September 2, 2014 · 1:04 pm

Just a Song at Twilight . .

The day was getting old.

It had been such a happy day.  Certain Man, home from work for the holiday, invited me to breakfast, and when home again, decided that Labor Day was a good day to put in an outside faucet that would make things easier for me and for Our Girl Nettie.  He worked with a headache, especially after inadvertently running into the underside of the steps going to the upper deck.

In the evening, Beloved Son in Law came in with ribs that he had done to perfection, and we threw on some Sunday Fried Taters and cooked up some frozen peas and ate supper with sweet fellowship and great gratitude.

After supper, Eldest Daughter with her bucket and I with mine headed for the garden.  Eldest Daughter picked the tomatoes and I started on one of my two rows of beans.  Love Bug went with her beloved Grandpa to “help” with the chores, and when the tomatoes were picked and the chores had expended the very last minute they could possibly use up, BSIL took his little family home and it was Certain Man and I, left in the garden in the waning hours of light.

I worked at trying to get over my two rows of beans and Certain Man decided that it was time to take down the cucumber vine that had died on its trellis as well as the butternut squash, also on a trellis.  I had picked the butternut squash a few days ago, and now the dead vine was only taking up space.  He got out the tractor and pulled the posts and trellises out and then mowed part of the garden that was finished.  Conversation was limited to the necessary words: Questions about “putting up” carrots.  Questions about the feasibility of pulling out the unproductive pepper plants and general garden observations.  But the camaraderie was soul quiet and satisfying.

Back in the house, there were dishes to put into the dishwasher, kitchen to clean up, laundry to finish.  Both of us were tired, but it seemed like the evening tasks flew by on the wings of a quiet song that kept echoing in my head.  When I was but a wee girlie, my precious Daddy and my Sweet Mama would put their brood to bed and sometimes in the late evening, they would sing together.  Both of them had good voices and his tenor and her soprano would rise quietly in the night while I listened from my bed in the middle bedroom upstairs.  They sang gospel songs and they sang hymns.  But every now and then they sang a song that has played over and over in my head as an adult, and even more as an mature adult with over forty years of loving the same good man  under my belt.  (At least where my belt used to be! )

“Once in the dear, dead days beyond recall-
When from the world, the mists began to fall
Out of the dream that rose in happy throng
Down to our hearts Love sang an old sweet song.
And in the dust, where fell the firelight gleam
Softly it wove itself into our dream . . .”

The song from my childhood has become so defining of this love story that Certain Man and I are still writing together.  Often when I come to the chorus, I hear my Daddy and Mama’s voices, but they are singing our song!

“Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low
And the flick’ring shadows, softly come and go.
Though the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight, comes love’s old song.
Comes Love’s old sweet song.”

The heart is often weary.  There’s been some sad, long days.  But when there is the melody of love, playing softly to me, there is something holding me steady, reminding me of what has gone before, smoothing over the rough places, bridging troubled waters.  Sometimes life gets loud and raucous and seems to drown out the song.  At least, I can hardly hear it over the din.  But often, in those evening hours, when the noise that is life is ebbing and the distractions of the day are starting to settle themselves, I hear an old familiar melody and it sings sweetly and quietly to my heart and it is good.

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September 1, 2014 · 2:50 am

Dancing

Grandsons are pretty wonderful things to have.

One day, while at our house, our youngest grandson, Frankie, wanted to not eat something.  His Mama told him he had to eat them and he decided to call upon his Daddy and appeal his case.  Raph told him, “Frankie, it doesn’t work for you to ask Daddy when Mommy says you have to do something.  Mommy and I are a team and what she says is what I will say.  Eat what Mommy tells you to eat.”Their oldest son, Si, sitting on the floor, already liberated by reason of having finished his plate looked up at his Auntie Rach and said with great confidentiality,  “I know dat don’ work.  I be learnin’!”

And on that note, I’d like to share that we have a court date for the adoption of Simon Mark Yutzy,  Liam K. Yutzy and Franklin L. Yutzy that is in the very near future.  And they have all “been learnin’!”  Still very much little boys, but the agency would like to use Raph and Gina for their “poster family for adoption” once things are finalized, so impressed are they with the progress the boys have made.

