My Rocking Chair Barometer and Worry

barometer: n. An instrument for measuring atmospheric pressure. Something which reflects changes in circumstances or opinions.

 

The rocking chair slowed from a frenetic pace to one of leisure. That was when I realized I had calmed down and was at peace.

The rocker has been part of my life for over twenty years. I bought it when I became a grandmother. I wanted to have a rocking chair where I could cuddle and rock my grandbabies. At the top of my list of requirements was that it be solid and well-made, able to withstand the rambunctious toddler stage as well. A worthwhile purchase, the chair has survived as a silent reminder of hours spent with five precious little girls, now young women.

The original navy cushions have been replaced with ones of rich gold and rust. The comfort I found in my rocking chair with my grandgirls, however, has not gone anywhere. The rhythmic motion of rocking continues to soothe my soul.

My days begin in that rocker. I have a morning ritual that includes drinking healthy beverages, including a smoothy made of greens and fruits. As I sit, sipping my elixirs, I check my electronic devices. The gamut runs from perusing social media and reading any messages sent my way to doing a search for answers to questions such as, “How much did it rain last night?”

Yesterday was an awful day, an interminable one. I could have sworn it was “The Day Without End.” My head gyrated with worry. Superfluous thoughts and details over which I have no control filled my mind to overflowing. I headed out the door for a walk. Walking in the fresh air is often a source of mental and spiritual renewal, the result of introspection and time alone with my Heavenly Father.

That didn’t happen. As I walked, I felt a sensation on the side of my right knee. Immediately I stepped into that place in my mind where nothing good happens. I don’t want surgery. How am I going to be able to work if I can’t walk? That was just the beginning. I escalated into a full-blown “worst case scenario.” Fear took over. I slowed my pace, exercising caution as I walked along oh-so-carefully. I was certain an appointment with a surgeon awaited me around the next turn.

Arriving back home after a most uninspiring walk, I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening trying to not think about that specific body part in the middle of my leg—the one that bends but also helps hold me upright. You know how well that flies, don’t you? My knee was all I could think about. I was unable to find the focus I needed to deal with it before God.

Watching television was meant to be a distraction, but the real distraction was the status of “the knee.”  Did it hurt? Did I feel any pain when I moved it? What was THAT twinge? The news of the current political climate in our country only exacerbated my sense of helplessness and fear. Oh, the lunacy of us humans.

As I headed for bed I finally stopped spinning in circles. I was then able to hand over my concerns to God, those affecting my personal life as well as the state of the world. His silence was deafening. Where are you? I don’t see you or hear you. I don’t feel you was my last thought as I fell asleep.

In the world of meteorology, the weather field, barometers are used to measure pressure in the atmosphere. Changes in air pressure help weather forecasters predict shifts in the weather. If the pressure increases, that often means the air is warming and skies are clearing. Plans can be made for outdoor activities, since nice weather is on the way. Decreasing pressure often means the air is cooling and moisture is condensing in the air, forming clouds. Here comes the rain!

 I have my own barometer, but it isn’t related to the weather. It is connected to my inner being and is an accurate indicator of whether I am living in the peace provided by my Heavenly Father, or the chaos of the world. That barometer is my rocking chair. Its measure is the speed with which I rock.

 I hope this isn’t another day like yesterday was my thought as I awakened and began my morning ritual. I did not realize I was rocking so fast there was a potential for motion sickness—that is, until I slowed down. As the pace slowed, I realized I had entered a place of peace.

My knee has improved, though it wasn’t the sole contributor to my state of despair and discombobulation the day before. Life as we know it has been tossed up in the air due to a global pandemic and a politically divided country. What we are going to find when the dust settles? I can attest to the fact that trying to figure that out leads nowhere.

 “The Day Without End” did not come to a quiet close. A major storm passed through my area, dumping large amounts of rain. I would have seen the change in air pressure, evidence of its coming…if I had a barometer.

A storm of a different type also passed through my life, creating unrest. The intensity and force of it threatened to upend me. That didn’t take place. My rocking chair barometer bore that out, both as the storm came… and went. I am at peace. That is--until the next storm passes through. My Heavenly Father continues working with me in love.

 

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.

I do not give to you as the world gives.

Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.

John 14:27

 

 

 

How to Walk on Water

“So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus” 

Many from my generation, born in the middle of the previous century, grew up attending Sunday School and church. Bible stories, gleaned from both the Old and New Testaments were part of the curricula taught during our childhood. Those stories include one about a pittance of food feeding a horde of people. Another tells of Peter, a disciple of Jesus, and his encounter with waters deep.

John the Baptist had been beheaded by King Herod, the result of his calling out Herod for having a relationship with his sister-in-law. John and Jesus were cousins. John was also the one who publicly acknowledged Christ as the Lamb of God, baptizing Him as He began His ministry.

The news of John’s death was sobering. Jesus headed for the boat to find refuge on the water. He needed some time alone.

When He came back ashore, He was met by masses of people. They had followed him on foot and were waiting. Filled with compassion, He pushed his personal grief aside and did not send the people away. Instead, He healed them and ministered to their needs.

The long day was coming to an end. It became apparent the crowd had not brought anything to eat with them. They were hungry. The area was deserted, and there weren’t any villages nearby to supply food for the five thousand men (plus women and children) who were present. The only food available was a boy’s offering of five small loaves of bread and two fish. Jesus accepted the gift, gave His blessing, and it multiplied beyond anyone’s imagination. The twelve baskets of leftovers provided evidence of a miracle. The throng ate and was filled, satisfied both spiritually and physically as they went back to their homes.

Night fell, and Christ instructed His disciples to board the boat and head for the opposite shore. He was going to climb the mountain by himself.  Without a doubt, His heart was broken over the report of John’s death. He needed to spend time with His Father.

