Delaware Grammy

All over the world,
there are tears being shed over things
too terrible for my mind to even assimilate.
And I know there are mothers’ hearts
wishing there was a way to stay the sand in the hourglass.

 

Tomorrow
(Tomorrow!)
my girlie heads to Uganda for four months.
I know it is what she is supposed to do.
I believe in what she going there to do.
(But I’m doing a lion’s share of wishing and weeping!)

For some reason, I just wish she wasn’t going.  
Not now.

I feel like my heart is a little bit on overload.

If God lays Rachel on your heart, please pray for her.
And, would you please add my Sweet Mama ?
She doesn’t want anyone to know anything,
And she is trying so hard to make us all believe that everything is okay.

But it isn’t.

So pray for us all, and May God’s Holy Name be honored in these challenging days.

 

 

 

 

This morning,
I would find it easier
To fill the tummies
Of a hundred little children
In a far away land
Than I am finding it
To love
My “neighbor“

(and i’m not kidding!)

It’s a hot day in Delaware.  

“I’m grumpy,” I said to Certain Man as I fixed his oatmeal a little before seven o’clock in the morning.

He looked at me, almost like that amused him.  “”Why so?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice trailing off.  The truth is, there were a whole lot of “why’s,” so I decided to plunge on, “It just seems like these last couple of days, I’ve had more occasion to practice what I preach than I like.”

Now the poor man was puzzled, but he waited, knowing I would go on.

“For one thing, I am always amused at how aggravated people get in traffic when other people do stupid things.  I don’t usually say anything, but in my heart, I always think, ‘just let it go!  Don’t waste emotional energy being mad or aggravated or saying mean things.  Just let it go!’  And all week, people have been doing the most irritating things when I’m driving, and I feel so aggravated with them!”

I heard him chuckle.  He stirred his oatmeal and listened.

“And then there’s that class I have to take today.”   He didn’t say too much about this.  He’s heard my sputterings before, and there is nothing either of us can do about it.  I’ve been guilty of “mingling funds” which means that when I go to Wal-mart to buy the groceries and needed items, I put everything together and pay with one check.  From what I can gather, this is a federal offense.  I am to separate my stuff from Nettie’s stuff and then Cecilia’s stuff from Nettie’s and my stuff, and pay separately and get separate receipts.  Never mind that I always have receipts for what I buy.  Never mind that there are sighs in the line behind me.  Never mind that I missed one or two items and they accidentally get put on my bill.  IT IS NOT ALLOWED.  This complicates my life.  Believe me, any argument I’ve thought of, I’ve employed, and I’ve gotten precisely NO WHERE.  The thing is, I really do want to do it right.  Over the years that I’ve been a Care Provider, I’ve often counseled my fellow providers in situations such as these, “don’t sweat it.  If there’s anyway you can do what they want, don’t bother to buck them.  If they want to take Cecilia shopping and try to teach her how to pay for her purchases, let them try.  If they want you to send in a purse with some money from her account in it and they want to do whatever it is that they are trying to do — let them!  You and I both know that it is doomed for failure, but they can go ahead and try. What happens at Center isn’t really our problem.”

But when their lack of common sense begins to affect my life with the constant constraints on my time, and they start muddling up the set routines that have always worked for me, I get resentful. The thing is, they have the trump card.  When someone tries to speak to the audacity of some of their regulations, they can always come back with the FEDERAL AUDITS that they are subjected to.  And I believe it.  I know that the Federal Audits are almost gestapo-like in their craziness.

But I’ve been especially unhappy ever since the other morning, I overheard a newscast talking about the massacre in Colorado.  “The truth is,” said the newscaster, “This was a federally funded shooting.  The suspect was receiving a stipend from the government to live on while he conducted research and went to graduate school.  He was receiving over $24,000 a year with it being delivered in monthly checks of over $2,000.00.  He had no other source of income, so the truth is, he used government money to purchase arms and ammunition.”  Of course, that made me more than just a little cross.  The government hands out stipends of over $2,000.00 a month and there’s no accountability, but I have to account for every penny of the $120-140.00 that is given to Nettie and Cecilia monthly that is to cover clothes and necessities?  And when I “co-mingle” funds I get hauled in for a “training session.”  

