To the many photos that have been snapped by countless tourists, I will add yet two more. But you know—it’s hard not to agree with them that it’s inspiring to view the humble beginnings of something great.
“Here 1475 feet above the ocean the mighty Mississippi begins to flow on its winding way 2552 miles to the gulf of Mexico…”
“All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full; to the place where the streams flow, there they flow again.” (Ecclesiastes 1:7)
Last weekend, we went to the zoo.
Papa was excited about the big snakes in the rain forest exhibit.
The oldest daughter was in awe of the coral reef tank and the lovely little sea horses.
The middle daughter loved the playful monkeys swinging on their ropes, exclaiming excitedly when she first spotted them: “I find a monkey, Mama, I find a monkey!”
The littlest daughter was just thrilled to be out of her car seat after the long drive.
But I loved the butterfly house best of all.
Unlike most of the animal exhibits, which required you to observe them through glass or behind fences, the hoop house containing the butterflies was completely interactive. They were free to flutter all around us and even land on us if they wished as we wandered along little pathways through a maze of wonderfully fragrant flowers—and short of actually touching them, we could get as close to them as we wanted, too.
There were butterflies of every shape, pattern, size and color, from all over the world, each one a miniature piece of exquisite fluttering artwork.
There’s something wonderful about kneeling beneath the sweetly scented white trumpets of nicotiana to show your wide-eyed two-year-old a blue Doris Longwing straight from the Amazon jungle, slowly opening and closing its stunning wings—and be reminded in yet another new and exotic way of what a beautiful world our Creator has made.
“All this also comes from the LORD Almighty, whose plan is wonderful, whose wisdom is magnificent.” (Isaiah 28:29)
“Whoever trusts in his riches will fall, but the righteous will flourish like a green leaf.” (Proverbs 11:28)
I’m sure it will come as a surprise to no one that my days this summer have been a lot less about taking photos of nature and writing about them, and a lot more about taking photos of a certain darling little lady and writing in my journal about her first smiles or the first time she slept through the night.
But in between the midnight feedings and uncounted numbers of diapers changed, I still watch for the beauty outdoors, even if it’s only through the windows while I’m pacing through the house in an effort to soothe her cries on a fussy day. I don’t see many exotic things, but I do see the way the morning dew is glistening on the clematis or the way the light falls warm and soft across the field grass just before the sun sets—and these bits of loveliness are things that have fed my soul on days that adjusting to life with three small children under my care is a little on the overwhelming side.
The other thing that has fed my soul lately is the book of Psalms which we’ve been reading through, one a day at breakfast time—and chapter 36 is one of my recent favorites. May these excerpts from it, accompanied by these glimpses of my summer, feed your soul, too.
“How precious is your steadfast love, O God! 
The children of mankind take refuge in the shadow of your wings…
They feast on the abundance of your house, and you give them drink from the river of your delights…
For with you is the fountain of life; in your light do we see light.” (Psalm 36:7-9)
When the giant rhubarb leaves began to unfurl their creases and wrinkles out by the milk house this spring, it was hard not feel a little happy-sad at the sight. One of the plants in my flourishing patch, the best one on the end with the slenderest brightest red stems, isn’t original to the property like the others are. It was a gift to me the spring I was a new bride, expecting my first child and eagerly planning our very first garden at the house we had recently moved into.
I had stopped at my nearly 90-year-old grandpa’s house to pick up a few of the vegetable plants from his little homemade greenhouse, the extras from his own ambitious garden that he had always offered to family year after year.
“Do you have any rhubarb at the new place?” Grandpa asked, as he tucked sturdy tomato plants, peppers and cabbage into a wooden flat for me. The white Styrofoam cups squeaked against each other as he splashed them liberally with a scoop of collected rainwater. He scrawled the variety names onto a yellow page from an old auction receipt book, garden dirt beneath his nails, fingers big and rugged around the stub of a pencil. “Rutger is a new variety,” he noted. “Nice and early, and great flavor. I searched all over town to find seed after I tasted one last year; finally found it at Fleet for ninety cents a packet. Can’t beat that price! Oh, and you’ll want some of these Sugar Cherry, too. Just like candy.”
