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.

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. 

The Right Time

Sometimes my life feels like this old watch with no hands. 

TIme tick-tick-ticks away and I have absolutely no way to measure or control it. 

Time presses in on my thoughts constantly, and I give my own voice to its shrill demands.

When will it be time? 

Are we almost there? 

How long will this take? 

Publishing is one of the slowest processes in the career world, falling just behind Bonsai tree farming. 

I'm impatient and often plan an escape to something faster and better paying, albeit less fulfilling. 

The scriptures show my experience is nothing new.  

The people of Israel paddled the same boat—waiting, with no sign of encouragement, for their hope to be fulfilled. They cried out for Messiah—the One who would rescue them from oppression, restoring freedom and prosperity. 

When will it be time? 

Are we almost there? 

How long will this take? 

As we enter the Advent season of reflection, please know that our struggle with time is nothing new. Go ahead and let the questions fly before God's throne. But don't get up from your knees yet (or the bed, park bench, bus seat—wherever you pray). Instead, take time to ponder Galatians 4:4-7. 

Don't miss this opportunity to express faith. 

Because at just the right time ... He will come through. 

"But when the fullness of time had come ... God sent his Son."

And it will be better than you dreamed.

"... you are no longer a slave, but a son, 

and if a son, then an heir through God."

Sunflower Lessons

This single bloom was enough to satisfy my sunflower hunger this year.

I found it as a seedling, accidentally sprouted between bricks on the greenhouse

floor—a birdseed spill only partly cleaned up during our spring chaos. 

Admiring its gumption, I transferred it to a pot and expected it to die. 

But it thrived.

It earned an honored spot in a raised bed with the zinnias, 

guaranteeing protection from the roly-poly rabbit mob. 

What started as accident—completely unplanned, unexpected, and unlikely—speaks its lessons 
to my backyard world daily: Determination. Strength. Perseverance. 
TRUST in the Master Gardener who notices the tiniest seedlings of grace in our lives 
and takes action to deliver an abundant yield.

Seasons of Change

This is a month of events—graduations, weddings, and celebrations.

Thirty days of beginnings and endings in our family.

Scattered glitter from graduation party invitations is making my couch (and my face) shine.

A box of rehearsal dinner vases rides in my backseat and beats a glassy tune on every drive.

*

Some joyful hellos and a few tearful goodbyes are in store. 

I would quote Heraclitus, but I think the scriptures have it nailed:

"There is a season for everything, and a time for 

every delight and event ..." Ecc. 3:1

When we are fearful, let us remember that God and His goodness 

to us are unchanging; thus, we are ever secure in Him."

Read an excellent short devotional on change here. 

*Use only Ghirardelli pre-tempered melting chocolate to create bride

and groom strawberries. This is my solemn advice.

Thanksgiving Hopes

A house fire of mold swept the interior of our Tiny House pumpkin-carving contest entry.

Just another sign that Halloween is long gone, friends, and Thanksgiving is upon us.

A turkey is nesting in my refrigerator, taking up way too much room.

My Middle Son asked for his favorite "McDonald's dressing," and I'll make it, 

just because it makes the house smell wonderful. 

What about a Thanksgiving stuffing scented candle instead of vanilla frosting? 

Chicken pot pie in a tall pillar candle instead of peach cobbler? 

Anyone?

I hope conversation this Thanksgiving will be filled with love—the 

kind of love that jumps over high fences of social and political issues 

for a hearty kiss and hug on the welcome mat.

I hope to enjoy simple, catching-up questions like, 

"How is your work?" 

"What do you put in these green beans?" 

"Did your gardens close well?"

and "What are you reading?"

May our conversations be seasoned with remember-when laughter 

and not spoiled by the angry rehash of 2016 headlines.

It may prove too much to hope for, but ... I plan to do my part. 

Will you? 

You will be enriched in every way to be generous in every way, 

which through us will produce thanksgiving to God.

2 Corinthians 9:11

More Thanksgiving thoughts here.

Just Get Away

When our guys were boys, we were huge fans of 

a well-placed Get Away. 

Because, of course, there was so much to  get away from, like: 

* Non-sensical bickering about who touched what first, and 

the never-ending argument about who looked at whom. 

* Dirty socks which multiplied, somehow, under the couch, and their companions ... 

dirty dishes, dirty sheets, dirty looks, dirty pets, dirty feet—DIRT.

