Daisies are for Love

 "Would you like some daisies?" my neighbor was asking. "I am thinning out my flower bed and I have all these extra plants I'm getting rid of."  Daisies! My favorite flowers! Of course, I took them.  Come Spring, I had thick, lovely stands of them bordering my front entry.

We were just getting settled after a transitional period between churches.  We had recently assumed the pastorate of a small church and had moved into a modest rental home in the country.  The location was idyllic, and I was able to overlook the shortcomings of the small house, which did have its own particular charms.  It was light and airy with many windows overlooking a side yard where we had hung two porch swings right-angled from each other on the branches of two oak trees.  It was a perfect conversation spot for us and visitors alike.

A tiny patio, an eight foot square, was outside the front door.  We bought a swing with a green and white awning that just fit on one side, and an umbrella table with chairs for the other side, the adjustable umbrella tilting to provide privacy and/or sun protection.  A large shrub shielded one end of the swing. And then there were the daisies.  Cheerful, thick and swaying  gently on their slender stems in the hilltop winds, they brightened every morning for the entire season.  When we moved from there a few years later, our landlady protested, "But you had made this such a home!"

Maybe that's my knack, for as I was posting back and forth with a friend from Mississippi the other day who said she had lived in her home for 20 years, I mentioned that we had lived in our house there for that long.  She said she remembered our "lovely house" and how homey it was.  I knew I loved it, but it was nice to hear from someone else.

Then a few nights ago I had a gathering at our house for a church women's group.  One guest, especially, paid me lovely compliments on the de'cor (which is kind of Cracker Barrel-Inspired/Early Garage Sale). "You could have a bed and breakfast! she exclaimed.  (Well, I do have a Mom's Bed & Breakfast" sign in the kitchen I'd bought many years ago.)

The Bible says in Titus 2 that the older women are to "teach the young women to be sober, to love their husbands. to love their children, to be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed." A keeper at home.  I guess that's me.  We have many more freedoms than did the women of that culture, but the Bible is timeless.  My children have gown up, but I still keep house for their father.  Women will always keep the home, whether or not they have an outside job.  That too, is timeless.

Priorities

 This is a historic day!  I found my husband with the iron actually poised over the ironing board! I don't remember his ironing in the 52 (now 62) years of marriage!  I think it must have been due to the little table-top ironing board I bought.  He didn't have to set up the big one.  Yesterday I found one of his knit shirts had been misplaced in the closet and it had some folds on it. I guess he decided to wear it today and attempted to to iron while I was getting ready.

"This looks terrible!" he said of the result.  It really didn't, but I could see some streaks because he had ironed it flat and the ridges from underneath showed through. He was surprised when I told him he should have slipped the shirt over the ironing board.  "I didn't know that!" he exclaimed and did it over.

I don't know why Howard considers ironing solely "women's work."  All of our sons iron, and at least one of our four sons-in-law. (The other may be old school like my husband.) Once when I visited my future husband's house as a teenager, his mother showed me his closet filled with 21 crisply ironed shirts she had done.  (Was she trying to tell me something?)  However, he is perfectly happy to take our ironing to "The Iron Man," a he-man type who obviously enjoys ironing (and is strong enough to do lots of it).

For all the years of our marriage, our tasks have been pretty much defined.  Howard went to work, and I handled household chores, except for yard work.  Now that he is (at least semi-) retired, we do a lot of things together that used to be my responsibility, such as shopping--grocery and other wise.

Cooking is still my domain, but my husband has found he likes washing dishes, if there aren't too many; however, he draws the line at loading the dishwasher.  He does the vacuuming, but I'm in charge of the laundry.  And he has Never ironed.  I've tried to show him how, saying its like sawing or sweeping, just back and forth movements, but he insists on making little tapping-like jabs or setting the iron down in a stamping motion and twisting it.

Well, I guess you can't teach an old dog new tricks, or at least that's what I thought until this morning.  One area in which we seem to have more in common now and more time for us is reading and discussing scripture.  Proverbs 27:17 says, "Iron sharpens iron; so a man sharpens the countenance of his friend." A lively discussion with my oldest, dearest friend is sure to keep us both sharp, and we'll leave the ironing to the Iron Man!