“There is no question, Mrs. Yutzy, about your integrity.  We know that you use your own money for many, many things, and you are ‘top of the line’ with your accounting.  But you cannot pay for family expenses and client expenses on the same bill.  That means you are using your own money and then they have to pay it back.  That is just against policy.”

And so, on this day, I stirred about in my kitchen, feeling “grumpy,” yes, but there was another feeling somewhere inside that dogged my puttering about in the kitchen.  I got Certain Man off, finished Cecilia’s routine, packed her lunch and put her on the bus.  I made sure that Nettie was ready for the bus, and sat on my chair to drink a cup of coffee.  I needed to be in Georgetown by 9:30, so I talked with Friend Ruby, and finally got my things around and reluctantly headed for Stockley Center.

Our mini-van is a 1999 Town and Country with almost 270,000 miles on it.  I am so grateful to God for His provision for our family in the form of this trusty servant.  As I headed out, I noted that it was overdue for an oil change and that Certain Man wanted that done “sometime this week.”  I went to set the cruise control, and wondered if this is one of the mornings that it would decide to work.  “I need to get this in to Walls Service Center,” I thought, and suddenly, the reason for the deep sense of unrest, of sadness was a clear as crystal.

Walls Service Center.  John Walls, owner.

Yesterday morning, John Walls died.

For the past ten years, John has tenderly watched over the vehicles in the household of Certain Man and his wife.  He was so kind and personable, always with a friendly word and ready smile.  The thing is, he really knew cars.  There were instances where other mechanics would say that it would take $1500.00 to fix something and insist a car wasn’t worth it.  John would come along with a $200.00 estimate and deliver on it — and the car would be good to go.  Many times when we were sure a vehicle was done for sure, John would come along with his easygoing reassurance and help us come up with a solution that would keep a vehicle on the road for thousands of more miles.  

“She runs good,” he would often say of our mini-van.  “She runs like a new one.  I wouldn’t trade her yet.  She should run for a good while yet if you take care of her.”

And so, we tried to take care of our van.  And John fit us into the schedule at a moment’s notice for the many things an aged vehicle needed.  New air conditioning, new transmission, fixing this and that.  The van has been a blessing to our family and to many others besides.  John always acted like it was such a privilege to answer the phone and find one of us on the other end of the line.  I would find myself chatting often about the everyday things of life with him.  

“How are your pole limas doing, John?” I always would ask towards the end of the summer. He had a garden that he lovingly tended and watched over.  I was more than a little lost when it came to conversations about beer, but when it came to gardens, we spoke the same language.  He loved those Lima Beans, trying to coax them into health and production, but sometimes it seemed as if they had it in for him.

“Can’t figure out what’s wrong with them,” he said last summer.  “They haven’t done a bit of good this year.  I think it’s the weather.  Nobody seems to have good limas this year.  Maybe I ought to get some compost for them.”

I looked at him across the desk in the office.  The air conditioner was trying hard to keep up, the old African guy that pumped gas sat sprawled out in his accustomed big old chair, and John’s eyes were so sad in his handsome face.  His beloved daughter, Shannon, had passed away in March, only 38 years old, and John looked like sorrow was sitting on his shoulders.  He had battled a few health issues of his own, and I worried aloud about how he and his family were doing.

“We’re doing alright,” he said softly. 

“I’m just so sorry, John,” I said.

He looked away, and there was really nothing more to say.

I didn’t know that he was ill.  When I thought about it, I realized that he hadn’t been around the last few times i was in, but it hadn’t registered.  I was so surprised the other night, Deborah came in from a Hospice visit and said,  “Dad and Mom, John Walls is dying.  I asked his family if I could tell you because you’ve been friends, and they wanted me to let you know.  I don’t think he will last the week.”

And he didn’t.  With his family keeping watch, lovingly meeting his needs, and a thousand family stories swirling around his last hours, John’s spirit took its final flight yesterday morning.  He wasn’t very old — actually younger than I am, and though that certainly can’t be called “young” it still feels like 58 is young.

