Sunday Wonder

For in thee, O LORD, do I hope:
Thou wilt hear, O Lord my God.

Psalm 38:15

A Moment's Gift

Such fatigue I feel. This monthly cycle’s “reset” time has drained me so. I sit in this quiet room, gentle strains of Barry Phillips' Cello sedate me further, and I enjoy deep, slow sips of tea laced with lavender.

I sit.
Just sit.
Simply sit . . .

And it is good.

I seem to have gently acquired the gift of being good to myself. Where once I picked up a stick and drove myself onward until collapse, I now see value in slow-moving times. I label them equally productive and find a special fruit therein.

Prone to driving lists and endless stacks of “musts,” I rebel placidly and float through a brambled tangle, past a bank of snags, and under a bridge to a peaceful pool with only the moment as my companion.

My needy tasks of the day do not melt away, but instead stand at bay as I linger just this much more . . . For I know a freshened soul scours pots with joy and sweeps away crumbs with a dancing step when she feels filled with peace. The peace in knowing life has been presented to her in a series of tiny packages, strung together like pearls, one moment after the other, wreathes her to advantage.

This peaceful pause sparkles like a diamond and I cannot resist its allure.

Since the dishes shall surely remain as they are, and the hummingbird at play in my potted pelargonium shows every inclination of vanishing in an eyelash’s flicker, I shall stay put for just one more good moment.

Aaaaaahhhhh . . . it feels so good to receive a gift.

If We Were Neighbors . . .

Recently a friend and I chatted away on the phone and she dropped the sweetest compliment on me. She said if she could move anywhere she would choose Grass Valley and be my neighbor. It served a double compliment, as in days gone by we had been up-the-road true-life neighbors and seen some dark days swirl all around both of our families. Despite those hard times in our life, the friendship and interwoven habit of our days (she served as a nurse for my son before she advanced to friend) created a sweet bond that we relied upon in walking that rocky path.

Years have flown and our addresses lay states apart, but our hearts remain bonded and pining for that neighborly thing we enjoyed once upon a time. Blogging keeps us in touch (if you haven’t already guessed, my friend is Karen Deborah over at Fresh Fixins), but emails and phone chats remind me that blogs only share a portion of life, true though that glimpse be.

What else would you find out about me if you lived next door?

First off, you’d never “see” me if you didn’t come on by and enter our gated acres of gardens and farm projects and wooded wilderness, for we live off a highway, down a winding way, and off the landscape of the casual observer. But, once you stopped in you’d find me pretty much as you’d expect . . . which is to say, here at home: in the gardens, at the stove, poking around in the pantry, or snug in my favorite chair with a book. You can pretty much count on a welcoming face to open the door as we live, work, school, play, and even shop from home.

As you walk up the path to the front door you’ll see why we call Fall our

"Second Spring"

With roses re-emerging,

Crape Myrtle all abloom,
And Butterfly Bushes waving welcoming wands
To every passing butterfly and hummingbird.

The humming and buzzing and flutter of life may catch you unaware. Take care with those hummingbirds, they buzz by pretty closely this time of year (maybe flying a bit under the influence of too much bloomin’ nectar?) and may cause a start. Yes, I speak from experience . . . regularly.

My times in the garden expand with each day of cooler temps, but I forget to take a camera when I scoop up hat, gloves, and secateurs – thus I have no pictures of dallying swallowtails and ruby-throated, emerald-bodied birds of flight. If you happened by to visit me you’d surely see it with your own eyes alleviating my need of a camera.

A neighbor of mine would know that we only swim in the late hours of a day and evening, as we do not enjoy sunburns on our delicate skin. You would also know that we have enjoyed many a pool party with our steady stream of guests. You may complain of the noise, but I have never heard a cross word from any neighbor. Not even our crowing roosters have gained any notice by our nearby folk. (Whew!)

My husband’s love of power tools rivals my love of primitive tools, so you’d hear the hum of his riding mower, the whine of his blower, and the savage whacking of his weed-stick-brush munching contraption. He keeps us fire-safe and defensible in this parched land. When the work ceases, the rumble of the waverunners may signal some playtime afoot.

Sweet music of harp or piano gently wafts from the music room windows. I’ve had delivery folk pause and rest on our doorstep after dropping off a package, savoring just a bit more of the heavenly melody before they get back out on the highway. Other drivers sit with door wide-open and listen to the fountains at play in my gardens as they process paperwork.

Here and there water gushes in spirited games with birds, butterflies, squirrels, and even playful girls.

As my neighbor you’d certainly see every form of delivery service popping through my gate, as I live in a very small town with few shopping options, no mall, and a poorly-stocked library (at least for those of us seeking something other than the “latest” read), so the internet takes up the slack. Just today my shampoo and bath gels arrived from Hawaii (the local supplier ceased carrying the necessary product for one too sensitive for drugstore offerings).

What else would a casually observing neighbor find of interest around here? Hmmmmm . . .

