If not one gift was exchanged this Christmas, could you still praise Me?
If you couldn't leave your house except to go for a 3 block ride to the grocery store, or a walk around your neighborhood, could you still praise Me?
If no work was in sight inspite of all your efforts and applications, could you still praise Me?
If not a bit of income has come your way in almost 3 months, could you still praise Me?
If you had to cash in and live off of all your change you had saved in a few little jars could you still praise Me?
If you feel you are eating the same boring, high carb foods day in and day out could you still praise Me?
If you go to the grocery store with 3 items on your list, and have to walk past the beautiful huge salad bar and all the lovely fresh produce you so long for but can't afford, could you still praise Me?
If you lie in bed each morning and night crying out to God, literally for hours, while holding the hand of your spouse, asking God why it feels He has abandoned you, could you still praise Me?
If your bills are piling higher than you can imagine with no means in sight to pay them, could you still praise Me?
If you had to watch the same movies you have in your own collection over and over again because you can't rent any, don't have satellite, can't afford Netflix or afford to go to the theater, could you still praise Me?
If you moved from a large home on 15 acres surrounded by flowers and veggie gardens to a small 800 sq ft duplex with a tiny backyard and not a flower planted in sight, could you still praise Me?
If you had to drink clorinated city water, instead of only the distilled water you've drank for years, could you still praise Me? (BTW, distilled is still best that fillered or purified water which has insoluable minerals added that your kidneys can't filter)
These questions were asked of me from God. And I responded through tears of feeling sorry for myself AND through tears of Joy, " YES, LORD, I sure can!!"
I can praise you because I have family to be with on Christmas.
I can praise you because I can walk on my own two feet instead of being bedridden.
I can praise you when no work is in sight, knowing you see my needs and I can spend more time singing new songs you give me and study your Word more.
I can praise you because I have a little change to buy our basic needs.
I can praise you because I do have food to eat, even though it is not choice food.
I can praise you because I live in a country where the grocery stores are plentiful and I can enjoy the vision of such beautiful produce and a grand salad bar.
I can praise you because even though I cry out to you in distress, You promise to hear me when I cry and to never leave me or forsake me.
I so praise You for Your Word.I can praise you because even though my bills are ever before me, in just a moment you can create a way through them and provide for our every need.
I can praise you because I do still have electricity so I can watch my own selection of movies on my big, awkward, outdated television.
I can praise you because I have a roof over my head and heat to stay warm, and a variety of flower pots to plant a small host of things come spring.
I can praise you for having to drink clorine in my water which is so harmful to me, but you said I could pick up any deadly thing and it would not harm me.
I trust in You to protect me. When more than 1/2 the world doesn't have fit water to drink, I can turn on a faucet and drink freely.
I praise You, oh God, because I am so blessed and mostly because You love me so much and delight in me. In times like these, and there's been many, I cling to You and You ALWAYS put a new song in my heart and on my lips!!(I guess I'm not the only one to feel this way.:) Read Habakkuk 3:17-19
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
His Hands
Thanksgiving Day was approaching its end. Friends, family, shared blessings and laughter had filled her house earlier this day. But now the night is quiet. She has spent the evening painting, doing last minute fall clean-up in the garden and taken a long thoughtful walk. Her kids have returned to their homes and her friends are busy with their lives. While she is enjoying the peace, there is a loneliness she can feel to her bones.
It’s cold outside. The cold has crept indoors and she hugs herself, bundling folds of sweater against her skin. She tries to preoccupy herself, fiddling about the kitchen. Against the window, a wind blows strong.
In the glass, above the sink, her reflection gazes back at her----eyes brown, and pupils deep and black—black as the night outside. The wind is as the wind that blows within her—restless, meandering, searching, howling –then whispering---bold and then frightening, seeming still at times but always ever moving.
For a moment, a second or an hour, she is not really certain, but she has been lost within herself.
A smile touches her lips-- a gentle curve of flesh. A tender giddiness stirs in her belly and the tickle wrinkles her eyes.
A thought. An image. A sound. A word. A name. Like the very first touch of the zephyr which precludes the hurricane, a presence has entered her mind.
The air is alive and energetic, crackling, fiery and bold. She sees her refection, now less translucent, more vibrant, more colorful and light shimmers and plays about the face which gazes back at her. Her face--- with a growing smile. And her hair shines and moves as though played by a tender touch.
“Marc.” Did she say the name? Was it in the air or was it just a thought?
She feels a hand---his hand--that presence. She cannot see him but she can feel him---his warmth---the heat---the tenderness---the passion. Her heart is beating faster and faster within her chest and she giggles, curling her lower lip and pinching it with her teeth. This is not possible. Marc has been away for months, deep in the jungles of Africa, without a word or promise of his return. Could this be? And yet his touch is not one easily forgotten. His hand---that definite feeling at her right hip—his thumb on her back and his fingers curved around her waist. That feeling of a man standing right behind her—taller, caring, commanding and protective. And that inescapable sensation of breathing, coming from the space by her ear.
His second hand touches her, now on her left hip----firm and sure. She glances down and watches his hands move over her baggy sweater. She laughs nervously and looks back up.
She feels the warmth and affection coming from his form behind her. She reaches up and behind her head and places her hands in his disheveled hair. Something awakens from inside her inner most being.
His touch is so natural---real---accepted. He stands behind her as tangible as her own flesh-- His mouth next to her ear and his hands pulling at her hips, drawing her close to himself--- The muscles in her face tremble involuntarily. Suddenly she feels self-conscious and vulnerable, but he quickly relaxes her insecurity by placing his arms over hers and wrapping them in front of her body, feeling his breath against her face as he holds her tight.
Her head lolls to the side as his mouth moves to her neck. He kisses along the line of her neck---following the curves, the vein, the muscle. His mouth is warm on her flesh---thus sending a warmth all through her body.
“Melody,” he speaks her name. His voice is deep and rich---articulate. There is warmth and affection in it----and desire. Her breath catches in her throat like a hiccup and a tear finds it’s way down her cheek voluntarily. “I’m home,” his voice promised. Suddenly her legs could no longer find the strength to hold her to her feet. The steadiness of his hands reinforced security to her emotional state. Thank God, was the thought that kept resounding from her heart. Yes, thank God.
She’d found comfort in the love of her family and friends and a peace that was her mainstay--- her constant---through her trust in her God. Nothing could have completed this day----this day of Thanksgiving, as much as the unexpected, yet undeniable refuge from the warmth of his hands.