I have to say that I really don’t know the story of John’s life.  I don’t know if the people who knew him best have good memories, or if they will say, “He was a good man.”  Do you know what I mean?  I think they will, but I don’t know.  What I do know is that he was always kind to our family.  He was a fair and competent auto mechanic.  He was always willing to help where he could.  He was a friend, an integral and positive part of our lives and we will miss him.

And the news of his passing is more than enough to make this day seem “wrong.”  Far more than any other mitigating factors.

May you rest in peace, John.  It is my prayer that your hope of Heaven is a reality beyond your wildest dreams.

 

When I was a little girl, my Sweet Mama would make tapioca pudding sometimes as a special treat.  I loved it!  Of course, it was sweet, and I liked anything sweet, so!  I guess it was a simple enough dessert, and the milk and eggs were plentiful on the farm.  I remember Mama filling a big dish of it, sometimes layering it with bananas and whipped cream.  So, so good!

A few months ago, on a perfectly ordinary day, my youngest sister give me this:

I am not quite the Southern Gospel fan that she is, but let me tell you!
These gals and guys know how to cook!

So I’ve been happily perusing through it,
enjoying the stories and thinking about the recipes.

On Sunday, thinking about what to take for our potluck dinner at church, 
I decided to add some tapioca pudding to the double layer chocolate cake that I was taking.
The cake was a special request from one of the teens at church
who is getting ready to go away to college.
(Don’t you just love it when someone helps you decide what to take to potluck?
I certainly do!)

So I thought maybe I would try to make the tapioca just a little extra special
and use the one that was in my cookbook.
The artist that contributed it told of making it in honor of her deceased mother,
and serving it at a surprise meal for her family.
It sounded so yummy!

 

 

So I got busy and followed the directions to a “T.”  
The only thing I did differently was to stir in a small container of Cool Whip
Just before putting it into the serving container.

It really was a hit.
 
When someone asked me about my recipe,
I told them that I had gotten it out of the Homecoming Cookbook.

“How does that differ from what is on the box?” They asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered, truthfully.  “I didn’t even look at the box directions.”

So I came home and grabbed the directions that were on the box, and —

THEY WERE EXACTLY THE SAME!

Even the parts about “Put into medium saucepan, etc. etc. etc.”

Huh!

Oh, well.  

I really am a cook the uses recipes for almost everything.  

And I’m always glad to find a recipe that “works” so that I can have fairly guaranteed results most of the time.

So, “Back of the Box Fluffy Tapioca Pudding” you are the best recipe ever for Tapioca Pudding.

Modified, of course, with an eight ounce tub of Cool Whip for each double batch.

 

One thousand ears of Bodacious Corn — husked, silked/washed, blanched, cooled, cut off and into the freezer! And we managed to keep the unwritten rule, too:  twelve hours or less between field and freezer.  Thanks to all my girls who helped!  Christina Yutzy Bontrager, Deborah Yutzy,  Normie Stutzman, Karen Stoltzfus Bontrager, Abi Bontrager and Emma Patterson.  Thanks, also, to Kathleen Marie Maurice, who babysat Alex so Normie could help.  

This morning, when I heard the forecast, and realized that there was a heat advisory in effect, I began to pray for the girls who would be helping, and asking God to bless this day, and that we would be able to get done without  anyone having a heatstroke or anyone getting hurt.  God sent us help in the form of a big old chicken house fan, breezes that comforted and lots and lots of water and tea and liquids to keep us hydrated.

But the biggest gift of all was the cheerful, willing hearts and hands that were faithful through the scorching heat.  Tonight, there are seven families that have sweet corn in their freezer for the winter months, and that is so GOOD.

My heart gives grateful praise!

 

. . . Away from it all for a brief period of time.

Celebrating 39 years with that man I love the most.

Using a Christmas present from Beloved Son in Law to Certain Man.

We visited the National Watch and Clock Museum in Columbia, PA.
Certain Man was in his element.
What a wonderful gift!

 

Included in the gift were directions to six covered Bridges.

Some of them looked pretty much alike:

 

 

But some were memorable for what we saw when we were there:

 

    

 

What a happy day we have had together!  
My heart gives grateful praise!

 

Just warning you — this is a long post!

