Birds and Bees

Our Front Deck. After Rain. The Echium Has Attained Seussical Proportions. 

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part Eight

Rain blessed our land and now everything is drying and the creatures are hungry. I'm watching the Echium. Its purple torches call the bees. They're calling the hummingbirds. The camera calls me so I step onto the deck, inhale the freshness of the rain-bathed air.

I want to capture a hummingbird with my lens. But he zips and dives and the sound of focus sends him zinging away on his Mach 2 wings. Disguised as a blur, he eludes me. 

The Hummingbird, Disguised as a Blur (on the Left). 

I'm not ready to concede this battle of autofocus vs. fast-beating wings. But the struggle drives me to a frenzy. I spot a flash of beak from the corner of my eye, whirl and shoot--and capture the eagle-shaped finial on our flagpole.

The Flagpole Eagle.

This eagle-shot reminds me that it's hard to focus things that come and go, flitting into and out of my life. And so I turn to the bees, too industrious to bother with my presence, too goal-oriented to stir for a camera's whirring motor.

Bees Being Bees.

Their diligence holds them in place as I shoot, permits me to study them. By dozens they hum on our deck, mining the blooms of the Echium. I wonder how big a bee's heart might be, and whether they're conscious of their effort. My work is lodged in my heart. These little workaholics, I imagine, labor heartlessly.

Somewhere, they're making honey. But if they've chosen an inconvenient spot, someone will call for the beekeeper. They'll be carried off captive to one of those white boxes I see in the valley and their work will be torn down.

I bite my lip when my work is torn down. 

They return to the flowers, instead. I'm sure of it. I'm thinking that returning to flowers is a good response to catastrophe, especially if you're a bee. I'm thinking that if your home in the eaves is destroyed, it's good work to make another one in a white box. 

I hear drilling so I look up. On the power pole, a woodpecker poses for a long shot, way up there. His feathered red hard-hat bobs to the beat as he taps out his code.

Woodpecker, Pecking Wood.

His message isn't for the bees.  They don't need to hear from him. They have their orders. 

Me, I'm just watching. And breathing that rain-bathed air. 

15 As for man, his days are like grass;
As a flower of the field, so he flourishes.
16 When the wind has passed over it, it is no more,
And its place acknowledges it no longer.
17 But the lovingkindness of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear Him,
And His righteousness to children’s children,
18 To those who keep His covenant
And remember His precepts to do them.
Psalm 103:15-18 (NASB)

My word for 2012 is "be." You can find other posts in this series here. 

I'm linking with Laura Boggess at The Wellspring for Playdates with God. Go there, please. 

How's Work?

My Husband: Leader of the Pack.

Changes at work can create upheaval, leaving staff feeling devalued and functionally hogtied. Changes at work can also empower staff with new efficiencies, freeing more time for key tasks. As operations manager at a small investment advisory firm, I help identify and execute changes. I minimize the upheaval and magnify the empowerment that change brings.

Sometimes. 

Please head on over to The High Calling to read the rest of the story. I'm thrilled to be featured there today. 

One Slow Bouquet

The Messy Pistils Drew My Attention to the Bumps on the Lily Petals. 

Muddling Through Flowers
I'm never going to enter the Sylvia Cup Design Competition. But I do enjoy arranging an armload of pretty flowers. So when our neighbor celebrated her birthday, and the florist didn't have a made-up bouquet that caught my eye, I happily selected a bundle of blooms and set off to arrange them myself, at home.

It wasn't the best decision I've ever made. The workday had been especially challenging and I came home to a coming-down-with-something husband stretched out miserably on the couch. But I pressed on.

Design is a funny thing. Generally, when I arrange flowers, I have an idea in mind, and  as I begin trimming stems and tucking the flowers in, the bouquet builds itself  before my eyes. The work flows along quickly, and before I have time to think about it, I'm done.

But these flowers would not cooperate. The tulips were striking for shorter stems. The lilies refused to yield their pistils without staining my fingers, the butcher block, and their own petals.  The eucalyptus leaves were plotting a takeover, overflowing the vase. I trimmed and tucked, untucked, trimmed, retucked, until the joy of creating had evaporated. And the stems had ended up shorter than I planned.

I finally stopped, feeling more defeated than finished. I took the flowers next door, relieved that my neighbor wasn't home. I wouldn't have to face her as I delivered the disappointing flowers. I stooped and left the flowers and a card next to her front door, then marched back home, emptied of our offering and a little grim.

