In Spite of the Cosmos

September 17, 2016September 17, 2016 ~ Beth ~ 4 Comments

The theme of my flower garden this year was, officially, low cost and low maintenance. Low maintenance, because I knew I’d have less time than ever with a newborn this summer, and low cost, because why spend money on something I might not even have time to take care of?

A few days before our third daughter was born, I thinned out all the baby cosmos plants that had self-seeded from the year before. Then I filled in the holes with miscellaneous flower seeds leftover from previous years. And then I abandoned it to grow, hoping the emerging seedlings would somehow trump the inevitable emerging weeds without any help from me, and that when I came out of the fog that is life for the first month or so after a baby is born, there would be a garden full of flowers. It’s not exactly my recommended method of flower gardening, but I figured it still might be better than nothing.

A month or so later, when I remembered again that I had a flower garden and went to see what had become of it, I was surprised to find that the flowers had actually triumphed over the weeds.

The only problem was—the conqueror had been the cosmos, and the weeds were not the only victims to languish in it’s shadow. I looked in vain for the calendula, foxgloves and cone flowers, and finally located a few pale lupines. Deep beneath the jungle of feathery giants, were some sickly zinnia plants.

Oops.

Obviously I had not thinned the volunteer cosmos quite as well as I should have. So much for my idea of a mixed flower garden. Sigh.

Well, anyway, I was just happy to still have some flowers growing on a year I didn’t have much time to invest in caring for them.

Then, one day in August I glanced out my kitchen window and noticed something glowing brilliantly coral in the midst of all the pink. I hadn’t planted any coral colored cosmos. I don’t think there’s even such a thing. I went out straightaway to investigate.That’s when I discovered that the pale zinnias I had dismissed as failures hadn’t languished in the shadow of the cosmos after all, but had pushed through sturdily and bloomed. And they weren’t even stunted. They were magnificent!And so, the moral of the story is:

When it feels like the entire cosmos, er, universe is against you, don’t shrivel up and languish like a calendula. Don’t wither away like a halfhearted cone flower or foxglove. Be a zinnia. Dig your roots in deep into Christ, push your way through the overwhelming obstacles, and grow.

It’s a beautiful thing.

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written: “For Your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.” No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.” (Romans 8:35-37)

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Here, 1475 Feet Above the Ocean

September 13, 2016September 13, 2016 ~ Beth ~ 1 Comment

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)

Hope of Spring

November 18, 2015October 17, 2016 ~ Beth ~ 8 Comments

Shhh! Don’t tell the chipmunks. This last week, thanks to this unseasonably mild autumn weather we’ve been having, I knelt in the soft earth of my flowerbed and tucked fifty tulip bulbs deep into the ground.

I dreamed of spring as I carved out those six inch deep holes and dropped in the white bulbs with their papery-thin rosy-brown skins. It always seems strange, even cruel, to plant bulbs just as winter is looming with it’s long months of bitter cold. I know it’s the way it has to be, though, and I know that sure as the spring will come, these tulips will come alive and blossom in due time.

It seemed very fitting that I planted them the same month that my grandpa went home to be with the Lord and we buried his remains also in the earth. This, too, seemed like a harsh end for a beloved man who lived so long and well. Or rather, it would have if it had not been for a confidence of a different sort of spring we all cherished in our hearts as we said goodbye.

Yes, those last days of suffering,

that shadow of death,

the tears,

that hole in the ground amidst a crowd of other grave stones,

the empty armchair in the house down the road—

the cruel reality of it all was harsher than any bitter winter wind that ever blew on earth. IMG_1422 edit

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Yet the sadness was so colored by joy, it was almost hard to tell the difference. The damp chill of a November rain hung around us, but the church rafters rang with victory, because what seemed like loss and death to us meant only triumphant new life for him in the presence of the God and Savior he had loved so long.

He had waited eagerly through all the seasons of life, finally and bravely walked through the darkest death of winter—and now, somewhere, up in heaven, it was springtime at last for Grandpa.

“We hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.” (Romans 8:25)

For more posts about my grandfather, see here and here.

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White Water

October 26, 2015April 6, 2016 ~ Beth ~ 2 Comments

white water / rejoicing hills We stood on the dam, peering over the edge. The roar was deafening.

“Dat water is white, Daddy!” our little girl observed.

“Yes, honey. That’s how you know the water is going very fast.”