* My washer and dryer go every day (raising a medically-fragile child deeply ingrains some habits)

* Our house has no satellite dish, cable hookup, or old-fashioned TV antenna. While our neighbors delight in their plethora of broadcast options, we select from our home library of DVDs and videos. Of late we nightly laugh our way through the 1970s BBC series, “Good Neighbors” focusing on a suburban couple who decides to live “off the land” with hilarious results. Roosters crowing and pigs wallowing make for some funny encounters with neighbors. (Life imitates art? I hope not!)

* I have a love affair with Austin English roses,
unlike other gardeners in my town, evidenced by my inability to buy them locally (though they grow lush and full in our warm dry climes). Even professional gardeners have inquired how I manage to make my roses smell so good.

It's all in the breeding.

* I have never met a vine or flowering shrub that I couldn’t make a place for. The stucco on my cottage hides behind verdant veils of beauty with half-timbers and stonework peeking out in a very Olde English fashion.

* I enjoy a good walk through the gardens and woods in nightgown and floral wellies. (T’is true . . . I confess.)

* Willows weep for me . . . here . . . there . . . everywhere – I can’t seem to get enough of their weepiness.

The list could go on and on, I’m certain, but will end with the late evening evidence to all neighbors that we have a naughty kitty, who often resists our every call to come in from playtime and get a good night’s sleep in SAFETY. We stroll the gardens by the light of fairy lanterns, hung hither and yon in this magical place as the evening becomes inky night, calling, “Here kitty, kitty! Mr. Bingley! Bingo Boy!” On good nights we follow this song of homecoming with lots of praise and pats and scratches in just the right places,
as we sigh with relief that the last kitty has returned to the fold of safety from the dangers of the night (bears, coyotes, foxes, etc.). On goes the evensong as our household rolls up another day and tucks in with sweet dreams of tomorrow.

Most of my neighbors live quietly and separately on their own piece of land in this gentle cleft in the Sierra Mountains of California. We tend to be noisy, unique, and altogether something different from the norm, which would explain why the Lord called us away from our seaside cottage nestled on a mere ¼ acre and planted us here on 7 acres of wooded seclusion up in the mountains. He knew . . . we needed to spread out, dance freely, sing loudly, and shout for joy without disturbing the neighbors.

I wonder if KD still wants to move in.

; D

The Day of Rest . . . THAT WORE ME OUT!

I sit here in a quiet household. Some shower, some have gone to attend business, and others slumber still. I so enjoy these few moments of pin-dropping stillness wherein I read and meditate and pray. Today I read:

We always expect the Lord to come to us in joy.
Instead of that He sometimes comes to us in a big disappointment.

~~ Amy Carmichael ~~

I laugh out loud, shattering the silence. I take a sip of tea and sit back to scoop up the final spoonful of honeyed-yogurt topped with the last of the blueberries, fresh and so expensive that I savor them one by one.

I lower my lashes and admit that I attach such significance to my daily joy; I seek to find the moments of joy knowing God will be there . . . and yet on some days I find him, as Miss Carmichael notes so aptly, in a BIG disappointment. Take this past weekend, for example – I established that Sunday would be an ultimate day of REST. I set apart my schedule to include the lazy reading and finishing of Some Lovely Islands, a slim and delightful volume of travel days that I wanted so to devour and savor without the nagging thought of chores. Next to that I placed a book newly arrived from a dealer, entitled French Island Elegance.

(Doesn't this cover just speak volumes
of the delightful vacation resting between those covers?)

So I set about a flurry of Saturday chores and baking (the most scrumptious sourdough-rye-seeded bread to accompany a big pot of chili – where was my camera?) and all manner of gardening tasks, like watering my parched lands in this oh-so-heat-filled month of August. (Truly August ranks as my least favorite gardening month.) I ended the day with tired body but smiling face . . . tomorrow I rest.

Sunday dawned with roosters crowing and after rising from my sleepy hollow I took a bowlful of goodies out for the feathered folk to share. I lingered and laughed as they strutted and scuttled around to inspect the mélange of tea leaves, avocado fragments, wilted tomatoes and cucumbers, and a smattering of tired berries laced with feathered greens of all sorts. A feast to linger over on this restful Sunday.

I wandered the gardens a bit, feeling the dampness left behind by the early morning sprinklers, and walked in peace. Today there would be no hurried showers or bustling off to church; with the flu spreading and school newly begun, we have chosen to stay behind our garden walls until the truth of the threat bears out. Worship can and will happen here as vibrantly as in our pew-filled congregation. I thank the Lord for the freedom we cling to that allows us to worship as we choose.

I returned to my cozy kitchen, brewed a pot of tea, and settled down to read. A little excitement bubbled up when Gary and Rachel came to report that while slipping out to run an errand they witnessed an apartment fire downtown. I immediately inquired of some friends’ safety, as they live quite near the fire. No danger for them, so I set about praying for those roused from bed by a chilling cry of “Fire!”

