Jesus, so glad You traveled with me to Louisiana, where I was blown away by an excellent writing conference in New Orleans; bayous, sugar cane fields and shrimp po’ boys in Cajun country; and fun times with piney woods cousins. And thank You that, despite my superpower for getting lost, I kept one step ahead of the hurricane … mostly.
Image by Clkr-Free-Vector Images by Pixabay
O Jesus, You know that in May and June, I fought hard in the Weed Wars. But now, it’s August. OMG, maybe I, like those who rule highway medians, can declare my yard a “native prairie preservation project”?
O Lord, years ago, this little guy declared his blue Play-Doh snake was bigger than God. Upon further reflection, though, he decided that no, the thing he’d made wasn’t nearly as big as the God of the universe.
OMG, thank You that he continues to mold his life with that wisdom!
Jesus, You know my elementary band teacher encouraged me in so many ways. After watching grandsons perform with excellent school bands, OMG, I’m filled with joy in the musical talents You gave them — and gratitude for those who teach which drum to bang and which end of the horn to blow.
Every year, my husband and I repeat: “We’re too busy. We’re too old.”
Still, we give our annual garden party.
Unlike the scenario in Ricky Nelson’s song, “Garden Party,” neither Mary Lou, Yoko Ono, nor her walrus show up. Just lots of uninvited guests.
Given our sophisticated attire, you’d think nobody would dare approach our garden without an engraved invitation. I wear an orange T-shirt accidentally bleached with the underwear wash load. Hubby sports his free T-shirt from our 1971 prom, plus trendy ripped jeans. Roomy 20-year-old shorts show off my black-knee look, enhanced by matching black nails. Emitting an elegant fragrance called “Compost,” Hubby and I have dressed in our casual best.
Unfortunately, thistles, with their prickly personalities, crash the party. I’ve nicknamed them “Klingon sticker weeds.” Like the legendary “Star Trek” foes, they aspire to conquer the universe, beginning with our garden.
Grass, which avoids our yard’s bald spots, flourishes alongside its evil ally. Morning glories that rebel against trellises swarm the cucumber patch.
For other boorish invaders, we’re not only their hosts. We’re their refreshments.
Millions of mosquitoes and chiggers view us as a free Golden Corral.
Still, Hubby and I stick to the program, playing garden games cherished for generations:
Only God, the perfect Host, has given the flawless garden party that might have lasted forever.
Hmm … wasn’t it another pair of humans who spoiled it?
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What makes a great garden party?
O Lord, don’t you think youngest children should stay kids? Or, at least, not be permitted to turn 40.
Today, on our son’s birthday, won’t you freeze time? OMG, an extra decade might help me accept that my 6-foot-6-inch baby is no longer a baby …
O Lord, You know Hubby and I try to keep up with our youngest grandsons. But OMG, after a rainy morning of hallway soccer, they didn’t need naps, but Grandma and Grandpa did!
This post first appeared on February 10, 2021.
I shoveled out my office last November.
A delayed optometric appointment had prevented me from seeing its squalor. After all, having bumped a fellow “pedestrian,” I realized I’d apologized to a mailbox.
I also stumbled through my chaotic office to reach the printer.
What finally inspired a cleaning turnabout? I share the printer with my husband.
Rummaging through rubble, I saw carpet. It’s blue — who would have known? I even (drumroll) cleared my desk.
Hubby thought he’d entered the wrong house. Then he swore I was the wrong woman. After checking birthmarks and dental records, though, he acknowledged I was his wife, not a lookalike alien. Even if I’d cleaned my office.
“Clean,” though, is a relative term. Some neatniks scrub their garage floors. Their streets.
I speak a different language. “Clean” means piles have been boxed and lined up along walls. It also implies bookshelves no longer threaten to collapse, as (sniff!) I gave books to Goodwill. Three of them.
I follow a never-fail formula for dealing with UFOs — Unidentified Funky Objects. If it doesn’t erupt, tick or grow tentacles, I toss it into a closet or drawer.
Mission accomplished last November.
Then came Christmas.
Bushels of Christmas junk migrated to my office. With the advent of energetic grandsons, our antique clock fled there for protection. So did the crystal clock my husband gave me. Custom-thrown pottery also took refuge.
Piles of trash, attracted as if magnetized, have made themselves at home.
Now, trying to force the office door open, I confront the unthinkable: I should clean again.
Twice within four months?
Let’s just buy another printer. And put it in Hubby’s office.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your definition of “clean”?
Does your family celebrate Easter in traditional ways?
My siblings and I hid Easter eggs so well, truants were located weeks later by their potent odor. We awoke to yummy treats … in our polished shoes. Years before, Mom had possessed only pennies to spend on Easter. Having poured out frustrations in prayer — Mom talked to Jesus about everything — she recalled reading about Dutch children receiving Christmas candy in their shoes and nested jelly beans in ours.
My father, a pastor, celebrated Easter wholeheartedly, his bass voice leading “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today,” “He Arose” and … “Joy to the World.”
I thought everyone sang that hymn at Easter. As a teen, though, I realized other churchgoers sang it only at Christmas. I kept our odd custom a deep, dark secret, hoping no Easter visitors knew me.
Fast-forward 20 years. My children and I dyed eggs, their clothes and mine. One helpful toddler knew egg-zackly what to do with eggs.
Crack them.
Our family could afford Easter baskets. Repeating the story of their grandma’s faith, though, I filled my kids’ shoes with grass, chocolate bunnies and jelly beans.
My grandchildren still receive Easter treats in their shoes and hear of their great-grandmother’s prayer. They will dye Easter eggs — and their clothes. Our congregation will sing “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today” and “He Arose.”
Joy to the World”? Probably not.
I’ll save that hymn for a visit to our parents’ graves. I didn’t want them to die. They weren’t crazy about the idea, either. But because Jesus came alive again, they will too. Someday, we’ll all be together with Him.
Joy to the world! To all who believe in Jesus’ Resurrection.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you celebrate Easter?
People often say they conceive their best thoughts at night.
I’m missing this microchip. My mother often told me that even as an infant, I wasn’t a positive thinker during the wee hours. When I grew old enough to read, I added hundreds of new items to my nocturnal Scary List. Take, for example, the 1960s obsession with outer space. If I read a story in Look magazine about flying saucers above a wheat field near Boring, Nebraska, I knew the little green guys would like Indiana sweet corn better. I resolved to eliminate bedtime in order to protect my state from alien invasion.
NASA spent millions to supply me with worry material — until monsters took over the task: Frankenstein, Wolf Man and TV vampires. When tired Mom nixed movie and television viewing, the local paper kept me informed. I read about a hairy, Bigfoot-like creature that cried like a baby and haunted Detroit. Nowadays, sports writers would deduce it was a Detroit Lions lineman, lamenting their playoffs loss. But then, I never knew whether the unearthly wails from the next bedroom came from my baby brother or the monster.
Thankfully, I outgrew all that. The Wizard of Oz’s Wicked Witch of the West no longer scares me.
At least, not much.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Do some childhood boogeymen still haunt you at night?