Gone With the Wind

 A friend on Facebook remarked that she was excited about doing her laundry so she could hang it out the next morning.  A flurry of remarks resulted, split half and half between the pros and cons of line drying clothes.  I was surprised at the zeal of of those who were in favor--if they loved it, the really loved it.  Of course, the others disliked it equally intensely.

I have been having the urge to dry clothes outside myself.  There is nothing like the fragrance of sun-dried sheets and towels.  No dryer softener can match it.  I often hung our laundry when the kids were young, especially when our dryer would go on the blink.  There is something invigorating about getting out into the fresh air and sunshine and going through the homely task of hanging a husband's shirt, a child's pair of jeans, or pajamas out to dry.

One day a few months ago, I checked the clothes in the dryer and they were still wet and cold. The dryer had breathed its last! The warm days of autumn were upon us, and I tried to persuade  my husband to put up a clothesline for me.  I didn't want one strung across the yard, though, but on a single pole with multiple lines forming a square around it.  That way I could discretely hand unmentionables and raggedy items on the inner lines, shielded from view by towels and sheets on the outside.  Then the whole thing would fold up when I took the dry clothes inside.

Alas, he didn't want to dig a hole, set the pole in concrete and put up my new appliance, nor spend the money on it, either.  Instead, my husband replaced the dryer, and a good thing, since winter was coming on.  But warm weather is here again, and I think I will renew my efforts for the clothesline.  Call me old fashioned, but I even wash my dishes by hand. I got tired of streaked glasses from the dishwasher, so now I use its racks to store food containers and miscellaneous dishes.

Like all kids, when I was young I hated washing dishes.  Once in fourth grade our teacher tried to shame us by saying, "You should be glad to wash the dishes for your mother.  When you have good Dreft, and hot water, it's not hard at all." That was in the days before dishwashing liquid, and  it was a choice between milder Dreft or Oxydol or Tide to do the dishes in, if I remember right.

I noted on Facebook I have of a favorite memory I have of my sister's homespun philosophy when she said, "Many a time I've gotten a new lease on life under the clothesline."  I'm sure it was a brief reprieve from other household tasks for the mother of six to be outside surrounded by nature, her perspective renewed and inspiration gained seeing her children's clothes dance gaily on the line.  No doubt her spirit was refreshed by God's creation, the wind billowing the laundry like clouds above, floating her cares away.  She expressed my sentiment exactly.

Labor of Love

My husband loves to be outside  his nice weather working in the back yard.  Every spare moment is spent out there, raking, hammering, sawing or just staring into space dreaming up his next project.  I admit I get a little impatient on his days off when he only comes in for meals, or when he stays out there all morning on work days until it's time for his afternoon job.  But I can't get too upset when I see how happy it makes him, and how well he sleeps at night after such vigorous exercise.

Howard has been dragging home various miscellaneous boards he buys at the Habitat for Humanity surplus store.  (His newly-acquired F-150 truck comes in handy for this.)  He did a great job doing some repair work on the back of the garage, but the back yard never held much appeal for me.  I prefer the view from the swing on our screened front porch.  But today after he went to work as I stood at the kitchen sink doing our lunch dishes, I peered out the window at the yard.  It was charming!

The newly-raked yard was showing green from the overnight moisture, dappled in sun and shadow by the emerging young leaves from the elm branches overhead.  Howard had finished constructing an attractive yard bench and had set it between our little garden statue, Boy with a Jug, (which had reminded me so much of our four-year-old son when we had bought it over 30 years ago) and a large bird bath with a gracefully swirled base and fluted bowl that he bought at a yard sale last week.

He had placed our fifties-style metal yard chairs before the little matching table and positioned a cushioned lawn glider chair and its mate in a cozy conversational grouping around it.  The picnic table, swept clean of leafing residue, was nearby.  Excess lumber had been stacked neatly behind a white picket fence enclosure, built last year in a burst of creativity, in one corner of the yard behind the garage.  I was impressed! It looked positively inviting!

I had to go outside  and sit a few minutes among the singing birds flitting through tree branches, attracted by the bird feeders and dropping down to sip from the birdbath.  I was able to identify a distinctive birdsong as coming from the brilliant red cardinal high overhead, his beak opening and his little body jutting forward with each trill.  I had to hand it to my husband.  He had created a veritable work of art!

Ever since Adam tended his garden, it's been inherent in man to tame his environment and bring order to his little bit of creation.  I  joined my husband in his little Eden after supper, where we shared the binoculars and a new pastime of bird watching.  After all, love isn't just looking at each other, it's looking in the same direction!