All too soon my quiet morning evaporated when Gary hobbled in with a severely damaged ankle from a mishap at the treehouse – a building in progress. A bleeding, bruising, swelling appendage caused me to swoon (literally, I must confess) as I ran for supplies. I bathed and treated the wound and found it to look awful, but it appeared unbroken and remarkably free of much pain for Gary. He hobbled around demonstrating that he felt pretty good. I swooned again. It pains me to bind up the wounds of my children, but really frightens me to see my husband – The Rock – bleeding. I made him comfortable and returned to my tea and book . . . and then put the book down. Some dvd entertainment filled the balance of the afternoon, as I cooked and did some laundry and tidied a bit here and there.

The cool Fall-like weather we eagerly anticipated did not materialize as predicted by meteorologists. The temps soared and we began to hear fire trucks and sirens of all manner screaming down the nearby highway. Hmmmmmm . . . All too soon I smelled smoke, saw ash floating in the air, and ran outside to see the blue sky filling with ambered waves of smoke. I ran to the internet and searched to find info . . . a tidbit would suffice to calm my concerns. All up-to-the-minute local sources supplied LOTS of fire information (apparently this area had hosted a few more fires after the early morning blaze downtown), but nothing about the latest smoke-filled event. The gusty winds of the day continued to blow, earlier having destroyed our metal/canvass cabana at the poolside. Without any information, I merely prayed a blanket prayer for those that may be affected, including my own family.

I tried to return to reading, but found myself merely gazing out the window at the fleeting butterflies and hummingbirds that dance so merrily this time of year. From blossom to fountain and back again goes the merry dance. (Where is that camera when you need it most?) A woodpecker crashes the party now and again. A goldfinch drops in unexpectedly, has a hurried bath, and then flits away to play with her flock of friends all a-twitter in the majestic oaks. I began to smell thicker smoke odors and see the wafts of grey pass by my window. Should we get ready for a quick exit? Could Gary drive with that ankle? And then my mind fell to the very lowest of points and I began to think of the silly things, like bemoaning the fact that our dinner invite to a friend’s place may be cancelled. I know myself all too well . . . when fear begins to grip its tentacles around my mind I retreat to the least painful thoughts like the loss of a good meal in a time of emergency.

I grabbed the computer and looked again. No update. I glanced outside and noticed a lessening of the smoke. Wishful thinking? I asked Gary to confirm. Yes, but he noted that a wind shift may be the cause. He then informed me he felt good enough to dress for our dinner date. I couldn’t think of leaving the kids with an unknown fire raging somewhere. I balked. He changed clothes. I scanned the horizon and waited. I applied mascara and lip gloss with one eye on the lace panels, and detected bluer skies for certain. I returned to the computer and finally found an update. The fire raged through a neighboring town (25 miles away) and continued to destroy homes and businesses in its path. (Today I read that 60 structures have been lost, many of them homes. At this moment it is merely 50% contained. I continue to pray . . .)

We did enjoy dinner with our friends, the children remained safe and sound at Wisteria Cottage, and Gary’s ankle allowed him significant mobility without any crutches. A bit of hobbling and his comfy blue clog slippers allowed him to slip in and out of restaurant without notice as a wounded man. Amazing! Today he awoke with much less swelling, fully-scabbed wounds, minimal bruising, and a looooooong list of To Do’s for the day. He remarked how refreshed he felt from a good long night’s sleep. (Elizabeth set her alarm to release the chicken folk at 6 am – she went back to bed and slept late.)

I, on the other hand, dragged myself out of bed with a little less-than-normal vigor, the victim of my own worrisome ways. I brewed my tea, fixed my breakfast, and grabbed my stack of morning reads like every ordinary day. And then it hit me . . . this day feels ordinary. Praise God! After the hub-bub of yesterday’s Un-restful day, I happily face this day in the ordinary way. We do not reside in a shelter awaiting news of the charring or not of our home and all worldly goods. I do not need to pass through the automatic doors of a hospital to visit my husband, as he has but a mere wobble in his walk and no more. Despite the many blips on the radar screen of yesterday, life remains typical and around here that always feels GOOD!

I shall finish my tea, gently remind Rachel to be mindful of her time as piano lessons will be at noon, and carry on with the vacuuming, laundering, cooking, and all other activity in the keeping of my home on an ordinary Monday. I will pause often to pray for those who have a new routine today, one they did not hope for, and I will remember Amy Carmichael’s words and rejoice that the disappointments of yesterday truly did yield joy when I let go of the mental gymnastics of a worrier.

And maybe, just maybe, I may finish off that book of island touring in England and hop on over to The Caribbean and her neighbors for a glance at that new book of beauty. For now, I gratefully swallow my last sip of tea and set off to find what today holds. I know joy can be found, I may just need to blow away some smoke to see it.

Sunday Wonder

He knoweth our frame;

He remembereth that we are dust.

Psalm 103:14

* * *

He knoweth the way that I take;

When He hath tried me,

I shall come forth as gold.

Job 23:10

* * *

Perhaps those words, He knoweth, are meant for you today

because God has allowed you some special trial of faith.

The love of God is very brave. He does not hold trial off

lest we should be overwhelmed. He lets it come

and then gloriously strengthens us to meet it.

And at the end,

I shall come forth as gold.

~~ Amy Carmichael ~~

Whispers of His Power