A storm came up during the night when the disciples were far from land. They feared for their lives as fierce winds and waves battered the boat.

Early in the morning, Jesus walked on the sea toward them. They thought they saw a ghost and trembled with terror. “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid,” He reassured them.

Peter asked for a sign to prove it was Jesus. The disciple asked that He beckon him to join Him on the waves. 

And He did: “Come.”

Clambering over the side, Peter began walking on the water toward Jesus. The raging winds caused the water around him to roil. A powerful gust struck with such intensity that Peter turned to look. When he did, he took his eyes off Christ and promptly went under.

Christ reached out His hand to lift Peter up and said, perhaps with a bit of humor in His voice and a smile on His face, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?”

Many feel Bible stories are fabricated tales of glory and intrigue that have duped the gullible and less educated. Those of faith take an opposing stand, believing in the stories’ validity, reinforced by personal experience with a living God. The message is clear: If I look at the storms surrounding me, I am going to sink every time. Every. Single. Time. And I do. However, knowing the truth and living it are two different stories.

I have a lifelong friend who knows how to walk on water. The year 2019 brought her severe physical problems. She was overcome with excruciating joint pain throughout her body, the kind that has no future other than leading to life in a wheelchair. The suffering remained relentless. As 2020 approached, the pain abated but was replaced by blindness. It happened gradually, darkness taking over first one eye, then the other.

I phone her periodically. “How are you?” I ask.

Without fail, her response is, “Good.” And she is.

If I am asked the same question, I usually answer, “Okay.”  There are times when I am “good” but not with the same consistency as she. 

“You’re looking at the outer and not the inner,” my friend said. She also acknowledged it is easier said than done. It takes time and practice to stay focused on the inner—on God.

The world has experienced an upheaval, a literal turning upside-down of all that was once “normal.” COVID-19, the 2020 pandemic, is like a giant sinkhole that keeps growing, its center a vortex that sucks a person down if allowed. The political landscape portends fulfillment of biblical prophecies. What does it all mean?

Lying in bed one restless night, I was contemplating the long-term effects of the pandemic lockdown on my grandgirls, the push of government toward a one-world system (called the New World Order), and every other detail that entered my mind. That is looking at the outer, the storm with the wind and the waves—the opposite of faith and trust. You would think I would know better. I do. Old habits die hard.

I cried out to my heavenly Father, a familiar plea when I am mentally spinning off into oblivion. I don’t know how He does it, when it happens, or even why, but He always takes me to a better place.

How do you walk on water? Our walks with God are individual and personal. I am unable to refer you to a how-to manual. I am Peter in the raw. I doubt. God responds. I look around at the storms and flail about, sinking. Ever faithful, He reaches out and lifts me up.

This much I know: I revel in the times of inner peace and calm, as I fully realize they are because I am looking to Him not at the storms and garbage whirling around me. That is how and what it means to walk on water.

            

 Matthew 14:29 NRSV—opening scripture reference

On a Majority of One

majority: More than half (50%) of some group. The difference between the winning vote and the rest of the votes.

minority: Any subgroup that does not form a numerical majority

The little ragamuffin--all of eight or nine years old--stood alone facing the opposition of the world…at least the world as she knew it. She and a classmate were involved in a disagreement during recess on the playground of the tiny country grade school she attended. An invisible line was drawn and sides formed as fellow students joined in and stood in support of the one they felt was in the right. While it wasn’t a David and Goliath moment, there was no one on her side as hostility spewed from the mouths of those who became judge and jury. In frustration, she picked up a fir cone from the ground and threw it at her adversary. Widely missing its mark, the action prompted ridicule and even more heated comments. Mercy intervened when the bell rang, signaling the end of recess and time to return to the classroom.

Even the most casual of observers would have noted I was in the minority, not the majority.

A client and I had a conversation recently about those in our country who are part of a racial minority, particularly African-Americans. She expressed some of the inequities faced, the injustices meted out based solely on skin color. We agreed that neither of us have had similar experiences.   

“I am part of a minority,” I stated. It wasn’t something I intended to say. I have made it a policy not to discuss politics or religion with my clients in the eighteen years I’ve had my gardening business, but there it was. The incredulous expression on her face was one of speechlessness as she tried to comprehend the comment.

I weighed my words carefully, wanting to make certain she understood me. “I am a person of faith. We are a minority in this country.” I went on to explain I wasn’t talking about being religious or attending church. Being a person of faith means having a relationship with God, our creator. One need only look at the policies of our country where the effort has been made to remove God or any mention of Him from our culture. She was unable to deny it and didn’t try.

Majorities and minorities are a numbers thing. And they translate into power. The more numbers you have, the more power. It is that simple.

The little ragamuffin girl is still a part of who I am. I have always been one who wants to be on the winning side. I suspect I’m not unique. No one wants to be a loser. Recent events would suggest, however, that I am on the losing side. My principles and beliefs as a person of faith will likely be challenged as a result of the recent 2020 Presidential election. There are two ways to live; there are two paths. My way of life and the narrow path I am on is not the popular one.

All things are spiritual. Spiritual warfare began eons ago when Satan challenged God and His sovereignty. Michael and his angels fought him and his followers; Satan came up the loser. There was no place left for him and his angels in heaven as they were cast down to the earth.

Even though victory has already been declared, the battle continues as Satan fights for the hearts and souls of humankind. All things are spiritual. Pride does come before a fall.

If I look at the numbers it would appear I am in the minority in these times. But I’m not. I stand with God; He stands with me. He is a majority of one.

 

“What then shall we say to these things?

If God is for us, who can be against us?”

Romans 8:31

 

 

 

 

 

On Finding Solace at My Piano

solace: n. Comfort or consolation in a time of loneliness or distress. A source of comfort or 

consolation.

