"The Sky is Low..."

"The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

A traveling flake of snow

Across a barn or through a rut

Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day

How some one treated him;

Nature, like us, is sometimes caught

Without her diadem.” (Emily Dickinson)

Laying low this weekend after a great youth retreat, I’m on a third cup of coffee, and my kids and I crowd close around the computer screen to watch a science dvd. We munch carrots, pop salted green edamame beans, and chew whole wheat cheese quesadillas (“Mom, whole wheat?! Really?”) while dog variants march across the screen. (“Okay, I’ll try not to buy whole wheat tortillas again.”) 

Later, my teens descend to their rooms for other school, and I ponder flower beds and perennial gardens. The plastic bucket of Shasta daisy roots in my garage languish from their planting delay, and I feverishly plot companion flowers and layouts. 

My borrowed garden books speak of the power of good companions who can bolster up sagging plants, hide unseemly roots, and add vivid color to those around them. The reference books speak of the need for lush fertile soil, enriched by compost and mulch -- treasured life-giving nutrients that spring up from the surrender of decay and death. Hearty life and color spring from old growth, from life surrendered, from the drab of former death. 

Grabbing my spade, the bucket of dead-looking Shasta daisy roots, some magenta corabells, and bags of daffodil, tulip, and crocus bulbs, I head out under a low grey sky. Pondering companion plants that add strength and beauty to each other, and the need for continually-enriched soil that gives life and heartiness, I plunge hands into cold dirt. 

Linking with Ann, I say, merci seigneur.

Dentist Trips and How to Love Parenting

The chimes blow hard, and yellow leaves carpet my lawn, the gaps in the naked trees revealing more of my neighbors’ yards than I have seen yet. This uncharted territory of autumn in a new house makes everything fresh this year. 

At the dentist office this morning, four Dougans crowd into the elevator, pass under construction scaffolding, and duck into unpainted hallway entrances to the dentist. Four year old Daniel skips happily to the waiting room toys, his sky blue Buzz Light Year hoodie crumpled out backwards. Svelte eighth grade Morgan stands tall beside me, bobbed hair gracing her cheeks, sliding to cover dark eyes as she slips into a chair beside me. Towering twelfth grade John slumps sullenly into a plastic molded chair nearby, his fear of dentists looking like teen age angst, oddly unlike his usual cheerful optimism. 

As our names are called, we pass through the waiting room to an inner glass-paned viewing center, where pink dye is painted on their teeth, new toothbrushes are handed out, and my kids take turns heading in for teeth cleanings and checkups. Sitting beside my towering son on curved wooden benches, we crack jokes, I flip magazine pages, and we peek in at Daniel and Morgan who flash thumbs-up signs and blow kisses. 

Throughout the next hour and a half, my teens and I crack jokes, talk about life, and blow kisses to little Daniel who wriggles patiently on his green elevated chair behind the window pane and dreams of the Ninja prize afterwards. 

At home, college applications pile up from the mail for one son, while tiny Spiderman-underwear fly off my deck and across the lawn from another son. Teen daughter stands tall beside me each night, asking her dad, “Am I taller than Mom yet?!” 

My nose pricked today at the dentist office. Laughing and sitting shoulder to shoulder with my older kids, and blowing kisses to my Ninja-waiting preschooler, I realized how short this time with them is, and how precious they are. 

Savor each moment, my friends, of your kids, nieces and nephews, or grandkids. They are so precious. 

The wind chimes blow hard outside my window right now, and yellow leaves race by.  

I love talking with you, friends. Thank you so much for stopping by to chat. What helps you best savor times with family or friends? What is a hindrance? (To comment from email, click here.) 

If you are not receiving my posts by email, feel free to simply enter your email address in the box at the top right of the page. Don't miss an article! 

Wind chimes Photo credit 

John and Morgan photo credit to Becky Pratts 

"Plotting Murder?"

Dark dirt mounds litter my yard, evidence of a mole or gopher infestation. Mini mountains crest my lawn like volcanic islands being born. My landscaping beds, garden flowers, and plants have been frequent summer snacks for the rodent population. In a fit of murderous critter-rage last night, I spotted two entry tunnels – a rare find—and rushed into our garage for the gopher traps. They weren’t there. 

My plastic bag of dirt with the two metal gopher traps was nowhere to be seen. Overturning tent tarps, lifting bocce balls, and sliding garden supplies to the side produced no results. The yellow poison pellets were gone too. 

Spewing poison myself, I spoke impatiently to my husband, and then to my son. Racing against time, I grabbed my car keys and wallet, and squealed out of the driveway, muttering to myself. 

