About a month ago, someone plowed our garden spot. Then he tilled it. Then he harrowed it. Then he marked it into rows. Then he planted and planted and planted. Onions, cabbages, corn, tomatoes, all are out there. Everything is growing. The corn is two inches tall. Last night, I got this gorgeous posy:
It is more than just a clump of radishes.
It is saving and scrimping to buy land.
It is buying and maintaining a tractor.
It is watching weather and planning ahead for planting.
It is keeping a vegetable inventory, to know how much to plant each year.
It is changing diet to fit what grows in our area.
It is walking out to the garden every day to be sure things are okay.
It is stringing irrigation hoses out there and paying for water when the rain refuses to fall.
It is seeding it over in autumn with crimson clover so we either get a cover crop or else some venison.
It is buying and maintaining a small tiller for between rows, later.
It is researching through gardening books for help with pests and diseases.
It is sharpening and oiling the hoe, shovel, and rake.
It is pulling rocks out and chunking them into the ditch.
It is winding twine round and round and round stakes to support plants.
It is shredding piles and piles of newspapers for mulch.
It is staying up late and going out with a dorky “headlight cap” on and covering tender plants before a surprise frost comes.
All of the above, and more, go into the first bouquet of the vegetable gardening season. And here it is, held in the hand that provided it, the hand of someone who, though he doesn’t eat many radishes, knows who does.
Do you ever have a day when you have to unload before you can function? It’s like having your arms full of groceries when someone wants to shake hands. “Hello. Glad to meet you. Let me unload, first…”
Today, chick checks are driving me nuts. We’ve had horrible troubles with a wicked old raccoon, torturing our poor hens have to death and then leaving them to die. Chickens cower when I check their feed and water. Rain waits until I’m half-way past the lilacs on the way to the coop, before it sends a few drops directly over the rifle. Then I have to dry the rifle so carefully.
After lunch, and after the lunchtime chick check, is when I decided it—I had to unload before I could function any more and definitely before I laundered shirts. I calmed myself and gathered gloves and a lopper. Eight joyous branches later, and our dining table centerpiece was doing what lilacs do best. They may be too much perfume for one meal, but are just right, for right now. As the house fills with their scent, I relax.
I once had an opportunity to visit West Bend, Wisconsin, during the bloom time for lilacs. West Bend must have a policy about lilacs because everyone there has them, even fast food places. Arriving at dusk, my family and I wandered out of our car and into the spicy sweetness. Their essence was too strong to recognize on the balmy evening air, but it was sublime, as it is in my house, right now.
Was it like that when Mary bathed and anointed Jesus’ feet? The Word says the house filled with the perfume. Jesus said we always would remember her, too. I feel glad for her sake, but I wonder why He said this and why we remember her.
Of course, her story provides a glimpse into the seamier side of life in Jerusalem. Things were different, then. Adultery and prostitution were against the law, then. Nowadays they are just entertainment for the soaps crowd and fun pastimes for teens. Most kids of today have not heard and would hardly guess these activities are sin, would never be able to guess why. Almost no one can see the demise we’ve inherited from them. Ruined personalities, ruined families, ruined towns, counties—even whole states can trace their downfall to the ruin of marital faithfulness. Whole villages have thrown away the solid ground on which they built. It won’t take much of a wave to wash them away. It will be sad when it comes, and it only takes one village ignoring erosion to start a huge washout.
Will anyone ever see it? Will anyone ever feel sorry about it and stop it?
Mary did, although it meant embarrassment for her.
The perfume of lilacs, faithfully calling to us, can make a difference in this world. Like Mary. I want to be like her. I want to be always at Jesus’ feet.
The hardest thing about dieting, for me, is that the only way I can really lose weight and stay healthy is to cut carbohydrates. I dread that. I love chocolate-coated sugar bombs with milk and cream on them. I love pancakes with too much syrup. I love granola bars, instant milk stir ins, and smoothies.
The only way I can make myself follow a low-carb diet is to keep telling myself that sweet = poison. In a way, it is true, for me. Sugar sure is sweet and sure is poison. Most sugar substitutes are, also. Since I stopped allowing sugar past my lips, I have been tons healthier. I try hard to stick to only 10 grams of sugar per day, although I often go up to 15 or 20. Still, I try.
Now, lest we be confused, in my book, starch = sugar. If you paid attention in school, you learned that starch changes to sugar in the body, often as soon as while it is in the mouth. So–no sugar = no starch.
Exit: breakfast as we know it. Enter: eggs, the wonder-food.
Long ago when scientific empiricism ruled, children learned in school that eggs are nearly a perfect food. Soon after that, media sensationalism took over and we all became scared of the egg. Impossible! Now, surprise, surprise! the egg is coming back into vogue, probably because if we want, we can circumvent media tripe by watching the computer, instead, choosing to read the research for ourselves, instead of trusting the interpretation of those who have agendas.
Slowly it trickles down and grows to a deep sea of truth. The truth is, I cannot eat the average donut or cereal breakfast and lose. I ate that way for most of my life, and now, the part of me that processes sugar is worn out. It’s gotta be protein and greens for me.