It’s cold outside. The cold has crept indoors and she hugs herself, bundling folds of sweater against her skin. She tries to preoccupy herself, fiddling about the kitchen. Against the window, a wind blows strong.
In the glass, above the sink, her reflection gazes back at her----eyes brown, and pupils deep and black—black as the night outside. The wind is as the wind that blows within her—restless, meandering, searching, howling –then whispering---bold and then frightening, seeming still at times but always ever moving.
For a moment, a second or an hour, she is not really certain, but she has been lost within herself.
A smile touches her lips-- a gentle curve of flesh. A tender giddiness stirs in her belly and the tickle wrinkles her eyes.
A thought. An image. A sound. A word. A name. Like the very first touch of the zephyr which precludes the hurricane, a presence has entered her mind.
The air is alive and energetic, crackling, fiery and bold. She sees her refection, now less translucent, more vibrant, more colorful and light shimmers and plays about the face which gazes back at her. Her face--- with a growing smile. And her hair shines and moves as though played by a tender touch.
“Marc.” Did she say the name? Was it in the air or was it just a thought?
She feels a hand---his hand--that presence. She cannot see him but she can feel him---his warmth---the heat---the tenderness---the passion. Her heart is beating faster and faster within her chest and she giggles, curling her lower lip and pinching it with her teeth. This is not possible. Marc has been away for months, deep in the jungles of Africa, without a word or promise of his return. Could this be? And yet his touch is not one easily forgotten. His hand---that definite feeling at her right hip—his thumb on her back and his fingers curved around her waist. That feeling of a man standing right behind her—taller, caring, commanding and protective. And that inescapable sensation of breathing, coming from the space by her ear.
His second hand touches her, now on her left hip----firm and sure. She glances down and watches his hands move over her baggy sweater. She laughs nervously and looks back up.
She feels the warmth and affection coming from his form behind her. She reaches up and behind her head and places her hands in his disheveled hair. Something awakens from inside her inner most being.
His touch is so natural---real---accepted. He stands behind her as tangible as her own flesh-- His mouth next to her ear and his hands pulling at her hips, drawing her close to himself--- The muscles in her face tremble involuntarily. Suddenly she feels self-conscious and vulnerable, but he quickly relaxes her insecurity by placing his arms over hers and wrapping them in front of her body, feeling his breath against her face as he holds her tight.
Her head lolls to the side as his mouth moves to her neck. He kisses along the line of her neck---following the curves, the vein, the muscle. His mouth is warm on her flesh---thus sending a warmth all through her body.
“Melody,” he speaks her name. His voice is deep and rich---articulate. There is warmth and affection in it----and desire. Her breath catches in her throat like a hiccup and a tear finds it’s way down her cheek voluntarily. “I’m home,” his voice promised. Suddenly her legs could no longer find the strength to hold her to her feet. The steadiness of his hands reinforced security to her emotional state. Thank God, was the thought that kept resounding from her heart. Yes, thank God.
She’d found comfort in the love of her family and friends and a peace that was her mainstay--- her constant---through her trust in her God. Nothing could have completed this day----this day of Thanksgiving, as much as the unexpected, yet undeniable refuge from the warmth of his hands.
Tornado
Girls, get your clothes on, quick, I believe a tornado is coming!” Areta’s mom yelled nervously, then left the room.I remember taking time to put on my bra, of all things, which I didn’t really need anyway, while my friend, Areta, just donned a pair of shorts to go with her pajama top and ran for the living room. The wind was howling so loud outside and the windows in the bedroom were moving like they were breathing. It was 3:15 am. I recall running to the living room, past the huge upright piano and sitting on the couch, shaking, trying to get my tennis shoes on. Tom, Areta’s dad stood at the front door of their double wide mobile home, just moving his head in bewilderment from side to side, saying, “We’re gonna have to run for it to Mrs. Claire’s cellar.” The thought of stepping outdoors into that piercing sound from the wind and the beating rain caused my stomach to turn. I was holding my comb in my hand, when, in an instant, the house moved forward then backward, in jerking movements. Mark,(Areta’s little brother) Areta and I were falling over each other on the couch from the force of the rocking motion. It happened again, only faster and with more force and the sound was so loud I couldn’t hear what Tom was yelling from the front door. I was sitting on the end of the couch next to the window. I glanced out and could not see a thing, but something was hitting the glass. I covered my head with my arms, still holding my comb in one hand. I was falling. This thought entered my mind in that second, 'Well Lord, I guess I’m coming to see you.' I don’t remember anything after that, everything went black, until I came to and discovered I was sitting on the ceiling next to the light fixture, in what used to be the living room. The upright piano had landed within inches of my feet. I was crying----and shaking. Areta took my hand and I could feel Mark’s elbow nudging right up against me. He was crying too. Somehow, I could feel water spraying on me from the rain. How could this be? I looked to see the front door was gone----in fact, the whole wall for that matter was gone where the door used to be. Tom Jr., Areta’s older brother, 18 years old, grabbed my hand and uttered in a loud voice, “Come on, let’s go, NOW!” I couldn’t move for fear. “No,” I replied, terrified and in shock. “I’m staying right here.” “Oh no you aren’t.” he replied rather harshly. He grabbed me by the waist and flung me to my feet, all 84 pounds of me. I dropped my comb. Suddenly it didn’t seem important to me that my hair was frizzing by the second and the curls were, by now, even out of my control from the use of that comb.Tom Sr. came up from behind me, just as I was trying to steady my feet through rubble of the demolished wall and parts of the floor dangling over my head, where I was attempting to make my way to the grass outside. With each of them on either side of me, and my arms locked in theirs, it was all a blur, and I vaguely remember the haze of obscurity, while my feet barely touched the ground from the force that lifted me like a feather, as we sprinted through the beating wind and rain to Mrs. Claire’s cellar. I was 14 years old, spending the night with my best friend, the night that tornado tore through their home at 3:20 in the morning and implanted a fear in my heart for many years to come, every time I heard the wind bellow and wail and hurl rain anywhere in my direction.Fear----it’s a terrible thing. Something not so easily cast aside. One night, two years later-----the wind was mimicking the very force I remember from that tornado I had encountered. I laid literally shaking in my bed, feeling foolish that a 16 year old girl could harbor such dread in the face of such a storm. I prayed, I cried, and finally to no avail, I threw the covers back and tiptoed hurriedly to my parents bedroom at the other end of the mobile home where we were living.I gently tapped my mom on the shoulder, but it didn’t matter how calmly I tried to be as to not startle her, she still jerked and was jolted awake.“What? What’s wrong?” she whispered.“Ma-ma, I can’t sleep because of the wind. Please let me get in between you and Daddy. At least just for a little while.”She pulled the covers back and I quietly crawled into my haven of rest, snuggled next to my mom and dad. “Dawne, you’re shaking.” She spoke in a hushed tone.“I know Ma-ma, I can’t help it.” I could feel a tear rolled down the side of my face and onto the sheet. It didn’t take long though, before my body calmed and I went to sleep. Now, here I am faced with yet another storm in my life. The wind is howling and tossing me to and fro and where can I go to find a haven of rest? I’m grown, yet the fear that grips me is just as it was the night that tornado tore through my friend's house and left us in devastation and homeless. Where’s the hand that reached down to pick me up and run for cover? Where’s the comfort I felt the night a battle was raging inside of me from a storm stirring on the outside, as I found peace in the shelter of my parents’ bed? I lay in bed and close my eyes. I place my right hand to my chest and feel the beating of my heart. And then I speak in a whisper to myself, “Peace.” Yes, peace. I can walk through this tornado in my life and face the winds as they blow knowing I can and will find peace.