The sun sank lower on the horizon, and the orange box superstore glowed in the twilight as I parked. In front of me, a veiled matron ambled calmly through the doors, wrapped in muted blacks and greys, except for one bedazzled zebra and fuchsia purse that matched the black in her head covering. Pink spots in her shoes poked out from the long robe, and I grinned in quiet connection with her. Her son and husband walked gently beside her, intent on their projects as well. 

Inside I strode to the critter aisle, scanning the shelves for my traps. My poisoned words echoed back to me. The sharpness of my words sliced in. Wounds and gashes could be dealt so quickly. Items in hand I retraced my steps to the front of the store, scanned my purchases, noted the sharpness of the prongs, and quietly walked out to my car. 

Tangerine, rose and grey-violet streaked the sky, layering high. Crimson trees stood tall against yellow, blue and rust backdrops. Changing gears, I pulled into my driveway, mounted the stairs, kissed my man, and apologized to my towering son. “I’m sorry for spewing poisonous words. My anger is at the moles and at having to buy the traps again, not you. Will you forgive me?” 

Darkness fell refreshingly cool as we read cardboard instructions and tramped across tunneled grass together. 

Linking with Ann, Duane, and Emily, I count gifts, note sunsets, and chronicle stories of grace and redemption.

Of Football and Family

Ocher leaves flit across lawns and scrape streets. Homecoming teens flaunted crimson and black school colors, and students of all sizes bravely decked cheeks with ebony under-eye sun glares. High school parade floats careened down narrow suburban streets to lawn-chaired spectators. Tootsie rolls, suckers and tough gum wads crashed to the ground, causing gentle riots.

On the stove at home, a harvest stew simmered. Out of town relatives were imminent, and our final touches of house cleaning made the home gleam.

This morning, twelve of us maneuvered coffee mugs and cereal bowls, wash-cloths and toy tug-of-wars. Arbor vitae and hybrid poplar tree research mixed conversation with the latest Toby Mac lyrics. We're a houseful of tumbling preschool boys, tall sprawling teens cradling guitars and homework-filled laptops, and conversations over coffee.

Want a healthy hearty stew recipe for the weekend? Simmer a pot of this...

In a crockpot for four hours on high, cook:
-a roast
-minced garlic
-a large cut onion

Chop, then sauté in a large soup pan:
-8-10 large carrots
-a stalk of celery
- about 14 potatoes
-a rutabaga

Shred or cut up the roast into bite-sized pieces. Pour the meat, and fragrant onions, garlic and juices into large soup pot.

Add about four quarts of water, as well as salt, pepper, a dried hot pepper, and crumbled herbe de Provence. Boil until vegetables are tender, and then simmer 'til supper time.



What does the weekend look like near you?

A Celestial Slant on Cowboys

In a grove of glossy dark evergreens at the bottom of a ravine, red, brown and white horses congregated and side-stepped on the rocky ground. 

Like a scene from a wrangling cowboy western, a man astride a red horse leaned low to listen. Galloping in from the north, south, east and west, his reconnaissance men on a mission returned with reports for his ears. Despite reports of rest and calm, the ranger fell back into his saddle and sighed, “Lord Almighty, how long will you…?”

 I have been working my way through the ancient words in the Old Testament of the Bible, trying to see them from fresh eyes and asking the Writer to teach me anew each time. This celestial slant on cowboys and rangers from the book of Zechariah is what accompanies my morning coffee today. I munch graham crackers and refill my coffee cup numerous times, poring through these verses. This scene catches my attention.

The wranglers straddle their horses in a myrtle/evergreen ravine, while their ranger breathes hard through dusty nose and face. “How long, Almighty God…?” and the cowboys wait. 

In a surprisingly nonchalant manner, the very next sentence introduces a new character to the scene, and answers the ranger’s questions.

 “So the Lord spoke kind and comforting words to the angel who talked with me,” explains Zechariah.

Wow. Even wrangling cowboy angels can speak wonderingly to the God of the universe? Even wrangling cowboy angels can ask, “How long, God?” And even wrangling cowboy angels benefit from a God who steps into westerns and dusty rocky ravines to speak kind and comforting words to those who need to hear it. 

No setting is too far off the radar. No canyon, mountain, jungle, or soccer mom van is too remote a location for him to walk into the scene and speak kindness and comfort to honest questions and sighs. 

So, whether you are astride a horse or a golden Saturn, he hears you, he loves you, he knows what you are thinking this morning, and he’ll stride into your scene with words for you to hear. 

My goal this morning is to listen, to thank him for those words, and then to turn and speak words of kindness and comfort to my kids, spouse, neighbors and friends, to the people God has put around me. 

Linking with Ann, Laura, and Duane, I am thankful for wrangling cowboy angels and a God who strides into any scene to reply.

What has our Scene-striding God spoken to you lately?

Photo credits to Microsoft