Our family gives grateful praise!  There’s been a lot of broken dreams along the way and days when Raph and Gina didn’t know if they were going or coming.  In the beginning, I worried some about our son’s eyes and the desperation that I saw there.  They went from being this carefree couple, doing what they wanted, both working and hoping for one little one — maybe two to foster with the hopes of adopting, but their world was shaken to its core one February night when they were asked to take THREE little boys, ages three, two and one on a day’s notice.

The boys were frightened and confused and so, so wild.  Certain Man would sometimes ask Raph how he was doing, and he would say, “To tell you the truth, Dad.  I’m really overwhelmed.”  I would sometimes try to comfort him when things were especially bad that “not all placements are a good fit.” and that it wasn’t a bad thing to be cautious and wise.  I said to him one night, “You know, Son, our God is so big that he won’t make something right for the boys that is wrong for you.”  He was quiet.  Pensive.

And so the weeks went by, and as the days passed, on the rare times we were together, I noticed a change in our tall son’s demeanor and his way of dealing with his three little boys.  And then, one day, he told me this story:

“One day, Mama, I was in my truck (he was a delivery man for Troyer’s Furniture in Sugar Creek, Ohio) and I sorta’ had like an epiphany.  I was complaining to the LORD and I was saying, ‘God, I can’t do this.  It is just too hard.  I want my life back, I want my wife back.  I want to come home from work and get on the couch and watch T.V. and not have to worry about anything.  It’s just too hard  I can’t do it!”

He said that it was like the presence of the LORD filled that truck and he felt like God said to him, “Raph, I didn’t redeem you for ‘easy.’  This IS hard, and it’s going to be hard.  But I am going to be with you, and if this is what I have for you to do, you CAN do it.”  That may not be word for word, but it is how I remember him telling me, and it has helped him so much — and not only him, but me, too, when things just feel too hard or too deep or too long to press through, I keep hearing, “I didn’t redeem you for ‘easy’!”

And so, our family is planning a celebration.  The boys have been a part of our family for almost 17 months, and very soon, LORD willing, it is scheduled to be made official.  Bring on the bells and whistles!  This family is ready to dance!!!

the boys
Simon, Liam and Frankie

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August 27, 2014 · 4:05 am

Ordinary Days of grace . . .

It’s been a day when I should have been counting my blessings, I suppose, but it has been quite a day.  Actually, my week has been less than wonderful.  Cecilia has been sick, coughing until it sounds like she is going to drown herself with whatever it is in her lungs.  I had an order for a chest X-ray, blood work and urinalysis in her big black book, so I took her in yesterday morning and got that all done and scheduled an appointment for today.

So she has been home, sitting in the sun room, listening to music and to the sounds of the open windows; birds chirping happily just outside on the feeders, Jays screaming their protests at the passing cat, traffic going along on the road, and even cicadas and crickets making their noisy addition to the late summer sounds.  I go in and out, making one sided conversation, and worrying a bit about how sick she seemed.  Then last night, I suddenly had a vicious sore throat of my own.  I decided to see how it was when I took her to the doctor today.

The good news was that she didn’t have pneumonia, didn’t have anything our of line on her bloodwork, and didn’t have a urinary tract infection.  She sat miserable and hot and silent in the doctor’s office while he listened and thumped around.

Dr. Wilson was his usual cheerful self.  He praised all that was good, then said that she had an acute bronchitis infection and that he was going to write her a prescription different from the ones that she has had over the last six weeks.  I hate to give her antibiotics so frequently, but this particular individual has behaviors that lend themselves to infections.  She won’t cough unless she is overcome by one and then she tries to squelch it.  She sits compacted together and nothing seems to induce her to breathe deeply.  Of course, this lends itself to pneumonia.  And she has perfected the art of not going to the bathroom completely while on the toilet.  Instead, she holds it until she is in bed, then she can soak through her protective underwear, down to turning the protective pad into an almost dripping mess.  She has been a little out of sorts, anyhow, though I’ve thought it was from not feeling well.  Of course she never says, and I can only guess.