The Forbidden Orange Rose
As I opened the screened back door, heading for grandma’s garden, I heard her voice from the kitchen window, just as my feet stepped in front of the old broken birdbath.
”Sugar, remember, don’t pick any of the orange roses.” She said in her southern drawl.
She didn’t have to remind me again. I already knew the orange roses were off limits. I
often played in her flower garden, all alone, among the vibrant daylilies, the heavenly
smell of gardenias, towering hollyhocks, clematis, the dainty flowers of the crape myrtle
trees, and ah yes, the roses. Grandma loved her roses, especially her big fragrant orange
ones.
“I know Grandma, I know!” I yelled back towards the window.
I was only 7 years old at the time, standing in the midst of my grandmother’s flower
garden, looking through the chain linked fence, which separated her back yard from the
neighbors back yard. I remember trying to hide behind the tall hollyhocks and the purple
trailing clematis as I would stare intently through the fence at the mom and dad of a
crippled deaf boy in a wheelchair, as they signed back and forth, forming words with
their hands. I was mesmerized to say the least.
Trying to not make a sound, I would mimmick certains movements they did as they
spoke to him without any clamor from their lips. I wanted so badly to be able to speak to
that boy, who seemed to me, at my young age, to be about 16 or 17 years old. What kind
of world would that be like, to live each day without the sound of laughter, or to hear the
birds sing early in the morning before all the world was awake, or even to hear another
person’s voice spill out those three cherished words, I love you?
Sometimes, while standing there, hidden under the shade of the leaves, I would have such
a compassion and longing to communicate to him with my own hands, that tears would
well up in my eyes. I vowed to myself, right then, that when I got “big” I was
going to learn the language that formed words by gestures from the hands.
But on this day I felt brave. I was going to walk around that fence and enter into the deaf
boy’s world. I quietly stepped back away from the barrier, trying not to let his parents
hear me. As I turned to head towards the end of the fence and into his yard, I couldn’t
help but noticed the “forbidden” orange rose growing right there in my pathway. I
glanced toward the kitchen window, where Grandma stood to do her dishes, but she
wasn’t there. Should I? And before I gave it a second thought, my hand had broken off a
delicate bloom from the prized possession. I quickly hurried around the end of the fence
and walked right up to the deaf boy, who sat so still, and so sad looking in his wheelchair.
I took the orange rose that was hidden from behind my back and presented it to him
nervously and then smiled through an untamed curl that had fallen in front of one of my
eyes, from a head full of dark brown ringlets. He reached out to brush the stray curl from
my face and smiled at me, and in the next second that followed, I swiftly turned and
rushed back to Grandma’s side of the fence.
As I recall that day many years ago, I’m not sure why I ran. Was it because I was
embarrassed by the touch of a boy who could hold words in his hands or because I had
just committed the cardinal sin of picking the “forbidden” orange rose?
Years would pass and I would indeed go on to Bible college and learn the language of the
crippled deaf boy who stirred a passion in me to go beyond language barriers and
limitations of communication with the deaf. By forming words with my hands, I could
bring love, life, and a smile to the faces of those who may have never heard the sounds
like the ones I loved to hear in my grandma’s garden. Little did I know that my first
conversation from my hands, was clearly understood, the day I delivered the forbidden
orange rose to the deaf boy from my youth.
”Sugar, remember, don’t pick any of the orange roses.” She said in her southern drawl.
She didn’t have to remind me again. I already knew the orange roses were off limits. I
often played in her flower garden, all alone, among the vibrant daylilies, the heavenly
smell of gardenias, towering hollyhocks, clematis, the dainty flowers of the crape myrtle
trees, and ah yes, the roses. Grandma loved her roses, especially her big fragrant orange
ones.
“I know Grandma, I know!” I yelled back towards the window.
I was only 7 years old at the time, standing in the midst of my grandmother’s flower
garden, looking through the chain linked fence, which separated her back yard from the
neighbors back yard. I remember trying to hide behind the tall hollyhocks and the purple
trailing clematis as I would stare intently through the fence at the mom and dad of a
crippled deaf boy in a wheelchair, as they signed back and forth, forming words with
their hands. I was mesmerized to say the least.
Trying to not make a sound, I would mimmick certains movements they did as they
spoke to him without any clamor from their lips. I wanted so badly to be able to speak to
that boy, who seemed to me, at my young age, to be about 16 or 17 years old. What kind
of world would that be like, to live each day without the sound of laughter, or to hear the
birds sing early in the morning before all the world was awake, or even to hear another
person’s voice spill out those three cherished words, I love you?
Sometimes, while standing there, hidden under the shade of the leaves, I would have such
a compassion and longing to communicate to him with my own hands, that tears would
well up in my eyes. I vowed to myself, right then, that when I got “big” I was
going to learn the language that formed words by gestures from the hands.
But on this day I felt brave. I was going to walk around that fence and enter into the deaf
boy’s world. I quietly stepped back away from the barrier, trying not to let his parents
hear me. As I turned to head towards the end of the fence and into his yard, I couldn’t
help but noticed the “forbidden” orange rose growing right there in my pathway. I
glanced toward the kitchen window, where Grandma stood to do her dishes, but she
wasn’t there. Should I? And before I gave it a second thought, my hand had broken off a
delicate bloom from the prized possession. I quickly hurried around the end of the fence
and walked right up to the deaf boy, who sat so still, and so sad looking in his wheelchair.
