Perspectives

After so much weekend activity, today I’m literally at a standstill - reclining in bed because of a bullfrog-croaking-voice, dull headache, stuffed-up sinuses, and lead appendages that refuse to carry me beyond the blankets.  Although it’s never fun to be sick, I do relish my solitary companions: a heavenly, water-laden wind blowing off the lake and my trusty laptop. 

An antique oval mirror stands on the opposite wall in exactly the right place to capture my pillow-propped reflection.  A greenish-blue, bullfrog-ish pajama-shirt stares back, topped by a strangely alien face that looks much older, more drawn, more sunken-eyed than another similar-but-younger one I remember quite clearly.  And those froggy-looking neck wrinkles?  Goodness, they seem to compound by the minute, hanging like folds of a heavy theater curtain that keep sagging, sagging with their own weight. 

Was I really this same age yesterday, when enveloped by a crowd of vigorous children and strong-to-the-bone younger adults? Yes…I recognized the discrepancies, the disparity in levels of energy and tolerance.  I wonder how they saw me?

Final Weekend Report

Last night:

Zzzzzz….kids asleep!  Campfire on deck.  Five adults. Laughter. Relaxed. Peaceful. Stars peek. Sharing memories…discovery…inspiration…storytelling…WOW.  Between sheets: 12:30 a.m.

Today:

Kids chirping.  Baby girl smiles. Blue skies. Sunshine! Bleary eyes. Gear up! Breakfast. “I wike duh twees!” (Clara, age 3: “I like the trees” with head back, staring  euphorically at wind-tossed oak leaves while eating scrambled eggs on the deck.) Sandbox trio. Four MORE family members arrive!  Swimming. Lunch.  Swimming. Ice cream drumsticks. Swimming.  Waves. Babies squawking. Aquatic weeds. Tube plug: lost!  Tube plug: found!  First tube rides of the year!! Hot tub.  Beach towels, swim suits drying. Soggy water shoes. Field trip to the property.  Leftovers!  Picnic table!  Wind-chopped lake.  Sunshine splattered through trees.  Families gather stuff.  Pack up cars.  Whhhhish – they’re off!  Good-bye to Memorial Day weekend!

Ongoing Weekend Report

Saturday:

Cold. Wind. Thwarted fishing. Rock-landscape project. Hammock. Homemade pizza. Four visitors leave.  Seven more arrive! Big dinner. Talk-talk-talktalktalk. Ice cream. Late bedtime. Pass out. Sleep.

Sunday:

Coffee smells. Eggs. Sausage.  Pancakes. Calm lake. Gray sky.  Energetic KIDS! Fishing. Wading. Splashing. Picture-taking. Squirt guns. Hammock flip! Sandwiches. Picnic table. Mayonnaise-smeared kisses. Cross-conversations.  Sandbox play.  Animated interaction. Boat ride.  Storm prediction. Kids nap. Pounding rain. Screaming wind. Tornadoes miss us! Kids wake. Dinner whirlwind.  Screams-laughs-squeals. Chatter-chatter-chatter. Auditory overwhelm! Empty house (momentarily). Mess-upon-mess. Clean up. Quiet.  Stillness.  Recover.  Lakeshore breeze. Water lapping. Deep breath.  Next round - 8:30!

Summer Kick-Off

Grandkids. Pancakes. Dog. Clouds. Fishing Poles.  Fish.  More Fish! Swans. Boat Ride. Peeking Sun. Turtles! Soup/Sandwiches. Marina.  Bait Store. Burritos 'n Fixins. Walk.  Talk. Hot Tub.  Fireplace Fire. Brownies.  Books. Computer. Fog-On-The-Lake. Bath. Bed. 

The Memorial Day weekend has begun!

Stop That Pendulum!

“The whole curse of the last century has been what is called the Swing of the Pendulum; that is, the idea that Man must go alternately from one extreme to the other. It is a shameful and even shocking fancy; it is the denial of the whole dignity of mankind. When Man is alive he stands still. It is only when he is dead that he swings. But whenever one meets modern thinkers (as one often does) progressing towards a madhouse, one always finds, on inquiry, that they have just had a splendid escape from another madhouse...''

- G.K. Chesterton

I saw this quote posted on Facebook last night. The timing struck me, perhaps especially since we’d just spent a couple of days spent in doctors’ offices (cardiology and neurology).   I went scuttling for an OLD book, something tried-and-true and therapeutic that was not (*gasp*) faddishly contemporary or (*groan*) manipulatively technological.  I was in the mood to be calmed and settled down – no madhouses, please.  No shoulds or oughts, no self-help manuals or schemes, no trite witticisms or YouTube mini-lectures. 