There is no “cush” left in the cushion. The upholstery fabric used to cover the bench is threadbare; the edges and corners reveal the batting which was meant to serve as padding. It is obvious that the covering served out its purpose years ago. Yet, even though it is undeniably outdated and scruffy, reupholstering my piano bench is out of the question. Whenever I sit down to play, the worn material reminds me of the countless hours my “tush” has been planted there. It is a part of my life's history. 

The piano, a small upright spinet—and the bench which came with it—is over seventy years old. As a little girl of five, I repeatedly begged my parents to let me take piano lessons. We didn't have a piano and, though I suspect there was one at church services, I don’t remember hearing or seeing one played. And yet the desire within me was strong. My parents were not wealthy people, and I’m quite sure they knew the whims of a small child shift and change with the wind. Investing in a piano and paying for lessons was a big deal for them and wasn’t a casual decision. “You’ll have to practice,“ I was told. “Every day.” Yes. I understood that--at the ripe old age of five, I understood commitment. The unspoken fact was that I could not begin and change my mind when I decided it wasn’t all that much fun.

Mrs. Jacobs, my piano teacher, was a perfectionist. She was also skilled and knowledgeable in her profession. A classic lady, she sat erect in her chair at the end of the piano bench with pencil in hand. The pencil was used  to make notations on the music or on the steno pad where she wrote my practice assignments for the following week. That same pencil was used more than once to tap a high wrist or fingers that splayed instead of curved. My music—Bach, Chopin, Mozart—still bears her mark, and as I play I am conscious of the role she played in my life.

I took piano lessons for over ten years, sometimes practicing three hours a day when preparing for a competition. My mother, who was usually in the kitchen or at her sewing machine when I practiced, said she could always tell what kind of a mood I was in by how I played. I was a kid and didn't notice, but now I realize that, even then, the piano was a means of expression. Dad's assessment was that I played “with feeling.” 

I walked away from the piano when I was in my thirties. Life was just too hard. I was unable to play with the skill, precision, and technique I had in my youth--the fingers simply didn't work. I was weary of people telling me, “I love hearing you play” when it brought me no joy. For over thirty years my piano was another piece of furniture in the living room, dusted but never used. 

Then, out of nowhere, my son asked me to play three songs he had chosen as a present for his 50^th birthday. The music for all three was difficult. It had been decades since I spent any time at the piano, and I knew there was every possibility I would not be able to master them even in the most elementary manner. I did a great deal of soul-searching, however, and made the decision to go back to my piano and its bench. My niece, a pianist as well, gave me the profound, sage advice to "Just show up." And that I did. After nine months of intense, grueling work, I presented him and the rest of my family with a personal concert. What I did not anticipate was the reality that the gift I gave was given back to me--my piano was once again a part of my life.

Today was one of “those” days, the kind I haven’t had in years. I am typically a morning person, up at the crack of dawn and raring to go. Not today. Today I wanted to crawl back into bed and stay there.

The atmosphere in my country is heavy. The nation is divided with a hatred towards the sitting president that is palpable and toxic. There is no regard for law as destruction runs unbridled. Right has become wrong; truth has become lie. And with a presidential election a month away, the future is unknown and uncertain.  

My piano beckoned me. And so I sat down on my timeworn bench and began to play. How do I express what it is like to pour out what you are feeling through your fingers? There are no words to describe the two-fold experience--where the performer is also the audience.  

As I played, something happened--I had a visitor, an audience of one, as my Heavenly Father sat, listening. The music flowed from my fingertips then came back to my ears and entered my being.  My eyes filled with tears, the sanctity of the moment touching me.

God never spoke. When I finished, I stood up and pushed the relic of a bench back in its place under the piano. I was at peace.

The need to be comforted and the means of finding comfort or solace is individual and personal. For some, it may be found in a long walk; others may find comfort curling up in a blanket in front of a fireplace with a book and a cup of tea. Another person might find solace watching a thunder and lightning storm from inside the safety of their home. The list is endless. On a personal level, today I found solace at my piano.

Wherever you are, whatever is going on in your life, may you find solace as well.

 

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Matthew 5:4

 

 

 

He Doesn't Need My Help

engage: v. To interact antagonistically; to enter into conflict with (an enemy); to enter into battle.

I have been censored. “How can that be?” you may ask. “Freedom of speech is a guaranteed right in our country, the United States of America.” Yes, it is, but I have been—censored, that is.

COVID-19, the recent pandemic has brought with it a new set of rules and regulations for interaction described by new terminology. “Stay safe. Wear your mask. Practice social distancing.” Within a short period of time the citizenry of this nation has complete understanding of what those terms mean. There are, however, very personal and diverse responses and reactions to these mandates. Many readily obey, but there are also many who refuse to quietly comply. 

At the same time, the politics in this country has become a cauldron of colliding ideologies and emotions. Have you ever put soda and vinegar together? The combination of those two is a roiling boil which cannot be contained. Thus is the environment in the nation as two very extreme opposites bounce off one another like bumper cars. It would appear there is no middle ground as chaos rules.

Life as we knew it is no more, with the possibility of it becoming even more altered in the future.

Facebook, a social networking site, makes it possible to connect with people all over the world. My list of “friends” is quite long; many of them I do not personally know and would not recognize them if I passed them on the street. But that is how it is in this community (a wide stretch of that word) called Facebook.

“What’s on your mind?”, the question posed to all who participate, has opened a floodgate of opinions, thoughts, and ideas—about the pandemic, politics, religion, and everything else under the sun--often fueled by heady emotions. I have been as guilty as the rest with the need to make myself known to those who are obviously on the road to hell—or at the very least, headed in the opposite direction I am going.  It is important, after all, isn't it, that I set people straight, that I point out where they are wrong and offer another option? 

Oh, how silly you are, Ladonna...