I took the orange rose that was hidden from behind my back and presented it to him
nervously and then smiled through an untamed curl that had fallen in front of one of my
eyes, from a head full of dark brown ringlets. He reached out to brush the stray curl from
my face and smiled at me, and in the next second that followed, I swiftly turned and
rushed back to Grandma’s side of the fence.
As I recall that day many years ago, I’m not sure why I ran. Was it because I was
embarrassed by the touch of a boy who could hold words in his hands or because I had
just committed the cardinal sin of picking the “forbidden” orange rose?
Years would pass and I would indeed go on to Bible college and learn the language of the
crippled deaf boy who stirred a passion in me to go beyond language barriers and
limitations of communication with the deaf. By forming words with my hands, I could
bring love, life, and a smile to the faces of those who may have never heard the sounds
like the ones I loved to hear in my grandma’s garden. Little did I know that my first
conversation from my hands, was clearly understood, the day I delivered the forbidden
orange rose to the deaf boy from my youth.
JESUS, The Carpenter's Life and Death
He was raised
with a hammer
and nails
In His hands.
He died
with a hammer
and nails
In His Hands.
with a hammer
and nails
In His hands.
He died
with a hammer
and nails
In His Hands.
My Daddy's Lilac
Not quite a month before my daddy died, he showed up at my front door, with a tiny twig in his hand and barely enough roots attached to suggest anything would ever come of this frail plant.
Well, I knew instantly where this little slip of a shrub had come from. My dad and I had each been members of the National Audubon Society for several years, so upon each renewal of membership, one usually receives 10 free trees with your membership renewal. I remember how excited I was to anticipate the arrival of my very first 10 new trees, 5 of which were flowering. Much to my surprise, all ten trees arrived with their roots wrapped in a small amount of damp paper and all 10 trees fit into a plastic bag approximently 5 inches wide and 2 feet long. Yep, that tells you how big the trees were. None of them were even close to 1/2 the diameter of a pencil and barely 9 to 12 inches high. Nonetheless, I would deligently plant all ten in a safe place in my herb garden soil to pamper them through their first year of growth.
"Here Dawne, I thought you may want to get this lilac in the ground before it dies too," he said.
"What do you mean before it dies too?" I asked.
" Well, I've held onto them too long since they arrived in the mail and they've all died but this one, and I just don't think I will be able to get this one in the ground," he replied rather softly and with his eyes saddened.
"Daddy, I can come plant it for you," I responded, hoping to lift the solemn atmosphere a little.
"No, you keep it, I don't think I'll ever get to see it even leaf out, but I couldn't stand to see all 10 of them die. I think this one is purple, your favorite color, but I'm not sure, I just knew you'd see to it it got in the ground." he added.
"Daddy." My voice trailed.
Much happened and precious words were shared during the next 2 weeks he came to stay with me, none of which I will share at this time. But, I planted Daddy's lilac in an old black gallon plastic pot, and sat it in the shade on the east side of the house, where it got watered faithfully. We had bought a new place in town but hadn't moved yet, and I didn't want to plant daddy's lilac anywhere I wasn't going to be living.
My husband built me a beautiful rock-walled garden at the new property in town and there is where I transplanted daddy's lilac, when it was merely just a 10" twig, along with the 135 other perennials and 22 shurb cuttings I brought from our place in the country. Two years later the heavenly scented lilac bloomed for the very first time. Now, five and a half years after I potted it, it stands towering over me and nearly 4 feet wide.
Daddy used to stop by my house in the country, on occassion, on his way back from the Pastor's Prayer meetings he attended every Thursday. Sometimes he would only stop to say hi and give me a hug, other times we would walk through my gardens, me always barefooted, him in one of his many hats, and we'd discuss the future of our nation, the collapsing economy, the "end times" or sustainable living. Topics that we never seemed to tire of, yet, seemed to be a lot less interesting to others. I'd stop to pick a few blossoms of whatever was blooming at the time, or pick a leaf of chocolate mint to stick up in his nose to make him take a whiff, or snatch a leaf from my numerous lamb's ear plants, to have him feel the incredible softness of the fuzzy leaves, just like the true touch of a little lamb's ear. He tolerated my giddy excitement of all things concerning my gardens, with his twinkle-eyed soft smile, his slow gate of a walk, the brush of his hand over a nearby shrub, or just his silent stance as his took in the peacefulness of the pastoral scene. He too, loved nature of all kind: animals, flower and herb gardens, rocks and hills, rivers and streams, trees and yes, shrubs.
Was he trying to tell me something that day he handed me that thin, fraile twig of a lilac? The lilac he didn't want to see die too? Did he really mean "too" as in the other 9 little trees that had already died, or "too" as in himself?
Either way, it doesn't really matter now. What does matter is my Daddy's lilac is alive and flourishing, filling me with beautiful sights and heavenly scents each and every spring and memories of one of the greatest men in my life to last a lifetime. (Daddy's Lilac just happens to be the background for my blogspot)
Well, I knew instantly where this little slip of a shrub had come from. My dad and I had each been members of the National Audubon Society for several years, so upon each renewal of membership, one usually receives 10 free trees with your membership renewal. I remember how excited I was to anticipate the arrival of my very first 10 new trees, 5 of which were flowering. Much to my surprise, all ten trees arrived with their roots wrapped in a small amount of damp paper and all 10 trees fit into a plastic bag approximently 5 inches wide and 2 feet long. Yep, that tells you how big the trees were. None of them were even close to 1/2 the diameter of a pencil and barely 9 to 12 inches high. Nonetheless, I would deligently plant all ten in a safe place in my herb garden soil to pamper them through their first year of growth.
"Here Dawne, I thought you may want to get this lilac in the ground before it dies too," he said.
"What do you mean before it dies too?" I asked.
" Well, I've held onto them too long since they arrived in the mail and they've all died but this one, and I just don't think I will be able to get this one in the ground," he replied rather softly and with his eyes saddened.
"Daddy, I can come plant it for you," I responded, hoping to lift the solemn atmosphere a little.
"No, you keep it, I don't think I'll ever get to see it even leaf out, but I couldn't stand to see all 10 of them die. I think this one is purple, your favorite color, but I'm not sure, I just knew you'd see to it it got in the ground." he added.
"Daddy." My voice trailed.