I nodded in agreement, then replied, “No, there’s no rhubarb at our new place; I’ll be able to get some from Mom’s garden, though—“ But he hadn’t heard the last part of my sentence, only the word “no”. “My rhubarb really took off this spring,” he said proudly, grabbing a shovel leaning against a nearby shed, and heading off purposefully towards the garden. “I’ll dig you up one.”
Pleased at the unexpected offer, I followed him along the little path through the row of pines that separated the house from the garden, ducking and stepping high to miss the elaborate system of electric wires that guarded his carefully cultivated vegetables from hungry critters. A row of butter crunch lettuce made a brilliant yellow-green ruffle against the black dirt of the freshly tilled soil; further down, I could see the shadows of more greenhouse plants like the ones he had put in a flat for me, growing sturdy beneath their hand-cobbled mini greenhouses of wire and plastic. As usual, his garden was in weeks before anyone else’s and thriving. He stooped to pull a couple radishes, shaking off the dirt before he handed them to me. “You better take a couple of those, too.”
Up by the raspberry patch, he searched among the big leaves of the rhubarb until he found an off-shoot plant, just the right size to survive a transplant well. He lifted it out and I held a plastic shopping bag open. He dumped it unceremoniously inside. It always boggled my mind how he could treat tender young plants with such carelessness yet have them perform so beautifully under his care. If only the plants under my care could grow half so well—was that careless confidence the key, I wondered to myself?
A generous splash of water back at the greenhouse was the finishing touch. “Put some good manure around that when you plant it and you should have rhubarb to pick next year,” he declared confidently, wiping his hands off on the sides of his tan coveralls. I tucked the bag into the back of my vehicle next to the flat of tomatoes and promised to take good care of it.
When we moved again the following spring, that rhubarb plant came with me even though I was aware that there was already a well-established patch at our new place. Being transplanted twice like that set it back for a while, but by the next spring, thanks to several of those recommended scoops of “good manure”, I pulled my first stems of Grandpa’s rhubarb.
I mixed up a batch of old-fashioned rhubarb custard bars first, the kind I have fond memories of my mom making for us when I was a child. The small red squares of stem glimmered like tart pink jewels encrusted in the creamy yellow custard, and I thought smilingly of Grandpa as I sampled a sweet slender square still warm from the oven. I told him of my success the next time I saw him.
He was pleased.
Last fall, Grandpa went home to be with the Lord, and so this spring, the little tractor and plow that he used to turn the soil to velvet sat silent in the shed. His rhubarb plants unfurled and went to seed because no one was there in the little white house beyond the pines to pluck off the seed pods. The greenhouse was sold at the estate auction to a neighbor and the little bent wire plant cages covered clumsily in plastic and held together with twine went into a dumpster.
But out by my milk house, a little piece of Grandpa’s love for the soil grew on.
I thought of him as I walked out one dewy morning with my little girls, his first great-grandchildren, to pick the first stems of the year. I showed them how to reach down low to pull the stems so that they didn’t break and nothing was wasted, remembering his very last words to me as he grasped my hand from where he lay on the hospital bed. “You take good care of those little girls now.” The admonition echoed in my mind as they pretended that the big leaves were umbrellas and used butter knives to “help” me cut the red stems into small squares when we got back to the house. 
I beat together sugar and golden-yolked farm eggs, and folded the tart chunks into the yellow custard while they stood on chairs and watched. The legacy of love for things that grow had begun for yet another generation and I knew Grandpa would be pleased. Later, I thought of this Scripture passage as I pulled the pan of bars out of the oven and set them on a rack to cool:
“How blessed is everyone who fears the LORD, Who walks in His ways. When you shall eat of the fruit of your hands, You will be happy and it will be well with you.” (Psalm 128:1-2)
That was Grandpa, literally and figuratively. Because he also left behind a legacy that was much greater than a love for things that grow from the earth. The greatest legacy he left behind was a deep love for the Creator of the earth.
There’s a well-used Bible, liberally highlighted and underlined, stored safely at a family member’s house now, with a long list of dates in the back recording each time he had read the beloved Book from cover to cover.
Many, many times.