A thick old anthology winked at me from the bookshelf, one leftover from my college days.  I pulled it down, opened it randomly, and pored over the excerpt before me on page 1935 (no kidding – this is one very large book).

As I entertained the words on the page, the figurative pendulum wound down and down, and eventually stopped; its round gold disc stood still and invited me to pause from ruminating about medical issues and contemplate higher things.   So, I did, and the concerns of the day softened as I sat in the wicker chair with my book open:

“A painter (or writer) possesses grace only as a gift…He himself does not know whether he possesses it, or in what degree, or how he communicates it to his works.  It surprises the spectator, who feels its effect without penetrating to its true cause…It can be defined as that which pleases and gains the heart without passing through the judgment.

“Grace and beauty are two different things; beauty pleases only by rules, and grace pleases without rules.  The beautiful is not always graceful, and the graceful is not always beautiful.  But grace joined to beauty is the height of perfection.”

- from L’Idee de Peintre Parfait, 1699

Lilies, Grasses, and Sedum

As a lover of apples on a mission to share them, Johnny Appleseed focused on planting apple trees.  Period.  No doubt he would freak out if he could see all the plant varieties including, but far surpassing, the fruit trees that were readily available at our local Menard’s yesterday.  I found the countless sub-varieties of almost everything overwhelming - the plant breeders’ species (hybrids and mutants and dwarves) – as they stood in their rows and ranks in clusters-on-top-of-clusters.   Colorful flowered troops of annuals, actually desperate orphans, lined the aisles upon aisles, waiting for eager gardeners to take them home and nurture them as their own.

I tried to focus … FOCUS … in the midst of the heady sensory overload.  I wasn’t shopping for something major like trees – just small landscape flowers for a couple of spots on either side of the pier down by the lake.  But I was surrounded by so many confusing colors and scents and sizes and OPTIONS! I finally forced myself to … dare … to … choose … something.  To go with my gut and just pick SOMETHING.  It was not a very rational process, but rather subliminal urgings came to the fore and took over the selection process. 

I went home with day lilies, ornamental grasses, and sedum.

Hours later I realized the significance of my choices.  During the 1950’s, when life was simpler and more predictable, profuse orange day lilies grew wild along the country road surrounded by tall, waving grasses.  Sedum dripped from crude window boxes nailed to our lake cottage’s screened-in porch.  I was deeply shaped by icons like these and the qualities they represented.

In like manner, what do my current choices reflect?

Yellow lilies with blazing red centers?  BEAUTY. Loose grasses tipped in red, and thin bluish leaves that bob playfully in the breeze?  FREEDOM.  Sedum, the ground cover that even as I child I realized would thrive in even the worst possible conditions?  TENACITY.

After making my selections it was surprising, and yet also gratifying, to realize how my own early roots remain firm as I continue to transplant a legacy.  Those roots will continue to ground, and encourage, children and grandchildren – future torch-bearers of the same tangible reminders that taught me what it means to hope.

Ants and Antagonism

I.

It was only one teeny weeny little ant.  But she was terrified.  Immobilized. 

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I suggested, trying to encourage her.  “That little ant is powerless – it isn’t able to hurt you!”

“But I don’t want it to crawl on me,” she said, whimpering visibly shuddering.

“Well, if an ant gets on your arm, just brush it off – like this.”  I demonstrated with a small piece of dry grass.  “See? It won’t hurt you any more than this piece of grass.”

“But Gramma, I don’t LIKE ants!”

I paused and then gave the best advice I could muster.  “I guess you’ll just have to go on being unhappy until you decide to change the way you think about ants.  There’s no reason for a little ant to control you.”

II.

It was only a single antagonism.  One issue in a much larger spectrum of life.  But it was attempting to hold me emotionally captive.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” the wise friend said. “It can’t undo you when seen in the appropriate context.”

“But I don't want it to be so personal,” I replied, pouting.  “It’s creepy.”

“Well, your only option is to let go – like this.”  He reached his arms toward heaven as if to fling the antagonism beyond the physical realm into the heavenly one.   “Keep your perspectives right.  The situation is beyond you.  It is not yours to manipulate.”

“But…BUT…I don’t LIKE antagonism!”