Much happened and precious words were shared during the next 2 weeks he came to stay with me, none of which I will share at this time. But, I planted Daddy's lilac in an old black gallon plastic pot, and sat it in the shade on the east side of the house, where it got watered faithfully. We had bought a new place in town but hadn't moved yet, and I didn't want to plant daddy's lilac anywhere I wasn't going to be living.
My husband built me a beautiful rock-walled garden at the new property in town and there is where I transplanted daddy's lilac, when it was merely just a 10" twig, along with the 135 other perennials and 22 shurb cuttings I brought from our place in the country. Two years later the heavenly scented lilac bloomed for the very first time. Now, five and a half years after I potted it, it stands towering over me and nearly 4 feet wide.
Daddy used to stop by my house in the country, on occassion, on his way back from the Pastor's Prayer meetings he attended every Thursday. Sometimes he would only stop to say hi and give me a hug, other times we would walk through my gardens, me always barefooted, him in one of his many hats, and we'd discuss the future of our nation, the collapsing economy, the "end times" or sustainable living. Topics that we never seemed to tire of, yet, seemed to be a lot less interesting to others. I'd stop to pick a few blossoms of whatever was blooming at the time, or pick a leaf of chocolate mint to stick up in his nose to make him take a whiff, or snatch a leaf from my numerous lamb's ear plants, to have him feel the incredible softness of the fuzzy leaves, just like the true touch of a little lamb's ear. He tolerated my giddy excitement of all things concerning my gardens, with his twinkle-eyed soft smile, his slow gate of a walk, the brush of his hand over a nearby shrub, or just his silent stance as his took in the peacefulness of the pastoral scene. He too, loved nature of all kind: animals, flower and herb gardens, rocks and hills, rivers and streams, trees and yes, shrubs.
Was he trying to tell me something that day he handed me that thin, fraile twig of a lilac? The lilac he didn't want to see die too? Did he really mean "too" as in the other 9 little trees that had already died, or "too" as in himself?
Either way, it doesn't really matter now. What does matter is my Daddy's lilac is alive and flourishing, filling me with beautiful sights and heavenly scents each and every spring and memories of one of the greatest men in my life to last a lifetime. (Daddy's Lilac just happens to be the background for my blogspot)
Dining Delights
Someone once asked me, “If you had to choose two of your favorite restaurants, which two would you choose?” That poses a very difficult question for me. It’s no secret that I love a wide diversity of ethnic foods, or as a friend of mine would say “strange foods.” I’m game for just about anything other than the typical “Standard American Diet.” So after a moment of thought, I’d have to say that two of my favorite restaurants are Ri-Le’s, which is Vietnamese food, and Ichiban’s, which is Japanese.
As I drive into the parking lot of Ri-Le’s, on 91st and Yale in Tulsa, the saliva juices in my mouth start to water at the mere thought of putting a fork full of incredibly tasteful food into my mouth. As I open the entrance door to the restaurant, not only does the keen sense of smell kick in with the aroma of garlic, ginger, basil and peanut sauce, but the ambiance of the fairly small setting places me mentally into that foreign land, Vietnam. Although not elaborately decorated, it is warm and inviting with a peaceful feeling in the atmosphere. With red being the predominant color, paintings and wall-hangings from Vietnam hang artistically and unpretentiously on the walls. On one wall hangs the many awards the restaurant has received as one of the best restaurants in Tulsa, over the course of the years in business. Also on display are numerous reviews and excellent ratings from food magazines as well as the New York Times. I am greeted by a petite and beautiful young Vietnamese girl who is the daughter of the owner, Ri-Le. Because I frequent this place as often as I can, she knows my face and without asking, seats me at a table and quickly disappears only to return with my favorite, hot jasmine tea in a small cast-iron tea pot along side the tiny handleless tea cup, from which to savor the soothing hot drink. Even though the menu has a wide variety of selections to choose from, I have my favorites. Ri-Le specializes in tofu and tempeh dishes which taste surprisingly like meat, although these amazing dishes are made of a soybean product instead. Ri-Le, dressed in his native linen pants and shirt, comes out from the kitchen, places his hands behind his back, and with his genuine smile and friendly eyes, asks in his broken English, “ Hello, you have you favorite dish today and you fresh basil rolls?” I excitedly reply, “Yes, of course.” Moments later ,while I am sipping my jasmine tea, the waitress returns with my order of basil rolls and peanut dipping sauce. Wrapped in softened rice paper, almost like a thin, translucent tortilla, are rice vermicelli noodles, thinly sliced carrots, bean sprouts, tofu, and basil leaves. As I dip the roll into the spicy peanut sauce and take my first bite, I am immediately in heaven. Moments later a small bowl of steamed rice is delivered to me with another bowl turned upside down on top of it to keep the rice warm. Then out comes the two main dishes: soy ginger “chicken” with vegetables and soy cashew “beef” with strawberries and vegetables. Now neither of these dishes actually have meat in them but one would never know that if I didn’t reveal the secret. The servings are so large that I am never able to eat all that is before me, but that doesn’t disappoint me because I take the leftovers home and gladly enjoy another complete meal out of them. I can not think of one time I have ever been unhappy while dining at Ri-Le’s, and able to reap the benefits of such a fine meal for under the price of about twelve dollars per person.