I had a terribly long wait in the doctor’s office today, with my appointment being at 2:45 and not getting back into the examining room until 4:20.  Because everything was so late, I almost didn’t mention my sore throat to him, but it was hurting “worser and worser,” so I decided I would at least run it past him.  I told him that I would pay for an office visit on my way out, and he did a quick exam.  Pronounced me sick as well, and wrote out a script for Amoxicillin.

It is somewhat of a circus when I take Cecilia anywhere, but it is especially difficult when I go to the doctor.  I have my purse, her big black book and any instructions that the doctor gives me plus HER.  And she has been stumbling more and more lately so that I need to be especially careful when I am walking her anywhere.  But I organized myself after this office visit, paid my co-pay for my “appointment” and then maneuvered Cecilia through the corridor, around a corner, through two doors and got her into the van and strapped in and we were on our way to the pharmacy.

Excepting that, when I got to the pharmacy, I couldn’t find Cecilia’s prescription.  I looked and looked and looked, through my purse, through her black book, in between the pages of her book.  Nothing.  Come to think of it, he had written the prescription on my paperwork for the state, he had written it on her record, but I honestly could not remember him handing me the actual prescription.  I couldn’t say that he hadn’t, but I certainly didn’t remember ever receiving it.  By now it was five o’clock, and a good bit past closing time at the doctor’s office.  But then, there were still at least four patients after me, still patiently waiting.  So I dropped off my prescription and flew back to the office.  One of the office gals was leaving.  One was emptying trash, the office nurse was going over charts.

“Is there any chance that the prescription for Levaquin get left in Cecilia’s chart?” I asked breathlessly, as I spread Cecilia’s black book out and continued to riffle through the pages in search of the elusive script.

They were not impressed.  Unfortudiously they never seem to be impressed by any of my desperation.  “I wouldn’t know,” said the one.  “She would have to look it up.” And she nodded in the direction of the nurse.  The nurse handed her the chart and she looked over it.  “Nope,” she said.  “It isn’t here.  It wouldn’t have been here, anyhow.  He always hands that to the patient.  We never see it.”

“I know, and he usually does, but when I got to the pharmacy, I couldn’t find it, and I don’t remember him handing it to me.”

“Well, you can just wait and when he comes out, you can see if he will rewrite it for you.”

So I stood in the long corridor again and waited.  Eventually he came out and obligingly rewrote the script.  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I must have just –”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted him.  “I may have misplaced it somehow.   I just can’t find it anywhere.”

“Well,” he said then, “I’m pretty sure that I remember writing it.  When you find it (and I think you probably will) just throw it away and use this one.”

“You got it,” I said, “and thanks!”  I took my precious prescription and headed out to my car.  I looked again through my purse, in my planner and organized a few things before taking off.  Suddenly, I was aware of the office nurse standing at my car window.  She was holding Cecilia’s precious black book.

“I think you might want this,” she said cheerfully.

“Oh, yes,” I breathed gratefully.  “I really need that.  Thanks so much!”  I headed out again for the pharmacy, hauled Cecilia in with me and waited for it to be filled.  It took hardly any time at all.  And then I came on home.

When I walked in, I noticed that Nettie was shelling lima beans for all she was worth.  I had picked a very full five gallon bucket this morning and I wondered briefly if she would be able to shell them all this evening.  She did!  I was so happy.  I decided to go ahead and get them into the freezer.  Nettie had said that a great deal of them were “no good,” and I had noticed a larger amount of discarded beans among the empty pods.  Ever the snoopy gal, I had checked them and found them to truly be less than “Grade A” so I began to sort the ones that she had kept.

It’s a funny thing about beans.  Sometimes you can put a picking that looks pretty good into the blancher and it comes out looking rather sorry.  And sometimes I will think, “These beans don’t look the greatest!” and then they come out looking pretty good.  But tonight it was one of those times when the beans went in looking rather inferior and came out clearly defined as needing a heavy handed sorting.