I was thankful for the tightly secured chain link fencing on both sides of the walkway as she stood at the very edge, surprisingly unafraid, watching in fascination as the water spewed tight through the spillways and churned free into the river below. It was all very exciting, her three-year-old mind oblivious to the warning signs and hazard lights blinking danger all around us. Daddy and mommy were there with her. What did she have to fear?

She didn’t know that white water also meant trouble. river's edge / rejoicing hills I thought about a conversation my husband and I had had earlier in the day, about the trouble in the world and all around us.

Sometimes it can be terribly discouraging, especially when it seems to heap up and come at you from all sides. You can feel like you’re being tossed around as relentlessly as the tight angry waters in one of those spillways, battered hard against the concrete walls, and all you want is the relief of finally being spewed out the other side so you can find some quiet pool downstream where you can rest and breathe again.

It made me tense and weary just to think of it, and I was relieved when we moved off the dam, and onto a tiny winding trail that followed the river’s edge. I liked this better. Here, there were delicate ferns clinging to mossy rock walls, birch trees leaning gracefully over the calmer ripples at the water’s edge and a soft autumn carpet of warm lacy brown oak leaves underfoot. The roar of the dam faded away in the distance, replaced by the gentle sound of water lapping against rocks along the shore and the whispering breeze in the trees. Ah—these were the restful places I had in mind.Or were they?

I stumbled as I clambered down a rocky side path to get a closer look at the pretty little ferns. The thick carpet of oak leaves had been deceptive—what I had thought was solid ground was not.

Was there no escaping trouble? No, I realized, shaking my head over the irony of it as I regained my footing and continued on more cautiously—there really wasn’t. If it wasn’t glaring in your face, it always seemed to be hiding where you least expected it.

This was no secret to Jesus, which is why He once stated to his disciples, “In this world you will have trouble.” He knew it was not just a possibility or a maybe. It was a certainty. If it wasn’t clear cut persecution, it would be the enemy inside you, that wearying war between the flesh and the spirit. If wasn’t trouble of your own making, it would be trouble of someone else’s making, purposeful or unintentional. If it wasn’t any of these, it would just be the stark reality that we live in a fallen world where there is sickness, and death, and the struggle to survive, and where the sheets we got as a wedding present wear out and rip clean through. (Yep, just this morning.) And then there would be fear, the thing that can get you even when nothing is actually wrong.

So what did He mean when He followed up that statement with this one?

“But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)

Obviously He didn’t mean that we’d escape all trouble by following Him. If anything, He warned elsewhere that there would be more if we did. But then I thought back to the beginning of the verse, before He even comments on the certainty of trouble:

“I have told you these things so that in Me you might have peace.”

That phrase “IN ME” jumped out at me, and then it clicked. So the picture of the peace He was talking about was really right back up on that dam. The two of them were back on it now, making their way slowly across the walkway. The small girl in the gray jacket walked calmly next to her daddy between the chain link barriers, the late afternoon sunlight highlighting all the little hairs escaping from her braids. She stopped periodically to look over the edge and ask questions. In the midst of the noise and turbulence, the calm voice of his explanations and the reassurance of his presence were all the security she needed.This was peace.

Not in finding our comfort in our circumstances but finding it in the One who walks beside us. The reality of trouble will never be any greater than the certainty of His presence. It’s as astonishing and simple as that—and my little girl knew it better than I did.

I stepped up onto the walkway myself, and my steps quickened as I hurried to catch up to my family, hardly noticing the white water churning below as my heart flooded with renewed peace and the determination to learn from her example.

“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20)

Gone Away is the Bluebird

October 16, 2015April 6, 2016 ~ Beth ~ Leave a comment

All summer long, as I watched my sociable little swallows raise their family, there was another family of birds, much shyer, quietly doing the same in another nest hidden away somewhere in the trees around our yard. Nearly every day, I’d glimpse a flash of brilliant blue as they were busy caring for their brood—and eventually we’d see the whole family out learning how to fly.

They never let me get close enough for a picture, much as I would have liked one, and now they’re all gone, headed for the south to flee the coming snow. But while I was out taking photos of the sunset the other day, I happened to glance down at the ground and was delighted to discover that one of them had left me this shining sapphire of a goodbye gift.

It was like a lovely little promise. We’ll be back! I tucked it carefully away to remind myself in the midst of the coming winter that this was true.

“…the stork in the sky knows her seasons; and the turtledove and the swift and the thrush observe the time of their migration…” (Jeremiah 8:7)

And so, until next spring, lovely bluebirds!