One of the doctrines of traditional, conservative, evangelical Christianity is that we are to spread the Gospel throughout the world. “Tell ‘em like it is!” What has got lost along the way is the truth that words are, indeed, cheap, and that we have also been told we are to be as a light set upon a hill--to be seen by those searching for and seeking God. A candle has no voice; it simply is.

In my experience the mind is an open vessel, absorbing and taking in whatever it is fed. My time spent reading vitriolic comments regarding things I value had begun to take over my thoughts and my life.

What should I do, God? Please help me. I have not yet reached the place of completely removing myself from the Facebook medium. I have connected with family members in the South and Midwest that I would otherwise have no contact with.

“Don’t engage,” He said—His form of censoring. He has repeated that over and over as I have walked away from arguments—then gone back to put my two cents’ worth in. I have always felt I needed to have the last word, but I am learning.

I have been called to walk with my Heavenly Father in the here and now. I was not called to try to fight His battles for Him. And that is where I find peace.

By the way, "Not my problem," is my new mantra. He doesn’t need my help.

"On Happiness vs. Joy"

 

happiness: n. The emotion of being happy; joy.

joy: n. A feeling of extreme happiness or cheerfulness, especially related to the acquisition or expectation of something good.

I want to tell you a sweet story. 

Washing my truck is a rare thing. I wholeheartedly avoid some tasks in life. Washing a vehicle is one of them. Road dirt is just so dirty...and gritty and grimy.

The recent fires in my home state of Oregon left a residue of smoke and ash remains on everything, including my pickup. My son-in-law told me the paint job could be ruined if it wasn't washed off. God forbid that should happen. The sparkly blue finish was the main reason I bought it two years ago. I knew I needed to address the issue.

Arriving home from work, I parked in the driveway instead of entering the garage, an incentive to follow through on the project. Grabbing an old rag, I began the process by filling a bucket with hot water and some Dawn detergent, the recommended cleaner for dealing with ash on vehicles. I had disposable gloves on, but I could feel the warmth of the hot water as I began washing the surface.

It was a good day. A week ago, the area I live in was covered with oppressive smoke from the forest fires with air quality the worst of any place on the face of the planet. Going outside was unthinkable. Then the rains came. They dumped water on our dry, thirsty soil, flushing ash-covered surfaces clean. 

The truck still needed a good, old-fashioned scrub though, and I was up for the task.

It was the first day of fall. The changing of seasons was in the air, freshened by the gift of rain. 

While digging through my utility room cupboard in late Spring, I discovered a package of seeds. The label said it was a Hummingbird and Butterfly Garden Mixture, a combination of reseeding annuals and perennials. It was dated for use in 2016, so I was aware the four-year-old seeds might not be viable. Having a wildflower garden has been on my wish list for quite some time, though, so I decided to give it a try. The soil in the area I chose to plant was rock-hard and the opposite of fertile, but reason had no voice. I dug up a space bordering the sidewalk that was approximately 4' x 12', added compost from my compost bin and several bags of potting soil. My attitude was I had nothing to lose.

I sprinkled the seed mix on the area and watered it. And watered and watered some more. They were planted late in the growing season, so I had zero expectations. I checked the area often, sometimes several times a day. A magnifying glass would have been helpful in my search for any signs of life. I was ecstatic when, bit by bit, tiny green leaves peeked up through the surface. Granted, some of them were a nasty, invasive grass weed and volunteer vegetable starts from my compost that I had to pull out, but other plants were sprouting as well.

I continued to water them faithfully, ensuring their roots never dried out. They rewarded me with growth and blossoms. I recognized some of the plants--orange California Poppies; pink, blue, and purple Bachelor Buttons; Dill, Coreopsis, and Blanket Flower; Black Eyed Susan; bright pink Godetia and red Larkspur--and others unidentified. The colors resembled a crazy quilt, a mishmash of blooms and textures. I delighted in their survival and beauty along with the prospect of a perennial garden that will attract bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds.

I was focused on washing the passenger side of the truck, making certain all the smoke residue was removed when I happened to glance up. A young woman was walking along the sidewalk, pushing a baby stroller and chatting with her little girl, the big sister. They stopped by the bed of flowers, the tiny sprite of a girl squatting down to get a closer look. The washing project came to a halt as I became the proverbial "fly on the wall," observing from a distance. It was as though I could hear their conversation: "Look, mama--isn't that pink one pretty? Oh, I love the orange one! Will you take a picture of it for me?" Leaning down by her young daughter, the mother pulled out her phone to take pictures. After several minutes they were on their way.

My being was filled with pure joy as I watched the young mother and her child admiring God's handiwork. My first instinct was to run to social media and "share" it. No. This was given to me to revel in and appreciate. I have done that, thanking God for the original idea, the follow through, and for the beauty of living, growing things.  

What, exactly, is joy? What is the difference between joy and happiness? Is there any? 

I am going to state that happiness takes place in the physical and joy is spiritual. From experience, I agree with the dictionary definition: happiness is emotion, joy is a feeling. 

My best description is that happiness takes place in the chest, up to and including the head. It tends to be transitory and short-lived. A happy mood can easily be shattered by a comment, look, or blip that results in a change of circumstances. 

Joy goes the opposite direction, sinking and settling deep within a person. Each "joy" experience is a gift and blessing from God. Joy cannot be fabricated or faked. Counterfeit efforts will not, cannot endure.

My wildflower garden has brought me great joy. It has also given joy to others. 

And this: If I had been washing the driver's side of the truck instead of the passenger's, my back would have been turned on the entire scene, and I would have missed out.

 

                     "  ...the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness,

                              generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control." 

                                                           Galatians 5: 22, 23

                                 Happy comes and happy goes, but joy...

                      joy plants itself within and reminds us of how good God is.

                                            Just me. Just sayin'.

  

   

"Coming from a Place of Thanksgiving"

In everything give thanks.