My other favorite place to eat is Ichiban’s Japanese Restaurant and Sushi Bar in Joplin, Missouri. It too is a fairly small unnoticeable place, but the food is anything but unnoticeable. Entering into the front door of this obscure little restaurant, I am faced with long pieces of cloth, covered with Japanese writings and flowers, which hang from the ceiling. As I part the fabric and step inside, I stand there waiting to be seated. I take in my dimly lit surroundings: red and black Japanese paper lanterns, black tables and chairs, large bamboo plants, and the sushi bar. Eddie, the Japanese waiter, whom I’ve come to know on a first-name basis, greets me with a slight bow and seats me at my favorite table, which is two steps up and to the left of the front entrance room, second table on the left. He pulls the chair out for me, places the main menu and sushi menu and pencil down in front of me, and says, “You want your Japanese green tea today?” I reply, “That sounds good, yes.” Now this green tea is not served from a tea bag but rather a delicious blend of dried loose leaves steeped and then strained. It is simply the best green tea I have ever tasted. As I sip my hot tea from the large pottery handleless cup, I scan the sushi menu with pencil in hand, ready to make my selections. I absolutely can not place only one order of sushi, but two and sometimes three instead. I usually choose Sakura, which is steamed octopus rolled in rice and a nori sheet(seaweed), with cucumber, avocado and cream cheese, topped with a warm cream cheese sauce, slightly melted. I also choose Unagi, which is baked eel, slightly salty, with a very distinct flavor like none other, which is rolled also with rice and avocado and topped with a spicy eel sauce and macadamian nuts. As I wait for my sushi to be made fresh by the lady and the man behind the glass sushi bar, I also place an order of Edamame, which is steamed soybeans in their pods sprinkled with coarse salt. I enjoy placing the whole pod in between my teeth and pulling the beans out from within, and sucking on the pods to get the salt off. When my sushi arrives, I take my small dish and make a mixture of wasabi paste, which is Japanese horseradish and then add some soy sauce. While holding the chopsticks in my hand correctly, I pick up one of the eight pieces that comes to an order and dip it in the concoction and place the whole thing in my mouth. There is nothing like good sushi. I have eaten sushi all over the United States and even in Hong Kong and I would have to say that Ichiban’s is right up there with the best. As I finish my meal of edamame, sushi, and several cups of green tea, I sit satisfied that I can possibly make it another month or so until I can visit again. My bill usually comes to about 25 to 30 dollars, but it is worth every penny.
When I go out to eat, American food is never on my list of choices. If I can’t eat some kind of ethnic food, then I would just as soon stay home and cook an exotic dish myself. But I have to thank God for two of my favorite restaurants, Ri-Le’s and Ichiban’s. What a pleasure it is to take the time and money to experience such dining delights!
As I drive into the parking lot of Ri-Le’s, on 91st and Yale in Tulsa, the saliva juices in my mouth start to water at the mere thought of putting a fork full of incredibly tasteful food into my mouth. As I open the entrance door to the restaurant, not only does the keen sense of smell kick in with the aroma of garlic, ginger, basil and peanut sauce, but the ambiance of the fairly small setting places me mentally into that foreign land, Vietnam. Although not elaborately decorated, it is warm and inviting with a peaceful feeling in the atmosphere. With red being the predominant color, paintings and wall-hangings from Vietnam hang artistically and unpretentiously on the walls. On one wall hangs the many awards the restaurant has received as one of the best restaurants in Tulsa, over the course of the years in business. Also on display are numerous reviews and excellent ratings from food magazines as well as the New York Times. I am greeted by a petite and beautiful young Vietnamese girl who is the daughter of the owner, Ri-Le. Because I frequent this place as often as I can, she knows my face and without asking, seats me at a table and quickly disappears only to return with my favorite, hot jasmine tea in a small cast-iron tea pot along side the tiny handleless tea cup, from which to savor the soothing hot drink. Even though the menu has a wide variety of selections to choose from, I have my favorites. Ri-Le specializes in tofu and tempeh dishes which taste surprisingly like meat, although these amazing dishes are made of a soybean product instead. Ri-Le, dressed in his native linen pants and shirt, comes out from the kitchen, places his hands behind his back, and with his genuine smile and friendly eyes, asks in his broken English, “ Hello, you have you favorite dish today and you fresh basil rolls?” I excitedly reply, “Yes, of course.” Moments later ,while I am sipping my jasmine tea, the waitress returns with my order of basil rolls and peanut dipping sauce. Wrapped in softened rice paper, almost like a thin, translucent tortilla, are rice vermicelli noodles, thinly sliced carrots, bean sprouts, tofu, and basil leaves. As I dip the roll into the spicy peanut sauce and take my first bite, I am immediately in heaven. Moments later a small bowl of steamed rice is delivered to me with another bowl turned upside down on top of it to keep the rice warm. Then out comes the two main dishes: soy ginger “chicken” with vegetables and soy cashew “beef” with strawberries and vegetables. Now neither of these dishes actually have meat in them but one would never know that if I didn’t reveal the secret. The servings are so large that I am never able to eat all that is before me, but that doesn’t disappoint me because I take the leftovers home and gladly enjoy another complete meal out of them. I can not think of one time I have ever been unhappy while dining at Ri-Le’s, and able to reap the benefits of such a fine meal for under the price of about twelve dollars per person.
My other favorite place to eat is Ichiban’s Japanese Restaurant and Sushi Bar in Joplin, Missouri. It too is a fairly small unnoticeable place, but the food is anything but unnoticeable. Entering into the front door of this obscure little restaurant, I am faced with long pieces of cloth, covered with Japanese writings and flowers, which hang from the ceiling. As I part the fabric and step inside, I stand there waiting to be seated. I take in my dimly lit surroundings: red and black Japanese paper lanterns, black tables and chairs, large bamboo plants, and the sushi bar. Eddie, the Japanese waiter, whom I’ve come to know on a first-name basis, greets me with a slight bow and seats me at my favorite table, which is two steps up and to the left of the front entrance room, second table on the left. He pulls the chair out for me, places the main menu and sushi menu and pencil down in front of me, and says, “You want your Japanese green tea today?” I reply, “That sounds good, yes.” Now this green tea is not served from a tea bag but rather a delicious blend of dried loose leaves steeped and then strained. It is simply the best green tea I have ever tasted. As I sip my hot tea from the large pottery handleless cup, I scan the sushi menu with pencil in hand, ready to make my selections. I absolutely can not place only one order of sushi, but two and sometimes three instead. I usually choose Sakura, which is steamed octopus rolled in rice and a nori sheet(seaweed), with cucumber, avocado and cream cheese, topped with a warm cream cheese sauce, slightly melted. I also choose Unagi, which is baked eel, slightly salty, with a very distinct flavor like none other, which is rolled also with rice and avocado and topped with a spicy eel sauce and macadamian nuts. As I wait for my sushi to be made fresh by the lady and the man behind the glass sushi bar, I also place an order of Edamame, which is steamed soybeans in their pods sprinkled with coarse salt. I enjoy placing the whole pod in between my teeth and pulling the beans out from within, and sucking on the pods to get the salt off. When my sushi arrives, I take my small dish and make a mixture of wasabi paste, which is Japanese horseradish and then add some soy sauce. While holding the chopsticks in my hand correctly, I pick up one of the eight pieces that comes to an order and dip it in the concoction and place the whole thing in my mouth. There is nothing like good sushi. I have eaten sushi all over the United States and even in Hong Kong and I would have to say that Ichiban’s is right up there with the best. As I finish my meal of edamame, sushi, and several cups of green tea, I sit satisfied that I can possibly make it another month or so until I can visit again. My bill usually comes to about 25 to 30 dollars, but it is worth every penny.