With God

"Let me know the funeral details," my son's mother-in-law had written to him on Facebook.  "Delmar was a wonderful man.  He was loved and respected in Waco," she went on. And he was. On our infrequent visits, we could hardly go into a store or walk down the street with Delmar, my husband's brother, for people wanting to stop and talk to him.  A pastor there for nearly 50 years, he was well known by so many.  All three Summers brothers were people persons, loving conversation and with a genuine interest in their fellowman.

We had gotten the call about 2:30 this morning with the news of his passing--unexpected though he had been ill the past few months.  Howard did not go back to bed, although I found him dozing fitfully in a chair when I awoke.  I saw where he had the Bibles and scripture books spread out in front of him, and a notation that he had scribbled marking them as bringing comfort after the sad news.  My eyes fell on one from Isaiah 57:18, "I have seen his ways, and will heal him: I will lead him also, and restore comforts unto him and to his mourners."

It seemed so appropriate, for now my brother-in-law was healed, led into God's presence, never to be troubled by sickness or pain anymore, but comforted.  Just as we on earth had known his ways, his kindnesses and thoughtfulness.  God had also taken note of them.  And he comforts us, his mourners, in our sorrow as well.

The wisdom and forethought of God was brought home to  me again today when I got an e-mail about the Fibonachi numbers, a formula discovered in all of nature that points to a divine creator.  The whorls, or spiral or circular pattern of fingerprints, flowers, nautilus sea shell, pineapples, the human ear and even the spirals of our universe point to Intelligent design and bear the very finger print of God.  How amazing that our brother is now in the brilliance of that Presence, no doubt all questions were answered by the One who loves us and created it all.

Riding the Rails

This is fun! I thought as I began to relax on our train trip.  Surprisingly smooth, the ride wasn't much different from being in an airplane, with the occasional jiggle, of course.  And much more freedom and space to move around.  As soon as the announcement came on that the snack bar was open, we headed there for a biscuit and sausage, supplementing our scanty hotel breakfast we'd had earlier.  A trail of passengers followed us in turn.

It was so cute to observe a family near us.  Doting grandparents were obviously treating young ones to their first train ride. The attentive, youngish grandfather stood over them, monitoring snacks and ushering kids down the narrow stairwell back and forth to the restroom.  A voice referred to as Mimi pointed out trains to a tot on her lap before we left the station.  "He calls them Thomas," she relayed to her husband.  "He said, "Where are their faces?"  A young mother kept a professional-looking camera poised to record every reaction of the children in what would surely be a scrapbook full of memories.  (My husband and I nudged each other when we heard someone coaxingly say to a subject, "Say, 'Hi, Thelma.") Someone had my name!

The wide, panoramic view out the windows of the elevated car was entrancing as winter fields, hills and valleys spread out before us.  Livestock bounded as one across a pasture, calves kicking up their heels, cows frolicking and goats hurrying toward an unseen feeding call.  Once I got a glimpse of animals we had just passed that I could not identify as horses or deer.  They were a vivid brown with black faces, shorter than a horse, and one had a strange flap hanging as if from its mouth.  Later, the conductor asked if we'd seen the elk!  He said one had a rack dangling from its head.  So that was it!

"Look, a coyote!" my husband pointed out as I caught sight of a rangy creature darting in and out to scant pasture cover.  But the most glorious sight emerged when the intercom announced we were passing through "The Canyon," the walls of the mountain on one side and the beautiful Washita river on the other.  We could imagine a float trip as the wide, shallow river meandered over shoals and frothy rapids for miles outside our window.  I could almost hear the clop-clop rhythm of horse's hooves as an Oklahoma cowboy sang a ballad of "riding down the canyon to see the sun go down."

As we neared our destination, we wondered aloud what a large, stadium-like construction was, finally deciding it might be where the Texas Rangers  played.  A man from a seat across the aisle and a few seats ahead of us turned and told us it was the Texas Speedway.  Another architecturally interesting structure turned out to be American Airlines hangars.  Our trip was ending, but our memories were just beginning. 

Medium of Exchange

"The Buck Starts Here", was the name of the introductory movie we were to view Saturday before starting our tour of the US Bureau of Engraving and Printing, Western Facility, in Fort Worth, Texas.  Our son joked that they had already taken us to everything in Houston, where they live, and now they were starting on Ft. Worth, where they met us for this brief vacation.

By the time we viewed  the film, looked at the displays and went on the guided tour, we had a pretty good idea of how they make our paper money.  Some of the things that stand out in my memory was a little bit on the history of money.  The instructive display outlined several criteria for money: 1) Easily carried, or portable. 2) Durable. 3)Attractive or desirable. 4) Backed by a government or authority that is "legal tender".