I'm up early. The house doesn't have a heavy underlying stench of smoke this morning. I am able to see the lights of houses several blocks down the street. It's all a welcome change from the falling ashes and smoke-filled skies of the past few days. I am thankful.

Coming from a place of thanksgiving is often a comparison thing--I'm thankful I'm not like THEM; or Thank God I don't have THEIR life; I'm so glad THAT didn't happen to me! May I view my life from a very personal place and not one of comparison.

I have much to be thankful for. The list is lengthy.

I have been part of a physical fire storm here in my home state for the past week...a very long week. The foundation of my thankfulness, however, is that I have a spiritual life. I continue giving thanks for it. Nothing can touch it nor take it from me.

There have been ups and downs this past week as fire came roaring down the mountains, heading for the valley floor where I live. With heavy winds at its back, the fire had a life of its own. In my mind I was thinking that I lived on the "other" side of Springfield and Eugene, and there was a buffer between it and me. Then...I heard of Medford in the southern part of the state, with its population of over 80,000 people, being forced to evacuate. Reality is a heady trip.

The winds died, and the fire lost its savage nature. How? Why? I know the how--even the winds obey their Creator. Why? All things are at the hand of God, touching and affecting humankind in personal ways.

I am a person of faith. Faith, however, only has as much value as who or what I entrust with that faith. Ideologies come and go. God doesn't.

We are living in hard times. There is only One who can see any of us through them. I am thankful.

"On My and Mine"

my: determiner. Belonging to me. Associated with me. In the possession of me.

mine: pronoun.  My; belonging to me; that which belongs to me.

"It just happened," she said. "You got here at the perfect time."

'She' is a 93-year-old gardening client who has the spirit and spunk of a 13-year-old. For the past nine years you can usually find me on Mondays mowing Lucille's lawn or working in her garden--at least during the gardening season. Several years ago she informed me, "You can't quit until I no longer need you." Apparently (with tongue in cheek), the decision as to when I retire rests in her hands. 

'It' was the cord of her telephone charger, tightly wrapped around the beater bar of her vacuum cleaner. Unable to pull it out, she had resorted to the informational booklet which came with it and had come to the conclusion the only way to retrieve it was to cut it.

The weather forecasters had predicted a hot one today--in the upper 90's. It was my intention to get out to work early in order to beat the heat, but that hadn't happened. It was already almost noon by the time I made it to Lucille's.

This sparkler of a human always opens the door to chat when she realizes I have arrived with my mower. This morning was no different. After telling me of her dilemma, I asked "Would you like me to come in and see what I can do?" 

She'd succeeded in wrapping the entire length of the cord, and it took me a while to get it started, but once I did, it began unreeling off the bar. 

I was her knight in shining armor. As I headed off to mow her lawn, leaving her to finish her vacuuming, I thought of her comment about arriving at the perfect time. 

My life is not my own.

A pervasive fallacy of possession and ownership has spread throughout humankind. Property (known as private) is bought and sold, and the transaction is recorded at a local courthouse.  Automobiles are purchased or exchanged, and a title verifies the deal. Selling either is impossible without a piece of paper indicating the right to possession--mine.

Native Americans had a different view from the Europeans and Americans of today. They believed no one owned the land and that the land belonged to everyone in the tribe. They could not conceive land ownership was respectable. The land itself was for the use of everyone in the village, and a person's right to use it was temporary. "My" and "mine" did not exist. 

The idea of ownership carries with it the concept of control and authority. "That house, property, or car is mine, and no one can tell me what I can or cannot do with it." Children are often viewed in that same light as well. On a more personal level--"It's my body, and I have the right to do whatever I choose." Does that sound familiar? "If I want to color my hair purple, I will. If I want to be tatted, I can." On and on and on...and the laws of the land have reinforced that attitude, labeling them "rights."

In truth, I own nothing. I entered this world with nothing, and I will leave it with nothing--at least nothing that is physical or tangible. The title to my vehicle, the deed to my property, and any and all of my other possessions will be left behind. "My" isn't worth much, is it?  

Not a one of us possesses the ability to control the beat of our hearts or the capability of our lungs to take in air and process it, allowing our bodies to function. We do not own a single thing that we apply the word "my" or "mine" to. Our homes can be burned or flooded, businesses shut down due to a downturn in the economy. Our lives and those of our family members can be altered and changed forever because of health issues. We control nothing.

I live with the knowledge that my life is not my own. I breathe and function at the hand of my creator. I may plan out my days, but He is the one who actually brings them about. 

The earth and everything in it is not in possession of us earthlings. It belongs to God, and His will will be done. 

My challenge to you is this: The next time you hear yourself think or say "my" or "mine," consider the truth. Consider it in the spiritual context. The sacrifice of Christ on the cross and His resurrection resulted in redemption--for humanity--for you and for me. The price was paid. Your life is not your own.

I was at Lucille's at "just the right time"--not because I planned it that way, but because I have a daily planner who coordinates my schedule and my life. My life is not my own. I wouldn't have it any other way.

...do you not know that your body is a temple 

of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God,

and that you are not your own?

For you were bought with a price...

I Cor. 6:19, 20

"On the Blessing of Life"

blessing: n. Some kind of divine or supernatural aid, or reward. Good fortune. 

life: n. The state of being alive or living; the state of organisms preceding their death, characterized by biological processes such as metabolism and reproduction and distinguishing them from inanimate objects.

Blessings come in many different forms and shapes--the air we breathe, the breath we take; inner peace in the midst of a storm; human touch or the love and devotion of an animal. As humans, our lives are filled with them.

My gardening business has consumed my life for the past eighteen years. The days have been long, the work arduous and demanding. Personal time has been at a premium as my clients' gardens have been a first priority. My own garden, weed-ridden and neglected, could have been a poster with the caption "The cobbler's children have no shoes."