When I go out to eat, American food is never on my list of choices. If I can’t eat some kind of ethnic food, then I would just as soon stay home and cook an exotic dish myself. But I have to thank God for two of my favorite restaurants, Ri-Le’s and Ichiban’s. What a pleasure it is to take the time and money to experience such dining delights!
Nature's Attack
It wasn’t really my job to mow the grass anymore, but the green blades were growing out of control with all the rain we had endured, and I just couldn’t take it any longer. So I hopped on the riding lawn mower and set out to enjoy the beauty around me, in hopes to take the monotony out of the dreaded chore itself. But, nature does not always pacify us with pleasure, but can be rather annoying when it attacks without warning, by way of a giant green locust.
As I started my rotations around and around the rocky, irregular hillside in my backyard, I was destined to accomplish this chore and return to my air-conditioned house. It was almost 100 degrees outside, and I quickly became too hot and bored with the whole scenario. Because it had been a very long time since I had sat behind the wheel of that lawn mover, I had forgotten how much it truly vibrated every part of my being. Any part of my body that was not tightly secured jiggled freely to the motion of the ride. My arms grew tired and heavy, fighting the tough steering wheel, and I was shaking to my very core, while enduring this fitful motion. The sweat was pooling under my thighs on that hot, sticky vinyl seat, as I cornered the south fence line. With a sharp turn of the wheel, my legs nearly slid right off the sweat-filled seat, making it nearly impossible for me to stay put and to finish the task at hand. If it wasn’t for the beauty around me to take in, the heat from the blazing sun and the aggravation of holding onto that vibrating steering wheel, I could not have completed the job set before me.
The scenery was quite pastoral, in spite of the disturbing ride. To the south of our acreage is an aged, time-worn red barn, surrounded by gentle rolling grasslands, dotted with large, old red oak trees. Grazing peacefully shy and quite picturesque-like are about twenty sheep, not counting the young, snow white lambs, with their coal black faces, still nursing on their mothers. Towards the west, is a vast sprawling meadow, separated by a meandering, spring-fed creek, that leads into the lake farther south. Just beyond the creek is a boulder and tree covered hillside, where dogwoods and redbuds break forth into a pallet of white and purple come springtime. Brilliant white-barked sycamores and stunning maples perform a grand finale come fall. An occasional deer or two will bound quickly out of sight, or any number of rabbits can be seen disappearing into the blackberry bushes. It doesn’t take much for me to get lost in the splendor of the whole place. While gazing out beyond the barn, looking to the lake, I was jolted back into reality, when the front right tire landed abruptly into a rocky hole and then bounced its way back up into the designated path. With a heavy sigh I wiped my clammy brow and continued on.
I really needed to get my mind off of this duty at hand, so I started to sing. I did not hold back at all where volume was concerned. I belted out every line and chorus to one of my favorite worship songs, with all the fervor and feeling of a famous opera singer. Mouth wide open, pronouncing each word with clarity, as if I were trying out for the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir, my voice rang out to all the sheep, which had long since, stood at attention from the bothersome roar of the small engine I was directing. It was momentarily a nice thought, to think that I held such command with my magnificently articulate tones. But, if I couldn’t even hear myself singing over the agitated sound, surely, none of the sheep could hear me either. None-the-less, I continued as if God Himself stopped everything He was doing, just to lend His ear to me. (Which He probably did.) My mouth was opened wide, finishing the last stanza of my song, when a huge, and I mean huge, green winged locust flew directly into my mouth! My reflexes caused me to immediately hit the brake and I hacked and choked until it’s large, beating wings came flying out of my mouth. Gross! I sat stunned for a moment trying to grasp what had just taken place. It seemed I was the only one out of sync. All my surroundings were exactly as they were just a moment before, except for me and the three inch, wing-span locust. A locust! Do you realize how big a locust is? Does that say something for just how huge my mouth must be? Or was God trying to tell me something? Oh wait a minute. I know. It was a sign. That’s it, a sign. I was never suppose to be on that riding lawn mower in the first place.
Regaining my composure for my audience of sheep, and feeling a bit shaken, I came to the sad fact, that someone with such songs of grandeur should never have to hold such a lowly state, as on the sticky, old seat of a lawn mower. Although more disturbing than that is the reality that nature can, indeed, come out of her peaceful setting and hit me right in the mouth when I least suspected it, by way of an enormous green locust. As much as I love being outside, I do believe I will leave my boisterous melodies in the safe confines of my morning shower.
As I started my rotations around and around the rocky, irregular hillside in my backyard, I was destined to accomplish this chore and return to my air-conditioned house. It was almost 100 degrees outside, and I quickly became too hot and bored with the whole scenario. Because it had been a very long time since I had sat behind the wheel of that lawn mover, I had forgotten how much it truly vibrated every part of my being. Any part of my body that was not tightly secured jiggled freely to the motion of the ride. My arms grew tired and heavy, fighting the tough steering wheel, and I was shaking to my very core, while enduring this fitful motion. The sweat was pooling under my thighs on that hot, sticky vinyl seat, as I cornered the south fence line. With a sharp turn of the wheel, my legs nearly slid right off the sweat-filled seat, making it nearly impossible for me to stay put and to finish the task at hand. If it wasn’t for the beauty around me to take in, the heat from the blazing sun and the aggravation of holding onto that vibrating steering wheel, I could not have completed the job set before me.
The scenery was quite pastoral, in spite of the disturbing ride. To the south of our acreage is an aged, time-worn red barn, surrounded by gentle rolling grasslands, dotted with large, old red oak trees. Grazing peacefully shy and quite picturesque-like are about twenty sheep, not counting the young, snow white lambs, with their coal black faces, still nursing on their mothers. Towards the west, is a vast sprawling meadow, separated by a meandering, spring-fed creek, that leads into the lake farther south. Just beyond the creek is a boulder and tree covered hillside, where dogwoods and redbuds break forth into a pallet of white and purple come springtime. Brilliant white-barked sycamores and stunning maples perform a grand finale come fall. An occasional deer or two will bound quickly out of sight, or any number of rabbits can be seen disappearing into the blackberry bushes. It doesn’t take much for me to get lost in the splendor of the whole place. While gazing out beyond the barn, looking to the lake, I was jolted back into reality, when the front right tire landed abruptly into a rocky hole and then bounced its way back up into the designated path. With a heavy sigh I wiped my clammy brow and continued on.