He paused and then cut to the chase.  “We are called to be humble and contrite, and submit to our almighty, sovereign God.  There’s no reason for this situation to control you. I guess you’ll just have to go on worrying until you decide to trust Him.”

Thank you, Friends

Yesterday I faced some messy circumstances – not alone, but together with a group of mutual friends.  Perhaps grievous, regrettable, or lamentable might apply as well as messy.   Unfortunate – that works, too.  Everyone felt weighted down by the mess, as if we were wearing backpacks full of lead.

Perhaps the greatest personal help came not in rationalizing the whats or whys or hows, or trying to solve the tangled mess, but in sharing my response to the messiness with a trusted friend.  A measure of the burden mysteriously lifted when I heard her describe her emotion and could express my own. The mess was still there, but it was outside of me.  I was not the mess.  It was not me.

This enabled me to begin to turn a corner – release the heavy backpack – and look to the One who could restore order through healing, reconciliation, and forgiveness.

Then this morning I heard from a different friend who is not directly involved, but is someone who understands deeply the scope of human life.  That friend’s comments sealed my encouragement: “Just try to focus on the spiritual and not the physical....I suspect there will be an ‘ah-ha’ moment with time and prayers.”

Thank you, friends.  You are special people, and the kind of friends we all need.

Old Joe

Yesterday a magnificent Great Blue Heron (the nickname for members of this species is Old Joe) strolled across our yard with slow, intentional steps.  I sneaked out the other side of the house and found an unobtrusive spot where I could monitor his activity through the camera lens.  By the time I stood in position to take pictures, he was already on our pier craning his very long neck and eyeing the shallows for minnows. 

He ambled slowly down the pier with his stilt-like legs, gazing first to one side and then the other, taking his time, watching for anything of interest.  The style of walk, in case you’ve not seen a heron on foot, is almost a gangly strut reminiscent of long-legged male teenagers with their hands in their pockets, acting cool.

Eventually he stopped at the end of the pier and I stalked him, slinking around the edge of the deck, daring to move just a little closer.  He eyed me warily with his almost-flat head turned to one side, bent his toothpick-legs and crouched.  Then he shifted his weight to make ready for take-off, spread his massive wings, and swooped away in a low glide over the water. 

This Old Joe is one of many in our area that live in the wild.  They fascinate me, both on land and in the air.  They are quiet and unassuming, not quarrelsome with other waterfowl, and seem introspective and serious by nature.  Elegant in flight, they are precise fishermen.  Their feathers are a regal-looking smoky-blue. 

I feel privileged this Old Joe came for a visit, and will look forward to his return another day.

The Weight, The Stone, The Clothes

THE WEIGHT

By definition, heavy trials and concerns weigh us down and try to smoosh us, nose first, in the mud of disillusionment: a suffocating business! Emotional sadness, physical pain, unresolved questions, frenetic overactivity, dulling boredom, chronic overwhelm, financial burdens, relational disappointment – they’re all weights.  And they’re heavy.

Sometimes one weight presses on top of another, compounding the pressure until it seems a person’s very heart will burst.  The burden grows, mushrooms like a Hiroshima cloud, and turns into a Goliath-of-a-weight with fall-out that keeps raining down and down and down. 

And then, the stone.

THE STONE

One smooth stone in David’s sling slew the huge giant-of-a-man pressing down on the Israelites as he threatened, taunted, and demanded their surrender.  Just one little rock and Goliath was history.  Not a crushing boulder in an avalanche, or a whole quarry full of gravel, but an average small stone just waiting for an anointed hand to aim and fire it.

Stones are available to me as well.  As in David’s case, they’re within easy reach.  These are stones that promise to transform life – stones that fly like arrows into the very core of human life.  Praise.  Love.  Prayer.  Repentance.  Fasting. Humility.  Submission.  Sacrificial giving. Persistent serving. The name of Jesus!  HOPE.

"For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal but mighty in God for pulling down strongholds, casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God, bringing every thought
into captivity to the obedience of Christ." (2 Corinthians 10:4,5)

With careful aim and release those pressing earthly weights must, and do, fall to their knees and submit to a greater power.  They may rise again to do battle in minutes or hours or days, but other single stones, applied in faith, will subdue them again.  And again.  And yet again.  This is why we are to prepare for battle every day, all day.

THE CLOTHES

“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests.”  (Ephesians 6:10-18)

Too often I get up in the morning and dress in secular clothes: self-sufficiency, self-absorption, self-limitation, self-centeredness, self-reliance.  Then the weights start their crushing.  The what-ifs start their taunting.  At that point, I have a choice to either fight back on-the-spot, bare-fisted and helpless, or else run to the closet to change into clothes that equip me for battle. 

