"Do you have the cell phone?" I asked my husband as he locked the front door. We had at last gotten ready for our trip and had already put the suitcase in the trunk of the car. He frowned and said he thought I had it.
"Let's go back in and look for it," I said resignedly. "Remember, you had it when you were talking to Jamie a few minutes ago," I reminded him, trying to retrace the phone's path. Well, he couldn't remember putting it down, so I searched in every conceivable place: the kitchen counter, the bookshelf with its dark, concealing finish, the bathroom, both bedrooms, the desk, the coffee table.
"We can't leave without it!" Howard declared, which I knew was true. We were headed to Norman, Oklahoma, the first leg of our trip to Texas. From there we would take the "Heartland Flyer" for an easy train ride to Ft. Worth. Our kids would meet us there for a short week-end of fun and family fellowship.
After searching the car, Howard glanced across the street to a house remodeling project where painters were going in and out. "I'm going to ask them if they will use their cell phone to call our number. You go in and listen for it to ring," he instructed me.
Soon he was back, carrying the neighbor's phone in his hand. I had come out of the house with the admission that I hadn't heard anything. "Maybe it's in the suitcase! Ring it again!" I stood by the car trunk, but heard nothing. "Let's look and see, anyway," I said.
Feeling a little foolish, I unzipped the suitcase. There it lay, plain as day on top of a pink sweater! Then I remembered finding a scarf I had been searching for, unzipping the packed bag and putting it in. I had had the phone in my hand then!
As we drove away, I looked at the phone dial, seeing we had missed a call, which was of course Howard calling from across the street. I wondered about a voice message it showed, though, so I pressed the button, only to hear static, then my own muffled voice! "Did you let it ring?" I heard myself say, and Howard answering in a fuzzy reply! It was the conversation we had when he had come back from across the street! Had the phone picked it up through the trunk? Weird! Anyway, we laughed and were just thankful we had found it.
This inanimate object speaking to us from the trunk, you might say, made me think of an illustration our pastor used in his sermon last Sunday. When he got up to preach, an usher placed a huge, decorative boulder from the flower border out front on the altar. It had been inscribed with with the words, "Jesus Loves Me", a message those entering the building saw every Sunday. The sermon was entitled, "Substitute Praisers," from the passage where Jesus said that if the people did not praise Him, the very stones would cry out.
Also, it was a reminder that every word we speak is no doubt being recorded somehow on the the ether waves of time, or some other way in God's universe, possibly to be replayed back to us someday, giving us pause as to what we say and how we conduct our speech. Like our pastor said, may we never let the stones speak for us!
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Winds of Change
The after-school kids' shows were still on when I heard the screen door fly open. Soon both girls had deserted their perch in front of the tv for the great outdoors. I went to see what the attraction was, and I saw they were engulfed in a gust of swirling leaves, hands raised and feet dancing. The air was suddenly cooler, blowing invigorating energy into our surroundings.
Unable to resist the fresh air, I smiled in amusement from our screened porch at joy the children were having with their frolicsome playmate, the wind. Long hair blowing straight behind them like a flag in the stiff breeze, one a pony's tail flying behind her in the gale, they leaped in great bounds, the billowing wind giving its buoyant support.
Two school boys came ambling by, pushed by the wind and carrying a box of fund-raiser chocolate bars. My friendly granddaughter directed them to the house, even though she had gotten to us first last week with the project. The boys dallied, the girls chattered, pointing, hopping and dashing with the teasing wind, until their new playmates seemed to remember the work at hand and went in search of more customers.
On their way back down the street, the salesboys' now-empty box provided even more fun when it was grabbed by the wind, retrieved, worn on the head like a helmet, flaps pulled over ears, as the boys showed off for their appreciative admirers. Soon the girls' mother came to pick up my baby-sitting charges, and our street grew quiet again as the wind died down.
The children's rosy, flushed cheeks as they drove away gave evidence of their healthy exercise and rejuvenating play, no doubt with the same warmth and tingling in their limbs I remembered after playing outdoors as a child.
The refreshing of the wind made me think of the winds of the Holy Spirit. It first came on the day of Pentecost with the "...sound from heaven as of a rushing, mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting." Acts 2:3. This wind changed the people it touched, and they changed the people they touched. They became engaged with their neighbors, unable to keep their joy to themselves. The Bible says about 3,000 people were added to the church that day. There is something about the Wind!
