

Gratitude is a practice I intend to continue.

How do you cultivate a grateful heart? 

* More about living a thankful life here. 

The Building Team

Do not despise small beginnings. 

This divine encouragement came to Zerubbabel, the temple builder. 

Obviously, He wasn't talking about spring tulip spikes 

in Kentucky. But it's surely a gardener's verse too, for 

a gardener is also a builder, similar to good ol' 

Zerubbabel. 

We're all building something or other, isn't it true? 

I'm determined to be on the building team 

and not the tearing-down team.

Although when I have found myself wearing that 

ugly ocher jersey on occasion, I rip it 

off and move on as quickly as possible.

Here's a tiny splash of the glory that resulted from 

oh, so, small beginnings. 

Two more posts on small beginnings here and here. 

I'd love to hear about your small-beginnings project and how it's coming along.

 

Glimmers of Hope

By the time winter in Kentucky gasps its last breath, 

the world has gone all gray, brown, and tan. 

On a frosty February morning, no one is spared 

a full dose of gloom.

Our dogwood tree seems to have abandoned every hope.

Yet frost sparkles shine glimmers of hope

 into the murky morning, and an

 adventurous meadowlark reminds me

 that, against all odds, spring is on the way. 

Warm breezes will soon tickle their way through wide-open windows.

Every shade of green will pierce and push away dried-leaf blankets.

The sun will reach into new corners of my kitchen and make me 

consider spring cleaning.

And what seemed to be dead will come to life again.

Clive wasn't talking about the doubtful state of dogwood trees in February 

when he wrote to Mary Shelburne in 1963: 

"There are better things ahead than any we leave behind." 
 

But I think it still works.

Turkey Talk

 It's high time to put the turkeys back in the buffet 

drawer for another eleven months. 

After all, Christmas has already snuck out of the attic

 and laid claim to every room. 

But these tattered birds hold their ground on 

our Hoosier cabinet, reminding me that 

gratitude 

never goes out of season and isn't intended to be 

tucked away in the buffet.

Thanksgiving should be a daily holiday. 

(more here and here)

So in honor of the turkeys' clarion call, 

let's continue to give thanks. 

I'm grateful for sunshine through 

boldly painted sweetgum leaves.

The last nasturtium bloom 

to withstand the ever-dipping temperatures 

is the very picture of gratitude.

May we each brave the cold as well...

with thanks. 

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. 

 

Flashbulb Memories

Flashbulb memories--do you have them? 

These snapshots of time remain crystal clear, 

sharpen through the years, 

and are often pondered. 

I'd love to sit around a table of friends (or strangers) and share a few. 

No explanations - "My cousin lived with us for a month, and so ..."

 No excuses - "I had a fever for a week, that's why ..."

No analysis - "You probably remember that because of  ..."

Just the flashes. 

Here's one from my corner of the table. 
It's your turn next. 

I'm at a church retreat. The speaker presents a flowered-glass jar containing bits of colorful paper. The container is handed around, and each person chooses one of the mysterious folded squares. Inside each is a hand-written Bible verse. The speaker says the verses have been chosen by the inspiration of the Spirit. She suggests that the verse we receive should be kept private and pondered. 

I open mine--it's Psalm 32:9.

I'm still pondering, but I've added the verse above it to 

encourage my (fifty-something) self.  You can read those here. 

Emergency Room Revelation

I happened to be in the emergency room a few weeks ago. 

It's the last place I (EVER) want to go, but for the sake of a dear one, I went.

A few hours into the visit, I ventured into the hallway on an errand and 

was drenched in the chaos of a raging patient. His screams, punctuated 

by frantic fist-pounding, reverberated over the nurses' station. 

But not a single doctor, nurse, or tech seemed to notice. 

They went about their work with good humor while he shrieked, 

"Let me go! Let me out! I'm getting out of here!" 

Jagged splinters of his terror penetrated my heart.

After scurrying back to the room to wait alone, 

I pushed the door mostly closed, 

just in case the madman managed to escape. 

Almost immediately another terrifying sound slipped through 

the door's crack. A weeping woman, just outside in the hallway. 

She sobbed as if her hospital visit had 

erupted into tragedy, with full voice and no inhibition. 

"Oh, Father God," I whispered... 

I wish I could tell you how I left the safety of that room and went to 

the weeping woman with a bottle of water and a listening ear. 

But that's not what happened. 

Would that I had edged near the caged rager and whispered 

prayers for holy intervention. 

But ... no.

"Please get me out of here," 

is what came out of my heart. 

A fear-filled prayer. 

For myself. 

You like everything to be calm, for life to be smooth sailing. 

Yes. 

But I am at work here. 

People call out for Me in the chaos and 

desperation of a hospital ER, 

where there's sometimes screaming and weeping. 

Jehovah Shammah walks the halls of the hospital. He is there. 

How could I forget? 

Knowing "He is there" empowers Christ-like actions. 

Forgeting myself and reaching out to those in need— 

whether it be at the grocery, in a nursing home,

on a playground, or (gulp) at the emergency room—

is the real business of life. 

Next time, I'll remember. 

***

For more about our amazing God, visit here. 

Teetering toward Christmas

It's commonly thought the main purpose of an Advent house 

like this one is to bring daily delight to tiny drawer-openers. 