When Autumn Comes

October 11, 2015April 6, 2016 ~ Beth ~ 3 Comments

What does that picture have to do with autumn, you ask? Where are the photos of flaming red maple leaves and golden poplars?

Yes, I know.

This is a strange time of year to post pictures from my flower garden. But the lovely truth is that this is exactly how my flowers looked for the entire month of September. We kept getting frost warnings, and every morning I kept thinking that I’d wake up to find them all black and wilted—but on they bloomed, seemingly unfazed by the chilly nights. October came, and they still looked gorgeous even after the tomatoes I’d left in the garden froze and the leaves on the maples across the field had turned to orange.

I was both amazed by their resilience, and delighted. I was even beginning to wonder if they were invincible.

Then my baby let out her hungry cry just after 6 AM Monday morning, just like clockwork. I tiptoed sleepily in to scoop her up, and stopped to peek out the window. I expected to glimpse the first pale brightening to the east of the sun rise, and I did—but my attention quickly shifted to the rest of the world. It was breathtakingly white with a frost so thick it almost looked like snow. Fog was rolling in heavy off the lake in the chilly air. The cosmos and nasturtiums stood starkly silhouetted against the steadily brightening sky, stiff with the heavy lace of frost.

Would they survive even this, I wondered?

I didn’t have to wait long for my answer. The sun rose, and the little garden of billowing old-fashioned flowers that had brought me so many hours of dish-washing pleasure wilted and turned black. Of course, they weren’t invincible. They had lasted long, but their turn had come, like it always must, to succumb to winter’s coming cold. As I regretfully watched them droop, I was reminded of the comparison made in James:

“For the sun rises…and withers the grass; its flower falls, and its beauty perishes. So also will the rich man fade away in the midst of his pursuits.” (James 1:11)

It’s so easy to admire and long for, even covet, the riches and prestige of this world. The possessions, the comforts, the privileges—and no matter how much you have, it seems like there’s always something more to get. But the truth is, it’s all just as fleeting and temporal as the flowers in my garden after harsh frost. I love, though, that James follows this somewhat disheartening truth up some good news. Because while earthly riches are of surprisingly low value in God’s economy, he’s quick to tell us that there is something of infinitely greater value to pursue:

“Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him.” (James 1:12)

When the end of all things comes, it will not be the one with the most money in his bank account who is honored, but rather the one who has remained faithful through trial and temptation for the sake of the One he loves.

May we each take our eyes off the earthly things around us that sparkle and call with empty promises of satisfaction, and set our eyes instead on that higher and sure goal, a glorious crown of life!

Lessons from Grandpa

October 5, 2015October 16, 2021 ~ Beth ~ 4 Comments

He taught me that getting old didn’t mean you quit living—and that you could still go swimming every day and play volleyball and travel the world when you were going-on-90.He taught me not to be afraid to dream and to try new and crazy things. Start a restaurant! Convert a roller skating rink into a church building! Plant potatoes a month earlier than anyone else in the county! Invent an automatic bed-making machine!

He taught how to put my own worms on my own hook and know how to tie proper knots so I could change my own lures. It was from him that I learned that lunch in a fishing boat could legitimately consist of a can of pop and a candy bar. He also taught me the art of telling people how many fish we caught without revealing where we caught them, and how to sweet talk ’em when they weren’t biting.

He taught me that ice cream was a vegetable—and should, accordingly, be eaten as often possible, preferably topped with homegrown raspberries. And chocolate and caramel and nuts and hard cookies. But he also taught me that vegetables (the real ones) were pretty amazing, too.

He taught me that one didn’t need an advanced education to write witty and thoughtful letters in your grandchildren’s birthday cards.

He taught me how to judge a good dairy cow, and then how to care for her after I took his advice and bought her.

He taught me that it’s possible for a lame pun to be hilarious, when said with that much mischief twinkling in one’s eyes.

He taught me how to make Spanish omelettes.

He taught me that fashion statements can be made with coveralls just as well as bolo ties, matching belt buckles and fancy cowboy boots. That having hard candy in your pocket is a great way to win friends and influence people. And that a hearty splash of gasoline will cure a bad case of poison ivy (much to my mother’s dismay…).

You were only ninety-one young, Grandpa—not old enough to die. I’m going to miss you!