Over time--and it has happened gradually--my work load has lightened. Within the first two years of self-employment, I had seventy clients. I worked long hours, seven days a week. That lessened some when I moved to another area, but I still had an extensive list with large gardens to tend. Several clients passed away, others moved. I opted out of several jobs, ones which needed a crew of young men instead of a seventy-something single woman to care for them.

In the past year, I have been given time to work in my own garden.

For several years, I have wanted a wild flower garden--flowers which attract bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds. Planting anything from seed and having a flower grow has never been my strong suit, and typically that is how natural gardens are started.

While digging through a cupboard in my utility room a few months ago, I found a packet of seeds. It stated on the outside of the package that they were perennial flowers--which means they last from year to year--and that they will attract butterflies and hummingbirds. I felt like I had found the mother lode.

The date on the package was 2016. The viability of four year old seeds was in question, but I was on a mission. My soil is in bad shape, another negative before I even started, but determination took over. I scraped and scraped the hard-pack (digging wasn't even an option), mixed in bags of potting medium and compost from my compost bin. As I sprinkled the small packet of seeds on the prepared area, I was filled with more wishful thinking than hope.

I faithfully watered them every day. Getting down on my hands and knees with my glasses on, I checked for any sign of germination and growth. Success!!--as small green sprouts gradually appeared. What I did not realize was many of them were either weeds, which had responded to the love and care, or vegetable starts which came from the veggies I had composted. I could have raised tomatoes, squash, and cucumbers as well.

It has taken a while to weed out the unwanted growth, but I now have a wildflower garden. As I drove toward my home yesterday, my eyes caught blooms on the plants. They cannot be called lush and prolific, but I will provide mulch and give them opportunity to grow in the future. 

I have been blessed with life; it is evident.

In this age of materialism, we live with life all around us and think nothing of it. Children are born into the world and grow up before our eyes. The lawn needs to be mowed or I need a haircut. We trip and fall, breaking bones, or "catch a cold" (though I don't think anyone seriously sets out to do that) and, with no effort on our part, the body heals.  

Those tiny specks of seeds the size of a pepper flake contained life--God-given life. I provided the medium for them to grow in and watered them, but I did not...cannot cause them to grow. 

This is my challenge to you: The next time you say or think God is nowhere to be found, look around and note all that is living. Humankind has never been able to create life--and never will. 

We have been blessed with life. He is the creator of life. He is life. 

                                                Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; 

                                                Praise Him, all creatures here below;

                                                Praise Him above, ye heav'nly host;

                                                Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!

You have granted me life and steadfast love, 

and your care has preserved my spirit.

Job 10:12

"On Being Free to Be"

fun: n. amusement, enjoyment or pleasure

I was on my hands and knees, weeding an area around a lovely pond for a gardening client when the thought, This is fun, passed through my mind. The next to follow was: Why would I even think this is fun? But it was. 

Fun is not a word generally applied to grubbing out Stinky Bob weeds--so described by another of my gardening clients because they do stink--I'm not sure where "Bob" came from, though I doubt it was ever personal...or Forget-Me-Nots--given that label since once you plant them, you'll have them forever, never to be forgotten...or a profusion of other weed varieties growing in the landscape surrounding the small waterway that led down into the pond, newly stocked with fish and flashing a bright water lily. 

Perhaps it was fun because the area was overrun with weeds, and I knew my clients were going to be surprised when they discovered it was cleared out--perhaps. Then again, maybe the soothing sound of gurgling water as it gradually flowed down the slope towards the pond before being pumped back up to begin its journey all over again made it fun--maybe. I could say it was because bright, blue-bodied dragonflies with transparent wings flitted around while I was working, but I know better. I know that true enjoyment comes from within, not without. 

I began writing over six years ago. In May, 2019, I self-published a book, a compilation of blog posts I had written. I joined the Oregon Christian Writers but I have never considered myself to be in the same league or class as my fellow members. Unlike many published, successful authors, I have no training and no credentials. I certainly don't have an agent. 

I have been in an ongoing struggle with self-doubt since my first published post. Do I really have anything to say? Is it anything anyone wants to hear about or read? Just who do I think I am? I simply cannot call myself a writer. That term applies to others--not to me. In that frame of mind, I shut down; I become silent. 

While in my garden today, I was watering some cosmos and a wild flower bed I planted from seed. I've never been successful with seeds, but these are thriving, largely because I am tending them. I provided good soil for them, giving them consistent water so they could sprout. I have given them the environment they need so they can eventually bloom. I am giving them loving care.

Nothing is more exciting, I thought, than planting a seed and watching it grow--whether in the physical or the spiritual. Bingo! THAT is what my God-given words are as I place them on paper. They are seeds that He tends and cares for, with the potential to bring about growth and change in the one who reads them. 

What struck me is the fact I need to forget the "writer" label and the semantics and just do what has been given to me to do--write. I was given a voice to use, not to stifle. 

And that is why cleaning up around the pond was fun today. My mind was freed. I gave no thought as to whether or not I qualify as a writer. Instead I thought of my experience and how best to describe it when I returned home--how to write about it and deliver its message. Thoughts of the current global pandemic didn't touch me. I was oblivious to the hatred and anger permeating my country, and the dissension and division between the political left and right never entered my mind. 

I am a person first--one who is a grandmother, plays the piano, gardens, and...writes.       

God is good--He is also pretty sneaky.

"Just Ask with Your Heart"

 prayer: n. A practice of communicating with one’s God, the specific words or methods used for praying.

 

Prayer is one of those things you either practice or you don’t. You either believe in it or you view it as something only the weak and feeble-minded engage in—although more than one such person has thrown a “hail-Mary” prayer to a God they don’t even believe in when times get really rough. It could be said that desperate times call for desperate measures.