Refreshings

I  thought I heard the pitter-patter of rain in the night, and when I looked out the window this morning the streets were wet and glistening in the semi-darkness.  Sure enough, a slight cool front had moved in with welcoming mountain resort-like air.  Such a blessed relief from yesterday's 100 degree temps!  We ate breakfast on the front screened porch, reveling in the refreshing cool breezes and restful view of grey skies and greening grass.

No wonder so many spiritual applications and analogies have been made about water, rain, or springs.  No doubt partly because most settings of scripture are in arid, stony, wilderness or even desert climes.  Psalms 104:10-13 says, "He sendeth the springs into the valleys, which run among the hills.  They give drink to every beast of the field:  The wild asses quench their thirst. By them shall the fowls of the heaven have their habitation, Which sing among the branches.  He watereth the hjlls from His chambers: The earth is satisfied with the fruit of Thy works."

Isaiah 35 is full of similes and other figures of  speech describing streams in the desert, parched ground becoming a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water, speaking of the beauty of the Messianic reign. Hebrews 4:9 says, "There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God."  This is the rest that is found in Christ, not found by the unbelievers of Jesus time nor our time.

Stories of Jesus are filled with examples of water representing cleansing, restoration and compassion: washing the disciple's feet, turning water into wine, his own feet washed with tears, and the waters of baptism, to name a few.  He allowed Peter to walk on water and stilled the storm at sea. "Peace, Be still," He commanded, calming both the storm and His friends' fears.

Jesus had been sleeping just fine in the rain, and the sound of rain soothes sleepers still.  In God's promise to  Noah, He allowed the moisture in the air from the Flood to break up light and become the first rainbow, a biblical symbol of hope and God's faithfulness to this day. Let it rain!

  

Let's Be Clear

 On the birthday of our youngest son, Jamie, he said he got what he wanted: a Japanese Bible from his wife. (Isn't the King James Version hard enough?)  But he's always been interested in languages, majoring in French in college.  Who would have thought, when he was such a non-verbal toddler?  Of course, he had his own language, even then.  Sign language, that is.  He would point and say "Um," and we'd better understand what he meant.  If we didn't, "Um" was repeated plaintively, then a satisfactory "Um" again when his request was granted. (If a sibling dare use "his" word, they risked a slap from a two-year-old palm or his flying left.)

Later, Jamie couldn't (wouldn't) make the sound "k," using a "t" sound instead.  "Say 'cat,'" I told him, and he would say, "tat."  He could, however, say, "black."  "Say 'black cat," I implored him, but it came out, "black tat."  My granddaughter, as a 5-year-old, couldn't say "hair," pronouncing it "har" or "her."  She would say, "Brush my "her," or "She pulled my 'har."  Since she was about to start kindergarten, I worked with her on her pronunciation.  "The man cuts hay.  He is a 'hay-er."  After a few tries she got a triumphant look on her face and said, "hay-er...hair!"

Children do eventually learn to speak clearly, even speaking in foreign languages.  Jamie directs a youth band in a Houston Chinese church where he volunteers weekly.  He also ministers there occasionally from the pulpit, with the help of an interpreter.  He must have everything written down verbatim in English to present to the interpreter a week in advance to review and familiarize himself with the sermon.  Although it's hard to pause after every thought to wait for the translation, our son says you get into the rhythm of it.  When I asked how he knew his words were effective, he said he could tell by the expressions on their faces, the occasional laugh at the appropriate place, and of course, by the moving of the Spirit.  They have wonderful altar services there with great response from the congregation.  It must be like being a missionary to China without ever leaving home.

The youth pastor at the church, a friend of Jamie, is a former missionary to China.  He married a lovely Chinese girl there; they had to leave the country when they were expecting their second child, due to the "one child" rule in China.  Now they have three children, so they don't have much hope of going back, even though China is now modifying its laws to include permission of two children in some places due to population depletion.

Jamie said he feels like a first-grader in trying to read and sound out the words in his Japanese Bible.  Demonstrating for me, he sounded like the adults on the "Charlie Brown" programs.  (I've heard that to know how a beginning reader feels, by reading a book upside down.  I've tried it, and it's true.)  The Bible says in James 3:5-8, that the tongue is an unruly member that no one man can tame.  And in Proverbs 16:32, that he who rules his spirit is better than he who takes a city. The Holy Spirit transcends languages and moves above our limitations, even in cities of China or in a place like Houston, Texas. 