“For You…O God… have given me the inheritance of those who fear Your name.” (Psalm 61:5)

For more memories of my grandfather, see here and here.

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I’ll Fly Away

September 25, 2015April 6, 2016 ~ Beth ~ Leave a comment

These days, the skies around our farm are alive with action. All the little goslings have grown up, and are hard at work in flight school, taking lessons in formation and technique from their elders. They wheel around the barn, descending to the gentle hills in the hay field; they rise in great clouds and move off towards the corn fields. The echo of wings flapping against the surface of the lake is steady all day long as they practice syncing their watery takeoffs and landings over and over again. And all of this, of course, to the music of autumn, a grand symphony (or cacophony, some might say) of honking.I love it.

But not just because the air is alive with action, but because it’s alive with anticipation.

They’re practicing for the big event, that great annual journey somewhere to the south. It always brings the favorite old gospel song to mind that was sung so appropriately at the memorial service this last week:

Some glad morning when this life is o’er, I’ll fly away.

To a home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away.

I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away.

When I die, hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away. (Albert E. Brumley)It’s a beautiful picture of the end of life for one who belongs to Christ, isn’t it?

“And I say, “Oh, that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest…” (Psalm 55:6)

See You Later

September 18, 2015October 16, 2021 ~ Beth ~ 5 Comments

sunflower field / rejoicing hills Earlier this week I got to say goodbye to a dear friend for the last time on this earth.

The doctors expected her to go anytime. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t see. They weren’t really letting people in to visit anymore. But Walt told me, his voice getting husky with emotion as we walked down the hall to her room, that she could still hear, and if I wanted to slip in for a few minutes to say something to her, I could.

As I knelt next to her bed, I was quiet for a few minutes, a flood of emotion overwhelming me as I gazed at her laying there. It’s interesting, isn’t it, what comes to your mind in moments like these? For me it was a flood of snapshots, little memory pictures that added up to the big picture of who she was and what she had taught me in the short four and half years I had known her.

I didn’t see the tired, wasted body struggling to bear the final pains of heart failure. I saw a beautiful little woman with sparkling eyes and spiky silver hair.I saw the perfect stitches on a lovingly hand-knit afghan she gave me at my first baby shower, all soft and yellow, like a new baby chick.

I remembered how she loved things that sparkled and how she’d end a funny story with, “…and we laughed until we were just sick!”

I saw and remembered the multiple times she had welcomed us into their tiny home with genuine delight and beautiful old-fashioned hospitality. I saw the perfectly set table, surrounded by the sturdy wooden benches she was so proud to tell us Walt made, with tiny individual salt and pepper shakers sparkling by each place. I remembered how she’d set out pickles and olives for us to nibble on beforehand, and wouldn’t let anyone help with the dishes. I remembered how she loved to serve things to her guests that were just a little out of the ordinary and special, like apples in a ham sandwich or the addition of tiny dainty dumplings to a pot of chicken soup. I remembered rhubarb slush and split pea soup and boiled dinner, and the huge jar full of more kinds of tea than I even knew existed.

I remembered the time I was standing in the back of the church with a restless little one, and witnessed her slip her arm around her husband and tuck her hand lovingly into his back pocket as they leaned their silvery heads together for the closing prayer. It was the perfect picture of a sweet marriage relationship that had spanned over 60 years, the rare kind that everyone wants but so few actually have.

I remembered how sometimes I’d be sitting at the piano playing the prelude before Sunday morning service began, and she would pipe up from her seat near the back, “Sing it for us, Beth!” And I would, even though an impromptu solo was the last thing in my mind, because you couldn’t say no when Dee asked. I remembered the favorite hymns she’d always request, and how she convinced us to try “O Holy Night” from memory when we came caroling at their house one December eve.I remembered all these things about her, and more, and I knew I would miss her for all of them. But the most beautiful thing of all about her, and the thing I knew I was going to miss the most was her passionate love for the Lord. She was so eager to learn and understand His Word, so genuine in her enthusiasm over what He meant to her. Her’s was that enviable joy that transcends circumstance, that had come forth as gold through the hard times of life. Her faith was an inspiration to all of us who knew her. I could still hear her voice, piping up strong and joyful from the usual back pew in answer to my husband’s request for people to share what they were thankful for: “Salvation, full and free.” That day was to be one of her last Sundays at church, though no one guessed it at the time, and she was struggling with health problems even then—but the confidence in her voice still echoes in my mind.

