CELEBRATE 2012

My new year has begun and I am awash in stored-up-for-pondering moments:  The parties and gatherings strung day-to-day as jewels about my heart, a precious necklace, a gathering of sweet-sweet gifts.  I reaped quiet joy from all the parties thrown, invites accepted, hospitality served, moments shared. 

All Good. 

All Merry. 

All Bright. 

A Serendipitous Treasure Trove.  

  

Caves filled with glowing gems 

Surprise the happy wanderer, 

Whereas stock returns 

Merely mop the sweated brow 

Of an anxious investor. 

Treasure delights the heart 

In ways that a planned heist never can. 

 [a page from my journal]

* * * * *

I guess my greatest lessons of 2011 involve the washing away of tallies from yesterday and To-Do lists destined to harness today, leaving the day’s blackboard open for spontaneous doodles, unexpected love notes, and serendipitous moments of pure joy.

I found a lasting souvenir of serendipity from 2011 on a day-trip into The City (San Francisco, of course) during post-Christmas week: 

A thoughtfully planned itinerary blew away in the winds of mayhem and mobs of merry-makers filling the streets, shops, and restaurants.  Missed turns and clotted intersections met us at the city gate (Golden, of course), and forced me surrender my “plan” for the day.  I shrugged and danced along, sometimes being dragged, pushed, or prodded.  I played along nicely and actually found it freeing and fun to just go from here to there without a schedule.  We would see what we would see and it would be enough, I kept encouraging myself. 

We encountered cable car madness as we attempted to board and ride down from Union Square to Ghirardelli Square for dinner.  Throngs of people, some disrespectful of lines (and sometimes manners) thwarted our efforts for over an hour.  I began to grumble.  I grumbled again when we finally secured outside bars here and there around the car, separating our party into single entities hanging outside the car.  Hrmph!  Not the plan! 

When the car lurched forward the grumbling stopped as a giggle of sweet anticipation rose in my throat.  I looked across the car to my brother-in-law and saw his formerly furrowed brow relax as his grip tightened.  My sister, up ahead two bars, turned and flashed a wide grin.  I couldn’t see Gary for the obstructing brake man, but I trusted he held fast up near the front of the car.  Lurch!  The adventure began.

My grumble turned to humble as I noticed the sunset hues spreading ‘cross the skies.  Pink and lavender and gold flowed in and through the bluest of blue.  Quilted clouds perforated by the golden good-bye brought tears to my eyes.  The seeping fog blanketed the Bay, enveloping Alcatraz in quiet beauty for the right-sided riders to revel in, while we on the left had a stunning farewell symphony from a glorious day in The City.  The mist-chilled air rushed past, planting kisses upon all cheeks turned to the wind. 

The car climbed up, up, up, whizzed down, down, down, careened around corners, and slipped deftly past twin cars passing close.  “Lean in!” yelled the brakeman as I yearned to lean out and catch a passing hand.  “Hold on!”  He bellowed amidst the screeching of metal as we turned sharply and climbed higher.  Riding an hour earlier would have pre-empted the sunset; riding inside the wooden car would have cut the misty embrace – the waiting brought the beauty that my planned and expected results nearly stole.  “Serendipity,” sang the cables under the street.  “Enjoy,” squealed metal rails leading us on.  “Whee!” laughed my heart as I hung on and let go.

* * * *

“Good bye 2011!  You’ve been fantastic!” I sing full-throated.  You’ve taught me so much . . . you’ve given me so much and asked for nothing in return.  You simply came to me in unexpectedness and left me serendipitous.  Most of all you brought me to a crossroads and offered me freedom.  Personal keys fitted into personal locks that flung wide the iron bars from a heart now free to love and live and laugh most wholeheartedly. 

In 2011 I threaded my timid fingers through the bold hand of the Lord and set out across a scarred landscape without a map.  Finding my way through forests of forgiveness, over mountains of challenge, through valleys of despair did not discourage me because each step of the way I found beauty, unexpected beauty everywhere.  The burdensome molds of expectation coupled with the painful scalpels of perfection proved too heavy to heft up and down and all around this madcap journey without a map . . . so I dumped them and embraced the moment fueled by spontaneity.  If my foot got stepped upon I winced, forgave, and moved on without hesitation toward the music, eager to dance despite the smarting reminder that I had just been trod upon.  Serendipity met me and provided refreshment.  2011 felt good. 

Slipped on easily like comfy favorite slippers and a soft flowey skirt, 2011 was simply made for dancing.  And I danced regardless of the music.

My resolve at the dawn of 2011 to live in Serendipity flushed the pipes and set me on a wild and delightful adventure.  Gone the days of tense list making, meticulous evaluations, and intentional harnessing of details ensuring expected results; replaced with:

FREEDOM

As I let others be free, 

running true to themselves despite expectations,

So I let myself run free . . .

AND I LOVED IT!

Most notably I drink in the freedom of living side-by-side in love without the demand to do, be, give, make, supply.  Loving someone does not command one to meet their every need.  I can love freely.  Just love.  Love doesn’t come with a price tag or a To Do list or even an apron string . . . it simply comes. 

Love shouts “Boo!” from around the corner ahead.

Love rings the doorbell unannounced.

Love plants a kiss on a cold cheek and flushes it warm.

Love dances with Serendipity, making a fabulous couple.

Love is.

* * * * *

Still dancing to the joyful chorus of Serendipity echoing from 2011, 

I resolve to carry forth the loving and 

CELEBRATE 

in 2012. 

Having tossed out intentions and expectations in 2011, I favor the random spilling and splashing of goodness and joy and sweet, sweet love as it overflows the banks of one life and floods its neighbor nourishing them today.  Jesus promises tomorrow will take care of itself (Matthew 6:34) and God will take care of me (Matthew 6:30), so I am free to love . . . simply love . . . obedient love.

This is my commandment,

That you love one another;

Even as I have loved you.

John 15:12

Here it is seen that he loved us and did everything for our benefit,

in order that we may do the same not to him,

for he needs it not,

but to our neighbor. 

This is his commandment,

and this is our obedience.

 Christ helps us, so we in return help our neighbors,

and all have enough.

~~ Martin Luther ~~

* * * * *

“. . . who is my neighbor?”

Luke 10:29

* * *

And Jesus answering said, 

A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead.  And by chance there came down a certain priest that way: and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow when he departed, he took out two pence, and gave them to the host, and said unto him, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee. 

 Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves?

And he said, 
He that shewed mercy on him. 

Then said Jesus unto him,

Go, and do thou likewise.

Luke 10:30-37

* * * * *

December 12, 2011

Note to Self:

Forget about the myth you have created wherein your whole family gathers together to celebrate Christmas.  Remember, Mary and Joseph left family and journeyed far before they experienced Christmas.

In a makeshift “home”

Surrounded by those who followed the star

(Their only connection)

They celebrated Christmas.

Animals, shepherds, wise men, precious gifts,

All melded into an expression of answering a call.

No one expected.

No one forced.

It just happened.

