The One That Made It

Last spring we bought two young dogwoods trees, a white and a pink.  

I hatched a scheme to create a garden entryway to the back part of our little Kentucky acre.

All I needed was a well-aged, blue-painted door ...

... and a pair of dogwood saplings, which we easily found at Lowes.

But as it turned out, young dogwood trees are like pretzel thins for whitetails—irresistible. 

SO the entryway dogwoods got gnoshed to bits over the winter.

But the extra one we planted close to the house—as an afterthought—made it.

Maybe deer don't care to munch so close to an outdoor grill?

SIDE NOTE:

While I was out taking these photos last night, 

helicoptering over stiff blooms as my men grilled burgers nearby, 

an unexpected hymn bubbled up and hummed past my lips.

Great is Thy faithfulness ...

Summer and winter ...

Pardon for sin ...

All I have needed ...

Peace that endures.

I know I'm not the only one in this crowd with an anxious heart. 

Am I?

It's hard to rejoice when life keeps piling on. 

Like a child left at the nursery desk, I 

nervously bite my lip and wonder when situations 

are going to get better. Just how long will it be until my 

Elder Brother shows up and puts everything in order?

That's when those old hymns drift back, bringing truth and comfort along for the ride. 

Peony Bush Believers

The peonies are waving their scrawny, red shoots around in the clammy, spring air.

Our Second Son always associated these with his birthday. As soon as the shoots 

broke free from the winter earth, we'd say, "It's almost your birthday!"

Even though the blooms that would open on his 

birthday were still a couple months away. 

Isn't that what spring is all about, anyway? 

HOPE

Unashamed, unreasonable, crazy-talk kind of hope.

Who would ever believe these weak-looking stems would 

become a bush and bear glorious blooms?

No one reasonable, that's for sure. 

Starry-eyed dreamers, only. 

Just all of us. 

Each of us has seen the fulfillment of this insane hope 

year after year. So we don't wring our hands and wonder. There's no fretting 

about failure. Everyone knows what miracle is being wrought out there, 

and joyfully anticipates this -

If only this sort of certainty could be experienced in our faith lives, too.

After all, how much more reliable is the Father God than a peony bush?

Should we stand vigil over His word and wonder if it will really bear fruit 

as promised and wring worried hands? Why fret failure in the night hours

when His mercy and grace have been obvious year after year?

Where are the starry-eyed dreamers, the peony-bush believers,

 who anticipate the miracles to come and the beauty yet to be born? 

Let it be just all of us.

Verses here.

Library Day

In elementary school, my favorite day was Thursday,

because it was Library Day. 

I could hardly wait to enter the small library at the end of the upstairs 

hallway, past the water fountain, next to the double doors.

It didn't matter that the librarian, Mrs. R., had a nasty temper. 

Oh, I noticed her saggy scowl deepen as we filed into her domain, 

but I knew her anger wouldn't lash in my direction. 

Mrs. R. took no notice of the nerdy girl with too-large glasses 

engrossed in selecting her next Nancy Drew adventure. 

The lumpish mole between her eyebrows quivered and protruded 

as she pounded tables and flung periodicals at naughty boys—

Mrs. R. did dislike those grade-school boys. 

I identified.

So while she tossed plastic chairs and whoever sat in them, 

I opened books and trained Big Red with Danny or wandered the dump 

with the Boxcar Children, searching for barely-chipped china plates.

The hoofbeats of the Black Stallion, the King of the Wind, and their Island counterparts 

drowned out the rantings of that long-ago, rural-Kentucky librarian. 

And really, what could be more riveting than Miss Hickory's dark relationship 

with the squirrel?

Not much ...

I wonder if you remember your earliest librarian. 

Did she teach you to love reading or 

did you learn to love reading in spite of her?

Which books were your favorite childhood escapes?

I'd love to know.