When the Wind Blows

     The blowing of a train whistle while I was trying to go to sleep last night kept me awake.  Train whistles usually have a lonely and mournful sound to me, especially from a distance.  And during the day I find the sound oddly reassuring, a comfortable background affirmation that life and commerce are plodding along predictably.  But last night it was just plain irritating.

Howard, my husband, told me a lady was in the store where he works part-time the other day transacting some business, when she stopped mid-sentence and said, "Oh, I miss that sound."  A train was passing by a few blocks away and she heard the whistle blowing.  She was from Blackwell, and trains do not go through there anymore.

I was surprised one day when we passed by the building that formerly housed my father-in-law's grocery store in Blackwell.  "I thought there were some railroad tracks here," I puzzled, looking around.  They had been pulled up!  The street sign, "Frisco" stood there in mute testimony of former days. The trains had disappeared sometime during the many years we lived in the South.

After the 9/ll attacks when we were living in the country in Mississippi, I remember how we missed  the planes flying overhead for several weeks in the immediate aftermath when they had been grounded for security reasons.  We had both a military and a commercial airport a few  miles away in Gulfport, and there was normally a lot of activity.  We used to sit in a yard swing Howard had hung from the friendly branch of a tree and watch the planes in our hilltop sky on "Windy Acres."  It seemed strange for the night sky to be empty, the lights twinkling above only from the stars.

"The wind bloweth where it listeth (wishes)," Jesus said, "and thou hearest the sound thereof, but can't not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is everyone that is born of the Spirit."  He was explaining being born again to Nicodemus, who had come to Him by night with his questions.  Perhaps He was saying that we hear the wind with our natural ears, but we hear God with our spirit.  The words of a poem by Christina Rosetti that I read in school comes to mind:

Who hath seen the wind?

Neither I nor you; 

But when the leaves hang trembling

The wind is passing through

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I:

But when the leaves bow down their heads

The wind is passing by.

We can say the same thing of the Holy Spirit: We can be left trembling, and we will certainly bow down our heads.

 

rth If It Be in Tune..."'

 What a wonderful day!  Howard's birthday and the weather was perfect...what is so rare as a day in June?...  We rode with with the windows down in his truck as we struck out to enjoy "his" day.  His latest obsession is fixing up the back yard, so the first stop was to a farm store to buy fescue seed. (It's supposed to grow in shade.)  Then a swooping drive through Walmart's outdoor displays of garden soil, decorative rock, and mulch.  (We would return later for a steel rake to prep the soil for the grass seed.)

After fining flowering plants on sale and considering cushions for lawn furniture, we decided to check on the lawn swing we'd seen the other day.  It was on sale for only a little more than half it's original price!  "You'll have to pay extra to buy the one on the floor, since it's already assembled," the clerk said.  My husband's male ego made him say he would do it himself.

Well, it would have been well worth the $15, since it took us nearly three hours of "easy assembly" to put it together.  We're both wiped out, now, but it is beautiful, in a rustically-elegant sort of way.  We've been resting before going to our kids' for a birthday supper.  Then we're all going to church together, a perfect ending to his special day.

It may be Howard's birthday, but I am so excited I feel like it's mine!  I learned today that a proof copy of my second book, "Seasons of the Heart," is on the way and should be here in a few days!  It looked so good  when I looked up  the status on the internet.  I plan to speed read it and make any corrections, and hopefully have published copies by the end of the month!

Sometimes God answers prayers in multiples.  Howard had a prayer answered Monday, I had prayed that the book would be ready this month; and my laryngitis is gone!  Like I said, it was a beautiful day, and June is only half over...the best is yet to be: my birthday, our anniversary, and Father's Day.  Maybe a day in June isn't such a rare thing, after all!

The Road Not Taken

 We went backward on our walk at the park today.  No, I don't mean we walked backward, we just took the path from beginning to end and went to the beginning,  instead of the other way around.  It was an eye opener!  We saw things from an entirely different view and it was refreshing.  We had often met people on the path coming from that direction, but it was novel to come that way ourselves.

Actually, it is good for you to do something a different way.  I've read that it wards off Alzheimer's to do something like trying to read a book upside down.  Change awakens the mind and, I guess, creates new pathways in the brain (or at least helps neurons connect better.)