These flowers demanded more of my time than I expected.  My go-go mentality believes an equation: more time = better outcome. Isn't that what we've all been taught? Don't rush through important jobs. Take your time and do your best. And these flowers, a love offering for a dear neighbor, were definitely important. So one might expect that the time I devoted to this arrangement would have resulted in a more lovely bouquet.

Flowers don't know this rule. They respect beauty, not equations. This, I see now, was my problem: In my pride, I thought that my fiddling could somehow improve the beauty of the deep purple tulips, the white lilies perfuming my fingers as I worked, the asters standing shoulder to glorious shoulder to fill the gaps.

But they were already perfect. I could have just jammed them, untrimmed, unfussied up, unfettered by my flailing attempts to improve them, into a Mason jar and the result would have surpassed my "creation."

I wonder if I've learned something. 

When pride comes, then comes dishonor,
But with the humble is wisdom.
Proverbs 11:2 (NASB)

I'm linking with the delightful Jennifer Lee at Getting Down With Jesus for God-Bumps and God-Incidences. Please stop by. I think you'll enjoy it.

A Recent "Trip"

Bibles. We Need More.

Thank you, Nikole Hahn!

Last week was a busy week around here, what with lists and all. 

In the midst of all that business, my friend and BibleDude.net colleague Nikole Hahn invited me to guest post at her place, spreading the Bible-gathering word among new ears.

Please drop by her place for an update on this worthy project. Thank you! 

Be diligent to present yourself approved to God as a workman who does not need to be ashamed, accurately handling the word of truth.
2 Timothy 2:15 (NASB)

Making a List

Even Grocery Lists are Hard.

Checking it Twice

I'm honored, humbled, and stunned that my blog appeared on a list this week. It happened like this:

1. My amazing friend Diana Trautwein said, "Hey! Here's an awesome list of us mature lady bloggers!" And  blogger Sarah Bessey published the list here. You'll find my name on the list. 
2.  Sarah published Diana's list because she had curated and published In which I present 50 Church and Faith Lady-Bloggers. Sarah's list included, primarily, younger women.  This event prompted Diana to speak up for us biddies. 
3. Sarah published her list in response to churchrelevance.com's  publication of its updated list of Top 200 Church Blogs. Sarah noted:  "The list was notable for two reasons: mainly Calvinist and mainly male."
4. Meanwhile, churchrelevance.com responded, noting that the initial list of 200 isn't as male-centric as it might appear. 

You might draw a lot of conclusions from this chain of events. You might infer, for example, that gender politics are alive and thriving both in the blogosphere and in Christendom. You might reach the same conclusion about age politics. You might determine that listmaking is fraught with peril, as some worthy entries are always overlooked.

My conclusions are simply these:

First, my friend Diana and her friend Sarah are women who do something positive when faced with a situation that strikes them as inadequate (exclusive? sexist? ageist? wrong? I won't put those words in their mouths...). I'm so blessed to belong to a community that includes people like them.

Second, being included in a list like this fills me with gratitude. My life is filled with blessings so far beyond anything I deserve. These wise, literate, eloquent people let me sit at their table, when I'd be honored to sit at their feet.

Finally, if you've been looking for a good read,  these three lists will provide you with about 275 choices.

Life is good.

1 Oh, the joys of those who do not
    follow the advice of the wicked,
    or stand around with sinners,
    or join in with mockers.
2 But they delight in the law of the Lord,
    meditating on it day and night.
3 They are like trees planted along the riverbank,
    bearing fruit each season.
Their leaves never wither,
    and they prosper in all they do.
Psalm 1:1-3 (NLT)

Bold Enough for Oranges

Clementines are Tasty. And Safe.

Risk Averse 

When I drove home from work the other night the woman in the car behind me committed an act of boldness as we made our way through the going-home traffic.

She ate an orange.

I watched in my rear-view mirror as she peeled it, balancing the orange against the steering wheel while we waited at a red light. I could see her print blouse and dark blazer, her earrings flashing in the afternoon light, her hair, carefully coiffed. 

Her bravery captivated me. She skinned that orange, broke it into sections, and ate it, one juicy section at a time, as she drove. I watched her progress as the traffic lights brought us to a halt again. 

I don't eat oranges anymore. I can't remember when I gave them up, but I did. They're messy. They squirt juice all over, leaving my hands sticky and my blouse spotted. I'd given up citrus all together, in fact, until our grocer reintroduced me to tangerines a while back. 