[A page from my journal]

* * * * *

Though I haven’t packed a single map or directive to carry forth, 

I am more than equipped for the journey into 2012 

Because my heart brims with 2011’s gift of Serendipity.

So, I’m off!

Here I come!

Are you ready to 

CELEBRATE 2012

with me?

:  D

A Note-able Love

When I got married, a lovely friend of my mother-in-law-to-be hosted a very special bridal shower for me.  In and amongst the piles of kitchenware, linens, and splendid refreshments, she devoted a few moments to remind me of the love that had brought me to this place . . . this time . . . this anticipatory portal in life.  She pulled out several anniversary cards her beloved husband had given to her over the years.  Despite the passing of years he never failed to fan the flame of pure, sweet love that captured the heart of his girl.

As the hostess read the melodious Hallmark poems set into brushstrokes of serene settings, my mother-in-law-to-be leaned over and chuckled to me, “You won’t be saving anniversary cards from Gary.  He’s not like that – not sentimental at all.  He’s just like his father.”  This little divulgence caught me off guard, because up to this point in our relationship Gary had showered me with cards, letters, and little love notes that she obviously knew nothing about.  (Why should she?)

She settled back onto her sofa spot, smiling with joy that soon I would marry a man as wonderful as she had (her son, of course) and would live much as she had . . . with plenty of love but no written record to pull out for show.

I never forgot her well-meant warning; but I filed it away, hoping for something different than she had experienced.  Knowing full well (or at least supposing) that once the vows had been sealed with a kiss the “courting” dance mellows to something more mundane, I nonetheless remained romantically expectant as I entered marriage. 

Having danced more than 26 years with my same beloved, I can giggle and sigh sweetly, knowing that my mother-in-law meant well, but has been proven wrong about the tangible record of love notes.  I have a “collection” of letters, cards, and hastily scrawled notes that I can hold, read, and remember if I so choose.  More importantly, my children can open this treasure trove and know their parents as they blossomed from “shy kids” to devoted souls.  The tapestry of our life includes pen and ink threads most revealing of a love designed and woven with our hearts and hands – in good times and in bad, though sickness and health, day in, day out. 

However, some of the BIG showy Hallmark cards of our first year dating will not be among the be-ribboned packets hidden away among the dedication booties and lace wedding slippers.  About a year into our “relationship” (I couldn’t think of a word to fittingly name those early days before you know you have found love) we parted angrily and painfully – it just wasn’t working out like we had expected, so we parted to find the “IT” we lacked.  Whereas I cried buckets and stored away all the mementos in a designated cardboard box hidden in my closet, he grabbed up all the cards and “stuff” and dumped it in the trash.  Done!  HRMPH! 

Fast forward a summer’s worth of graduation and travel and new horizons, to where you reach the late-summer reunion between two hearts that couldn’t heal apart.  Though she packed her car to travel hundreds of miles away to chase an educational dream, he pledged love – and promised to wait.  Miles apart they journeyed together toward “something” that they hadn’t found yet, but just knew had to be there waiting to be uncovered along the way.  And it was to be found: True love.

The road from there to here hasn’t been smooth or easy or even “romantic” every day, but it has been constant and real and true.  I have a heart and a memory and boxes filled with all sorts of reminders.  Just this last Tuesday as Gary rose before dawn to catch an early flight to LA for his “day away,” he jotted a note and laid it on the bed beside me, as he often does. Knowing my penchant for work rather than play, he sweetly penned:

 

At his prompting, I cast aside thoughts of dishes and laundry, choosing to spend my day working playing in the garden.  I had no fear that a sitcom-husband would arrive home at day’s end asking, “What have you done all day?  Where’s my dinner?!”  I knew my husband would return home weary from a looooong day’s work, but enter smiling as he walked past the newly pruned roses and tilled beds.   

“She had fun,” he would smile, sporting a mirror image of the smile she wore earlier as she dug away saying to herself, “He loves me.”

Some day, when I am long gone past the Pearly Gates I hope a great-great-great-grandchild will happen upon these tidbits and tassels that I have secreted away and learn more than a mere photo or a marriage certificate can tell of these two entwined lives. 

I hope they will sift through the dried flowers and broken necklaces, and bundles of letters to find the real treaure:

They lived.   

They loved.   

They 

laughed, 

cried, 

fought, 

made up, 

danced, 

dined,

slept,

woke,

smiled,

kissed,

and on and on the list goes.  

They did it all . . .

. . . over and over and over again . . .

. . . day after day . . . .   

And it was good.

* * *

Male and female created he them. 

And God blessed them . . . 

and, behold,

it was very good.

Genesis 1:27,28,31

* * *

"Home"-style

“Homestyle Potatoes” read the menu.

“What’s ‘homestyle’ mean?” Rachel asks as we sit at a posh little bistro table under a chilly SoCal sky on our first morning in Disneyland.

“Fried.  Probably deep-fried.” I reply.

A perplexed look crosses her face.  “Fried?  Deep?  What’s that?”

“The potatoes are fried in a vat of oil, like french fries.”  I answer. 

“Since when does anyone get that at home?” she mutters.  “Sounds like a donut, which we also never get at home.”

I must pause and confess that I have raised my children without donuts or french fries.  Period.  When once a friend offered Elizabeth (then 5) a donut she politely declined and then stated flatly, “Donuts make your heart explode.”   ‘Tis true.  I am so heartless as to barricade my home from such things for reasons of health and maybe something more.

As a child I grew up on cold cereal, donuts, burgers, fries, and all the rest.  “Home” style in my home meant Betty Crocker or Mamma Celeste or (on really flush days) Stoeffer’s.  My mom worked.  My grandmother worked.  And they didn’t cook.  I didn’t know anybody that cooked, save a temporary boyfriend of mom’s who threw a steak on a BBQ to impress us.  A sleepover at “Nonie’s” (my grandma was too modern to go by "grandma") included a dinner of Swanson’s frozen macaroni and cheese – and I loved it!  A sleepover at a best friend’s house included frozen or takeout pizza.  I never SAW anyone cook except for my great grandmas (each affectionately referred to as “Mammy”) in South Dakota.  They grew gardens and baked bread and all the rest.  BUT, they were pioneer women and poor.  They lived in old houses, wore old-fashioned clothes (with aprons), and had old-fashioned lives.  They didn’t have all the “choices” my mother and grandmother did, or so my mom and grandma said.  My mammys lived as they always had – as they HAD to, not as they CHOSE to.  I accepted this as fact and went back to munching on my strawberry frosted/sprinkled pop tart.

As I grew up I developed all kinds of stomach troubles.  The doctor’s attributed it to family upheaval, new schools, stress, upset.  “It’ll pass,” they assured, “Just make her drink this before each meal.”  (Yes, it was ghastly and I chose to avoid eating and became skinnier and skinnier with stomach pains.)   By the mid-teens I had an ulcer and my mother had a nervous breakdown.  The chalky stuff didn’t seem to help one bit.