* Conversations which started like these—

"You used my toothbrush for WHAT?"

"Please do not lick the door handle."

"Don't touch your brothers butt."

"That's too high. It's too high! Stop!"

Things are not the same, these days.

I won't say that we don't need the well-timed Get Away like we 

used to, because we still definitely do. It's just that the intensity of 

mid-life  is pressure of a different kind. We no longer 

 run (screaming) from our home trailing 

gummy worms and wet wipes. 

Now we struggle to make room in our over-stuffed schedules

and hatch complicated plots regarding the comings and goings of 

the other people who live here.

The same ones who used to lick doorknobs.

But it's worth it to enjoy soothing fountains like this one, 

 long conversations while holding hands, 

and antique mall smooching.

* Richwood on the River, Milton, Kentucky

What's your favorite place for a Get-Away?

On the Fringe

I was reading this morning in my favorite gospel, Mark, and found an interesting contrast. 

At the beginning of chapter six, Jesus is in his hometown of Nazareth. The home folks were familiar with him and the business he kept before the start of his ministry years. They knew his parents and his brothers and sisters by name. Read the account here.

Chapter six tells us that he, Jesus, the Son of God, the Alpha and the Omega, the bright morning star, could not do miracles there. Could not! And check out verse six—He marveled at their unbelief. Other versions say "he was amazed" and "he wondered." Is this the saddest account of familiarity breeds contempt you've ever heard?

At the end of chapter six, Jesus comes ashore in Gennesaret. The people there recognized him also, but not in the same way. These people "ran about the whole region" to bring the sick to him. Laying them in the market, they hoped for healing as Jesus passed by. Indeed, the scriptures say that as many as touched the fringe of his garment were made well. 

I don't know if you love missionary stories like I do. The stories of what Christ is doing over the seas and in far-flung points on the globe fascinate me, and I know I'm not alone when I wonder—Why don't we see these miraculous events in America? I think the answer might be in Mark 6. Is it possible that the American church is so familiar with Lord of the Universe that we lean, in fact, toward contempt? Maybe ... maybe not. 

What I can say for sure is that in my personal spiritual life, I can identify. I've known Jesus as Savior since I was a child. Through every joy and pain of adolescence, education, marriage, childbearing, disease, transition—all of it. Does this familiarity rob me of the greater works he wants to do in my life ... but cannot? Does he marvel at my unbelief? 

Today I'm repenting of thinking like an overly-familiar and contemptuous Nazarene. I'm holding out my heart and asking for a Gennesaret kind of faith. I want to run to him in expectation, knowing that one finger on the fringe of his garment is powerful enough to change everything. And not just for myself, but for those I love, too.


* Don Juan climbing rose

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.  

Enter Listening

We visited an old church in an old town recently. Some helpful soul felt led to instruct the 

congregation in various ways via the magic of the computer printer. 

STACK CHAIRS HERE

KEEP DOOR CLOSED AT ALL TIMES

CHURCH KITCHEN CLOSES AT 8 PM

I think we can all conjure a pretty vivid image of the person who plastered the church 

building with instructional missives held fast by folded masking tape bundles.

But wait - look at this one:

This one caught me by the arm. 

This instruction, LISTEN, rung a bell in my spirit. 

Do you know what I mean when I say that? 

Have you ever had one of those YES! moments? When something someone says, 

or something you read, grabs you by the lapel and gives you a shake? 
And you know, you know for sure, a message has been sent especially for you? 

Or maybe that's just me. 

I don't know about you, friends, but LISTENING is not at the top of my list when 

I enter the church sanctuary. You can be pretty sure that I've made a reasonable effort

that my clothes match. It's a reliable fact that I'll have coffee and a bulletin in hand. 

And you can bet I'm thinking of who might already be waiting for me 

inside, what we'll say, and how we'll laugh.

Yes, it's for sure - I do not enter the sanctuary LISTENING. 

But I think there might be more for all of us than coffee, announcements, 

and churchy chuckles when we come together. There's probably more to be 
heard than our own vain voices, if we just took a moment to enter listening. 

I'm going to make this a priority for the next few Sundays and see what happens.
Whoever printed that page will have one more obedient parishioner than she 
(or he) hoped for. 

Or maybe more than one - would you like to join me? We could Enter Listening in our respective church sanctuaries wherever we attend, all over the globe. 
Who knows what might happen...

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...?