This morning in the patch, I listened to the many sounds and felt like fall was coming on.  I wondered how many more pickings I was going to get off the 2014 patch.  An early hail storm had set things back a bit and the stink bugs are sneaking around and wreaking havoc.  I had close to a half a pound of discards in my batch tonight of five pounds for the freezer.

114

If it wasn’t so disgusting, it would be interesting, A bean can look almost perfect, but sometimes I will notice a small irregularity in shape and if I tear off the thin skinned outer covering, this is what the inside looks like.   While other gardener’s beans have broken records this year for production, I can honestly say that this has been my least productive year by a long shot and the ratio of misshapen “I should probably not ingest that” kind of  beans to the pretty ones  is disproportionate.

Does this mean I am going to give up?  Not pick?  NOPE!  I’m so grateful for the beans I’ve been able to get into the freezer. (21 lbs. as of tonight) and if Nettie can shell them, I can sort and wash and blanch and sort and bag them up.  I will be so glad next winter.

And now, I’m taking this sore throat and achy body to bed.  It’s about time.

And in spite of this disappointing day, My heart gives grateful praise.

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August 24, 2014 · 9:18 pm

Missing Church

I didn’t get to go to church this morning.  Cecilia is ailing again, and when her fever was 101 last night, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to go.

Can I just say that I HATE missing church?  When I came out of her bedroom last night after taking the final temp for the day, I said to Certain Man, “It’s a hundred and one.  I hate to think of not going to church tomorrow!”

“Why would that be?” He asked, half absentmindedly.  He was working on a sermon and this negates lucid conversation at least part of the day while he is putting the finishing touches on the message.

I was more than a little vehement.  “For one reason,” I said, “This is the last sermon you are preaching before your sabbatical.”  (Certain Man is taking a six month leave of his position on the leadership team beginning September 1st.  He will continue serving as deacon, but he has asked to be relieved of all the other responsibilities.)  “And the other thing is,” I went on, “every single time I miss church it seems like something important happens.  I’m afraid to stay home for fear I will miss something!”

He didn’t say much.  He is used to his wife going off on such tangents.  His way of dealing with it is to neither agree nor disagree.

This morning the fever was still hanging around 100 and Cecilia was coughing a deep, troublesome cough.  I resigned myself to staying home and sent my good husband off with promises to pray for him while he was preaching and settled in for a quiet morning.

But boy!  Oh, boy!!!  Did I ever miss important stuff by being home.

The service started off with an announcement of an engagement.  Our very own Amy Jones is going to marry that Tyler Schrock.  Not that we are surprised, but I really wanted to HEAR it for myself, see the shining faces, rejoice with our church family at the good news and congratulate them for myself.  I am so happy for them.  Tyler and Amy make a good team, and I am always glad when young people embark on the sea of life and love with some moorings.  They have them.

But then, after church, there was another engagement announcement.  Mary Beth Sharp is marrying Preston Tice!  Mary Beth and her family were absent, so there wasn’t the chance to do the congratulating, but it still would have been fun to be there when the message came through.  I missed it.

In addition to all the excitement, I missed the good, good fellowship of our “older” women’s Sunday school class.  I draw strength from these women, beloved sisters.  We listen to each other, laugh together, cry together and seek to encourage each other.  It is a precious time and I look forward to it each week.  I missed hearing what was going on in their lives and the easy camaraderie that we share in the forty-five minutes we have on Sunday morning.

And then, in addition to missing Daniel’s sermon, I missed the singing before the sermon and the sharing period that follows.  There is just much feeding for my soul that goes on and when I have to miss, I feel out of sorts, out of sync, out of the loop.

And I REALLY hate to miss good stuff like engagement announcements.

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August 21, 2014 · 6:50 pm

Poured Out

I was standing in my sunny kitchen. It was the morning after our family reunion. It had been a glorious weekend — lots of good exchanges, wonderful food, incredible singing and familiar faces. It was well planned and things went smoothly. I had reasons to rejoice, but I felt so incredibly sad.