Unable to resist the fresh air, I smiled in amusement from our screened porch at joy the children were having with their frolicsome playmate, the wind. Long hair blowing straight behind them like a flag in the stiff breeze, one a pony's tail flying behind her in the gale, they leaped in great bounds, the billowing wind giving its buoyant support.
Two school boys came ambling by, pushed by the wind and carrying a box of fund-raiser chocolate bars. My friendly granddaughter directed them to the house, even though she had gotten to us first last week with the project. The boys dallied, the girls chattered, pointing, hopping and dashing with the teasing wind, until their new playmates seemed to remember the work at hand and went in search of more customers.
On their way back down the street, the salesboys' now-empty box provided even more fun when it was grabbed by the wind, retrieved, worn on the head like a helmet, flaps pulled over ears, as the boys showed off for their appreciative admirers. Soon the girls' mother came to pick up my baby-sitting charges, and our street grew quiet again as the wind died down.
The children's rosy, flushed cheeks as they drove away gave evidence of their healthy exercise and rejuvenating play, no doubt with the same warmth and tingling in their limbs I remembered after playing outdoors as a child.
The refreshing of the wind made me think of the winds of the Holy Spirit. It first came on the day of Pentecost with the "...sound from heaven as of a rushing, mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting." Acts 2:3. This wind changed the people it touched, and they changed the people they touched. They became engaged with their neighbors, unable to keep their joy to themselves. The Bible says about 3,000 people were added to the church that day. There is something about the Wind!
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Words
My 36-year-old son says he and his 5-year-old daughter are on the same page. They are both learning tthe alphabet and learning to read: she in kindergarten and he in Greek, Hebrew and Aramaic. He says he'll be glad when it becomes reading for enjoyment, rather than plodding along sounding out words. I'm sure Anne-Marie will, too. But if she is progressing like her father, she's doing fine (under his tutelage, by the way).
Recently, thanks to internet, I saw Jamie preach a Greek Exegitical Sermon to his English-speaking Chinese congregation in Houston. It was very enlightening as he incorporated what he had learned (after only 3 weeks of study!) into his sermon! For instance, in the original Greek, the word Jesus used when referring to being born "again" (John 3:3) can also be translated as "from above." If Nicodemus had "heard" what Jesus meant, the rest of the passage would be more clear, as Jesus further taught about the neccessity for transformation of the Spirit in understanding the things of God. (The gist of the semon was something like that, anyway..something may have been lost in (my) translation.)
This reminds me of little Maddie, their three-year-old, who is on her own track in figuring out language. Jamie related that one day Anne-Marie pointed and said, "Look there is an airplane at 12:00 o'clock!" to which her father said, "No, that's 1:00 o'clock." Maddie corrected them both when she said emphatically, "That's not a clock! That's a plane!"
After 54 years of marriage, my husband and I frequently have trouble understanding what the other is saying. It's not a listening problem, it's a hearing problem. I have a tendency to speak more softly, which causes misunderstandings for him. His voice is strong and resonant, but intially it's in a lower range, and if I miss the first word, I might miss his whole point. Very frustrating sometimes, but also very hilarious at other times! Kind of like the man who said it might rain, and his wife said, "What train?"
Thankfully, one might be hard-of-hearing, but still able to hear the voice of God. He speaks through His Word, which even the deaf can read. He speaks in the still, small voice to our hearts, or maybe even an audible voice in urgent situations. No matter the language, God speaks it.
Psalm 19:1-3 says, "The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork. (2) Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. (3) There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard." Some things are crystal clear!
Recently, thanks to internet, I saw Jamie preach a Greek Exegitical Sermon to his English-speaking Chinese congregation in Houston. It was very enlightening as he incorporated what he had learned (after only 3 weeks of study!) into his sermon! For instance, in the original Greek, the word Jesus used when referring to being born "again" (John 3:3) can also be translated as "from above." If Nicodemus had "heard" what Jesus meant, the rest of the passage would be more clear, as Jesus further taught about the neccessity for transformation of the Spirit in understanding the things of God. (The gist of the semon was something like that, anyway..something may have been lost in (my) translation.)
This reminds me of little Maddie, their three-year-old, who is on her own track in figuring out language. Jamie related that one day Anne-Marie pointed and said, "Look there is an airplane at 12:00 o'clock!" to which her father said, "No, that's 1:00 o'clock." Maddie corrected them both when she said emphatically, "That's not a clock! That's a plane!"