Watching this woman eat her orange made me realize I've become a coward. Or at least, I've become risk averse. I traded the exuberant,exploding sweetness of an orange for clean fingers and a spotless blouse. What was I thinking? 

The truth is I can't avoid messes by giving up fruit. My hands still get dirty. I still find spots on my clothes. That dirt is easy to handle. A little soap and some hot water, and everything is as it should be.

So why am I afraid of a little mess? The big mess, the mess that matters, has already been cleaned up. I couldn't do it on my own, no matter how harsh the soap or how scalding the water. Nothing I did could undo those stains. But my Savior, well, He took care of it for me. 

I could be bolder in life. I could speak up and share His love. I could stop and minister to the crying stranger on the street. I could open my heart wider for Him. A lot wider. 

I'll start with an orange. And see if I can't unwrap my Gospel-driven boldness while I'm at it. 

And He said to them, “Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation."
Mark 16:15 (NASB)

  

One Broken Shrub

 Echium Sitting on the Glider.

To Take it Down a Notch


We planned to prune the Echium candicans this winter, as it had overtaken the cedar glider on our front deck. Come spring, the shrub would prevent us from gliding through the air of a soft evening awash with budding.


But the grasshopper asked us to wait. And who am I to refuse a grasshopper? So we waited, and winter sped on by, and the Echium loomed over the glider, unpruned.

Then the unbridled growth of its heavy limbs overwhelmed the trunk and it split right in two.  So I planned to cut off the broken part and cast it into the trash.

Broken Under Its Own Weight. 

But it's not so easy, cutting out the broken part. I've delayed, studying my subject, trying to determine the best places to cut. I want to excise as much brokenness as I can, you know. But I also want to leave behind enough shrub to heal, to renew itself.

Blooming. Right Through Its Brokenness.

And now the broken part, the part I was going to throw away like unwanted garbage, is blooming. It's bathing my view with beauty. It's feeding hummingbirds. It's showing me that even in its brokenness, it has value.

It invites me to look at it like God looks at me.

Are not five sparrows sold for two cents? Yet not one of them is forgotten before God.
Luke 12:6 (NASB)

Enough Already!

Barely. Barely is Enough.

Brownies, Cocoa, and Sufficiency

Lost in the brownie-baking ritual, I greased a pair of well-loved pans, fitted a paddle to my red Kitchenaid stand mixer, measured sugar into its bowl. As the butter and sugar whirled and spun to spectral creaminess, I reached for the cocoa box.

Its near-weightlessness stunned me. I'd left myself a tiny pool of rest as I'd poured out plans for this day.  If I had to siphon off a trip to the grocery store, my puddle of respite would evaporate, leaving me to race about dry, the day tightened by yet another time drought.

I spooned cocoa into cup, holding my breath. As I tapped and scraped, my deputized spoon determined to capture powdered desperadoes holed up in dark corners, the cup reached its measure.

My cup did not overflow. But it was enough. Enough to fill two pans of brownies for the oven. Enough to provide me a few moments of rest instead of a headlong rush to the grocery store. Enough to greet our daughter-in-law and grandchildren with a welcoming smile instead of a weary sigh.

And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that having all sufficiency in all things at all times, you may abound in every good work.
2 Corinthians 9:8 (ESV)

I'm linking up with Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays. I hope you'll stop by.

But Wait! There's More!

Cards. A Photo. A Hug.

Even More Than I Imagined

"You have cards in the mail," Rich said, pointing to a telltale pastel envelope. Passing over a large catalog envelope, I opened the card with a smile, as I hadn't been expecting any personal mail. 

When my birthday had rolled around at January's end, my daughter was busy battling morning sickness. When she called to wish me a happy birthday, she promised a gift would be coming.

"Don't worry about it," I told her then.

But today I had mail from Hawaii. I tore open the envelope. Cadence had written his little brother's name above his own in the card to Lala. My daughter had helped him make a hug, two paper tracings of his hands, joined with ribbon the same length as his five-year-old arms. A second card from Elaine and her husband included a photo of the two of them, Rob handsome in his chief's uniform, my girl dressed up for an evening out. 

"Aw, look, Rich! A new photo of the kids. And look at Cadence's writing!" I delighted in my birthday gifts. And later that evening, when we visited the kids in Honolulu via the magic of Skype, I thanked them for the cards, the hug, the photo.

"You're welcome, Mom," Elaine answered. "I'm sorry they took so long." 