Most of the weekend had been colored by my Sweet Mama’s nasty fall, with ensuing concerns about her coumadin blood thinner and the ever increasing bruising that kept showing up on her face. I had made decisions to the best of my ability and tried to be as careful as I could to not miss anything — but her trip to my brother’s house in her beloved Pennsylvania mountains had to be scrapped.

I wondered at the depth of my sadness, and thought about the many things that were tugging at heart. There are difficult faith journeys of several people whom I love deeply that keep me on my face before The Father. There was my Sweet Mama’s fall, of course, but there are also the difficult questions about her care and ongoing aging issues. There is a precious sister in law who is dealing with serious health issues and a brother whose melancholy temperament and tender heart is suffering, too, as he watches his beloved’s pain. Youngest Daughter’s internship in inner city Philadelphia has been stretching and wrenching in so many ways. And though she cannot tell me the stories, she lets me pray, and it is despicable the crimes that adults commit against defenseless children. Sometimes I hear snippets from other avenues and it feels as if my heart will break for the children. And I know my girlie. Her heart is not hardened. Yet. And though things hurt her so deeply, I still pray that she will not allow the sin she is exposed to daily to harden her heart against all that is pure and good and right. There are others who are making life choices that make me sad. There is grief and conflict and fractured families. And this old world is “hell-bent for disaster” on too many fronts.

I stood there in my kitchen, praying against the darkness in my soul. I knew that there was more going on here than the proverbial “Yoder Blues,” but I felt powerless against the magnitude of it all. It seemed there wasn’t even room for my favorite weapon of grateful praise. Maybe if I would take each thing that was troubling me and bring them individually to The Father, it would help. And so, I began, but it wasn’t long before I felt overwhelmed by the enormity of my task. The broad expanse of need (both mine and others) was so great. And then a strong impression overwhelmed my conscious thought.  “Pour it out!”

“Pour it out???”  The thought was so full of hope. I wondered what would happen if I could envision taking this heart, so full of negativity and pouring it all out into the love and joy of The Father. The mental picture energized me and I picked up the largest tumbler I could find and filled it to the brim. I imagined that tumbler, full of all the things that were making me so sad, and I held it over the sink and prayed as I poured it all out and watched, weeping, as it went down the drain.

Unbidden, Psalm 51 came to my mind in song.

v. 10 “Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a right spirit within me!”

(Yes, Lord Jesus, A clean heart! A right spirit!)

v. 11 “Cast me not away from thy presence;
and take not thy Holy Spirit from me.”

(Please, Father God!)

v. 12 “Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation;
and uphold me with thy free spirit.”

(Ah, this I need, I need!!!)

v. 13 “Then will I teach transgressors thy ways;
and sinners shall be converted unto thee.”

(And may your strong arm be seen in this weakness in such a way that others will be attracted to you and come to know you and love you!)

“Pour it out!” I looked at my empty tumbler and turned to face the day. There were still things to pray about, things that concerned me. But the sadness had retreated and no longer overwhelmed me.

And my heart gave grateful praise.

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August 14, 2014 · 9:34 pm

Oh, Bummer~

So my Sweet Mama took an awful tumble yesterday morning. It was face first, down the two steps into the garage, right on her face, onto the cement.  She looks terrible.  It really hurts, too.  We’ve been keeping close watch and, as of now, she seems neurologically sound, but a lingering headache has been troubling her somewhat, and she really wanted her doctor to have a look at her.  I feel like we’ve done all that we should have — someone with her, making sure she woke up during the night at intervals and checking pupils and such more than is probably necessary, but finally decided to send a picture of her damages to her doctor and ask if he would stop over to see her when he comes to the Country Rest Home — hopefully today.

Today, I was out at Sweet Mama’s house, working on her medication planner, checking over the mail, and trying to make sure all would be well if she decides to go home with Brother Nelson and his good wife, Rose for a visit after our family reunion this weekend.  I sent the doctor the text and then sorta’ waited around, hoping to hear from him.  When I hadn’t heard back for quite some time, I decided to betake myself home.  It is Certain Man’s birthday, and I have things to get ready for this weekend, and I had already spent the day on Tuesday with her, so I needed to be getting on home.