After 54 years of marriage, my husband and I frequently have trouble understanding what the other is saying. It's not a listening problem, it's a hearing problem. I have a tendency to speak more softly, which causes misunderstandings for him. His voice is strong and resonant, but intially it's in a lower range, and if I miss the first word, I might miss his whole point. Very frustrating sometimes, but also very hilarious at other times! Kind of like the man who said it might rain, and his wife said, "What train?"
Thankfully, one might be hard-of-hearing, but still able to hear the voice of God. He speaks through His Word, which even the deaf can read. He speaks in the still, small voice to our hearts, or maybe even an audible voice in urgent situations. No matter the language, God speaks it.
Psalm 19:1-3 says, "The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork. (2) Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. (3) There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard." Some things are crystal clear!
Monday, October 1, 2012
Hobby Farming
Since our son and his wife just purchased land in the country, Greg and his dad are planning all sorts of grandiose ventures as ranchers/herdsmen/woodsmen or gentlemen farmers. They took us on a four-wheeler tour of the property last week, and their ideas, especially my husband's, billowed as loftily as the towering cumulous clouds stretching majestically across the big sky above the rounded hills and meadowlands.
The former owner raised a smattering of long-horn cattle, so father and son hung around a corral enclosing the animals that awaited transport to a new ranch, envisioning what they would raise. Howard favored goats, but he is also considering buying a few calves to feed out and nurture on the expansive pastures. To that end, he went to a livestock sale today, with me tagging along for the experience.
Mainly a fact-gathering outing, the auctioning off of cattle held little fascination for me, other than feeling a bit sorry for the poor, dumb brutes that were paraded across a pipe-fence stock pen in front of potential buyers perched on concrete bleachers or folding chairs high above the sales arena. The animals were plaintively beautiful, staring wide-eyed and uncomprehending, legs planted solidly as they beheld the observers before the exit door opened and they hurried toward the light.
We were amazed at the prices, yet there was steady bidding from several, obviously well-heeled, cattlemen, in the gallery. Numerous cattle trucks were parked outside, either from bringing the animals to market or awaiting additions to their herds. After nearly an hour, we walked outdoors to see if there were other kinds of animals to be auctioned. Howard was hoping to see pigs, goats, or even sheep, as well. Instead, we saw vast amounts of cattle, indicating an all-day affair. My husband gave in to my prompting to go to lunch, then we headed home where he could search on the internet for smaller sales.
His sites popped up when I turned on the computer tonight, and I saw my farmer-at-heart husband had gathered information on chickens, ducks, geese, and guineas. I thought I had married a merchant-turned-preacher, but over the years I've found out his true identity, one that he might at last fulfill now that he has the time for it!
The former owner raised a smattering of long-horn cattle, so father and son hung around a corral enclosing the animals that awaited transport to a new ranch, envisioning what they would raise. Howard favored goats, but he is also considering buying a few calves to feed out and nurture on the expansive pastures. To that end, he went to a livestock sale today, with me tagging along for the experience.
Mainly a fact-gathering outing, the auctioning off of cattle held little fascination for me, other than feeling a bit sorry for the poor, dumb brutes that were paraded across a pipe-fence stock pen in front of potential buyers perched on concrete bleachers or folding chairs high above the sales arena. The animals were plaintively beautiful, staring wide-eyed and uncomprehending, legs planted solidly as they beheld the observers before the exit door opened and they hurried toward the light.
We were amazed at the prices, yet there was steady bidding from several, obviously well-heeled, cattlemen, in the gallery. Numerous cattle trucks were parked outside, either from bringing the animals to market or awaiting additions to their herds. After nearly an hour, we walked outdoors to see if there were other kinds of animals to be auctioned. Howard was hoping to see pigs, goats, or even sheep, as well. Instead, we saw vast amounts of cattle, indicating an all-day affair. My husband gave in to my prompting to go to lunch, then we headed home where he could search on the internet for smaller sales.
His sites popped up when I turned on the computer tonight, and I saw my farmer-at-heart husband had gathered information on chickens, ducks, geese, and guineas. I thought I had married a merchant-turned-preacher, but over the years I've found out his true identity, one that he might at last fulfill now that he has the time for it!
Work in Progress
Just as we went out the door to church yesterday, I glanced at my black sweater. "Howard," I said to my husband, "Check to see that I don't have any hair on my shoulder." I had just shampooed, and I didn't want any strays showing up for some well-meaning helper to remove. It's has always been a pet peeve of mine to see a hand advancing toward me, an intent look in its owner's eyes, while a collar was straightened, a speck removed or flaw pointed out.