I had somewhat promised an account of how things went after surgery, and I’ve put it off long enough.  And I do not plan to be extremely graphic, here, but it won’t be the kind of thing that you will want your kids to read.

I told about the terrible pain that I experienced in the hospital right after surgery.  And I told about how it seemed that the prayers had turned things around for me so suddenly.  That was more of a miracle than I realized at the time.  But I will tell more of that later.  They did keep me an extra night, but things seemed to be progressing pretty much the way they were supposed to.  I came home, and settled into the “doing nothing” routine fairly well and everything seemed fine until the Wednesday night after I got home.  I was still having some pain, but almost no bleeding.  I had gone into the computer room and used the desk computer for the first time since my surgery a week before.  I felt like sitting on that chair wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world,but that was pretty much the story of my life in those days post surgery, but when I stood up, there was a sudden rush of blood, and I realized there was something drastically wrong.  I could tell that the blood was “old blood” and that I wasn’t hemorrhaging, but it was, nevertheless, disconcerting.  Deborah insisted that I needed to call the doctor.  When I tried, there was no answer, but there was an answering machine, since it WAS still office hours.  When no one called me back, I became a little worried.  I called again, and this time, I got the answering service.  It was almost 4:50 and the helpful gal at the other end told me that my doctor was taking call at five and advised me to give her the message, and she would wait until five to call.  That was such a pleasant surprise an encouraging help to me.

When I told Dr. Killeen what had happened, he said that I should just keep an eye on how things were going and he would see me in the morning.

So, I headed into his office in the morning and the news that he told me was mostly good.

“Things like this happen sometimes,” he said.  “I am really, really pleased with most of the surgery.  Support is good, and things are healing.  The bleeding indicates that things are healing, so as long as there is some bleeding, you can be assured that things are still healing.”

So I came on home and settled back into waiting.  And waiting.  And being careful.  And taking sitz baths three times a day.  And nothing changed, and I continued to have a considerable amount of pain.  The thing was, I was really hoping to attend the graduation of our daughter in law on the Saturday that was two weeks post surgery.  From what I had read, it didn’t sound like that was an unreasonable expectation, but as the days passed, and there was no change in my condition, I began to lose hope.  Jessica was receiving her Master’s degree from Eastern University in Philadelphia, and I was so proud and happy for her, but I finally decided that I shouldn’t attempt to be at the graduation.

It was almost more than I could bear that morning, watching my husband and Middle Daughter going off to Philadelphia, but by the time the day was over, I was more than happy that I had stayed home.  They had to walk a very long way from parking to the graduation.  Also, it was a very warm day and the grad was held outside.  I know I would have been miserable and besides, by the time that day was over, I hit the lowest point emotionally that I had experienced for a very long time.  I was so lonely, for one thing, with my family gone, and it seemed like the pain was just staying so constant, the bleeding wasn’t getting any better, and by the time they finally made it back, I had pretty much convinced myself that I would never heal without more surgery, and that Life, as I had enjoyed it heretofore, was changed forever.  I also decided that I was going to call again on Monday morning and see if maybe the doctor would see me again.  Maybe if I went in, there would be something he could do to ward off the further surgery that I was sure that I was going to need.  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Monday morning dawned, and I called the office.  The receptionist put me through to the nurse, and the nurse pulled my chart.  She came back on, listened to my tale of woe, and all the symptoms that I was sure was going to convince her that I really was in dire need of some kind of rescuing, and then she said, “Mrs. Yutzy.  These symptoms are to be expected with the complications of your surgery.”

“WHAT???”

“Your chart says that you have a hematoma, and it just takes time for these things to heal.”

“So you mean to tell me that I can expect this sort of thing for a while yet and it is normal???”

It seemed to me from her answer that there was no “normal” for this sort of thing.  So of course, I got off the phone and googled it.  That might have been the wrongest thing to do!  That really blew my mind.  Apparently, hematomas are not all that rare following a traumatic birth — especially one where forceps are used, or the birth is precipitous.  I also was more than a little comforted by the fact that the horrible pain from the first night post op finally had an explanation.   One point that recurred over and over in the discussions about vaginal hematomas was the horrible pain!  I also realized that my recovery time was, in fact, something that was not predictable.  Women talked of months of recovery.  It sounded daunting to me.

