Showing posts from September, 2013


I finally did it---exactly what I worked hard to avoid for months.  Wasn't this task part of my mental muscle yet?  There were plenty of near misses through the months since the arrival of Bentley the Yorkshire terrier.  Seconds before my fall, I would have assuredly thought I was in the clear, balancing book and drink as I glanced into my living room to the comfort of my over-sized chair and a few stolen minutes of pleasure reading.  How many hundred times a day had I glanced and hurdled this gate? Yet, today I would suffer the agony of misjudging the impact of not raising my foot high enough in this simple feat of stepping over the dog fence. 

The word FAIL could look remarkably like FALL if I didn't use the right font. And simply put,  this was full-fall failure. Fortunately, I had the mental fortitude in the midst of the fall  to stop clinging to my drink so I could catch myself with my hands to land somewhat gracefully and not hit my head.  This fall was cleaning sticky dr…


In Streams in the Dessert,  today's entry finishes with this quatrain:
                             When I cannot understand my Father's leading,                              And it seems to be but hard and cruel fate,                              Still I hear that gentle whisper ever pleading,                              God is working, God is faithful, ONLY WAIT.

My thoughts streamed for a lady that I barely know, but whose life circumstances surely must make her bow her weary puzzled heart. 
And maybe these truths of eternity we already know.  Maybe life's path veers and we question how God plots this story we are living.  The Holy Spirit directs us in ways we cannot always fathom, imagine, or believe could be Him.  We sometimes lack the skill to understand His will. And many times what He asks us to do is merely WAIT, to rest, to hold still, to lean hard into HIM, sometimes REALLY HARD! 
And even in those alone, dark, silent, numb days, He leaves us that singular, deep p…

A Time for Everything

The seasons of my life cycle from birth to death.  For every moment in-between, Ecclessiastes 3:1-8 promises a host of events within and beyond my control will scroll across the screen.  Today is a season for such time as this:

There is a time to plant and to uproot 
Today,  plans to clean the garden and uproot plants prepare for fall.  I will pull late summer weeds allowed to grow.  Yellowed-leafed hostas and a host of other plant foliage will be cut back.  Trees to trim prepare for sleep. I will pull tomatoes off the vine that are increasingly slower to ripen this late September morn.   I will pray the red peppers produce better than they have. The scattered apples across the grass floor will be collected and sorted.

A time to weap and to laugh
I will remember that vegetable garden sits above our yellow furry friend we had to help to eternal sleep this year and our hearts are still bandaged in healing as we miss his ever unconditional big-head nudging love and his sweet, staring-eye a…


The Japanese Maple Tree branches outside my window are quivering in the wind like a small child's heels bouncing up and down.  Its scarlet leaf-hands jittery are begging, stretching, reaching as with child eyes that draw "thank you" before an expected gift is even placed in her hands.  The lower branches are skimming the air like a pianist hands skipping over the keys playing a soul melody.  And then the corner of my eye is captured by the sudden flip of the curtain at the kitchen door as if the wind is shimmying his partner-dancer, tight-holding and releasing against the screen. And like a stolen secret, my heart left its throat and longed to lift its hands  to twirl in that very same wind that teased its eyes back to life.  

And just those movements poured like cleansing water over my heart-soul, over my always failing humanity that is blind, sleeps, and becomes overwhelmed, and it danced and sang the song of  the Glory Gatherer. 

Breathing in this wind that sings, dance…


Fifteen minutes before football season game two, from the top row of the bleachers at the 50 yard line, my eyes sought my son's maneuvers during his pregame warm-up routine. Behind the scenes, I too continued my pre-game warm-up routine which always begin as I awaken on Friday mornings during football season--prayers for safety. As I watched, my eyes stopped, struck by the shocking sight of his socks. Dingy, drab, poorly washed, non-bleached, hole in heals, (and whatever other synonyms I can conjure),Nike, just do it socks.  

My racing mind tabulated that I had washed those. Wait--I had even bleached them. I thought they were horrid at the time I put them in his laundry pile next to the dozen pair of pure white ones.  Why hadn't I hid those?  Of all the socks lying on the counter in the laundry room (which seems to be his first storage for all his clothes instead of his closet and drawers we gave him), he chose those?  The grey ones in contrast to the white of his uniform pants…