Then while chatting over the pew later with a lady behind me as we waited for church to start, she peered and aimed a pinched thumb and forefinger toward me, informing me I had a loose hair. "That's okay," I said, moving swiftly away toward my seat. "My hair is always doing that."
"No, it's not on your head, it's on your sweater," she persisted. I told her about my pet peeve, and her response was, "Why?" I smiled and shrugged, but later I couldn't help feeling a little disconcerted about my reaction.
Our worship leader was away, so a newcomer was leading the singing this morning. After a slow beginning, he launched into a peppy tune I'd never heard before, but it was easy to learn and I was soon singing with feeling, "Jesus on the inside, Working on the outside." It fit me perfectly! I would be reminded of that later.
It was announced that after our monthly singspiration that evening, we would gather for fellowship over desserts, and were asked to bring something sweet. I'd been wanting to bring a special treat my daughter told me about, but we hadn't had these fellowships lately, so I hadn't prepared anything. That didn't stop me from going to the store immediately after lunch to procure the fixings.
The dish was similar to a fruit pizza, but the crust was cookie dough baked in miniature muffin cups, forming tiny containers for a topping of cream cheese/Kool Whip with small slices of fruit inserted decoratively. I found everything I needed and was soon mixing and slicing while the cookies baked. It seemed fruit had gone up considerably in price, and for such small portions it was a shame I had to buy whole containers, but the results would be worth it, I assured myself.
Between batches, I would dash to the bedroom to practice a song Howard and I were to sing that night that he was laboriously copying in large print so we could read it. I wasn't too sure about it, but if the cookies turned out right, maybe the song would. That was my prayer, anyway.
The cookies were beautiful, but nobody seemed to know what they were, and about half were left over. (Of course, there were many desserts there.) After waiting until almost the end of the long program to sing our song, most of it was pretty rough (hopefully the smooth parts made up for it). Nevertheless, I couldn't help feeling deflated and defeated in spirit as we went home. Feeling bad about my attitude, I had to remember the words of the song that morning, I have "Jesus on the inside," but still "Working on the outside."
Then while chatting over the pew later with a lady behind me as we waited for church to start, she peered and aimed a pinched thumb and forefinger toward me, informing me I had a loose hair. "That's okay," I said, moving swiftly away toward my seat. "My hair is always doing that."
"No, it's not on your head, it's on your sweater," she persisted. I told her about my pet peeve, and her response was, "Why?" I smiled and shrugged, but later I couldn't help feeling a little disconcerted about my reaction.
Our worship leader was away, so a newcomer was leading the singing this morning. After a slow beginning, he launched into a peppy tune I'd never heard before, but it was easy to learn and I was soon singing with feeling, "Jesus on the inside, Working on the outside." It fit me perfectly! I would be reminded of that later.
It was announced that after our monthly singspiration that evening, we would gather for fellowship over desserts, and were asked to bring something sweet. I'd been wanting to bring a special treat my daughter told me about, but we hadn't had these fellowships lately, so I hadn't prepared anything. That didn't stop me from going to the store immediately after lunch to procure the fixings.
The dish was similar to a fruit pizza, but the crust was cookie dough baked in miniature muffin cups, forming tiny containers for a topping of cream cheese/Kool Whip with small slices of fruit inserted decoratively. I found everything I needed and was soon mixing and slicing while the cookies baked. It seemed fruit had gone up considerably in price, and for such small portions it was a shame I had to buy whole containers, but the results would be worth it, I assured myself.
Between batches, I would dash to the bedroom to practice a song Howard and I were to sing that night that he was laboriously copying in large print so we could read it. I wasn't too sure about it, but if the cookies turned out right, maybe the song would. That was my prayer, anyway.
The cookies were beautiful, but nobody seemed to know what they were, and about half were left over. (Of course, there were many desserts there.) After waiting until almost the end of the long program to sing our song, most of it was pretty rough (hopefully the smooth parts made up for it). Nevertheless, I couldn't help feeling deflated and defeated in spirit as we went home. Feeling bad about my attitude, I had to remember the words of the song that morning, I have "Jesus on the inside," but still "Working on the outside."
Friday, September 28, 2012
Narrow Escape
"Where are you from? Is this home?" my husband, in his usual friendly way, asked the young waitress as we were eating out last week in the college town of Stillwater.