I was exceedingly despondent!  “I’m going to be,” I said one evening to my long suffering husband, “just like that woman in the Bible that had an issue of blood 12 years!”  He laughed, but I wasn’t exactly joking.  I had begun to think in terms of this never getting better.  (I know, I know.  More ridiculous drama.  But honestly!  I didn’t see how this was ever going to turn out okay!)

I began to think about what that woman did with her infirmity, (Luke 8:43-48) and was comforted by the fact that what she did was to quietly seek out Jesus.  She didn’t stand up somewhere and make a public spectacle of it, she just took her private sadness, and touched the hem of His garment, and she was healed.  I thought about how, in that society, it was an even more taboo subject than it is in our day, and how lonely she must have felt through all those long years — especially in the Jewish society that isolated women who were menstruating.  I thought about how long she suffered, and about the money she spent, and how turning to Jesus was pretty much a last resort, and yet, she had faith that Jesus could heal her.  I wonder how long it took her to make up her mind to even try Jesus for this.  She must have wondered how to ask Him for healing for such a delicate issue, and how incredibly joyful she must have felt when she came to such an unobtrusive solution.  And then, how embarrassed and frightened she must have been when he said, “Who touched me?” even though she knew she had been healed!  The joy must have given her courage, even as the tenderness of his words, “Daughter, be of good cheer; your faith has made you well.  Go in peace.” reassured and comforted her.

And so, I decided that I could come to Jesus and ask Him for healing.  One morning when all the house was quiet, and I was alone, I chose some praise and worship songs that spoke to my heart and the direction that I truly wanted my heart to go, and I came before the Lord with my fear as well as my desire to hear His voice and to ask Him for wisdom and courage and peace  — and healing, if that was His will.

I started with one of my personal favorites, “Blessed be your Name”

Blessed Be Your Name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name

Blessed Be Your name
When I’m found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed Be Your name

. . . 

Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name . . .
~Matt Redmond 

I wept and prayed and sat, surrounded by praise as I sought to make the words my own.  And I told God that I really needed help in my attitude.  “I really didn’t want to have this surgery,” I told Him.  “I was so afraid that things would go wrong and I would be worse off than before.  I don’t like this pain, this bleeding, all the ‘don’t lift this, don’t do that’ business.  If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have gotten it done, but I was trying to please my husband and the doctor pretty much promised me that it would be simple and almost painless, and that it could, in fact, be fixed!  Ever since the beginning, it hasn’t gone the way it should have.  Please, help me!”

And then, the words to “Praise You in this Storm” began to filter through my tears.  

And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away . . . 

I lift my eyes unto the hills
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord
The Maker of Heaven and Earth . . .

~Casting Crowns 

I gradually felt the familiar peace of acceptance and even anticipation of what God had for me.  I did not have any confidence that this was going to turn out okay, but I did realize that I wasn’t alone.  I kept thinking about the verse from Psalm 139:14:

“I will praise thee;  for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.”

I thought a lot about these bodies that we’ve been given and how they usually heal.  I really wanted to claim that verse for complete healing, but I kept remembering, too, the fact that this body of mine has been ticking away since 1953, and that I can’t expect that it will run (or even heal!) like a much later model. I came to realize that the bottom line here was my sense of mortality, and the fact that the time was going to come when whatever was wrong with me couldn’t be fixed.  And that someday, it wasn’t just going to be something inconvenient, it would be something terminal.  This caused me some reflective moments, to say the least.

Life goes on, they say.  And it does.  I needed to go to Lewes one Monday morning to take Nettie in for a counseling appointment.  My doctor has office hours in Lewes on Monday mornings, so I decided that I would stop over there and just see if he could reassure me a bit.  He had told me to feel free to call at any time with any question.  Nurse Daughter asked if I wanted her to go along.  Did I?  Absolutely!  So we got into the office and  discovered that Dr. Killeen was out for the day and Dr. B. was covering for him.  Yikes!  I’m not a big fan of gyn doctors to begin with, but when Dr. B. offered, and Deborah insisted, I decided to have an office visit.