Later I took a trip to visit my “Mammy” back in South Dakota.  I stayed a mere week or so, but it felt like Heaven.  I sat in her kitchen nibbling ginger cookies and sipping tea (both to be avoided per doctor’s instructions).  All the while Mammy bustled around in her home-style kitchen, which I noticed lacked “style” and “flair.”   It looked nothing like the kitchens gracing the latest magazines on our coffee table at home.  Nor did it resemble our all-electric-with-microwave-and-dishwasher kitchen in our latest apartment.  I never even saw anything like it on TV, except maybe Ma’s Little House kitchen – which was not really a kitchen at all, was it?

“Why haven’t you updated your kitchen, Mammy?  It’s really old?”  I queried.

[Laughing, her wheezy, eye-squinting laugh]  “I have an updated kitchen.  See this faucet?  And over there is the bathroom.  Child, when we moved in here I had no indoor plumbing.  I’m just fine with how this is.  It suits me well”  

She went back to the sudsy water in a tub placed in the sink and I continued mentally redecorating the hodge-podge kitchen.

That week I spent with Mammy found me at table five times a day (Breakfast-Dinner-Teatime-Supper-Midnight Snack . . . at midnight!).  I ate all manner of soups, stews, breads, cheeses, cakes, etc. made right there in that old-fashioned kitchen, and I never drank a bit of that icky white stuff.  Surprise!  My stomach eagerly accepted every morsel without a single prick of pain.  I even gained a bit of weight which made my Mammy smile with that crinkly-eyed grin.  In her home-style kitchen Mammy churned out wondrous smells and fabulous tastes like rhubarb dumplings -- which I balked at trying (rhubarb?  Ewwwww!) -- but which sent me over the moon when I relented and tasted.  Too bad she never wrote down the recipe, for my youthful memory failed to log it all in despite the fact that I watched her every move as she stirred and tasted and added and stirred some more.  Home-style cooking in that Home-style kitchen suited me well.

Time passed.  I left.  The pains returned.  The doctor’s called it stress.  I drank the white goo.  I lost weight.

More time passed.  I went to Norway for a summer and lived a life without pain as we dined on fresh foods around a family table.  I gained 25 pounds along with a new perspective.  The pains were not to return . . . I was determined.

I returned to the US with a new diet plan and despite snickers and chiding from peers and parents, I avoided the typical diet.  Donuts and fries lost out to weedy salads (really hard to find more than iceberg back then) and stinky cheeses for a while, but I couldn’t afford to eat well on a school-girl’s salary.  So I succumbed and . . . well, you can predict . . . the weight left and the pains returned.  My current style of eating was killing me.  I knew had to change.

Looking back, going “natural” couldn’t have been more UNnatural.  I read.  I studied.  I experimented.  I failed miserably.  (Just ask Gary about the potatoes-and-kale flop, or better yet, the brussels-sprout-potato potage -- from a monastery cookbook -- that looked like dishwater and tasted worse.)  I sought out the tiniest markets that offered the most natural ingredients.  I had to find my way back to home-style cooking, and the road led away from the golden arches and the SUPER markets down an overgrown and seemingly forgotten path.

When my boys were born in a dire state I found even greater impetus to go all natural.  I forged ahead and foraged for deeper knowledge of food and health.  I found it.  I made it my own.  And so my children have grown up with an old-fashioned “home”-style because of my choice.

The last time I saw my Mammy I sat in her kitchen and nibbled ginger cookies over a cup of tea (Lipton’s, always Lipton’s flo-thru tea bags) as she bustled around in her home-style kitchen.  I smiled and remarked that I loved this kitchen so much, I wouldn’t change a thing!  She winked and smiled with the crinkle.  Home-style had been here with her all the time by her choosing.  (My mom was wrong.)

Home-style means different things to different people and the food industry has exploited it to include french fries and donuts that no home could (or would) produce.  But as I watch my daughters leaf through my cookbooks and hastily-scrawled recipes, or watch over my shoulder as I season my chili with Worcestershire sauce (my secret ingredient from a small producer who uses no high fructose corn syrup), or triumphantly grace the table with a new creation all their own, I rejoice in our Home-style.  Surely my mammy looks down from Heaven with a knowing smile that crinkles with joy as she sees us choosing a home-style just as she did. 

The Eyes Have It

Gary sidled the car up to the curb and I hopped out with an armful of books to return to the library. Sadly I saw the “closed” sign on the door – signs of the times in a budget crisis. No browsing today, I sighed.

As I began to take the steps I noticed a woman seated on a lower step, puffing her last few puffs of a cigarette, a bulging bag of books at her side. Her red wool coat and knitted cap commented loudly on the brisk day forecasting snow in some parts – strange times; strange seasons.

As I journeyed up to the library door the red-coated woman called out to me, “Do you work here?”

“No,” I replied cheerfully, “Just returning some books.”

She turned back to take another puff, ending our discourse abruptly.

I skipped up the stairs, opened the low-tech flap in the door and added my books to the burgeoning pile, taking great care to toss the dvd safely to the side despite the sign asking that I refrain from putting dvds through the slot. My conscience pricked me a bit, but the poor hours offered these days make dvd returns a hit-and-miss thing – so I risked it. I let the flap fall and turned to hop down the steep “historical” steps back to the comfort of my vehicle and on to my program of daily doings.

“Hey,” the stoop-sitting woman called out.

I stopped.

She stood up.

She reached out, laying her hand gently on my shoulder. She looked full in my eyes.

“You look pretty today,” she said softly.

I looked back into her deep dark eyes. I can’t even recall the color but I do recall the spirit. I saw the need . . . the cry . . . the loneliness of a “special one” needing to connect in a world that confuses them.

“Thank you,” I smiled, “You look lovely today, as well. I just love your red coat . . .” but my words caught in the breeze and flew away as the wall went up in her eyes. She turned and shut me out. She was gone though she stood right before me. I ached to reach out and embrace her but I knew I was not welcome.

Having an autistic son – living and loving and nurturing one so precious, and so different – has taught me much about leaving off judgments and trading “norms” for precious gifts in the moment; about casting off my expectations in favor of unscripted epiphanies of truth and love: The kind of love that Jesus bids us share liberally with our neighbor; the kind of love that special people give so unexpectedly, so freely, so easily . . . though in brief windows. The kind of love our world desperately needs.

I’ve learned the UNexpected gifts catch you by surprise and must be grasped and held dearly in the heart, for they may never ever come your way again. Like Jesus’ mother, Mary, I have become a font of stored up memories to be pondered over and over. Another sweet gift just splashed down in a surprise moment. My heart reached out and clutched it quickly. It shall not escape unnoticed in a busy world. It matters. She matters.

Why this woman broke through her safety zone and touched me, I shall never know; but I do know the value of such a gift! It doesn’t matter that she shut the door as soon as I tried to return the sweet gift. It doesn’t matter that she will have no recall of my face or our little exchange the next time I pass her on the street. It doesn’t matter that I cannot inform her that she awaits an open door at the library that will not come this day. What matters is that we touched and our eyes locked and we shared a moment of life this day.