I need to continually clean out my wardrobe and discard everything but the King-of-King’s clothes…..an ongoing process, it seems.  But I am encouraged.  Little by little I am becoming more consistently clothed in stone-throwing clothes that enable confessions of faith in the One True God to pepper my weights like spiritual shrapnel.

Sheets

Funny how sometimes certain memories reawaken in a dega-vu sort of way, as if repeating themselves.

There was a time when I was very young, maybe six through ten or eleven years old, when I recognized the sweet comfort of bed sheets – especially those on my saggy porch cot at our lake cottage. I’d crawl between the sheets, and underneath the blue spread with its lighthouse/seagull design, and feel like I was in the safest, most secure place on earth.  The 100% cotton sheets were often crinkly-cool in the night humidity (this was before permanent press) but also so very welcoming.  I went to bed willingly in those days, full of expectancy for whatever the next morning would bring – namely sunshine and unencumbered, private hours at the lakefront.

Although circumstances are so much different now in just about every way, these past four weeks (since my strange bout with memory loss) have been sort of a “sheet appreciation month.”  I don’t think about it during the day, but at night when I crawl between the sheets and pull them up to my chin, I let out a grateful sigh of appreciation for the bed and the pillow that I pull over my head leaving a peep-hole for my nose.  I withdraw from activity and relax in the promised rest provided by clean, soft sheets that envelop me like a cloud.  Each morning I hate to leave the sheets.  But I do, and they wait, and each night I revisit them with the same gratitude. 

Compassion, Mercy, Empathy

I don’t like being a sloppy word-person who slings words around carelessly, and so recently decided to ponder the similarities and differences between three words: compassion, mercy, and empathy. I sometimes use these almost interchangeably, and yet realize they should stand alone because of unique distinctions.  There seems to be an inverted pyramid in the way I’m currently thinking about them, from broader to quite specific, and yet I realize I may be falling woefully short in these definitions:

Compassion – Sympathy is being sad about another person’s sadness.  Commiseration means my sadness is expressed to the other person.  Pity means I would like to help.  But compassion means I share the aspirations/needs of the other person and am determined to help, even if in a small way.  Compassion is more than conceptual and is often identifiable by acts of kindness.  The word compassion shares the same Latin root as the word passion; the compassionate person is so passionate that he/she is willing to suffer for the suffering person in order to serve the other person’s need.

Mercy – Mercy offers forbearance and grace to those who don’t deserve it, initiates second/third/fourth chances, withholds due punishment or pain, and shows compassion (ah yes, there IS overlap!).  Mercy also reaches out to innocents who are wronged when it has the power to affect them for good.

Empathy – The empathetic person connects; he/she feels the feelings of another and is WITH them emotionally and practically, no matter what.  Empathy is receptive because of inner radar that picks up on everything, even innuendos.

For a long time I have been aware of the difference between sympathy (feeling sad) and empathy (walking with the sad person).  I currently find myself also inspired by the examples of others who are compassionate (passionately and actively sacrificial) in ways that are merciful (unexpectedly forgiving and influential in making a difference).

Before and After Kitchen

At least a couple of people out there in cyber-land have been hankering to see some before-and-after shots of recent workaholism going on around here, so I decided it was time to post a documentary report of the kitchen.

Peeling green countertops, ivy wallpaper, white plastic tile backsplash, white ceramic knobs, aged-and-dysfunctional stove top and fan, and pocked white floor…

....were gradually changed....

…until all were replaced by sandy countertops, soft brown paint, ceramic tile backsplash in earth tones, brushed metal knobs, stainless steel stove top and fan, and dark vinyl floor tiles.

There are several things worth noting separately.  We now have a nice-and-quiet-but-labor-intensive dishwasher (NO dishwasher previously).

We also have extra vertical storage for large trays, and an all-new work surface that is 5” deeper than standard countertop depth!  

Although not perfect, or the ultimate dream kitchen for this house, this facelifted kitchen is now a much more comfortable and user-friendly room. It begs for someone (aka ME) to hang out and get stuff done!  “Chop HERE!  Roll dough HERE!  Do something HERE where new under-counter inch-lights brighten up the dark corners!” So far two family members have commented that the change is “dramatic” and “distinctive.” 