I have learned, from long years of perfecting my breakfast menus, that I cannot tolerate egg after egg after egg, unless I do something drastic about the boredom. So I collect amazing egg recipes. Thinking others may be in the same boat, I have decided to share, every Monday, how I have beat egg boredom. (Yes, I know today is Wednesday. Minor glitch. Just think–you only have to wait five more days for the next installment.)
Today will be the Vegetable Frittata. It is so NOT breakfast-y, that it shocks the taste buds into sobriety while delivering tons of great nutrients to the fasting body, including one of the most easily digested protein sources, the lowly egg.
Here it is, in all its glory. Adjust it to meet your taste buds and your veggies on hand. Enjoy!
Vegetable Frittata
2 T. olive oil or butter
4″ sprig rosemary
1 or 2 green onions, chopped
1 clove garlic, pressed
1 or 2 mushrooms, sliced
1 small tomato, chunked
2 eggs
grated parmesan cheese (opt.)
Warm oil with rosemary in covered saute pan for a minute. Add onion and garlic and saute briefly, stirring, until clear. Add mushrooms and increase heat slightly. Saute, stirring, until mushroom begins to shrink and brown. Onion should brown, also, and garlic should be nearly overdone. Increase heat slightly and add tomato. Stir and fry until tomato just begins to peel.
Just After Adding Tomato
Beat eggs with 1 teaspoon water and add to pan, stirring constantly until done. If desired, contents of pan may be pushed into interesting shapes before egg sets.
Prepared with Love
Sprinkle lightly with parmesan cheese, salt, and pepper, if desired, and serve with 2 ounces of pomegranate juice and/or 1 cup coffee or tea. Serves one.
Enjoy!
Okay, I know it’s a shock. Move to a sunny window, close your eyes, pretend you’re in Italy, and learn a new thing.
God has blessed us with four sons. Sometimes I can hardly believe this. And I can hardly count the joys. But I will try.
They have played with each other for their whole lives. They truly care about each other.
They are careful to honor their mother. It is such a blessing.
They all have applied themselves diligently in school. They have made good names for themselves with teachers and employers. They are known for hard work.
The guys at church like them, enjoy teasing them, and they can hold their own when it happens.
They bring me things—amazing rocks, wonderful feathers, gifts, songs, gadgets, cards, books—I lose track, but they seem to enjoy bringing me things.
They ask me for advice. Not often, but on important occasions.
They call me and write me.
They remember what I have taught them. When they forget, just a look, a touch, can remind them.
They have given me three incredible daughters-in-law.
Those who have children have taught their children to love me.
This list could go on, but ten is a good place to stop. To summarize, my sons have been good to me.
They hoped he wouldn’t love me, but he did. They predicted we wouldn’t last, but we did. Vietnam tried to separate us, but it didn’t. They said we’d never get anywhere, but we did.
And at least half of it was due to the only man who would give up his seat to me, forty-something years ago.
We were hardly more than children, but love and stubbornness led the way. Milestone after milestone whizzed by until it seemed there was no stopping us.
Bumps in the road gave us strength, new direction, and adaptability, a great combination.
Now, six children homeschooled and raised up and out of the home, mostly it’s just us. And that was really all I needed in the first place—all the rest was frosting.
Buying and selling houses and cars, fixing broken things, building what we lacked, sweating at laboring, always taking the frugal route, he provided, always provided, so I would not have to leave our nest, was free to tend our babes in peace, not harried. I love the life I acquired with this man who spent himself so willingly for my freedom.
Then there is the wisdom. They say still waters run deep, and for him, it is true. When he spoke, the words were worth listening. When he spoke, other women feared.
And patience. Married to a woman who “needs a mute button”, he always listened, always listens. Always knows the answers to my confusions,
Let the world belittle marriage and commitment! Let them rant against fidelity and sanctity! Let them screw their brows into frowns and suspicions! Let them pretend they are happy without loyalty and truthfulness! Let them blow!
I cannot hear it.
I have spent my whole life with my best friend and would that I had another life to do it all again.
My soul is downcast withing me
therefore I will remember you
from the land of the Jordan,
the heights of Mt. Hermon–from Mt. Mizar.
Deep calls to deep
in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
have swept over me.
I have two brothers. God knows I could not have stood any more. And I don’t mean that in a mean way.
My brothers spoil me. They are extravagantly generous to me. If I had one more brother, I would pop.
First, they endured my obnoxious childhood foibles as a sister. I know they learned their extreme patience from living with me for all those years. If I wasn’t trying to get them to play dress-ups with me, then it was playing school. Which was worse? With me taking charge of everything, it didn’t matter!
Second, they grew up to be strong and loving husbands and dads. They gave me wonderful nieces and a wonderful nephew, and have raised and are raising them right. I rejoice in knowing they all, all, all are my family.
One Dozen Pink Roses
Third, they call me, visit me, write me, and bring or send me gifts. Just recently this lovely bouquet arrived at my door. I can hardly believe it. When they visit, the closest one travels about 500 miles. This is devotion, friends. I wish I could grow to deserve it.
But I see similar devotion in my sons, for their sister and it gives me such hope.
Home's Cool! 