Dr. B. is a very kind doctor.  He was encouraging and honest.  “You’ve hit a bump in the road,” he said.  “The important thing is this:  The surgery is very well done and has healed very, very well.  You have great support, and tissue is healthy.  The thing that isn’t so nice is that the stitches have come out where the hematoma was, and that has to heal on its own.  As long as that is healing, you will have pain, and you will have bleeding.  You WILL heal, but it will just take a little longer.”

We discussed, then, about lifting and doing the things I wanted to do, and when I said that I wanted to shovel and work in the garden, that I wanted to do my usual household things, he looked thoughtful and then he said, “You can do all of those things in time — by the time Summer actually is here, I think you will be well enough to do anything you like.  For now, you can do most of your household things that you want to do, take care of your ladies and such, but just wait on the heavier work until later.”

He was a bit concerned about the situation, though, and thought that I should come back in a week to be evaluated.  When I went to make the appointment, the front desk said that I had an appointment in just a little over two weeks, did I just want to keep that?  I suddenly thought, “This is going to take another six to nine weeks.  I might just as well keep that appointment, and then see from there when he wants to see me back . . .” so I said, “Just leave it the way it is.  I will come in when I was previously scheduled.”  And I went home to wait again.

And then the strangest things started to happen.  I woke up two days later feeling vastly, inexplicably improved.  It was phenomenal!  I just felt so much better.  A few days after that, the bleeding diminished, then diminished some more.  About a week later, it stopped altogether.  I kept feeling better and better and better.  Energy levels were a bit unpredictable, and some days I felt like some large, inert lump of humanity, but, for the most part, I felt like a functioning, happy part of the human race.

I began to think about the upcoming appointment, and tried to steel myself for the news that I was almost certain was coming.  I figured that I would need at least an extra three weeks of recovery, but I honestly felt like that would be better than what I had originally anticipated.  So, one day before the six weeks (from the date of surgery) were actually up, I found myself in the doctor’s office, awaiting for the verdict.

“Mrs. Yutzy,” beamed Dr. Killeen, “you are healed.  Totally recovered.  Everything looks great.  No restrictions!”

I must have looked as startled as I felt, because he went on to recount how everything had turned out so much better than expected, how he was so pleased, and how he expected no complications.  I sat there on the exam table, and felt this incredible wellspring of gratitude that bubbled up inside of me.

“Dr. Killeen,” I began,  “I just want to thank you for what you’ve done for me –“

“Now you hush,” he said, taking both my hands in his, and leaning over to give me a peck on the cheek.  “You run along and I hope to not see you again for a year!”

Well, when I went to tell my Heavenly Father “Thank you!” He didn’t tell me to “Hush” neither did He tell me to run along.  I had a lot to tell him, and I had so much to be thankful for and about.  I knew that my recovery was nothing short of a miracle and I felt relieved, humbled, ecstatic, and just so very, very grateful.

Nine weeks ago today I had that surgery, and I rejoice every day in the health that I’ve been granted.  This week I had a follow up appointment for my knees and when the results from those X-rays were in, there was another beaming Physician’s Assistant.  “Perfect!” Exclaimed Jennifer, as she looked over the films.  “Your knees look great!  I don’t see a single thing wrong with them!  They are exactly how we like to see them!”  That was music to my ears, of course, but there was another thing that really, really pleased me about that visit.

For years, whenever I had to get up on an X-ray table, I had a pretty serious problem with incontinence.  Embarrassing, I know, but for some reason, whenever I had to scoot around on a hard surface, it was pretty important that I didn’t forget some sort of protection.  But this week, there was no problem whatsoever.  I was delighted with the good report from my knees, but I was even happier with the proof that my most recent surgery was truly a sucess.

Lord Jesus, I give grateful, humble praise!

And that is all I’m writing about this.  I hope to not mention this subject again.

 

I’m cleaning the kitchen tonight after a long, long day.
Scraping things together for the trash can, I come across this:
 

It is a pile of Mimosa Blossoms.
The tree is full at the edge of the yard.
Since I was a very small child, the Mimosa tree was something special to me.
I love the delicate fragrance of the blossoms. 
The ferny-like construction of its leaves 
The way it refuses to bud and blossom until you think it is really “done for” this year for sure . . .
And then, when most of the other trees are done blooming, it bursts into leaf
and almost overnight, it puts out these tufted, airy blooms that you can smell on the night air.