We would still like to replace the old florescent ceiling light, but that seems minor compared to everything else that has happened in recent months.  Down the road we’d also like to replace the existing stack-oven (which functions reasonably well if not perfectly, but has brown doors) with a new one that would match our other bisque appliances – but that’s down the road.  So today we’re choosing to celebrate!  Hooray!  We’re DONE!  Woo hooooooo!

The Stream

TIME.  It is, as the hymn* says, an ever-rolling stream tumbling along toward an eventual destination: eternity.  And yet, it breaks down into increments of decades, years days, hours, minutes, seconds.  We count time.  We live it one little piece at a time.

When we look back at those pieces, we can see what we’ve become; what we’re becoming.

Today Fritz and I were privileged to visit for 8 hours straight (no stopping!) with an old friend we hadn’t seen in 11 years.  It was a sweet reunion.  Time had changed all three of us, and yet in ways (mystically as well as obviously) that only drew us closer together.  The stream had carried us a bit father downstream, and the perspective from our respective vantage points was encouraging, motivating, and inspiring.

Pastor Bob had walked with us through the last years of Fritz’s parents’ lives, as well as their deaths and burials.  Now we all had new things to share, as well as new understandings of old things.   Emerging sanctification.

I came away motivated and inspired by Pastor Bob’s example.  His life has been far from easy, but rather anointed.  I was reminded that discipleship is not an academic pursuit, or project, or some add-on, but a lifestyle.  It is a way of living with Jesus, one-day-at-a-time, as the ever-rolling stream keeps churning.  Today.  The stream.  Tomorrow.  The stream.  

_________

*Oh God Our Help in Ages Past

Ice Cream Cake

Several years ago one of our grandsons asked for an ice cream cake for his birthday.  “What kind?” I asked. "Ummmmm.....?"  He didn’t know, so I got busy and experimented!  The resulting layered “cake” made of homemade brownie, ice cream, homemade fudge sauce, and chocolate wafers has been talked about ever since.  This year our son-in-law (different family) requested another similar concoction for HIS birthday, so of course I gave it a whirl with a slightly more adult spin on ice cream flavors and decorations.

The decadent result included layers as follows, listed here in reverse order (base first, then in sequence to the frosted top):

Brownie

Vanilla ice cream

Chocolate fudge

Chocolate cookie wafers

Chocolate ice cream

Chocolate fudge

Chocolate cookie wafers

Mint chocolate chip ice cream

Chocolate fudge

Chocolate cookie wafers

Vanilla ice cream

Chocolate fudge

Chocolate cookie wafers

Chocolate butter cream frosting

Below is a picture of this fat-and-sugar bomb in all of its glory, the remains of which are still in our freezer luring me like one of the mythological temptresses, the Sirens (remember how they invited destruction?).

Hooray!

We all have “first time” events that mold us in ways we can’t fully understand or perhaps don’t even recognize at the time.  These moments can even leave vicarious marks on us when experienced by others.

Yesterday barely-three-year-old Josie caught her first fish.  It was an event!

A bluegill took the bait while she stood on the end of the pier holding a miniature bright red and yellow rod-and-reel. The fish apparently put up a nice fight: “I could FEEL it pulling!” Josie said with bug-eyes. The thrill in her voice was contagious:  “I got a fish.  I got a FISH!  I GOT A FISH!”

Hooray for the lake!  Hooray for fish!  Hooray for little girls (and boys)! 

Hooray for kid-sized fishing gear that actually WORKS!  Hooray for a Grampa willing to put the worm ON the hook and take the fish OFF the hook! 

Hooray for life’s “first times,” the thrill of sweet success, and shared celebrations!

And a special hooray for a childlike example that works like a gentle pumice stone on calloused adult mindsets stuck in sophisticated ruts….HOOOOOOORAY!

In, Out, and Up

What’s a girl to do…

…when a good friend is hospitalized with serious, potentially permanent internal injuries, and the cause could be someone else’s negligence?

…when a family member falters, crumbles, rallies, and continues struggling, unable to regain normalcy?

…when a chronic irritation reaches almost-unbearable proportions, and panic sweeps in like a tidal wave?

I asked myself these questions in light of yesterday’s circumstances.  I also told myself the answer:  REFOCUS.

Some years ago I spent an entire weekend, all day Saturday and into the night and then much of Sunday as well, working on the computer.  By Monday my eyes were stingy and sore, and functionally jumpy, and I feared something terrible had gone wrong.  I didn’t immediately make the correlation with the computer work.