When I left the house, I paused for some minutes at the front flower bed where Middle Sister, Sarah, her youngest daughter, Edie and niece Holly were industriously removing the weeds from the petunias that were bravely trying to bloom there.  We discussed what we should do with our dear Mama/Grandma, made some plans for someone to spend the night with her and then I got on my way.  There are two ways for me to go home from Sweet Mama’s house, but today, I needed to put some checks in the bank, and that meant that I needed to go through the town of Greenwood.  So I made a right turn at the end of the driveway, and headed on out.

Greenwood is famous for a very infamous reason.  They have very mean traffic cops.  I do not speed in Greenwood.  I learned this a long time ago.  I’ve never been ticketed there, but people I love have, and I have been exceedingly careful.  Accordingly, today, as I came into  the 35 mph zone that precedes the 25 mph zone, both strictly enforced, I even braked a bit to make sure I wasn’t speeding.  Good. 23 mph, coming into the zone.

At that very minute, my cell phone beeped.  A message from Dr. Wilson. I flipped open the phone and read the two sentence text.  I did not talk on my phone.  (I don’t need to — my mini van has “in-house” wireless.)  I did not text.  I did nothing but hold that cell phone in my hand.

“Huh!” I thought.  “Dr. Wilson is on vacation, but he is still is going over to see Mama tonight or tomorrow.”  I was so relieved, so weary, so numb from the weeks adventures that when I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the cop behind me with his lights flashing that it didn’t register.  I kept going down the street.  Suddenly I looked again at the rearview mirror again.  Yikes!!!  He was after me!!!  ME!!!  Who wasn’t speeding!!! What in the world???  Oh, dear.  That stupid cell phone.

He got my license and my registration.  I offered a bit of protest, and he wasn’t rude.  But he didn’t listen.  Went back to his car.  Wrote me a ticket.  $106.00.  I decided that I didn’t need to go to the bank.  I didn’t want to explain why I was crying.  I rounded the corner at 36 and 16 and thought about stopping at my Daddy’s grave for a few minutes.  I’ve shed a lot of tears there and when I’m troubled, it is so comforting to go there, but time was short and I needed to get home.  Besides, I could cry all the way home if I wanted to, and I could talk out loud between my sobs to my Heavenly Father who is the healer of broken hearts and the Friend who will not fail me.

And so, that’s what I did.  Sobbed all the way home,lowered my sun visor, and turned my face from oncoming traffic so they wouldn’t see my tears.  Somewhere around Fitzgerald’s Road the tears abated somewhat , and by the time I got into our home, I was no longer crying.  Certain Man and Middle Daughter were profuse in their sympathies and their general indignant outcry against the powers that be.  If the language of the paper telling you how to contest wasn’t quite so acrimonious, I might try contesting this ticket.  But reading through the small print makes me feel like it isn’t worth it.  Certain Man says that is their point — that they try to discourage you from even trying to get out of it.  I don’t know.  Sweet Mama is so upset that she is vowing to pay the fine.  Again, I just don’t know.  Somehow it isn’t as much the money as it is the principle of the thing.

But then I saw this butterfly . . .

IMG_0013

. . .  enjoying himself in the afternoon sun on my window box flowers and I went out to capture that moment on my camera, and I felt better.  There is so much beauty in my little corner of the world that lifts my heart and makes my spirit sing.  There is much to be somber about, and sometimes I think that old saying should be, “God’s in His Heaven, and all’s wrong with the world!”  But looking for joy and beauty and reasons for gratitude are not just something I do, it has to do with who I am.  Negativity and a critical spirit changes us inside — in our very souls somehow, and dwelling on the injustices, real or perceived is something that I have been encouraged not to do — for physical and mental health, yes, but for my soul’s sake.

And so, for this day, with all the twists and turns, for hummingbirds and raucous jays, for bees on the bird feeder and a clean refrigerator, for a Sweet Mama whose pulverized face makes me want to cry and for brothers and sisters who help to bear the burden, for traffic tickets on busy streets in small towns (embarrassing!) and butterflies on verbena flowers.