I really needed to get my mind off of this duty at hand, so I started to sing. I did not hold back at all where volume was concerned. I belted out every line and chorus to one of my favorite worship songs, with all the fervor and feeling of a famous opera singer. Mouth wide open, pronouncing each word with clarity, as if I were trying out for the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir, my voice rang out to all the sheep, which had long since, stood at attention from the bothersome roar of the small engine I was directing. It was momentarily a nice thought, to think that I held such command with my magnificently articulate tones. But, if I couldn’t even hear myself singing over the agitated sound, surely, none of the sheep could hear me either. None-the-less, I continued as if God Himself stopped everything He was doing, just to lend His ear to me. (Which He probably did.) My mouth was opened wide, finishing the last stanza of my song, when a huge, and I mean huge, green winged locust flew directly into my mouth! My reflexes caused me to immediately hit the brake and I hacked and choked until it’s large, beating wings came flying out of my mouth. Gross! I sat stunned for a moment trying to grasp what had just taken place. It seemed I was the only one out of sync. All my surroundings were exactly as they were just a moment before, except for me and the three inch, wing-span locust. A locust! Do you realize how big a locust is? Does that say something for just how huge my mouth must be? Or was God trying to tell me something? Oh wait a minute. I know. It was a sign. That’s it, a sign. I was never suppose to be on that riding lawn mower in the first place.
Regaining my composure for my audience of sheep, and feeling a bit shaken, I came to the sad fact, that someone with such songs of grandeur should never have to hold such a lowly state, as on the sticky, old seat of a lawn mower. Although more disturbing than that is the reality that nature can, indeed, come out of her peaceful setting and hit me right in the mouth when I least suspected it, by way of an enormous green locust. As much as I love being outside, I do believe I will leave my boisterous melodies in the safe confines of my morning shower.
My Man
Can't remember dates or certain times,
and months fade into years,
I don't remember the season you first held me,
but I know you calmed my fears.
Don't know the hour of our first kiss,
nor the exact day you stole my heart,
But I know the feeling that I felt
When time came for us to part.
Chorus:
You gave your heart, you made a vow
to me, and you took a stand,
unwaivered by each circumstance,
that one day you'd be my man.
I saw you stand across the room
although time had passed in years:
yet the memories all came flooding back
I tried hard to fight the tears.
Such calm assurance you portrayed
when at last we did embrace,
I could not erase the joy I felt,
yet you left without a trace.
Chorus:
Still you gave your heart, you made a vow
to me, and you took a stand,
unwaivered by each circumstance,
that one day you'd be my man.
Was it fate or God Himself
that caused our paths to cross?
When our eyes locked across the room,
It seemed no time was loss.
Each day now we share our love
In ways I never dreamed I'd know
Your love grows inside of me
I so love you, does it show?
Chorus:
So I give my heart, I make a vow
to you, and I take a stand,
I trust you, not each circumstance
'Cause I know you are my man.
I didn't understand the plan
But I know you are my man.
and months fade into years,
I don't remember the season you first held me,
but I know you calmed my fears.
Don't know the hour of our first kiss,
nor the exact day you stole my heart,
But I know the feeling that I felt
When time came for us to part.
Chorus:
You gave your heart, you made a vow
to me, and you took a stand,
unwaivered by each circumstance,
that one day you'd be my man.
I saw you stand across the room
although time had passed in years:
yet the memories all came flooding back
I tried hard to fight the tears.
Such calm assurance you portrayed
when at last we did embrace,
I could not erase the joy I felt,
yet you left without a trace.
Chorus:
Still you gave your heart, you made a vow
to me, and you took a stand,
unwaivered by each circumstance,
that one day you'd be my man.
Was it fate or God Himself
that caused our paths to cross?
When our eyes locked across the room,
It seemed no time was loss.
Each day now we share our love
In ways I never dreamed I'd know
Your love grows inside of me
I so love you, does it show?
Chorus:
So I give my heart, I make a vow
to you, and I take a stand,
I trust you, not each circumstance
'Cause I know you are my man.
I didn't understand the plan
But I know you are my man.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
The harvest
Harvesting..... just nothin' like it. Early in the morning, before my eyes are completely opened, hair and teeth are brushed, or before I've changed my clothes from whatever I slept in the night before, I'm out in the garden looking for edible treasures.
Picking fruit or veggies I've grown myself, is like a "grown-up's" Easter egg hunt I get to enjoy all during the growing season. I think I get just as excited picking those bright orange habaneros as I did picking up that new found, colored, boiled egg my mama would excitedly hide at the base of an old oak tree, nestled in between the surface root and the new spring grass.
Just can't help but smile as I carry in my African baskets full of brilliantly colored edibles, from right off the vine.
But then comes the daunting reality of cleaning, chopping, peeling, canning, freezing, dehydrating or cooking the beautiful abundance I have now spread so picturesque-like all over my kitchen counter.
Work, work, work. There's no easy way to describe what lies ahead, after my giddy morning of harvesting my colorful produce. Yes, hours of work.
Hmmm, maybe that's why the laborers are few come Harvest time. I sure love a big harvest, but I'm not always willing to bring it in, clean it and work with it. I guess Jesus knew what he was talking about after all. *chuckling to myself* I smile as I think of that scripture in Matthew, then wash my hands and get to work.
Picking fruit or veggies I've grown myself, is like a "grown-up's" Easter egg hunt I get to enjoy all during the growing season. I think I get just as excited picking those bright orange habaneros as I did picking up that new found, colored, boiled egg my mama would excitedly hide at the base of an old oak tree, nestled in between the surface root and the new spring grass.
Just can't help but smile as I carry in my African baskets full of brilliantly colored edibles, from right off the vine.
But then comes the daunting reality of cleaning, chopping, peeling, canning, freezing, dehydrating or cooking the beautiful abundance I have now spread so picturesque-like all over my kitchen counter.
Work, work, work. There's no easy way to describe what lies ahead, after my giddy morning of harvesting my colorful produce. Yes, hours of work.
Hmmm, maybe that's why the laborers are few come Harvest time. I sure love a big harvest, but I'm not always willing to bring it in, clean it and work with it. I guess Jesus knew what he was talking about after all. *chuckling to myself* I smile as I think of that scripture in Matthew, then wash my hands and get to work.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Me and the Brat
Matching NYC jackets we bought near the MET. I bought mine first, then the brat had to go get one.(well, she whined, so I told her she should go buy one)
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