"Don't worry," I said. "And how is Little Miss Kidney Bean?" [That's what I call the grandbaby who is due in September. No, we don't know yet that it's a girl.] We chatted, Cadence hammed for the webcam, Sawyer toddled around adorably, and then we said good night.

The next morning I opened the big flat envelope. It was also from my daughter. An independent stylist for Stella & Dot, she'd sent me the latest catalog, featuring the company's beautiful spring jewelry collection and their other accessories, too. (Yes, that's a plug. I'm proud of her, contributing to her family's finances while maintaining the portability that life as a military family demands.) 

Inside the catalog was a gift certificate for me--a birthday treat. I called Elaine immediately,  embarrassment cooking my cheeks, to thank her for the generous gift.

Since I hadn't opened that envelope the evening before, I'd missed the gift it contained. Thrilled with the photo, the clever hug, the cards full of heart, it hadn't occurred to me that there might be more.

Abundance spills far beyond my paltry imagination. Again. 

That is what the Scriptures mean when they say,
“No eye has seen, no ear has heard,
    and no mind has imagined
what God has prepared
    for those who love Him.”
1 Corinthians 2:9 (NLT)

While We Wait

Cadence and Me. July, 2011.

Ready? 

Our grandson comes early this morning to visit us. I'm waiting, waiting for his dad to drop him off. All I know is Friday morning. 

[It's complicated, our family pruned and grafted: Cadence lives in Hawaii with his mommy, Rob-Daddy, and little brother. His father lives, as we do, in Southern California with Cadence's step-mommy and little sister. Cadence, the big boy at age five, has flown to California with his auntie, uncle, and cousin. He's here mostly to visit his father, but the grandparents get a turn, too. And our turn begins on Friday morning, after his father completes his graveyard shift and then drives Cadence from San Diego to our home ninety miles north.]

I stand in the shower and listen for the dogs' chorus announcing arrivals at our door. I'm thinking, If I hear them I will grab my robe and race down the stairs, hair streaming wet. I won't waste a second to dry myself first. No. I will greet him first. That's the thing. To greet him when he comes.

I have a plan for their arrival. 

I'm toweling my hair, pulling on jeans, and the dogs remain quiet. I pad to the kitchen, measure flour, sugar, create blueberry muffins. I tuck them into the oven. I want him to feel welcome. I want him to see I was expecting him, ready for him. I want his father to know I'm grateful to him for bringing his son to us. 

My phone rests in my pocket. If there's some message, a bit of advance notice, we don't want to miss it. He's coming. We've been waiting and waiting, and he's coming. We're ready. 

Gifts wait for later, tucked into a closet. Well yes, we chose gifts. We want him to see that we love him. We will offer him gifts.

I'm freeing muffins from the pan and brewing another pot of coffee and then I must sit down. Because I'm surveying all our preparation, our readiness, this waiting for him to arrive. This thought grabs me, squeezes the breath from me. So I sit to consider.

It's not too much, this cleaning and baking and choosing and waiting, not too much at all. We've set our usual schedule aside. We'd happily do all this, and more, to welcome any of our grandchildren, any of our children, come to visit. Isn't that how we love? Setting aside the ordinary, emptying out the everyday in anticipation of something better?

But now I am asking, Have we done it for Jesus?

42 “Therefore be on the alert, for you do not know which day your Lord is coming. 43 But be sure of this, that if the head of the house had known at what time of the night the thief was coming, he would have been on the alert and would not have allowed his house to be broken into. 44 For this reason you also must be ready; for the Son of Man is coming at an hour when you do not think He will."
Matthew 24:42-44 (NASB)

Deer Season

Deer, in Quilt-Colored Meadow. 

Friends, Good Friday steals my words. I offer you this piece instead. 

Ungulates


I see them most mornings, these days. Driving along our canyon road as it finds a way through the chaparral forest, I'll spot the flick of a white tail beneath the oak canopy, or the twitch of a rabbit-shaped ear amid the tall grass, already turning golden.

In twos and threes I see them, statues in the deep shade of the hollow's edge, or standing with necks stretched down to earth to feed. They ripple at the sound of my truck on the road, look up.

Even the deer have the sense to look up.


Because they delight me, I tally the sightings on a board in my kitchen. We've almost matched last year's total, and it's only April.

In the fellowship hall on Sunday I mention them to Dennis, who knows the name of every plant in the chaparral's seasonal quilt. Dennis says it means the mountain lions are not nearby  but I think even the mountain lion gets a meal now and then.


And that's how the deer remind me. I need a Savior. 