I shall never forget what she will not remember: We trod the same path for just a brief moment and I glimpsed her heart – the place she REALLY lives. Did she glimpse the REAL me? I hope so . . . the tear on my cheek testified that my heart stored yet another special incident of love to ponder the rest of my days.

“What’s going on?” Gary asked as he shifted and moved away from the curb. “Do you know her?”

“I do now,” I replied.

*     *     *

My Sweet Son, Matthew

Fall Has Fallen Upon Us

Of late I have taken little time to notice the dancers in bejeweled leaves stepping up to join the flounced roses who flit merrily in the gardens on the autumn breezes we welcome so eagerly.

Surely the change did not take place overnight . . . but then, the nights have been long around here . . .

Another wave of sadness has washed over our family, as our dear friend Susan (sister to my sweet, sweet friend Lily) has gone to be with the Lord.

(left to right: Susan, Lily, Lydia)

A brain hemorrhage has quickly taken another of our loved ones home to be with the Lord.

Though we have only known Susan for the past year, it has been a sweet, sweet friendship. Susan suffered from Alzheimer’s. When her husband passed away last November she came from Honolulu, HI to live with her younger sister Lily and her husband Chef Karl. Throughout the year we have celebrated at table with them. Each time we gathered, Susan “met” us for the first time and had a delightful time getting to know us.

This past Labor day (as I shared earlier), we congregated around the BBQ once again. Much to our delight Susan remarked that she remembered being here before. She also remembered Rachel. What a delight! What a gift to see that we had opened a tiny crack in her memory and slipped in to stay. We celebrated with an extra measure of joy that day, which proved to be our last gathering together.

Susan’s sudden departure has left all of us numb. We lost someone special who bestowed a special gift upon us. My children have had the honor of growing up around all different sorts of people with all different levels and abilities. The special needs of my boys have naturally made us a fertile meeting place for many who endure hardships and obstacles in this world given over to averages, statistics, and “typical.” As the experts count and quantify “normal,” we gently recede to the edges and lay out a picnic in the meadow, choosing to dine with delight on what we have been chosen to receive. Many other travelers join us for refreshment along life’s winding way. The World generally classifies us as “burdened,” but those who stop and join us for a spell see gifts rather than yokes, laughter rather tears. That little “extra” something we deal with sparkles into extra-ordinary – lifting us above the fray when we choose to rejoice rather than sulk.

Tears surely fall today . . . emotions run high in a typical week around Wisteria Cottage, and this past week or so has been A-typical, to be certain. Tears of joy slip down as we see Grandma/Gloria grow stronger each day without a single sign of handicap emerging in the aftermath of the meningitis. Later, a tear of sorrow wends its way down my cheek as I think of Susan and her sweet invites to come see her in Honolulu – she never realized she had left Honolulu to live in Grass Valley. Gary smiled and noted that she lived on vacation every day – what a great way to live!

I think I shall tuck that little bit of memory in my heart and strive to live every day on vacation. Worry wart that I am, I need a dose of Honolulu now and again – Susan always obliged with a grin topped by dancing eyes as she told me about her beautiful Hawaiian home. I shall savor recollections of her smiling face, compliments on my garden (she said it reminded her of her growing up years in Taiwan when they lived in a lush landscape), and sweet moments with my family. Though her short-term memory leaked like a sieve, her long-term memory shared stories of growing up in China with delightful tales of her parents’ match-made romance, attendance at catholic schools and its awful food, moving to America, and so much more told with laughter and joy. She lived a wonderfully exciting life and God let her keep those happy memories from long ago. We made new memories with Susan that she couldn’t hold onto . . .

but we could, and we cherish them.

Lily, thank you for sharing your sister with us this past year.
She blessed us with such sweet gifts.

Remembering . . .

The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance.
He shall not be afraid of evil tidings:

His heart is fixed,

Trusting in the LORD.

Psalm 112:6b,7

Swimming in Chocolate

For where two or three are gathered together in my name,
There am I in the midst of them.
Matthew 18:20

So softly wakes the morning. Some off to church . . . some stay behind . . . all hearts turn toward Him as we rest at the end of a long and lovely week. It has been so good . . .

The Lord promises to grace His presence upon our gatherings. Surely no week has personified that more than this week we have lately closed. With a sigh of sadness at saying goodbye (for now) and a sigh of relief that the waves of busy-ness will calm as the social tide ebbs – well, truly I feel the need to rest and reflect and reminisce in this life that the Lord has blessed me with.

Today I am far too tired to ramble on with stories of this and that and all the rest exchanged over teapots or beach balls or late night snacks, but I can assure you that the entire week spent with my dear, sweet sister Natalie from Ukraine reinforced my heart as it reaches out to embrace any and all friends that the Lord brings across my path.

Over four years ago I answered a call to bring goods and hugs to orphans in Ukraine. Nursing a broken heart at the recent loss of my own sweet son Andrew, I traveled to distant parts of a country filled with lonely, “special,” needy, and precious little ones and old ones and every “one” in-between. My journal from that trip cries out with queries and qualms about my role in this big place called earth.

Adopt a special infant and repeat what I had only recently laid to rest?

Teach and share with those hungry to know of my walk with Jesus?

Return home and merely finance another’s task?

Too many questions tumbled in my heart as I traversed the string of boarding schools and orphanages and group homes for those forgotten by most save a governmental supplement.

I saw love in the rawest form as whole warehouses of special boys and girls received the best care possible financed with the smallest budget imaginable. My life changed – my heart broke again . . . and yet the Lord offered me solace in the midst of so much sorrow.

A brief meeting in a crowded vestibule would prove the only opportunity for me to “meet” Natalya. A hastily worded introduction and a warm exchange of greetings planted a seed. Later an email invitation to join in prayer and support for this missionary to campus students sparked my thinking that this avenue into the hearts of the Ukrainians by a fellow Ukrainian filled in some of the blanks I carried home from my trip. I joined and began receiving regular updates.

Not content to merely read of events and gatherings, I began writing to Natalya personally. We began sharing more than just “work” progress – a friendship sprouted from that seed of a greeting many months before. She became so much more than “Natalya: Campus Crusade worker” and blossomed into the familiar “Natalie: friend and sister.”

In time I returned to Ukraine for another opportunity to share and give and love. This time we journeyed to Lviv, Natalie’s hometown.

To exit the plane, walk into the terminal (an old and quaint building predating Soviet history), and be met by a “friend’s” embrace set the “mission” on a very different plane. Though the trip involved the same format of traveling to meet the outlying in need, the off hours contained walks in the park arm-in-arm with Natalie as is the custom among girlfriends in Ukraine. Tea dates in cafes offered moments to laugh and share over fragrant tea and tasty cakes. Conversations covering politics, religion, history, literature, and family life peppered our times together. Sometimes others joined us, often times we met alone, but always, always we had so much to say and ask and wonder about.

The zenith of my visit came when she invited me home. I saw her life in a new light. A visit, a meal, a memory indelibly cast – the miracle of two hearts living so far apart geographically yet knitting so close spiritually. The miracle of friendship never ceases to amaze me!