Tonight, in some of the happiest times of this day, on a golf cart loaded down with six kids,
I drove under the Mimosa tree and instructed the kids to smell.
They were awestruck.
And then they got the bright idea to pick.
There is only a gazillion flowers out there, and lots on the ground.
And so, they picked away.
The ones that ended up on my kitchen counter were for “Ms. Mary Ann.”

They lay there through supper,
through report card accounting,
through a quick trip to Dollar General for Diapers for the little guy,
through the time it took to take them home and come back again.
When we got back, Lem and Jess were already here.   
Home for the weekend for a funeral in Jessica’s family.
Things got later and later, and finally, I was finishing up the kitchen,
And found the wilted heap of flowers.
It was too late for them.
And even if I had put them in the water first thing,
they wouldn’t have lasted past the morning.

Tonight the kids tried so hard to be good.
So many things got in the way, but still they tried.
I looked at the pitiful heap of flowers and
thought about their intentions in picking them for me. 

And I wondered again about their lives and where this will all turn out.
Sometimes it seems like they are already on a wilted heap.
That there’s not enough time or nourishment or resources to save them.
Sometimes it just seems like it is too late. 

But sometimes, in the hopelessness,
and in the brokenness, 
I catch a fragrance in the night air.
Sometimes it a snatch of a Sunday School song.
Sometimes it’s the peek through my half closed eyes
and I see them holding hands around the table,
Singing the supper time grace.
Sometimes it’s a picture, carefully colored, brought for the refrigerator,
Sometimes it is grubby hands, picking delicate Mimosa blossoms
“For you, Ms. Mary Ann!”

“Lord Jesus, tonight, when it is easy for me to count the things I’d like so much to be different —
Help me to stop and breathe in the smell of Hope.
Help me not to give up.
There is so much at stake.  
Not only for them —
But for us all. “

Daniel found a little Blue Jay, hopping around in my potted plants.  He caught it and brought it in to show me:

 

 

 

He wasn’t very happy!

I wish I could have gotten a picture of his mama.
She was brazenly upset.
Even after Daniel gave her baby a gentle heave into the maple tree
and he was perfectly safe, she scolded and scolded.

I love the little things around Shady Acres at this time of year!

 

 

The first “real” cucumber on Charis’ Cucumber patch.
She couldn’t wait to see it, so her Mama brought her down,
Grandpa helped her picked it,

And . . .

She couldn’t wait to eat it!

Like I said, I love the little things! 

 

 

 

 

“I’m spending the night at Grandpa and Grammy’s house.”
I went shopping with “The Girls” this afternoon.
We had a good time!  I never slept a wink!
And we picked up pizza for supper on the way home.
That was good.
After supper, Grandpa was working in his garden.
Grammy was worried about her marigolds,
so she started a hose, thinking it wasn’t going very fast. 

She was wrong.

 

Grandpa was trimming up his tomato plants,
getting them ready for the fencing that
he uses to keep them up and off the ground.
Grammy had to go into the house for a minute.
I promised to be good.

Grandpa was there.  He didn’t stop me. 

I think that means that this is okay.  
At least I played and played, and he didn’t stop me.
I did hear him laughing over there in the tomato row. 

Grammy took this picture of my silly grin.
I had just thrown a big handful of mud on her
(and I found out pretty quick that wasn’t allowed).
Right after this picture,
Grammy put me in Grandpa’s outside shower,
took off my clothes, and washed me off.  
She also rinsed out the clothing so that the mud wouldn’t stain.
We came inside, and Grammy got my bath water, and I got completely clean, dry and powdered.
I fell asleep while Auntie Rach was reading to me.  
So now I am getting a good rest on the floor beside Grandpa and Grammy’s bed.
Tomorrow, I am going to church with them, and that makes me happy, too!
Grammy is too tired to think straight tonight.  Maybe she needs someone to read her a story and tell her to go to bed!