It’s the one physical thing we have left as a testimony to his decades of walking with the Lord and we treasure it. It is my greatest hope and prayer, however, that this legacy won’t remain locked up tidily in a safe to crumble away and die there like my rhubarb plant would have without sunlight and soil. I hope it, too, will send out little shoots, and grow and flourish for generations to come, not in the fertile black soil of a garden, but in the soil of my heart, and the hearts of all his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and beyond. It was his greatest desire as he died, and will, in eternity, be his greatest joy.
“I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth.” (3 John 1:4)
And best of all, even when all the things of this earth pass away, including all rhubarb plants of sentimental value—that is a legacy that can never perish or be taken away.
For more happy memories of my grandpa, see here.
Some of the prettiest pink things God ever made happen in the month of June.
It’s the month of glorious pink roses billowing in the ditches…
And pink begonias blooming on my porch…
And pink peonies bowing their full ruffled heads gracefully to the ground…And foggy pink sunsets on summer solstice……and my personal favorite this year? 
The pink toes of a certain wee baby girl.
“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” (James 1:17)
This week, our resident swan pair debuted their newest brood of offspring, parading them very proudly all the way around the lake (for all the neighbors to see, I presume). There are six cygnets, which might be their all-time record for family size!
There is a shy doe at the edge of the field, who acts very nervous whenever we come near. I know there’s a tiny fawn hiding in the swampy raspberry thicket beyond where she lingers, though we have yet to actually see him.
After three known unsuccessful attempts (including inside the exhaust pipe of my husband’s truck), last year’s swallows have finally settled on a place to build a new nest. Incidentally, it’s in the exact same place as they built the last one. Silly birds.
A mother rabbit went bounding off from my parent’s garden when I was visiting there earlier this week, scared by the dog. She left this wee cutie, with brown eyes almost as big as his ears, crouched obediently close to the ground. He didn’t move a muscle, even when I took this picture:
It’s been baby time everywhere we look outside lately—and then, finally, at 6:45, just after the pearly gray dawn of a Wednesday morning, it was our turn.
A tiny baby voice cried out for the first time in the little house on the edge of a lake, while outside in the gentle rain the swan family paddled softly through the lily pads in search of breakfast and the swallows twittered busily around their almost-finished nest.
“A woman has pain in childbirth because her time has come; but when she brings forth her child, she forgets her anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world.” (John 16:21)
“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.“ (Psalm 30:5)
Praise the Lord!
I think what makes the sweeping landscapes of the west the most compelling is that moment when you walk down the winding path from the scenic overlook into the heart of the rugged hills—and find that the valleys are teeming with life.
You find that the lonely plains are not so very lonely after all, but bursting instead with the spring trills of meadowlarks on fence posts and the clucking of brilliant shy pheasants. 
A coyote comes out of nowhere, and a prairie dog town bursts into whistles of warning as the sentinels stand motionless, upright and vigilant at the entrances to their burrows.
A pompous tom turkey proudly fans his splendid tail out, dragging wings dramatically along the ground. A big-eared mule doe lifts her head, whisking her flag tail nervously at the sight of us. Is there a tiny fawn hiding in that thicket behind her?
Wild mares sniff the air cautiously while tiny colts rest peacefully amidst the sage brush. 
Along a bare windswept ridge, a herd of bison move as one together. One gaunt cow grazes greedily without looking up, as her wee calf wobbles along in front of her, still a little unsteady on his feet.
And on and on it went.
Needless to say, we were in awe at the incredible beauty and variety in this world of animals so different from those native to our own neighborhood. In fact, we saw such an amazing assortment of wildlife in such a short period of time, it kind of felt like some grand orchestral rendition of “All Creatures of Our God and King” should have been playing as the soundtrack of our trip—or at least this Psalm:
“Praise the Lord from the earth, ye…beasts, and all cattle; creeping things and flying fowl…Let them praise the name of the Lord: for his name alone is excellent; his glory is above the earth and heaven.” (Psalm 148:7, 10, 13)
And just imagine—someday we’re actually going to hear these creatures, along with thousands of others, voice their praise to their Creator:
“And every creature which is in heaven, and on the earth, and under the earth, and such as are in the sea, and all that are in them, heard I saying, Blessing, and honor, and glory, and power, be unto him that sits upon the throne, and unto the Lamb forever and ever.” (Revelation 5:13)
The thought of that absolutely gives me goosebumps.