And the echo of that simple statement was why, as I looked down at her and the tears slipped down my cheeks, I realized that I was not crying from sadness but from joy.

Here she was, right on the doorstep, going to see the glorious completion of that salvation full and free at any moment. I couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than the moment when she would open her eyes and see heaven and her Savior for the very first time.

And considering that I looked forward to doing the same one day myself, it didn’t really seem right to say goodbye. Instead I leaned down and said softly: “I’ll see you later, Dee. Will you tell Jesus hello for me when you get there?”A few short hours after sunrise the next morning, we received word that Dee had gone home to be with the Lord. And it seemed quite appropriate that I had already chosen these photos of this gloriously happy field of sunflowers to share with this post. If any flowers symbolized the life she had lived, they did, with their brilliant golden faces standing unashamedly tall and joyful, always turned towards the sunshine. Over there, on a beautiful golden shore, she was lifting her face with joy towards the Son with nothing between for the very first time.

It was our loss, but her gain—and I was glad.

Ten Things To Do When Swamped With Cucumbers

September 8, 2015April 6, 2016 ~ Beth ~ 2 Comments

At this time of the year when I walk outside, the call of the fields and forest gets somewhat dimmed by the call of the garden. Out in the woods, the ferns are curling up brown and everything is in that sort of awkward transition between summer and fall. But in the garden, at least the one I planted this year, everything is just reaching it’s most splendid peak.

And so that’s where I go, taking my camera with me to document the discoveries of dark round watermelons beneath notched leaves, big orange pumpkins and shiny purple eggplant. And the little yellow cucumber flowers, bright like little stars amidst the delicately serrated edges of leafy vines.And then I dig down beneath those leaves, and I fill the wheelbarrow with cucumbers (and zucchini—but that’s another story) and I bring them up to the house, stack them up like cord wood on the kitchen table and wonder what in the world I’m going to do with them all.Honestly, I thought I had planted just the right amount (just one hill, so we could eat them fresh), but lo and behold, I was wrong. We are drowning in cucumbers—and we still have pickles in the basement from last year! What do you do when you don’t need pickles and a daily whole fresh cucumber for lunch is getting a little old? Well…

You give thanks for the abundance. It is truly a blessing to have my cup—er, wheelbarrow—overflow with produce, even if it is a bit of a scramble to use them all up before they spoil.
You research the amazing health and home benefits of cucumbers to boost cucumber enthusiasm house-wide. Did you know that a single cucumber contains pretty much all of the vitamins your body needs for one day? Or that cucumbers are good for treating both high and low blood pressure? Or that you can use cucumbers on sunburns just like aloe vera? Or that if you rub a slice of cucumber along a squeaky hinge, it will stop squeaking? There’s a great list with more fun health benefits and uses here. I’ve always liked cucumbers and after reading this, I finally know why!
You slice them up thin and use them in lieu of lettuce in sandwiches. Or you skip the bread and stuff a hollowed out cucumber with the sandwich fillings. We tried ham and cream cheese—yum!
You put them in all tossed salads and try to keep the ratio of lettuce to cucumber somewhat reasonable, so you can still call it a lettuce salad, because…
You also make cucumber salad, which is different. This version with tomatoes, avocado and feta cheese is my new favorite this year!
You make gyros with cucumber sauce. (This probably qualifies as my top favorite way to dispose of cucumbers.)
You make cucumber-and-cream-cheese tea sandwiches (and cucumber-tomato-mayonnaise sandwiches if your tomatoes are ripe, which mine are not). Only skip the tiny tea size and make them big.
You try every new and interesting recipe you can find. Nice to meet you, cucumber soup and cucumber chips.
You bless all your friends by smuggling them into the back seats of their cars as surprise gifts. (Just kidding—actually bringing a pile them to church with a “help yourself” sign attached might be a better idea!)
And if all else fails, you make a cake.

Because naturally a cucumber cake probably would be the last thing you think of. But no, I’m really not kidding on this one. There really is such a thing—and it’s delicious! (If you’re adventurous enough to try it, too, the recipe I used is here. I doubled the recipe—because, hello, we’re trying to use up cucumbers over here!—but stuck with a single batch of the frosting and used lemon juice instead of the elderberry cordial.)

“He has shown kindness by giving you rain from heaven and crops in their seasons; he provides you with plenty of food and fills your hearts with joy.” (Acts 14:17)

What are your favorite ways to enjoy the blessing of cucumbers?