The Fifth Commandment

Honor your father and your mother. 

Deuteronomy 5:16 NIV

"Pretty Things"

My mother liked red roses,

red lipstick, and red towels,

anything red, actually.

Her pleasure fanned the air with warmth.

Sparkly brooches and scented soaps

cluttered her dresser drawers,

unworn and unused.

Ownership was enough.

Back in the day, she steered a red

farm tractor around mown fields,

tedding hay and singing to the sun:

A-maz-ing grace – how sweet the sound. 

Any pretty thing distracted my mother

from her chapped hands, sunburned skin, 

and aching back:

a hummingbird fluttering around the bee balm.

Now my mother sleeps on white sheets,

lifting her chin like a child

while a nurse bathes her body.

She wanders in a thicket of memories.

See the red geranium

spreading its leafy arms

toward her hospital bed.

Watch my mother close her eyes

while blood fills the needle.

Footnote: My mother passed away on August 22, 2012. I wrote this poem to honor her.

An Honest Answer

An honest answer is like a kiss on the lips. - Proverbs 24:26

A Summer's Blessing

This summer we have hundreds of milkweed plants gracing our gardens. Butterflies and insects of all sorts enjoy the feast. The milkweeds' sweet scent drifts through the open windows, filling the house with lush perfume.

Brown-eyed Susan

Hmmm . . .interesting. Independent streak? Political statement? Environmental? Genetics? God's grace? What do you think?

Love Your Neighbor



Let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. 1 John 3:18 (NIV)

     I know little about the young couple that lives near my husband and me. Dogs gambol in their yard, and their cat often threatens the birds and squirrels foraging at our birdfeeder. I’d noticed the young woman was pregnant.    

     Recently a blizzard struck our area in full force; snow piled up eighteen-plus-inches deep. Road crews battled the snow ‘round the clock to maintain passable roads. The young couple got their sedan stuck at the end of their driveway. Hearing the whine of spinning wheels, I watched out a window while the young woman exited the car. The young man grasped her elbow as she gingerly picked her way around the car to the driver’s side and slid into the driver’s seat. I wondered whether she’d given birth, whether the newborn was in the car. The young man tried to push the car out of the snowdrift without success. 

     I pulled on snow boots and a coat and hurried out to offer help. “She’s had a C-section,” the young man said. “The baby’s still in the hospital.” His pale face and furrowed brow displayed his distress.

     Not wanting to pry, I offered to climb into the driver’s seat so the young woman could go into the house and rest.

     The young man and I partnered to rock the car back and forth, back and forth. He pushed while I worked the gears, gas, and brake pedals.

     The car wouldn’t budge.

     I remembered that another neighbor owns an ATV with an attached plow. Sure enough, he helped and the three of us got the car unstuck and went our separate ways.

     The following Sunday, I mentioned the incident to my adult Sunday School class while we chatted about the record snowfall and challenges of clearing paths and driveways. Someone suggested collecting items for the baby. Within a week we collected two large gift bags overflowing with disposable diapers, baby wipes, blankets, undershirts, Johnson’s baby powder, and supermarket gift cards. 

     When my husband and I presented the gift bags to the couple, the young mother’s eyes filled with tears and the young father’s voice broke while they thanked us over and over again.

     “This is what Jesus meant,” I thought, giving the young mother a gentle hug. “Serve others. Love your neighbor. It’s better to give than to receive.”

     “The baby can’t come home yet,” the young mother said, “but she’s gaining weight—always a good sign.”

     “Hopefully soon,” the young father said.

     I pray that she does.

Extraordinary In the Ordinary

I thrive in pastures and woods while the scents of soil and pine surround me. Blue jays, cardinals, mourning doves, crows, chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, and tufted titmice - a motley congregation - share their woodland territories with my husband and me. They punctuate the air with a chorus of chirps and cheer as they fly about the business of winter survival: foraging for seeds and insects beneath tree bark and on evergreen branches. A bird-feeding station in our yard supplements their rations with suet and sunflower seeds. In late afternoon, I pause and admire the birds' diligence for finding food before the sun sets and they seek shelter in a tree cavity for the long night ahead.   

At dusk, I often hear two barred owls calling to each other somewhere in our woodlot: "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you - all?" Sometimes close. Sometimes far away in various corners of the neighborhood. Always, my longing to see one face to beak. The odds remain slim. I'm an early-to-bed sleeper due to my farm upbringing. The owl is nocturnal and preys on rodents. I'm snoring when the owl begins its hunt.

Recently, I glanced out a window and saw a female barred owl (I assumed female because females are larger than males) perched in a gray birch tree mere feet away from the house. This gift, this unexpected manna from heaven, charmed me. Like a child binging on Halloween candy, I feasted on the extraordinary in the ordinary: the owl's calm presence, facial disk, large brown forward-facing eyes, hooked bill and talons, barred feathers across her breast, and streaked feathers lengthwise down her belly. She's not a bold dresser, but she doesn't need to strut her stuff back and forth along a branch. Her fearlessness is the only fashion statement she needs to make. 

After several minutes (not long enough!) the owl flew away between the pines, maples, and birches. The unexpected sighting of a fellow creature of blood and bone nourished my spirit. Winter is harsh, cold, and often cruel. The pleasure of observing an owl - a bucket list number - brightened the day into one of warm possibility. People tramp hither and yon in search of the holy. This morning holy found me.

Snow

I imagine these mourning doves sunning themselves in our backyard are discussing the recent big storm that dumped sixteen inches of wet, heavy snow in our area.