I left Ukraine once again, and once again the experience had changed me forever.

Months later I received a delightful email containing news of Natalie’s pending trip to the US. I immediately invited her to extend her trip to include a West Coast leg. She accepted. We shared but a few days together as a family. My children, husband, and friends welcomed Natalie with all the regular festivities accorded a guest, but more than that we proffered the tiny moments shared within a family. Lingering over tea on the deck, staying up late in the night, sharing hopes and dreams – it all took place on that first trip. We bid farewell far too quickly. All too soon life carried on carrying us to new places in life.

Recently, while bemoaning the cancellation of an eagerly anticipated visit by someone dear to me, I received an email asking if I had room for a visitor. Natalie had booked another trip to the USA and this time a California visit figured prominently on the itinerary. Many hurdles had to be surmounted, many people had to work together to make it all possible, but like the gift of all visits with friends-who-become-sisters, Natalie and I enjoyed yet another wonderful holiday together.

We hosted gatherings of many and few, we ate indoors and out, we talked late into the night and slept late in the day to make up for it. We shared deep and deeper. So many questions flowed from a young woman raised in a very different world than I, yet seeking the same treasure found in serving the Father, marrying, bearing children, making a home, celebrating life. My struggles and losses stacked up next to triumphs and blessings, serving to clarify my pathway and the journey to joy I travel. Natalie’s Soviet scars and difficult days gone by prove no less motivating as she reaches out to grasp freedom and fulfillment in life. We have walked in different worlds, yet our hearts cry out for the same love and life.

And so for a few precious days we floated without notice of clocks or calendars as we opened our hearts and lived together in harmony as a family.

The Ukrainians have a phrase to describe the luxurious life:

Swimming in Chocolate.

Truly, this past week we swam in the sweetest and best of life’s pleasures.

All too soon with bags packed and good-byes exchanged we ended this particular chapter in the book of our life as friends and sisters. Fortunately this book has many, many more blank pages for God to write upon. I have already received a preview of a future chapter entitled:

Nuptials for Natalie:
A Ukrainian Adventure for the Unruh Family.

I can hardly wait for that installment!!!!

Summertime, Teatime, Storytime

The heat has arrived and spread its wide mantle of HOT on every outdoor surface. Yesterday we swam and snacked in the afternoon, finding ourselves sapped of all energy throughout the rest of the day and evening, sleeping long and deep through to the next morn as the exertion took its toll. Today we rest indoors whilst the heat passes over, entertaining notions of a twilight supper and nighttime swim. Each season offers a delicious delight we eagerly anticipate throughout the year. The first snowfall causes celebration equal to the first late night swim and marshmallow roast. The time for daily swimming has arrived a bit late this year, but we welcome it warmly, nonetheless.

Our early summertime delight of spending afternoons out in the gardens has given way to siestas and reading nooks kept cool by the aid of shade and machinery most welcome. Late night playtimes curtail early morning tasks to only those most necessary (like watering the gardens and tending the animals) as we have traded “early to rise” for “late we must play.” Each summer we make this trade and live richer for the bargain.

Not surprisingly, our schoolwork hours continue without hiccup, and actually yield a greater pace than that of the early summer days when we ran afield without thought to regular bookishness. Music practice and mathematical tasks find ample space in a warm afternoon laced with greater access to lazy hours spent in cool pursuit with book in hand or journal for record of just this very life we live. Likewise, our storytelling from the family tree keeps pace with fairytales in books fed upon freely in this season of free time found in a hot summer’s afternoon pocket.

Each morning, regardless of the season, we gather round the teapot after chores have been tended and tummies growl for attention. Not given over to the tradition of big country breakfasts, each girl (or guy) finds a plateful or bowlful to suit their tastes. One may choose oatmeal topped with warm just-picked berries, while another crafts a half-moon omelet filled with cheese and sprouts nestled on a plateful of fresh and crunchy garden treats (that one would be me). The toaster pops, the teakettle bubbles, and the fridge swings to and fro in this mid-morning dance toward storytelling time.

The relaxed cadence of our life shines brightly around the tea table. Favorite cups find matching saucers, heaped plates or dainty nibbles serve to satisfy, and the madcap array of overstuffed furnishings beckon for one to sit and sip and share from the heart. Some days we share tears and teary paths that we have been called to; other times the hilarity of a morning’s foible at chores entertains one and all – easily found around this cottage filled with chickens, cats, kids, and the occasional skunk (whom we fear likes us enough to endure the rodent repeller recently introduced into his nesting spot). The reading of Scripture, the telling of a devotional thought, and the muffling of laughter or tears in a hug most sincere grace our daily gathering for tea. Quite often the conversation sparks a memory and the family tree blossoms with something to tell.

I come from a long line of storytellers. Having had the joy of knowing many of my great-grandparents, coupled with the gift of a writer’s ear and storage bank discovered very early on (yes, I truly do remember residing in a crib and being coaxed to use a potty, among other early memories most do not recall), I sat enraptured as elders shared the family treasure with me, generally the youngest in attendance. Without knowing it, I became one of the guardians of the family story rife with adventure, determination, disaster, and triumph all rolled into the memories of those who knew or did or remembered those who knew or did or remembered.

My Great-Grandma Ruth (affectionately known a “Mammy” to me) held a vault of memories that she shared freely as she poured out the tea. We took tea with breakfast, paused for tea midday, and always, ALWAYS had a cuppa tea and a little something before turning in for the night . . . at midnight. (I come by my night-owl roots honestly, you see.) A nibble of cheddar, a spiced cookie, and Lipton’s tea out of a china teacup and saucer always got the conversation flowing. I nibbled or sipped ever so quietly, eagerly anticipating the beginning of the stories . . .

Stories of Uncle Yancy, who lost his nose while battling a bear, always sent shivers down my spine; and yet the giggles would erupt as Mammy would go on to tell how that poor man wrestled more with that false nose than he ever did with that shaggy bear. The doctor fashioned a false nose with a sort of modified eye-glass frame that spread ‘cross his cheeks. She then rifled in the top drawer of the bureau in the game room pulling out a sepia-toned photo clearly showing that phony nose and the brave pioneer grimacing at the camera.

“Why,” she laughed till she gasped for air, “He looked a sight in that thing! He struggled with it, tugging and adjusting for vanity’s sake, generally tossing it aside despite the odd looks. He was something . . .” she would say as her voice trailed off with a choke of emotion and pride.

I would flop back in my chair positively spellbound at the tale of this man’s bravery on multiple fronts. I chafed at wearing glasses and found the taunting miserable – how much worse to be sporting that nose? *Sigh* I would smile with an inner strength that comes from knowing your family has seen worse and survived to triumph.

Later, when I rushed to share this fantastic tale at school I reaped more jeers than cheers from the skeptical ones and found that the lack of the picture proof left me with little other than the knowledge that I knew it to be true. And so I stored up the tales but shared them with few; unlike Uncle Yancy I chose to avoid the public scrutiny.