My optometrist explained that I’d overworked my eyes and literally dried out the corneas to desert-crack stage (evidently it is common to blink less often when focused on a computer screen).  He suggested in the future I remember to blink intentionally in such instances, but also to stop periodically and focus on something outside in the far distance for 5-or-10 minute increments.  “Looking distantly will rest your eyes,” he said.  “Then you will be able to go back to intense close work and ultimately keep working longer.”

I’ve learned this is true in the spiritual realm as well as the physical.  My soul’s eyes can grow weary from focusing on current situations, especially when issues seem deeply concerning and compounding.  An upward, far look does not deny the necessity of responding to the immediate, but renews a right perspective in the midst of trials.

I have proven this to myself over and over again.   How often during my daily walk I visually study the treetops or the clouds, audibly praise the Father with a soft-spoken but clear voice, and focus away from circumstances toward Him.  Then at the end of my walk I am more able to confront those issues that may have seemed overwhelming just minutes before.

The moral?  When the IN-ward landscape seems difficult to navigate and OUT-ward  focus blurs,  it is critical to reset sights UP-ward.

Feeling Fortunate

Yesterday evening at dusk I sat on the deck with a blank page on my laptop screen and waited for closure on the day – not just chronological closure as night approached, but rather I had to make sense of certain things. I waited a long time, perhaps over an hour, inviting my thoughts to settle while letting the cream rise to the top.  It had been a day of ups and downs, aches and mistakes, churning and yearning and learning. Here are the words that eventually showed up:

I am fortunate to sit beside still waters this evening, watch a handful of swans drifting in the lake like big white bobbers, and relish the warm breezes on my face. 

I am fortunate to look up and see the half-moon hanging in the gray sky to remind me that earthly perceptions are flat compared to universal dimensions and eternal realities.

I am fortunate to know One Supreme Lover relentlessly pursues me.  I am fortunate to know a man who loves me has proven his love over time.  I am fortunate to know so many people who are in my life for me to love.

I am fortunate to have a body strong enough to navigate my two-mile daily walk, a mind sharp enough to write these words, and a heart full enough of His Spirit to chase away fears that might otherwise stalk and attempt to consume me.

I am fortunate to face challenges regularly, and even today, because they provide a chance to wrestle with priorities, values, limitations, dreams, and beliefs -  to seek perseverance, mercy, hope, and the presence of God.

Redefining Resourcefulness

According to a long-time neighbor, someone living here in the 70’s planted a small area of our yard back by the road with a few perennials.  They have overgrown without intervention ever since and choked each other almost to death, and have also invited some intruders to join them: poison ivy, wild raspberry brambles, and miscellaneous weeds.

So today I put on my Resourceful Hat and went to work separating out some of these for transplanting next to the house.  I know I sound like a braggart, but I wore that hat absolutely ALL DAY - like from morning till evening - even though the temps reached the mid-80’s – and even though my resilience factor (see blog a few days ago) was compromised by the nastiest crazy-buzzing flies and an old-lady-aching back.

I learned a few things along the way in the case any of my readership should tackle a job like this.  Allow me to share them with you in the form of a 6-point tutorial:

1. Do not neglect to take some of the root-runners of lily-of-the-valley, as well as the little squiggly roots, otherwise the transplanted plants will wilt and die.  This was discovered after transplanting, oh, probably thirty or more plants incorrectly.

2. Do dig deeply, as the root systems of 20-something-year-old plants are deep and bound together, and expect the digging to take FOREVER. Plan to spend mega-hours picking the roots of various plants apart so you can transplant them individually rather than in jumbled communal clumps.

3. Do keep a hose handy.  Water is good for dry, traumatized plants – not to mention dry, traumatized gardeners.  It is also nice as a coolant applied to hot wrists.

4. Do keep several pairs of work gloves handy.  That way when you inadvertently pull up a vine of poison ivy, you can quickly shun the offending glove, replace it with a clean one, and keep going without unnecessary paranoia.

5. Do have a masseuse hired in advance for the evening-after to relieve knives-in-the-lower-back.  Yeah, right.

6. Do have a plan for *Someone Else* to clean up the battle zone (and leftover craters) in the area you scalp….er, the place from which you borrow plants.  Otherwise you just have one more job waiting for another day.

Going, Going, GONE!