For a person of faith, petitioning God is an important part of daily life. We all have needs and concerns, worries and problems, and God has said we may bring those to Him and leave them at His feet. Some requests are personal; others are in behalf of family and friends. Many people make a point of praying for people they don’t know and have never met. The current state of chaos in our nation is more than enough reason to become a pray-er.

How does one pray? Prayer is a simple act of communicating with God one-on-one. However, as with many facets of a spiritual life, how-to’s abound, presented by those who view life with God as a series of methods and techniques.

An online search revealed “The Proper Way to Pray,” along with your choice of four, five—or even nine—steps to follow. What do you say when you pray? Instructions are available for that as well.

I had a dream last night…or it might have been the night before. In my dream, I was having a conversation about prayer and praying with a young woman. She was not one to speak openly about her spiritual life, but she had either prayed for someone or about something. Soft-spoken and quite reticent, she very quietly said, “I just asked with my heart.”

Profound, simple, and true—that is how you pray. Prayer is never about the words. It is about standing before God as the innermost part of one’s being silently cries out to Him.

How do you pray? Just ask with your heart.

 

I

"On Being a Blunderer"

blunder: n. A clumsy or embarrassing mistake.

grace: n. Elegant movement; balance or poise.


Some of you have it all together. I am not one of those. I am more of a blunderer. Over the years I have learned that does not mean I am a failure. It simply means that "grace" will never be a description applied to me. 

A friend and I decided to try out the food of a local restaurant using the current method of take-out. Due to the pandemic of COVID-19, groups of people are not allowed to gather together but many restaurateurs make their fare available by means of pick-up and delivery.

We perused the online menu, made our choices and ordered. The food was to be ready by 5:30, so we headed on over. The restaurant was in a different location than I thought, but GPS easily delivered us.  

We had arrived early, and the parking lot was empty--duh--so we sat, waiting for the text message telling us our order was ready at the pick-up window. 

While waiting, we were discussing the best way to get back to the house upon leaving. I have been in the area plenty of times before, but with traffic and three lane choices it can be confusing as to the correct lane one needs to be in coming up to the stop light--left, center, or right. One lane heads downtown, another to the freeway, and then there's the correct one. I decided to walk out to the street and check so there wouldn't be a mix-up when we exited the lot. 

Confirmation was made--We should be in the middle lane in order to be heading the direction we needed to go.

It has been almost a year and a half since I fell and broke my jaw while walking across a street. My boot caught the top of a raised surface in the crosswalk, and down I went. Ever since then, I pay very close attention to the surface I am walking on. Head down, I started back to the car. I came around the right rear bumper to get in the passenger side and, as I reached for the door handle, the door opened. It was a young woman, laughing heartily. Another car had pulled in beside us, and I was getting ready to open the door on the wrong car! "You've just made my day," she said. I was laughing as well, though maybe a bit hysterically. My unspoken thought was, I'm glad to hear that, but it was sincere. Laughter does bring joy.

I have always admired women who are what I view as classics. In my mind, I would like to be one who has poise and grace, is soft-spoken and just plain lovely. Nothing about me falls in those categories, and yet...I have been made in the image of God, and He is well-pleased.

Self-acceptance is a gift from Him, and I am grateful for that. He has taught me to accept myself and to laugh at myself as well. I have no doubt He is entertained and chuckles as well. 

"On Losing It"

discombobulating: v. To throw into a state of confusion; to befuddle or perplex.


I paid for my groceries and headed out to the truck. It was at the end of a long day--a very long one where I had spent seven hours doing hands-and-knees gardening for clients. I needed some food staples so had stopped by the store before heading home. Arriving at my truck, I glanced down at the cart and realized it was empty. Discombobulated to say the least, I realized I had walked off after paying without bagging the food. I headed back in and retrieved the items from the clerk who had set them aside, knowing I would return. "It's been a long day," I told him.

My mind was spinning as I headed home. A couple of weeks earlier, I had some grocery items taken from my cart as I was digging in my purse for the keys to unlock the door--At least, that is what I thought had happened. Did I do the same thing then? Did I pay for my groceries and just walk away? The memory of that scenario added to the confusion of the current one.

"I'm losing it," I told a friend. "I'm just plumb losing it." In an effort and attempt to encourage and support me, I was told that he, too, has forgotten to do something or misplaced items."Don't give me that," I said. "Those are the same things I said to my mother when she was in the beginning stage of Alzheimer's.--They happen to everyone, Mom."

The experiences sat on my mind as I wrestled with them--and with God. 

Mom lived with Alzheimer's for ten years, passing away when she was around my age, and I'm 75. Some suggest it is inherited, asking if I am afraid of a similar fate. I have lived with the belief that it was a path my Mother had to walk, but that does not mean it is mine. I still believe that but the incident was unsettling.

My mind was eased as I recollected I had paid for the earlier items in the self-check. If I had left them sitting, the clerk on hand--or the next customer--would have told me. I've had people track me down when I've left cash in the machine. Yes, that's happened to me as well. And I do remember looking down at the deli chicken in the cart as its delectable odor wafted up as I headed to the truck.  

In my life as I walk with God, there are several basic things that will never change.
     #1: My life is not my own. 
     #2: I can control nothing.
     #3: God is love.
     #4: I either trust Him...or I don't. 

And so I begin another day, full of surprises and adventures. My God is a good traveling companion.

He said to his disciples,"Therefore I tell you,

do not worry about your life, what you will eat,

or about your body, what you will wear.

Luke 12:22

"On Being Held Hostage"

hostage: n. One who is not free to choose their own course of action. 

hostage situation: n. Events whereby the actor(s) (i.e., the hostage takers) are holding one or more persons against their will.