Throughout the years I continued to sit at the feet of the storytellers in my family on both sides and absorb the beauty of our unique history. I heard the tales over and over again, never tiring of the details. Other family members would interrupt and add a new tidbit, and on occasion the bold few would contradict a memory, but generally I found the tales to pass from generation to generation without much change.

Sadly, the family has splintered and the tale tellers have passed away. I once overheard a great uncle snort in disdain at the “silly nonsense” about life on the prairie. He had moved away from the old-fashioned to the modern and had no time to look back. Even though I had enjoyed far fewer years of the tale telling, I knew them to be something special, if only to me. And so I carried as many as I could. Some became material for fictional stories that would go on to win acclaim for originality or ingenuity, while others earned tears of laughter or sorrow, but always I kept the veracity of the tales hidden. I spun the stories as fiction and enjoyed popularity without need to defend.

One day I tired of the world of fiction and began to reweave the true names and places in my family’s journey. Across oceans I met those who had been left behind in the “Old Country.” Through old letters and weighty tomes of historical compilations I learned the names of places that I had/would visit. Every time I visited my Grandpa Rudy (Mammy’s son) he would heed the pleading and pile us all in the Travel-all for a trip off the beaten path to places like Possum Trot and Moskee and all sorts of other magical little spots with little left standing save a rotting blacksmith’s shed, wherein I dug around and found lingering souvenirs of my Great-Grandpa Hans’ workmanship to treasure. Though my Grandpa Rudy laughed aloud with ribbing, wondering why I needed to grab garbage for souvenirs, I knew underneath that rough exterior his heart swelled with pride that I cared to remember that his father swung a hammer in a forge and kept an industry’s horsepower in shoes during the heyday of the Homestake mine in The Black Hills of South Dakota, that my other Great-Grandpa earned his nicknames “Bozy” for being the best bulldozer driver in The Hills, and that “Choppy” got his title from chopping trees with famous strength. Threads of this memory and that one fell freely in conversation as my Grandfather chauffeured this scrawny kid through the forests of his childhood.

These days all those storytellers have “Passed Over” as the family saying goes. I cannot clarify this detail or that, I can merely pass along what I know from years of absorbing teatime chatter or ramblings on a pathway through the old family lands lost long ago for lack of a successful homestead venture. As a storyteller, I lovingly remember the effort of those attempting to make a go of the pioneer dreams through nourishing the adventurous spirit that still courses through the veins of this limb of that family tree. Those self-same lands lay barren and empty to this day, but an arrowhead found or a rattler spotted fuels the pride I feel standing and staring at an expanse that once housed a soddy fashioned by the very hands of my Great-Grandfather. Herein he grasped the American dream with both Norwegian-born hands, managing to find time to woo and marry my “Mammy” and ensure that she would have stories to pass down to children taking tea with her . . . and grandchildren . . . and great grand children . . . and even have the opportunity to know she had great-great grandchildren (my boys) who arrived 5-1/2 months before she passed over into the presence of our Lord. She left the storytelling to those who saw fit to gather the stories she shared . . . she left a great legacy to me.

I think of my Mammy often as I sit down to tea with my children all around. I share the stories long held in the safety of my heart and it feels good. Though I once dreamed of being an author of wide acclaim, I have found that the telling of my stories to the next generation – my sweet children – will ensure that my family will not be forgotten, nor will we forget the precious gift of a few moments spent together over a relaxing beverage sipped within this bond we call family. Though my childhood erupted, sending fragments of family far and away, I have safeguarded those baskets of debris gathered in the aftermath of the storm, ensuring that my children would not be cheated of a family tree full of characters of all sorts and sizes. The legacy rests safely here at Wisteria Cottage.

Recently the girls and I sat chatting over tea about this memory and that, whiling away the time in joyful recollection. The morning faded and afternoon took its place.

I glanced at the clock and noted the time, remarking,
“I think we need to get going and doing, don’t you?”

To which Lydia sagely replied,
“We are doing something – we’re talking and that’s important.”

I think I have found the next storyteller.

Then and Now

A short time ago I posted about my first trip to Norway as a foreign exchange student. Gary found these delightful pics in his archives of Mimmi and me. I thought you might enjoy seeing how "little" has changed between two "sisters" over the years.

Mimmi & Me in Summer 1979

Mimmi & Me Summer 2006

Gentle Harvest

How quickly a year has passed . . .

Last June 23rd I sat next to Elizabeth as she guided me into the world of cyber journaling. When she hit “Publish” my heart went into PANIC!

“Wait! Not yet!” I blurted.

“Too late,” she grinned, knowing all too well that her mother would dither forever about opening wide the doorway to her home and gardens and family and heart-thoughts.

She knew.

Without her publishing push and Karen Deborah’s nagging steady encouragement, I never would have unlocked the gate and let you in for a peek.


For years upon years I have kept journals, written letters (some never intended to be read by a recipient), scribbled stories, recorded memories, and dreamed big dreams that never even make it to print as I freely spin away dancing and singing in the gardens or in the kitchen or reclining in a tub of bubbles. “A dream is a wish your heart makes,” sings Cinderella; my heart works overtime in the dreams department . . . it always has.

As a little girl I would lay in bed before sleep overtook me and imagine the way things could be. As I imagined I made some plans. Many fell away but some took root and became part of my life. This little blog sprouted from one of those seeds dropped to grow a connecting place for family, which produced a most unexpected harvest of new friends who came bearing their dreaming hearts. I wander freely through blogs filled with ideas, hopes, dreams, events, hurts, and so much more. I read and smile knowingly or gasp in astonishment or laugh uproariously or drop to my knees in prayer. Without knowing it, that “Publish” moment planted rows of dreams that have yielded a gentle harvest of such goodness.


Over the course of the past year I nearly pulled my blog down several times as I wrestled with the time commitment, the expectations, the comment dilemma (keep it and not worry who comes – close it and wonder if anyone comes), and all the other logistics of publishing from the heart. I have also begged off from playing tag or contesting or meme-ing or chasing after comments – it just doesn’t feel right for me, though I find nothing wrong with any of it (kinda like garage sailing or not . . . I don’t, but others do and love the thrill – different strokes . . . ).

I wandered in the wilderness at some stages in the growth of Wisteria and Roses – mostly due to technical ignorance – but determined to learn one new thing every time I sat down to blog (today I learned to use the “strike out” mode). I still chafe a bit that I had to forgo naming my blog Wisteria Cottage, as I had planned; some other person nabbed the name before I entered the scene, but closed down their blog without releasing the name. : (
Adjusting, learning, falling down, trying again, laughing, crying, hoping, praying . . . I look back and see baskets brimming with so much I have gained over this past year’s “experiment” in blogging.

Yes, I set out to “experiment” for a year. I figured if I had anything worthwhile to say it would surely take no more than a year, BUT – I found that blogging means so much more than merely saying something or even showing something. (Did I mention I had ZERO photography skills before I began blogging – NADA! I relied on Gary and Elizabeth for every pic and edit in those early days!)