6 For while we were still helpless, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. 7 For one will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare even to die. 8 But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. 9 Much more then, having now been justified by His blood, we shall be saved from the wrath of God through Him. 10 For if while we were enemies we were reconciled to God through the death of His Son, much more, having been reconciled, we shall be saved by His life. 11 And not only this, but we also exult in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received the reconciliation.
Romans 5:6-11 (NASB)

Driving by Faith

Our Mountain. 

Heading Home in Fog

We've had springtime weather here, cool and damp, with promises of rain hanging in the sky. I'm leaving work, destined for home. It's a short drive, as commutes go: the city gives way to countryside in only seven miles.

When I reach the cows on a hillside above the intersection marked by St. Michael's Abbey and the biker bar, I turn right.

Then I trace along our narrow, winding road for four miles as it wriggles along the root of the mountain that shelters our canyon. Next I'm two simple turns from our little street, where oaks shade and coyotes ramble down the creekbed early in the morning, disrupting the chickens.

And all the way, our mountain leans to me from the east, benign and beckoning, a beacon.


Come home, the mountain calls. I'm waiting.

We've knit our lives into the corner where the mountain kneels upon earth, among neighbors and a general store, parades and a church. She looms over all of it, visible even from the freeway that slices through the city, a sign.

Our Mountain, From Church. With Snow. 

When I imagine my husband continuing on without me, he's here, in our home tucked in beneath this mountain.

But on this day, our mountain is coy, hiding herself behind clouds that pledge showers.

Fearlessly, I climb into my truck, buckle in, ignite the engine. I point the truck east. I drive, passing grocers, bars, gas stations, taco stands, the occasional restless highrise, all the city bits. I'm driving eastward, towards home, towards my mountain.

She's there, that sheltering mountain. Whether I see her or not, she's there. She's waiting. 

And so I drive home, knowing. 

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
Hebrews 11:1 (NASB)

I'm sharing with my friend Jennifer Lee at  Getting Down with Jesus: God-Bumps & God-Incidences. Please pay a visit. You'll enjoy it. 

Springing, Part Two: Up.

Wisteria. And a Utility Pole ...

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part Seven

After I nearly missed the plum flowers, I made wisteria my priority. Our neighbor, down at the corner of the main road, grows wisteria along the fence line protecting the orchards from the deer, and whatever else threatens orchards. It is abloom now, the wisteria, which grows only to sashay along a fence line.

I park my truck, grab my camera, and step down onto gravel. The ridiculous luxury of springtime teases my nostrils. I sidle in closer to these hussies, flaunting their depraved color and tempting scent, and I inhale, inviegled by their shameless display.

Wisteria, Up Close.

Beyond these wanton blooms stands the orchard. Stately trees in trustworthy lines devote their efforts to fruit. They flower, yes, but not now. And their blossoms are restrained, dedicated to a purpose. The flagrant wisteria tangle along its borders.

Orderly Trees Beyond a Knot of Wisteria.

I've never looked up before, turning this corner. I know the view framed by truck window, passing by at speed. Up isn't a direction I look when I'm driving. Today the wisteria takes me by the line of sight and ushers me up.

Wisteria, Pointing Up.

The floozy flowers lead my eye and looking up I see them brave. They climb and climb, wafting extravagant scent beyond my nose's reach. I wonder if the sparrows and the hawks smell their perfume up there, suspect it's all glorious abundance.

It's all Him. He made these flowers with their lavender dripping down like honey on grapes. He bestowed their scent, costly beyond my earthbound means, a gift. It's spring.

And all I have to do is stop. And look up.  I see now, for a moment, at least. His provision, His abundance, surrounds me. It is good to stop and breathe. It is good to be.

Wisteria Climbing High.

²⁶ Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet  your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they? ²⁷ And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life? ²⁸ And why are you worried about clothing? Observe how the lilies of the field grow; they do not toil nor do they spin, ²⁹ yet I say to you that not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these. ³⁰ But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the furnace, will He not much more clothe you? You of little faith! ³¹ Do not worry then, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear for clothing?’ ³² For the Gentiles eagerly seek all these things; for your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. ³³ But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.

Matthew 6:26-33 (NASB)

My word for 2012 is "be." You can find other posts in this series here.

Sharing today with L.L. Barkat at Seedlings in Stone for On, In, and Around Mondays (up is a place, right?)

And with Laura Bogess at The Wellspring for Playdates with God.

I hope you'll visit these communities. I think they'll delight you.