Yesterday we had some super-human help getting rid of the last of the Mohicans - or rather several remaining ancient, scraggly, deer-chewed yews.  Our son’s winch (note: not wench), which is constantly mounted on the front bumper of his fire-engine-red F-250 pick-up truck “just in case” it is needed, ripped out the last 3 bushes that would have otherwise required much backbreaking, sweaty, manual digging.   My carpal-tunnel-stricken wrists are forever grateful those deeply-rooted bushes were yanked out so quickly and are now gone for good!

Here are pictures of the final bush-uprooting from chain hook-up ("What are you doing to me?") to first tug ("Owwwww!") to straining-at-the-roots ("This is like being on a s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-r – agggggg!") to snapping free ("Dirt!  Dirt!  I'M NAKED!") to bare roots and bonfire-ready ("You mean I get to roast marshmallows?").

Feeling Maternal

Mother’s Day ushered in a flood of introspection yesterday. The effects lingered today, and I expect may continue.

I’ve been thinking how, amidst plateaus of status quo, life offers sheer drop-offs and steep cliffs.  Sometimes these extreme verticals are down-steps, as in the momentary loss of optimism, or perhaps physical health or mental acuity.  I call these challenges.  Alternately, sometimes they are up-steps, as in the acquisition of understanding, insight, or faith that simply wasn’t there before.  I call these breakthroughs.

The older I get, the more obvious and frequent these defining verticals - challenges and breakthroughs - become.  I also am grateful for the opportunity to vicariously participate in the ongoing generational march of children and grandchildren as they navigate their unique mountains and valleys.  Motherhood and grand-motherhood literally contour my personal lifescape with broadening, deepening, and ultimately strengthening dimensions.  I am molded and renewed as I stand in this aging maternal position, even as I hope to continue to invest myself in my family. 

Remodel Update

I’m getting antsy to finish the kitchen remodel; the to-do list is growing shorter and shorter!  Possibly within the next couple of weeks we'll be DONE!

As the days pass and I work in the midst of new features, I'm thrilled with the ingenious reuse of existing cabinetry that provides me lots more counter space. We moved a cabinet from the right of the sink to a new spot just left of the refrigerator and lowered it a couple of inches so the new height is PERFECT for me! This switch also allowed for a spot for a first-ever dishwasher in this kitchen – the picture shows how nicely this worked out. 

I’m also getting used to a much different “look” provided by the creative design of our new backsplash (which came into existance only because our talented son-in-law laid the tile).  At some point I’ll post some before-and-after shots, but here’s a sneak peek.

Passing the Test

I ran a test today to measure my resilience.  You know, like the snap-back action of a rubber band that’s been stretched: RESILIENCE. The ability to go beyond limits, recover, and resume a normal state.

So here’s what I did.  I got out the hose and used it to mark off a portion of lawn for landscaping that I’d previously earmarked, but only in my mind.  Then I proceeded to remove countless clumps of sod – dig-dig, grunt-grunt, heave-ho - and wheelbarrow them across the yard to form a tall, cloddy, pyramid-shaped dump pile.

I suppose this went on for, say, an hour and a half, at which time I took a break and ate a very large bowl of oatmeal swimming with butter and brown sugar.  (Carb-loading and/or emotional appeasement.)  Then I resumed digging for about another two hours.

Meanwhile, a boatload of light-blinded earthworms wriggled in disbelief as I removed their sod covering.  I could/should have gathered them for my fisherman-husband, but didn’t bother.  I was focused, or driven, or both.  No time for worms.  The sun shone warmly on my back.  I flexed my muscles.  I was not almost-62 after all, but some young-er thing doing young-ish activity.

It’s true the job required tedious, backbreaking labor, followed by leveling with the garden rake, after which I came inside and collapsed on the bed.  C-o-l-l-a-p-s-e-d.  Literally.  Actually, passed out is a better word.  For almost two hours.  Dead out.

At 5:30 I woke with a start, glared at the clock in disbelief, and realized what all housewives know to be true: dinner would not fix itself.  So I hopped up and started a batch of dough for French bread, browned a pound of venison and threw in some tomato sauce and seasonings to make sauce, boiled a handful of spaghetti, assembled our favorite portabella mushroom concoction (it’s incredible, stuffed with sautéed garlic and blue cheese - perhaps a blog topic for another day), and whipped up a Caesar salad with the most amazing homemade asiago-cheese dressing (ah yes, this dressing might also be discussed at the same time as the portabella-creation for a Mediterranean-themed blog).  Fortunately my hubby was late showing up for dinner – late as in exactly the right amount of late, not annoyingly late - and the timing worked out perfectly.  He was delighted with the menu, which of course raised the score on my it’s-really-all-worth-the-effort monitor, which in turn also encouraged the score for emotional resilience.