Blogging, for me, serves as more than a sounding board or a “show-and-tell” session, though it often involves that and I LOVE the way bloggers share so freely of what they know or do or feel. When I hop from blog to blog I “visit.” When people pop in to see me, I want them to feel welcome and invited in for a little respite and just a peek into another way of walking the path. My journey differs from your journey and maybe, just maybe, that stretches our hearts a wee bit more than we expected to a very good end.


When I read of life in Australia or Norway or France or Canada or The South or The North or even right across town, I cast my focus away from what I know and live, and find another’s pathway. Maybe it contains a garden of the hottest colors and most robust annuals, which bears no resemblance to my dreams for my own garden, but I find joy in the visit nonetheless. Foods, décor, lifestyle, fashion, childrearing, faith, politics, and all the rest spill forth from blogs and I have found the breaths of fresh air bracing and exhilarating. I love blogging!

So, I guess you have guessed that my “one year” experiment has expired and will have no effect on my blogging habits. I will continue to blog at whim about whatever crosses my heart and spills over to share. My children delight in sharing (some more than others) and the bounty of my garden and table provide lots of inspiration for posts. The natural flow of memories continues to grace this blog with stories and celebrations from today, yesterday, and way back when without showing signs of waning. In short, my blog will ramble and tumble and dance and sing as it always has. My arms spread out to catch the gentle harvest from your thoughts and dreams and all the rest without an expiration date.


And so, when you peek through the garden gate at Wisteria and Roses I will be here to welcome you with a steeping teapot and a plumped cushion in a waiting chair. Shall I pour out as we take a pause from our busy lives and simply visit?

Midsummer Musing

Today marks the longest day of the year – a holiday in our home. As a child I never knew such a magical day existed. Sure, I had heard about the equinox in Science class, but no one in my family gave it much mention; and we surely never “celebrated” this day attributed to Pagan rites. The longest day was just that . . . loooong and I still had to go to bed at the prescribed time, regardless of how much sun poured through the organza criss-cross curtains of my room. At age 17 that all changed and a new holiday entered my life.

As I packed my bags to set off for a summer’s stay in Norway, I wondered about all the “newness” but also feared I would miss so much at home. Dilemma and worry tried to fill the empty crevices in my carry-on luggage (and my heart). I knew not where I would be living, as the Host family cancelled at the last minute and I received a hastily scrawled “form” stating new family information (much of which proved to be incorrect, I later learned). Nonetheless I continued packing and preparing for an adventure I had been planning for months. In the days leading up to my departure, my mom and grandmother panicked at the thought of letting me go. They warned me of all manner of “slavery” and planted fears by the bushel in my innocent heart.

I remained steadfast in my plans to jet away to parts unknown. I felt no fear as I whisked away into the night. We left at 11 pm from San Francisco and it was dark. Little did I know I wouldn’t see dark night again until I returned home in late August.

Several long flights criss-crossing the US and then one looooooonger charter over the ocean dropped me into Norway about 9 am some morning later. (I lost track of time along the way.) I disembarked, exhausted but excited. I “checked in” with the local leader and he scanned his clipboard for my name. “Hmmmmm . . .” he muttered, “Says here you cancelled your trip.” “Clearly not,” I replied, luggage in hand – I felt like Anne of Green Gables before Matthew Cuthbert showed up, as I informed him that another family had been chosen for me. “Okay, don’t worry,” he said off-handedly (just a hint of skepticism fringing his voice), “My mom has a spare room for you if nobody shows up for you.” I choked back a tear and scanned the faces of those coming and greeting the other students. “They’ll be here,” I muttered confidently.

Time passed and I sat down atop my banana yellow (brand new) American Tourister Soft-Sider luggage. I crushed the top, but didn’t notice, my heart beating faster as the crowd of kids dwindled. The check-in guy looked over and smiled. I smiled back and took a deep breath. Hope his mom is nice . . .

Suddenly a woman with strawberry blond hair, cropped short, and the sweetest accent came calling “Deeebie? I’m looking for Deeebie.” I popped up and fairly ran to claim my family. Apologies flowed about the traffic and how late they had arrived. I just grinned and waved goodbye to the organizer as my yellow valise disappeared into the trunk of a robin’s egg blue Saab and whisked me away down the road to . . . whatever happened to lay at the end of the road.

My exhaustion evaporated as I scanned the landscape in awe. I couldn’t believe I had actually left home and traveled far across the globe to find houses and roads and trees and all the rest so familiar. It looked like Lake Tahoe!

We pulled up to a modest little brown house surrounded by a vegetable garden in a neighborhood so similar and yet entirely different from home. I plopped my luggage in “my room” and set out on a hike through the forest with Mimmi, the 15-year-old daughter who spoke not a word to me . . . for a long time.

We gathered berries for supper as we wandered through the fairytale-like woods filled with mossy stones, freshets flowing fast with icy-cold water, and berries by the score along needled pathways in dappled shade. We walked and walked and walked, then returned home for a simple yet delicious meal that I barely stayed awake through. After dinner, at 7:30 pm, I fell asleep and slept until 9:30 am the next morning. Since it was light when I fell asleep and equally bright when I awoke, I assumed I had taken a two-hour nap. Not so. My refreshed body danced in the light and eagerly wondered what the day held.

The house lay quiet as Pappa and Mamma (as they would soon be known to me) had gone off to work – he at the water and power company as an engineer, she as a clerk in a local bookshop. Hungry, yet ignorant as to how to slice the bread with that dangerous-looking contraption, I waited for Mimmi to emerge from her room. I waited and waited . . . She emerged sleepy-eyed and tight-lipped some time later. We ate bread and cheese, bread and apple preserves, bread and smashed berries – yep, just smash those raspberries onto the fresh bread with the back of a fork. Sublime. Incredible. (Just finished my last bite of the same as I sit here on my deck sipping tea and rambling away on this keyboard.)

What would today hold? I wondered. Another walk through the forest, I would soon learn. Mimmi said precious little and I had the distinct feeling she intended to exhaust me into returning to the US. Mamma had mentioned on the drive home that Mimmi had suffered disappointment that her trip to the mountains with friends had to be cancelled due to her asthma flaring up. They called for a summer exchange student at the last minute as a way to cheer her up. Inwardly I groaned when I heard this. This morning as I walked and walked I wondered if she would pass the entire summer without engaging me in conversation. But then slowly she began to talk and ask questions and note that I might not be such a drag on her summer plans. (Skip ahead – we became lifelong friends . . . sisters, really. I’m so glad she decided to give me a chance.)

Ummmmmm . . . you may be wondering . . . where does the part about the Summer Solstice come in? Right now, you see this second walk happened on the Solstice.

When Mamma and Pappa arrived home from work later that day we ate a quick meal and then piled in the car to go into Oslo for the celebrations. “Celebrations?” I wondered, “What are they celebrating?” The streets teemed with well-wishers. Though becoming late evening, the sunlight shined as brightly as the afternoon. Crowds of people spilled from the parks and clearings and gardens everywhere. Huge piles of wood dotted the groupings of folks. I learned that bonfires would be set as the evening progressed. I drank it all in without a clue about any of it. We attended a musical celebrating the Summer Solstice traditions in Norway. I thought, “Good, now I’ll learn the roots of this joyful celebration.” The curtain went up: Lively music, famous actors, 100% Norwegian dialog. (Did I mention that I spoke one word: “Tak” = Thank You?) I fell asleep partway through.