"No," she replied, "I'm from Colorado," to which my husband exclaimed, "Colorado! Denver?"
"Yes. Well, actually, Aurora," she went on. On hearing the name that was on the news not long ago, I asked her if she'd known anyone involved in the recent tragedy there.
"Well, my cousin had planned to go to the Batman movie that night (I think she said he had tickets), but he had to help a friend who had an emergency, so thank God he didn't go!"
Then only last week, I read a news item on internet that a school bus from Washington County in Tennessee had wrecked, sending some 20 kids to the hospital. I saw with alarm that it was from my granddaughter's highschool! A flurry of phone calls and messages followed, and thankfully, I found out it was not her bus.
"But it was Haley's bus!" my daughter told me. This was the pretty teenager we had met when our grandson introduced her as his girl friend when we were there earlier this year. "She would have been on that bus, but she didn't go to school that day!"
We had been in Stillwater that day having a celebration lunch with our son's family after their adoption of two young daughters that morning. A couple of nights later, a large group of family and friends gathered for an adoption party in their honor at the party room of a local yogurt bar. Over dishes of yogurt and finger foods, we caught up with people we hadn't seen for awhile.
"How are you liking your job?" I asked a young woman I had known at our former church. I knew she had recently gotten a degree in her field and had been working part-time in social work, transporting children to custody hearings and other appointments. She told me she had been promoted to case worker. "You must see some interesting cases," I remarked.
"Oh, yes," she commented, shaking her head. "There are so many sad situations. I was just thinking tonight, these could have been some of those kids, with a much different outcome," she said, indicating the happy scene before us. "It is so good to see an outcome like this!"
Her words made me reflect on the scene in the courtroom on adoption day. The judge had asked the whole family, including the grandparents, to come forward. He had already emptied the room of others gathered for proceedings that day. "This is wonderful," he said, waving his arm expansively, "to see a family like this!" His appreciation made me realize what a blessing it is, indeed, to be a part of a support team as a family to show forth God's love to the vulnerable. God had made a way for the helpless, providing what might be again, a narrow escape.
"No," she replied, "I'm from Colorado," to which my husband exclaimed, "Colorado! Denver?"
"Yes. Well, actually, Aurora," she went on. On hearing the name that was on the news not long ago, I asked her if she'd known anyone involved in the recent tragedy there.
"Well, my cousin had planned to go to the Batman movie that night (I think she said he had tickets), but he had to help a friend who had an emergency, so thank God he didn't go!"
Then only last week, I read a news item on internet that a school bus from Washington County in Tennessee had wrecked, sending some 20 kids to the hospital. I saw with alarm that it was from my granddaughter's highschool! A flurry of phone calls and messages followed, and thankfully, I found out it was not her bus.
"But it was Haley's bus!" my daughter told me. This was the pretty teenager we had met when our grandson introduced her as his girl friend when we were there earlier this year. "She would have been on that bus, but she didn't go to school that day!"
We had been in Stillwater that day having a celebration lunch with our son's family after their adoption of two young daughters that morning. A couple of nights later, a large group of family and friends gathered for an adoption party in their honor at the party room of a local yogurt bar. Over dishes of yogurt and finger foods, we caught up with people we hadn't seen for awhile.
"How are you liking your job?" I asked a young woman I had known at our former church. I knew she had recently gotten a degree in her field and had been working part-time in social work, transporting children to custody hearings and other appointments. She told me she had been promoted to case worker. "You must see some interesting cases," I remarked.
"Oh, yes," she commented, shaking her head. "There are so many sad situations. I was just thinking tonight, these could have been some of those kids, with a much different outcome," she said, indicating the happy scene before us. "It is so good to see an outcome like this!"
Her words made me reflect on the scene in the courtroom on adoption day. The judge had asked the whole family, including the grandparents, to come forward. He had already emptied the room of others gathered for proceedings that day. "This is wonderful," he said, waving his arm expansively, "to see a family like this!" His appreciation made me realize what a blessing it is, indeed, to be a part of a support team as a family to show forth God's love to the vulnerable. God had made a way for the helpless, providing what might be again, a narrow escape.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
It's Not Autumn Without 'Em
"Look at all the pretty sunflowers!" I exclaimed to my husband on the way home from the county fair last week. There were clumps around telephone poles, left undisturbed by mowers, and drifts in slopes and roadside ditches. "Let's stop and pick some!" I urged, but we were always past likely-looking places to pull over by the time I pointed them out.