For all of these . . . and more! 

My heart gives grateful praise

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August 3, 2014 · 12:06 am

On Hummers and Conflict and OGN

The air is warm and damp with the recent rain. All the birds are busy at the feeders around the farmhouse at Shady Acres. The hummingbirds have been fighting all day. I hung one of the four feeders closer to the one that has the feistiest male and hoped for some peace in the hummerhood, but it has been to no avail. The dominant male now dominates both.

I know, I know. Never hang hummingbird feeders within sight of each other. I have four and they have never been within sight of each other, but the fighting going on at the busiest one was getting next to my peace loving heart, so I thought “Maybe!” . . .

Our Girl Nettie has been fighting with herself this week. Pneumonia, new meds and general living has combined to knock her shaky props askew. She came in last night, clumping up the ramp in a way that I thought there was something wrong.

“Well, Nettie!” I greeted her brightly, hoping for the best. “Did you have a happy day?”

That was the wrong question.

“Tell ya’ troof, NO!” and she pushed by me without so much as a glance. “I di’n’ do cups today.”

She usually washes up the cups from the morning coffee break at center. She seesaws between being proud of her accomplishment and being cross at them because they won’t pay her. Sometimes she complains of backache so much that they tell her not to do it, but that doesn’t really please her either. I wasn’t sure whether this was her choice or their call.

“Why didn’t you do the cups?”

“‘Cause I was too depwess!” She said with great aggravation.

“What???” I wasn’t sure I heard right.

“I was too depwess!” There was a hint of defiance in her voice.

“What were you depressed about?”

“I ‘on’t know. Sumpin’. I ‘on’ know. I tole Areefa (her health aid at the center) to take me a jail.”

Of course we redirected this conversation immediately. But today she has had her moments and between her and the hummingbirds I’ve done some ponderings on what it is that makes conflict in our souls and our world. What makes hummingbirds (and humans) fight their own kind when there is more than enough to go around? And what causes us to tell ourselves lies until we are fighting with ourselves over things that are forgiven or are merely a figment of our imagination?

Some of our conflicts come from our sense of entitlement that looks as ridiculous to the ONE who is watching over the universe as the behavior of the dominant male hummingbird outside my kitchen window appears to me.

And some of our inner conflicts come from reasoning that condemns us to a jail of our own making that is every bit as restrictive as the bars and locks of the jail that OGN is convinced she deserves.

The thing that comforts me on this warm Saturday evening is that God has a plan and He wants to help. There’s not much I can do to bring peace in the Hummerhood, or even to change OGN’s mind about the state of her guilt. But God has a plan in place for peace in my heart as I choose HIM and HIS WAY of living. He is strong and wise and good and ABLE.

But the choice is my own.

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July 27, 2014 · 12:30 am

Well, now . . .

She was a cute smart medical assistant, taking my medical history at my latest yearly exam.

“Do you exercise?” She asked brightly.

I HATE that question.  But I’ve learned not to justify.  Too much, anyhow.

“No, I don’t,” I admitted flatly.  “I work hard, but I do not have an exercise routine that I follow.”

And she wrote down that I don’t exercise.

Like I said, I HATE it.  I feel guilty and cross and it makes me want to eat french fries.  I don’t even really LIKE french fries.

This morning at Shady Acres, involved in my Saturday morning routine, I watched out of the window as four young adults headed out for a walk.  All four of them are big into exercise, and they completed a 2+ mile hike before brunch and came back in various states of energy and excitement and flushed accomplishment.  Youngest Son and his father and I were standing in the laundry room afterwards, discussing the state of the world and the need to exercise.

“You guys just walked over two miles,” I said, “but as of now, I’ve stripped three beds, made two of them back up, done two loads of laundry, done the meds, did my ladies morning routines, made sausage gravy and baked oatmeal.  But I haven’t exercised.  I honestly haven’t had time!”

“That’s right.  You haven’t,” said Youngest Son,

“But this week when I was having my check up, they asked if I exercised and I had to say I didn’t.  I tried to say that I worked hard, but it didn’t count.”