For all the outdoor beauty we enjoy here in Minnesota, I must admit that there is one thing we’re a little short on, and that’s the long view. I do love all our trees, but thanks to those thick forests the places where you can stand and see for miles are somewhat few and far between. Which is why, when I travel to places like North Dakota and Montana as we had the opportunity to do this last month, I can hardly get enough of those endless scenic vistas. I love to see the beautiful, raw curves and contours of the land, love to see distant hills fading away in shades of blue and purple to the horizon, love the way those vistas kindle my imagination with the possibilities of what may lie even further beyond.
It’s in moments like those that I sometimes find myself wishing that life itself was a little more like standing on the edge of a continual scenic vista and not quite so much like plugging along through the thick forest with no idea what’s around the next bend. You know, being able to see into the future and knowing the purpose and end result of things instead of always wondering. Have you ever wished for that, too?
In some ways, that’s just how it is to be human. We aren’t all-knowing or all-seeing like God is. That’s why we have to trust in Him and lean not on our own understanding, because He’s the only one who can see the long view. That necessary dependence is part of the beauty of our relationship with Him.
Yet recently I happened upon a passage in His Word that, interestingly, does promise a certain amount of special vision for the righteous. In this particularly beautiful chapter in Isaiah, “sinners in Zion” and “the godless” are terrified after hearing of God’s promised judgement and ask:
“Who among us can live with the consuming fire? Who among us can live with continual burning?” (“burning” being a picture of the judgement that is prophesied to come)
And God answers with that beautiful balance of justice and mercy befitting His character: “‘He who walks righteously and speaks with sincerity…
…he who rejects unjust gain and shakes his hands so that they hold no bribe…
…he who stops his ears from hearing about bloodshed and shuts his eyes from looking upon evil…
…he will dwell on the heights, his refuge will be the impregnable rock…
…his bread will be given him, his water will be sure…
…your eyes will see the King in His beauty; they will behold a far-distant land.'” (Isaiah 33:14-17)
That last little line is my very favorite part. Isn’t it beautiful? To those who walk according to His ways, He does give, among many other wonderful gifts, without negating our need to walk in faith, a glimpse of that long view and those distant horizons, or, as another translation puts it “the land that stretches afar”.
He’s not talking about physical scenic vistas here, breathtaking as those are. I don’t even think He’s necessarily talking about knowing the future. Instead, He’s promising the righteous spiritual eyes to see above and beyond the figurative forests humankind stumbles through, and to see instead His ways and His will—and ultimately, to see to the farthest horizon where the glory of eternity with Him awaits. To see things from His perspective.
It’s like being given a pair of God-shaped binoculars. And, really, can you think of anything more breathtaking?
P.S. Yes, this trip out west is the reason you haven’t heard from me here in a while—but my camera was busy while we were away. Stay tuned for more soon!
You watched them get planted. You watched them grow up through the snow. It only seemed fair that you should get to watch them bloom, too!
This story wouldn’t be complete, however, unless I told you about the very last piece of adversity they had to come through to reach this glorious moment of full bloom.
Yep. This would be the guilty culprit, caught in the act of walking nonchalantly into our front yard in broad daylight. No shame whatsoever.
One morning, I looked out the front window at my flower garden as usual, and my jaw dropped open. There were literally half as many tulips in the garden as there had been the day before. I guessed that it had been the deer even before I ran out and found the cloven hoof prints clearly defined in the soft garden dirt.
I wasn’t about to watch the tulips I had waited for all winter be systematically consumed by deer who have the entire national forest at their disposal for dinner, without even getting to watch them bloom! Where there is a will, there is a way—and bird netting was the answer.
A few days later, under their protective veiling, fat buds on the surviving plants emerged and blushed coral-pink. Yesterday I took it off for good, as they opened their glowing petals to the morning sunshine for the very first time. They had persevered through winter, unexpected spring snowstorms and foraging deer—and somehow that made the triumph all the more joyful!
“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.” (James 1:2-4)
“Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him.” (James 1:12)
Rejoicing Hills 