On December 31, 2019, while those countries in our world who use the Gregorian calendar were celebrating the beginning of a New Year, China reported a cluster of cases of pneumonia in people associated with a seafood wholesale market in Wuhan, Hubei Province. Less than three weeks later, on January 19, 2020, a 35-year-old man with a 4-day history of cough and a fever went to an urgent care clinic in Washington State. He disclosed he had returned to Washington on January 15 after traveling to visit family in Wuhan, China. On January 21, 2020, the first diagnosis of novel coronavirus in America was confirmed. 

The Wuhan Virus, the initial description given due to its origin, is a deadly virus which has expanded to touch every corner of the globe. Hundreds of thousands of people around the world have been sickened and thousands of others have died. The virus knows no  discrimination when it comes to income, background, education, or occupation. Those in high places are as susceptible as the lowliest of low. No particular country in the world, including the United States, is favored as it has brought the governments of the world and its inhabitants to their knees, begging for mercy.

Here in America a variety of measures have been put in place in order to try to limit the amount of exposure which may take place during daily life and its subsequent spread. The governor of each individual state has issued a variety of mandates, many of which are causing a grave and serious impact on the nation's economic health and the lifestyle of its citizens. Schools--from daycare up through universities--are shut down. The number of people allowed to meet together have caused physical social interaction to fade into non-existence. Church meetings, going to the gym, eating out at a local restaurant, enjoying sporting events--whether as a spectator or participant--none are allowed.

"Social distancing" is the term--I am to keep at least a 6' distance between me and the person nearest me. The initial suggestion to wear a mask for protection has now become a requirement when out in public. "Sheltered in" or "lockdown" is the wording used to reinforce the stand of the government to minimize becoming infected by the insidious, silent virus through self-imposed restrictions. "Stay home. Save lives" is the theme song of this New Year, 2020. 

Our borders are closed, preventing any from out of the country to enter; air travel is rare; small businesses across the country are shuttered. The orders were issued, and millions of us have obediently complied. Life as we knew it is completely altered. 

Why? Why would an entire nation of people respond so quickly--and so submissively? One could say this invisible monster has taken us hostage. I am going to suggest the virus is not the one holding the people of America hostage, but fear. The willingness to obey came about readily; fear was--and is--the culprit instigating and feeding the beast.

The initial response to COVID-19 was for the population across this land to storm stores, clearing the shelves of toilet paper and paper towels. Hand sanitizers and the ingredients to make them quickly followed as panic ensued. Grocery stores were unable to keep up with the demand for basic food items such as flour, rice, and beans as the fear surged. Fear of what? With restaurants closed, the stocking up of food makes sense. Keeping one's hands sanitized as a preventive measure doesn't seem unreasonable, but no one has come up with an explanation as to why there is a need to hoard large quantities of paper products.

Fear is like that, though. It has no rationale or common sense and no voice of reason.

Fear is the stuff that anxiety and panic attacks are made of. It causes total and complete debilitation, and that debilitation has permeated my country. Fear is the antithesis of peace. It is impossible for the two to share the same space and does not create an environment for health, either physical or spiritual.

In this electronic age where information is immediately transmitted around the world, some folk have found themselves glued to the television or the Internet, awaiting word of where and when the pervasive, insidious virus is expected to strike next. Images of horror are broadcast along with personal stories of life-and-death situations as many succumb to the disease and others recover. For many viewers, these reports only cause the fear to grow.

This encounter with COVID-19 has a war-like feel--against an enemy with the capability of sneaking in the back door and the potential of wiping humankind out. While the virus is very contagious, it appears to be less destructive in our nation than initially predicted. Fear embellishes, amplifies, and colors the most basic of things. It has had a field day with this one. 

COVID-19 set in motion a common, shared experience world-wide, and it has been exacerbated and propelled by fear. We were created as humans to touch, to share time and space. The mandates to wear a mask, hiding facial expressions; the 6' distancing rule, which does indeed create isolation; the perspective that each person we meet may be a carrier of the virus and, therefore, needs to be treated as a potential hazard, not a person--These contradict the very nature of our creation as human beings.

Hostage situations are combative ones with the police or military coming out in force with SWAT gear--their heavy body armor, armored vehicles, and heavy duty ballistics. The goal is always to bring about freedom for the one(s) being held hostage with no loss of life.

As humans we have two parts--the outer and the inner. The outer is the physical part, and the inner the spiritual, including the mind. This hostage situation, with the goal of setting the mind free from fear can never be accomplished by a SWAT team with its formidable equipment. It can happen only at the hand of God.

How does one deal with fear? And what, really, are we afraid of? Those are very personal, individual questions, ones which can only be answered in a searching of the soul before God. 

Personally, I have no fear of death. I don't even have a fear of the virus. As a person of faith, I know my life is not my own. Control of life--and death--is a fallacy. That control is not in my hands. 

Our country--and the world--is going to come out of this chaotic episode known as COVID-19. How are we going to deal with life as that takes place? And after? In fear or in freedom from fear?

May you find peace of mind in His presence. 

There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; 
for fear has to do with punishment...
1 John 4:18

For God has not given us the spirit of fear; 

but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

2 Timothy 1:7   

"Perfect Little Girl"

dictionary definition--The condition, state, or quality of being free or as free as possible from all flaws or defects.

Has God created anyone perfect? Is our society perfect? What is perfection? Growing up and hearing the word perfect, I only thought of it as perfect hair and face. It is so very far from that. When people/society call perfect what are they talking about? The free spirit is so much more outgoing and seen than a pretty face you see on Instagram. Social standards suck. It's putting people in a box basically saying if you aren't this idea of beauty you're not good enough. Do you know how stupid that is! When you're laying on your death bed are you going to be thinking about how good your outfit looked that one day or other people's opinions? No, you're going to be asking yourself if you really lived. Have you? Have you really done everything you wanted? Or at least put in the damn effort. Enjoy every moment as if it's perfect because it'll be over before you know it.

Sydnee King