But I think it might be to 

s l o w   d o w n 

the season.

Without one of these, my December has flown by, and 

I find myself teetering unsteadily on the doorstep of Christmas. 

The decorations are up and shiny bright.

I've grabbed a few chapters of this to  

enlighten and encourage my spirit. 

But I find myself needing more time to ponder the manger. 

While I go do that, here are two Christmas posts from the 

person I used to be—a mom with little boys to entertain over 

a long Christmas break. 

Christmas Conversations - 

Ask your littles what they think about some holiday topics. 

Questions included.

 Christmas Risk -

Risk and win points by answering Christmas questions (included).

 

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. 

A Place to Rest

 I think I've finally given up on grappling my way into a familiar Christmas season. 

2020 is going to be contrarily consistent all the way to its very last day. 

This, though, remains the same—year after year, age to age. 

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. 

Immanuel, Christ WITH us. 

And that, friends, is a safe place to rest as 2021 sweeps in.

Something to read here and here. 

Something to soak up here. 

Something funny here. 

Hurry Along

Pumpkins and gourds appeared around here early this year. 

I've been hurrying around seasonal corners, trying to finish 2020 early. 

It's similar to pushing an entire helping of 

elementary-school-cafeteria 

spinach/succotash/peas into your mouth at once 

so you'll be allowed to go to recess.

Anybody?

 The side benefit of buying early was surprisingly simple--selection.

Summer clingers like me don't usually enjoy this advantage. 

Pumpkins and gourds of all shapes, colors, and sizes were still 

sitting pretty in the supermarket bins. 

 And they all still had stems. 

It was a cheap grocery-store thrill, the perfect way to hurry 2020 along. 

I planted a whole packet of heavenly blue morning glories this spring and 

pampered them all summer with regular watering and fertilizing. 

I made sure they were in high-quality soil with leaf mulch 

topdressing to retain moisture. 

It's past mid-October with one frost already 

on the books ... but not a single sky-blue bloom. 

Yards and yards of vine sporting tiny bud sets--and no blooms. 

This isn't the first time it's happened, but it was the most disappointing. 

My eyes couldn't have been more eager for those heavenly blues to show. 

Because ... 2020.

Garden Lesson: 

Turns out, pampering the vines is the downfall of blooms. 

The plant is so blissfully comfortable that it produces lush foliage instead of 

beautiful blooms. And there will be no fruit to produce seeds, the result 

of a pollinated blossom. 

***

That, friends, is worth pondering, especially if 

you're a comfort-seeking soul like me. It's my takeaway 

lesson for the 2020 growing season. 

Ponder further here. 

***

Spring Garden Tips and Swift Transitions

My lily of the valley went above and beyond in the last few weeks. 

This frilly girl can be invasive—extremely so. 

If your boundaries aren't strict enough, it will take over the entire garden. 

I recommend putting it in a container if you can't be ruthless with the hoe. 

Our Japanese maples were frost-fried during the crazy weather we've had this 

spring in northern Kentucky. One young tree only has a few leaves left to power itself 

through the rest of the growing season. It's well over twelve feet tall now but 

started as a seedling like the one I found this week. Red maples can be sprouted 

from their "keys" if you have plenty of patience. 

Tutorial here. And this longer tutorial is loaded with information. 

SIDE NOTES:

One of my least favorite sayings is, "The only constant in life is change." But we all know how true it is—life is an ever-lengthening chain of transformations, variations, and transitions with an about-face or two thrown in for good measure. 

* Here's where we have choices. 

Will we choose to react in fear and doubt, processing change from a position of weakness? I admit to pitching a tent in one of these slums or another too many times. 

Or will we choose to absorb life's vagaries with confidence and good humor?

2020 has been a continual test of my resolutions to choose well. 

Maybe it has been for you, too. 

* I've been through a few stages of life now, and here's what I keep coming back to. This is what gives me direction. And when I entered motherhood twenty-eight years ago, this became one of my anthems. Will you share yours? 

What Kind of Fruit?

The fruit trees are blooming on our rural one acre.

Blushing peach tree blooms, alabaster plum tree flowers, and still-tight apple buds. 

It doesn't matter how desperate the news, 

spring in Kentucky is settling in and getting comfy.

 My Youngest planted these trees a few years ago. 

They're barely tended, receiving only a hard pruning now and then. 

 No fertilizer. 

No pest control measures. 

No staking or mulching.

And yet ... they bear fruit anyway. 

But not the sort of fruit anyone looks forward to enjoying. 

Tiny and shriveled, what survives the late-season frosts 

bears the gnawing of every critter that passes through our backyard retreat.

With the rest of the world, I'm examining the fruit my life is bearing.

In impossible-to-imagine pandemic days, will I yield fruit gnawed by fear and anxiety, 

frost-bitten with affliction, neglect-shriveled knobs?

I pray not. 

Will you, with me, work alongside the Master Gardener to 

stake what's leaning and allow the pruning of what's useless?

 Are we willing to stand guard against enemies of anxiety and 

despair, and instead, pour on the fertilizing energies of gratitude and generosity?

I pray so.

Together, we can bear fruit that will bring delight instead of disappointment. 

Read more about spiritual fruit here. 

Explore a fascinating innovation in fruit trees here.