I awoke to a gentle rousing as Mamma clucked that maybe we should return home as it may be too much for “Deebie.” I shook my head “No,” perked up and begged to keep going. We walked around in the “night” (now well past 10 o’clock pm, maybe even 11) but it remained bright and clear. It wasn’t “Sunny” but more like “the brightness of nearly-twilight.” Bonfires raged though darkness had not fallen. People sang, ate, sang some more, and called greetings to all who passed by. I truly felt I had awoken in a Rip-Van-Winkle-esque moment. And I have never forgotten it. I loved it!

We returned home late in the night (still light) and I fell into slumber. The next day I awoke feeling at home. I belonged. Mimmi greeted me at breakfast with a cheerful “Halloo! Good morning!” and my heart sang. “I’m Norwegian,” I thought, “Not just because my Great-Grandfather Hans (who died just months after my birth) came from Norway to America at age 16 with a wooden box of necessaries and a heartful of BIG DREAMS, but because I am living in this moment in this place and it feels so right.

The year after I went to Norway Mimmi came to visit me. She arrived at the Midsummer but I had no celebrations to share with her. We made our own. To this day I eagerly await the Summer Solstice, planning a delicious Norwegian menu to be eaten out under the trees as the folktunes particular to Norway fill the long evening. Our sun does set, but later than at any other time of the year. I sit out and drink in the twilight (always my favorite time of day) as I remember that discovery of the Midsummer in Norway so long ago.

I have rambled on for oh so long! (Kudos to those of you that stuck with me.) My blog spills over with me and my life . . . this memory came like a flood and carried me away on the wings of delight.

But now, I must be off this box and onto the business of preparing for the loooongest day of the year. We’ve much to celebrate and be thankful for. I know the celebration has Pagan roots, but for me the celebration has a different set of roots. The Midsummer will always remind me of that wonderful gateway to the joys of life without fears. To taking chances. To meeting “newness” with a smile and lots of hope and courage. To reaching for a dream . . . even if you didn’t know that’s what you were doing . . . and finding it.

And now I really must be off to drag the table out under the big oak tree, pick some blueberries and raspberries from my woods, and dig out that Norwegian folk CD. (I’ve already got my clogs on, I wear them every day.)

“Hade bra!” (Have it well)

Anchored Again

Oh dear . . . it has been such a flurry of activity around here and I truly lost my blogging anchor for a while. I simply drifted from day to day without mind of a word to share or a picture to snap and save. Floods of memories loosened the weight that held me here, but more so I found far too many delights and distractions in the gardens or among my family and I simply floated from meeting one need to the next.

Your precious comments comforted me where I needed comforting and brought smiles where smiles lacked . . .

You have blessed me beyond what you could know. My words do not adequately convey what spills over from my heart.

Thank you . . .

* * * * *

A quick recap never does justice to a leisurely chat, but alas, with a graduation party to attend later this day I have not the privilege to wax away as I did while laid up with my twisted ankle. For starters, my ankle has healed and I once again scamper about chasing bugs or marveling over butterflies -- like this one that Lydia raised in her room from a “kit.”

Country kids find it odd when they receive gifts like this, as we see the birth of nature in all forms at all times in our midst. But Grandma saw this fascinating opportunity and shared it with us. After painstaking attention, one butterfly managed to emerge and spread his wings and found the joy of the outdoors her reward. The others sadly lacked the strength to fully extend their wings. Life is harsh . . . and this little “experiment” just reinforced that.

In another arena of life, we saw wings expand and take flight as David, the young man courting Elizabeth, graduated Summa Cum Laude (with honorary tassels dripping from his gown) from Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego with a degree in Political Science.


David has moved up to Sacramento to begin working as a personal aide to the new California Assembly Minority Leader, Sam Blakeslee. David drove on up to celebrate all this good news with us over a Mexican dinner here at our home (I used the instant refried beans and they tasted FABULOUS!), but the stresses and strains of so much adrenaline and “push” to graduate, drive hundreds of miles away from the only home he has ever known in an aged but beloved pickup, interview for a job with one of the most powerful men in Sacramento – well, let’s just say young man and vehicle collapsed once they arrived here. David ended up in the emergency room and the pickup at a proper repair shop. Our guest house provided lodging and our busy little farm in the dell gave him opportunity to work on chicken coop building,


garden tending, and frantic garage cleaning (when we received a flash storm warning involving deadly lightening and hailstones designed to destroy cars). Thankfully the storm passed us by without a drop of rain or hint of hail and David recovered well, as did his truck, and he has returned to Sacramento to begin a new job, thankful for a bit of a vacation with home-cooked meals and garden strolls with his intended, amongst all the changes.

As for the rest of the family . . . well, we take each day as it comes and try to squeeze out every drop of joy to share amongst us. There have been many tears and bouts of laughter as we celebrate the time we spent with Andrew, as the 5th anniversary of his death snuck up on us. His lifelong battle with cerebral palsy ended on a quiet night of respiratory failure five years ago, but the song of all the days he spend living and loving and learning still sing sweetly in our hearts.

Likewise, May 25th (just the day before Andrew’s Homegoing anniversary) marked the one year anniversary of the Homegoing of my beloved mentor Rachel (my Rachel’s namesake). Many tears flowed as I continued the long goodbye to her. But . . . whenever the tears would well up the memories would flow and our family would end up laughing and celebrating two of the finest people the Lord has ever placed among us.

As the chicks become chickens (homely little critters right now and so scrappy as they all vie to be queen of the roost in that makeshift brooder that requires cleaning OFTEN), and the children grow to maturity, and the parents loosen the reins when necessary (opening the gates for more to join our ranks) I find such solace in remembering:

“For I know the plans that I have for you,”
Declares the LORD,
“Plans for welfare and not for calamity
To give you a future and a hope.”
Jeremiah 29:11 (NASB)

I walk my gardens in the evening and marvel over all the changes in just one day –


Some sheer beauty in blossom, others annoying damage from pests, and still other places celebrate new life or showcase the recent death in the flowers and grasses and weeds of my little Eden. Nothing remains the same from one walk to the next. A stunted area of growth brings sorrow not joy, as in the stymied butterflies that failed to fly and died. Pruning and deadheading of the roses consumes so much of my time these cool evenings, yet I know these labors and farewells will produce greater growth and future abundance of blooms to enjoy and then bid farewell. The cycle continues.

Life rolls along in a rose garden emitting beautiful fragrance and velvety soft beauty before a handful of petals cascade like confetti in celebration of life as it passes away. The fragrant memories of my rose garden in summer sustain me throughout the year as I tend and prune and coddle and nurture these plants who dance each year with a new cast.

Life has been a series of celebrations for me . . . some evoke applause some call for tears, but all have made me a richer woman for the celebrating.

Today will be no different.