We hear a lot about thinking outside the box.  In other words, not the normal way of thinking about something.  I got the chance to do that quite by accident last weekend when the power was off. When we moved here a few years ago, it was quite a challenge to curtain and drape the rooms, adapting what I had and keeping new purchases to a minimum.  The bathroom window didn't have a shade, so I had "temporarily" propped a painting in the window.  It fit perfectly, and it was a translucent, hand-painted scene of clothes flapping on a clothesline.  It had been in my laundry room at our former house.

Well, the house was too dark with no electricity that day, so I moved the painting to let more light in, setting it on an antique wash stand below the window.  Hey, it looked good there!  The white-washed, weathered frame fit just right between the supporting posts of the wash stand's towel rack.  But now I would have to put something in the window.  I spotted a couple of nice towels, never used, folded on top of the wash stand.

Hmm.  I could fold the ends over, do a running stitch to make a pocket, slide a spring rod through them, and they would be perfectly appropriate for a window covering!  I was dreading to look for bathroom curtains, anyway.  I stitched them up this afternoon and was pleased with how they came out, even though they had to be folded almost double.  Oh well, the backs would have excess fabric, but it wouldn't show.  I accidentally hung them backwards, but the excess made a charming tiered appearance, so I left them.  The bathroom looks much better!

Paul tells us in Romans 12:2, "And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God."  I know this is talking about spiritual things, but I believe God helps us, as Christians, to also think creatively with our renewed mind --to think outside the box.

Of course, one thing led to another, as I had to move the slate "Powder Room: sign from the top of the window to a new location on a towel hook where its blue, hand-painted motif picked up the color of a blue bird on an adjacent hand towel.  And I found a home for a nautical rope-trimmed sign declaring "To Life Boats," with an arrow pointing toward the bathtub.  My creative mood extended to our supper meal, when I added homemade glazed carrots to our menu of Sour Cream Chicken and baked a Hoosier cake for dessert.  Thank you, God, for creativity and a renewed mind.      

Believe Me!"

 "Why didn't you tell me it was like this?" I asked my husband as we went into the restaurant behind the motel we stayed in the night before.  As soon as we drove into the parking area, I couldn't believe that Howard knew about this place all along and hadn't conveyed it effectively to me.  We were  on a trip to our daughter's in Georgia and had stayed at the "Casey Jones Motel" in Jackson, Tennessee, a quaint-looking modest-but-clean lodging on Highway I-40 between Memphis and Nashville.

In fact, Howard had checked it out on an earlier trip, coming back to the car and telling me the room wasn't very nice, then checking us in at a chain motel across the highway.  By the time we stop on these trips, I'm always so exhausted I don't want to leave the room to get something to eat, but just collapse on the bed and persuade him to bring me a burger.

That long ago night he kept saying that the desk clerk said there was a good place to eat at a nearby buffet.  The way he explained it, I thought it was part of a franchise chain that we'd frequented when we lived in Mississippi, and I declined, despite his urging.

I'd done the same thing last night, when he'd gone out and got me a hamburger at a "store."  This morning I was hoping to shop for breakfast at a Cracker Barrel I'd seen advertised on a billboard the night before.  But this was 'way better than Cracker Barrel!  It was called "The Old Country Store," and in fact, it was the prototype for the large chain.  "They tried to get us to franchise with them," the clerk behind the counter told me.  "But we are a family.  We wanted to keep the personal touch."

Their bountiful breakfast buffet was impressive.  Not only were there mounds of scrambled eggs, several kinds of breakfast meats, grits, gravy, and biscuits, but also a large, freestanding griddle in the center of the room where the cook turned the griddle cakes right on to your plate.  Then there was the long fruit bar constantly being replenished with prettily arranged melon, peaches, strawberries, and almost any fruit you could imagine.

Then the store!  All kinds of antique signs and decor, like Cracker Barrel, only more authentic-looking and more plentiful.  They even had Davy Crockett's jacket displayed in a glass case.  There were several departments in the store, including a fast food counter, a deli-type counter, a soda fountain, and even a genuine country store of long ago that had been hauled to the property and attached and preserved exactly as it had been when the father of the owner had had his first job there.

In fact, there was a whole village of stores--Casey Jones Village--old trains, and many other attractions I can't wait to see when we go back through there.  This time I know what I'd be missing!  God showed me a parallel here.  Do we fail to convey the goodness of God to people?  Or the hope of Heaven? Or worse yet, the terrors of Hell?  Too often, I'm sure, we shrug as if to say oh, well, I tried, and they're not not interested. But they just don't know what they're missing! (Or not!")