Then after dinner while he crashed in the recliner, I washed all the dishes/pots/pans (by hand) and cleaned up the kitchen, after which time I bounced energetically (do you believe me?) over to the couch to compose this blog. 

TA-DA!

And so, here I am, measuring the resilience factor (numbers and I have never been best friends, but I’m trying to stay true to topic) after having passed from crazy do-it-yourself gardener to recovering old lady to short order chef to janitor to blogger.  Amazingly, despite earlier predictions and more than a bit of concern during the collapse-on-the-bed-phase, my rubber band is not completely limp.   On a scale of 1 to 10, resilience currently seems to be hovering….hmmmmm….around a 5.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.

I guess it’s okay to not act your age sometimes and discover resilience is alive and well.  Of course tomorrow morning might be a different story….

Tea Time

Tea Time

Tea, anyone?  Mint (in the small flowery teapot) or orange spice (in the tall porcelain one)?  Or would you prefer fresh green lemonade served from an antique etched glass pitcher?!

Today as part of Josie’s third birthday celebration we had a tea party complete with dress-up clothes (hats, scarves, boas, gaudy necklaces, and a tiara for Josie), fine china and stemmed glassware, flowery napkins, and of course a variety of traditional, prettily displayed finger foods.  She looked quite grown-up after yesterday’s new haircut, and took the whole event in stride as if she were Alice in Wonderland and having a tea party was - of course - the expected activity-du-jour.

Enlarging Surprises

Yesterday various surprises kept showing up.  Some were small, some large, some in-between - some friendly, some challenging - but all unexpected.  For example, a magnificent blue heron swooshed out of some cattails as I walked nearby, not ten feet away.  A bit of communication brought to light a previously obscure, but critically important, reality.  A bottle of Goo-Gone solved a sticky remodel problem.  A neighbor disclosed a serious health concern.  A surprising plan surprisingly emerged for a unique surprise-of-a-party!

In these things and quite a few others I was surprised by grace.  Many years ago I wouldn’t have been able to make that statement; my understanding of God’s grace was weak, shallow, almost inconsequential.  I didn’t have eyes to see God at work in the details of life.  However, the longer I seek Him the more He responds, and the scales of blindness continue to fall away.  He is here.  He is involved.

As yesterday’s surprises played out a foundational reality struck me: He was compassionately PURSUING me.  Drawing me to Himself.  Comforting and renewing me.  Enlarging me.   

A Child's Hymn

A Child’s Hymn

By Charles Dickens

           Hear my prayer, O heavenly Father,

           Ere I lay me down to sleep;

           Bid Thy angels, pure and holy,

           Round my bed their vigil keep.

           

           My sins are heavy, but Thy mercy

           Far outweighs them, every one;

           Down before Thy cross I cast them,

           Trusting in Thy help alone.

           

           Keep me through this night of peril

           Underneath its boundless shade;

           Take me to Thy rest, I pray Thee,

           When my pilgrimage is made.

           

           None shall measure out Thy patience

           By the span of human thought;

           None shall bound the tender mercies

           Which Thy Holy Son has bought.

           

           Pardon all my past transgressions,

           Give me strength for days to come;

           Guide and guard me with Thy blessing

           Till Thy angels bid me home.

Empathy

Because of recent events and emerging circumstances/experiences/conversations, I have been poring over a certain character trait for the last couple of days: empathy.

I wonder why some people struggle to be empathetic at all, and others do it so very well, almost like an intuitive second language?  I also ponder my own inconsistencies in this area – why can I come alongside another who is hurting very easily at times, and yet at other times resist?

As a tangible expression of mercy and compassion, I believe empathy is sometimes the most an individual can offer another human being journeying through a difficult season of life.  And yet a person can’t be merciful unless he or she understands the source of humanity’s common denominator: pain. 

It has become obvious to me that the opposite of love is not hate, but rather fear  -  most likely fear of physical, emotional, or psychological pain.  And, the very wide spectrum of human emotions emanate from these two foundational realities: love and fear.

Those who have experienced genuine sacrificial love – openly received and shared it  – are not as hesitant to confront fear.  They know love’s power to bring down walls, heal wounds, and recreate hope so as not to ignore or perpetuate the fear, but rather transform it.

Others who think themselves above fear, or else squelch it in the name of control or some other kind of self-sufficiency, can’t understand or empathize with fear in others.  They can’t see love is the antidote.