“That’s because it doesn’t raise your heart rate,” said Youngest Son agreeably.

“No, it doesn’t,” I said, ruefully.  And that was that.

However, the fact that all my hard work doesn’t count as exercise does raise my dander.  Do you think that might count for something?

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July 18, 2014 · 9:38 pm

Braiding Onions.

Certain Man has planted two long rows of onions down his garden for the last several years and we have had a difficult time with storage and methodology of such. We had spread them out on a large wooden wagon, let them dry and then used them up straight from the wagon (until the wagon was needed, then we had to put them some place else.)

Certain Man’s favorite method has been to take old nylon stockings and drop an onion into the bottom, tie a knot, drop in another, tie a knot and continue on until everything is safely tied into these long, hideous looking strings — which he then hung from nails in the “dungeon” (our canning cellar that is a small, cramped space that holds an air handler for our air conditioner and our canning shelves). These things would hang there in the very limited space and watch for me to come down the steps and they would wrap themselves around my unsuspecting neck or brush against my cheek, causing me to fling my hands around in great frantic motions to dislodge the tarantula that I was sure had suddenly descended from somewhere upon my personage. It was disconcerting to say the least and it would make me feel rather peevish when I discovered that it was, after all, just those onions in the nylon stockings, dangling from the ceiling.

Last year, we thought we would learn to braid them, and try to store them that way. However, the days went by, the onions got dug late, and we eventually let them dry on the wagon and used what we could salvage. This year, Middle Daughter, our cohort in gardening affairs, decided that we would make it happen. So last week, Sister in law, Lena, dug the onions and spread them out to dry on the same old wagon. Certain Man did some mutterings and grumblings about what we were going to do with them, and Middle Daughter announced with a great deal of firmness that she was going to learn how to braid them. Certain Man said that he thought we should just get some nylon stockings and just do it the way we always have.

Middle Daughter was not deterred. But she didn’t know what she was doing, so she went online and found a visual that would help her and she proceeded to try to learn to braid the monumental pile of onions. It was hard work, and the onions were not at all co-operative. She got about six or eight in a nice rope before she had to stop to go to work. But last night, the four of us, Certain Man, Middle Daughter, CMW and SIL, Lena, all went out to the shed and we persevered and struggled and —

(Drum Roll, here!)

IMG_0511

WE DID IT!!!!!!!!!!

Some are neater than others, but we have ten or so ropes hanging in the shop, ready for our winter.

I’m so proud of us,  It was hard work, but once we knew what we were doing, it went really quickly.

And that’s the news from Shady Acres, where there is a cookout tonight in honor of Sister in Law Lena, whose visit with us comes to a screeching halt in the morning as she heads out for some more adventures of her own.  It has been such a pleasant time together.  We are going to miss her so much. But My Sweet Mama always said it was important to share, so I guess there are a whole lot more people who want a chance to visit with her, too.

Happy Trails, Lena-girl.  It’s been so good!

 

WE DID IT!!!

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July 16, 2014 · 2:13 am

Eventide

The house is quiet again. I came home from the funeral to find the table down, the house almost orderly again. Sister in law, Lena, had been very busy. People I love (Eldest Son and His Ohio Heart Throb with their three little munchkins) are on the road, heading home. Youngest Son went home to his Girl with a Beautiful Heart in Alexandria, VA and since there are no cousins to pull her in, Love Bug is home with her parents on Bontrager Road. The toys are still strewn in the sun room, and I have some kitchen work to do.

I’m getting old. I’ve realized this more and more over the last few months, but tonight I feel that deep, deep sadness, heart weariness and an “earth doneness” that reminds me that this isn’t all there is, and though this isn’t the back of the book yet, I’m a lot closer to it than I ever was before, and that there is no promise for tomorrow.

Tonight I am thankful for tight hugs and affirming words from sons and nephews and friends. I’m thankful for words that encourage and bless and though I am so aware of my failures and my shortcomings and sin, I am also grateful for grace — extended so freely to this Delaware Grammy who desperately needs it in her humanity tonight.

My heart WILL give grateful praise.

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