Throughout the tour, which was conducted through a long hall way with display windows on each side, we viewed various stages of making our currency. First, the paper made of cotton and linen is cut into sheets that will eventually become 36 "notes" of various denominations.  The sheet goes through a three-step coloring process, imbedding the dyes that will deter efforts at counterfeiting.  The engraving process is carried out by the use of enormous pressure on metal plates that stamp the artwork and numbers on the bills.

Finally, the notes of Ones, Fives, Tens, Twenties, Fifties and Hundreds are bundled into "Cash stacks", shrink wrapped in plastic, loaded on pallets and put through the final step that turns them into real money.  They are put through a machine that records their serial numbers.  Only then are they loaded into secure vehicles for transport to banks and government destinations.

Several parallels between money, or medium of exchange, and our salvation occurred to me.  First, our testimony is easily carried; it is with us wherever we go.  Then, it is durable; it will last a lifetime.  Thirdly, ideally, it is attractive.  Our lives are to give off a sweet-smelling savor, or the fragrance of Christ, making salvation attractive.  (II Corinthians 2:15, Ephesians 5:2.) Fourthly, God has accepted the blood of Jesus as "Legal Tender", or payment for our salvation.  Paper money, such as we use, has no intrinsic value of and in itself.  It is known as "fiat" currency.  Fiat is a Latin word meaning "Let it be done."  Jesus said, "It is finished."

I forgot to mention the ultimate proof of a notes reliability.  It has threads woven through it that show up under a special light that prove it is not counterfeit.  The scarlet cord that runs from Genesis to Revelation is Jesus' blood, one that cannot be counterfeited.  Also, there are watermarks on our paper currency that show up if held to the light--often a picture of a president or other symbol.  A true salvation testimony, when held up to the light of scrutiny or criticism, will reveal the image of Jesus.

Just as the engraving process is carried out under tremendous pressure, Jesus suffered such enormous pressure of the weight of bearing the sins of the world that his sweat became as drops of blood during His  Passion in the Garden of Gethsemane.  The very word, "Gethsemane", means "oil press", indicating that that was the place where he olives were squeezed in an ancient press.  All this that we may have His Name engraved on our hearts for all eternity.

Where Will You Spend Eternity? Smoking or Nonsmoking?

"Aa-choo! I sneezed as my husband and I were sitting at the table reading our Bibles after breakfast.  I must be allergic to something, I thought.  I'd been sneezing and grabbing tissues all  morning.  But to what? I'm pretty consistent about keeping up with my allergy meds, and the pollen that was so bad had pretty much disappeared with the week-end rains.  Of course, there was that strange fluttering and bumping in the chimney yesterday, as if some birds had gotten in there to make a nest (Heaven forbid!) maybe I'm allergic to birds.

About that time, Howard said, "This Bible sure smells like cigarettes1"  What? Which Bible was he reading, I wondered.  He said he got it at a garage sale. No matter how many Bibles he has, he can't pass one up at estate or garage sales. When I lose track of him in a house that's hosting a sale, I can always find him poring over books shelved in the den or living room of the home. And he usually finds one that he just has to have.

"How long has it smelled like that?" I asked, noticing the yellowed pages.  "Ever since I  bought it," was his nonchalant reply.  Since I don't have much of a sense of smell, a lot gets past  me. No wonder I was sneezing.  Probably allergic to cigarette smoke and smells.  Allergic to the Bible! Wouldn't that be something!

Yet, when you think about it, that's the way a lot of folks react toward Bibles today.  They lie ignored and unopened until they have to be picked up on Sunday, if then.  Of course the Bible can make one uncomfortable and even irritated with the unvarnished truth it presents as it convicts of sin.  Like an allergy, cough, or a bad dream, it can keep you lying awake nights if things are not right between you and the Lord.

In Daniel, chapter 2, the Bible tells of King Nebuchadnezzar's troubling dream that kept him awake at night.  He demanded that his soothsayers tell him the meaning of the dream, even though he didn't remember what the dream was.  Only Daniel could reveal and interpret the dream, thus saving the king's wise men from death.  The dream contained some dire news for Nebuchadnezzar, which came to pass, but in the end the king acknowledged God.

Later, when a descendant of Nebuchadnezzar inherited the throne, he displeased God so that, at a banquet he had thrown for thousands, while they worshipped false gods and drank wine from stolen sacred vessels, the fingers if a man's hand appeared on the wall with strange words that only Daniel could interpret.  The king's knees knocked at the sight, and Daniel's words from God came true.  The king was killed that very night.  It doesn't pay to be unrepentant toward God, his warnings of punishment in the Bible are so real you can almost smell the smoke.

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.