Yesterday, a Saturday, I renewed my campaign to drive into the country and gather some of the colorful flowers. There were none on the first road we took, but we found a smattering of blooms as we backtracked along our fair route. "Stop!" I called in time for Howard to park along the roadside. Wow! These were hard to break off! The rubbery stems twisted and refused to break off in my hands. I should've brought a knife or shears!
Finally gathering a few, clumps of dirt and all, and my nose streaming (that should have told me something), we stopped at a couple more sites before I resignedly called it quits. They weren't as plentiful or as pretty as they had been last week.
We had a couple more errands, and by the time we got home the flowers were wilted. Not to be deterred, I found a jar, filled it with water and placed it in a ceramic pumpkin. The flowers lolled listlessly over the edge, although the seed pods that had lost their blossoms were attractive on the long stems. I tried to ignore my itchy throat, but soon there was nothing for it but to transfer my bouquet to the front porch. I was allergic. The bedraggled posies looked pitiful, anyway.
Imagine my surprise when I peeked out on the porch this morning and saw they had regained their beauty! The water and the fresh overnight air had done them good! The large, pinky-orange pumpkin was a splash of color on the high-backed white bench with the cheery faces of the sunflowers spilling out in their yellow-brimmed bonnets.
I had gone to bed a little disgruntled last night, not only over the flowers, but our failed attempt to attend an autumn fair at a neighborhood church. We finally found a parking place among a sea of cars at the popular event, but walking in, there were no people to speak of. "What time do you open?" I asked a lady behind a booth. She told me 6:00 o'clock, but it was not even 5:30. My husband was reluctant to leave, so we found a shady spot to sit, watching people do last-minute preparations.
At last the ticket booth opened, and my husband got his wallet out only to say, "I thought I had more money than this!" What? There was no ATM on the premises, and he had only enough cash for tickets for one of us to eat. No cake walk, no anything, and it was too much trouble to come back and hunt another parking place. We went home and I made supper, the day ending on a disappointing note.
Then this morning a devotional I read seemed to be God speaking just to me, and the pretty, revived flowers underscored His loving care in even the smallest things! And my allergies are better, too! Thank You, Lord!
Yesterday, a Saturday, I renewed my campaign to drive into the country and gather some of the colorful flowers. There were none on the first road we took, but we found a smattering of blooms as we backtracked along our fair route. "Stop!" I called in time for Howard to park along the roadside. Wow! These were hard to break off! The rubbery stems twisted and refused to break off in my hands. I should've brought a knife or shears!
Finally gathering a few, clumps of dirt and all, and my nose streaming (that should have told me something), we stopped at a couple more sites before I resignedly called it quits. They weren't as plentiful or as pretty as they had been last week.
We had a couple more errands, and by the time we got home the flowers were wilted. Not to be deterred, I found a jar, filled it with water and placed it in a ceramic pumpkin. The flowers lolled listlessly over the edge, although the seed pods that had lost their blossoms were attractive on the long stems. I tried to ignore my itchy throat, but soon there was nothing for it but to transfer my bouquet to the front porch. I was allergic. The bedraggled posies looked pitiful, anyway.
Imagine my surprise when I peeked out on the porch this morning and saw they had regained their beauty! The water and the fresh overnight air had done them good! The large, pinky-orange pumpkin was a splash of color on the high-backed white bench with the cheery faces of the sunflowers spilling out in their yellow-brimmed bonnets.
I had gone to bed a little disgruntled last night, not only over the flowers, but our failed attempt to attend an autumn fair at a neighborhood church. We finally found a parking place among a sea of cars at the popular event, but walking in, there were no people to speak of. "What time do you open?" I asked a lady behind a booth. She told me 6:00 o'clock, but it was not even 5:30. My husband was reluctant to leave, so we found a shady spot to sit, watching people do last-minute preparations.
At last the ticket booth opened, and my husband got his wallet out only to say, "I thought I had more money than this!" What? There was no ATM on the premises, and he had only enough cash for tickets for one of us to eat. No cake walk, no anything, and it was too much trouble to come back and hunt another parking place. We went home and I made supper, the day ending on a disappointing note.
Then this morning a devotional I read seemed to be God speaking just to me, and the pretty, revived flowers underscored His loving care in even the smallest things! And my allergies are better, too! Thank You, Lord!
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