From the porch
It's a cloudy, upper-sixties Sunday evening. I'm sitting on the porch in a rocking chair that's almost as old as I am, feet propped on an overturned five-gallon bucket. Traffic in front of the house is picking up as we inch toward Memorial Day, our beautiful lake taken over by vacationers who both keep our little economy going and frustrate the living heck out of us on the roads.
Between vehicles passing, I'm listening to the birds. So many, all with different tweets, some close, some far away, all compelled to share their song. What I wouldn't give for wings. To be high above everything, eyes closed, soaring in the sunlight, not a care in the world. A woodpecker drums out a beat, then the poor confused rooster a few fields away sounds his call. Maybe his human works nights.
There are two bald spots in the front yard. One is a pitcher's mound, the other home plate. Our wiffle ball games are rowdy, as rowdy as plastic sports can be. For a still-broken window just past third base reminds me of the hard lesson I learned years ago about playing actual baseball in the front yard. I pitch, Aden takes it way too seriously, Trey talks trash, Brandon switch hits. It's fabulous fun.
First base is a huge hundred-foot tree. No clue what kind it is, but in the spring it drops beautiful yellow and orange flowers shaped like lilies on a lily pad. When we first moved into this house, the trunk had ridges in the bark that sort of formed an angry face, looking right at us. That's grown out now. But when the wind blows brisk enough, the high branches creak. A seriously cool tree.
Aden's baseball season is almost over, and oh what joy it has been. To get away and be immersed in something, to go maskless and watch these boys form friendships deepened by competition and respect. Half of his baseball team also played together for basketball. I cannot even describe how thankful I am for Aden to have these relationships. To be working hard and seeing results.
Trey has joined me outside. He can't get enough of basketball in the driveway, staying out late evenings until I have no idea how he even sees the ball. He tried out for and made the school team for this past school year. Have I written about that? Our anxious one, who never wanted to be watched or involved, decided on his own to play. Because of COVID, there were no games. And nothing I could watch. But my heart soars over his confidence, over God's answer to a prayer that began so long ago.
Squirrels are chasing each other up the twin oaks. A honeybee is having his way with the white weed-flowers beyond me. We moved the garden. It is in what was the hayfield beside the house. No more dealing with the tree in the middle, the overgrown pasture fence line filled with rabbit families, the low spot in the center where puddles never truly dried. It looks really good right now, but of course it's still early. The dirt is fine and brown, and there are rocks everywhere. Every. Where.
We need beans, badly. There are only two more jars in the cabinet, and I've been hanging tight to those. The seven rows came in about halfway with the first planting. Corn and tomatoes look good. Not a single cucumber, squash, or zucchini plant came up first go round. Second planting hasn't shown anything yet, but it's only been just over a week. We'll see what happens.
Brandon can eat chicken. We found this out last December, spurred to change by his meeting with Dr. Cox. No more beef and pork allowed for health reasons, so we had to give it a shot. First turkey was a success, then chicken. And brother have we ever been putting away some chicken. It's a whole new level of freedom in the kitchen, which came at a great time because since the pandemic started last year, I have had to make about six thousand meals. Made chicken fajitas last week and Brandon said it was the best thing I've ever cooked. After eighteen years, I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted.
My weight is out of control, an unfortunate and very visible indication of my emotional and spiritual state. I've been flirting with depression for a long time, burying my insecurities and stresses in comfort food and seriously messing up my brain in the process. Being home for so long hasn't helped - I last set foot in my little cubicle fourteen months ago today. Of course it's been an issue far longer than that, building little by little over the years. I've taken a step of faith to try and get a handle on myself, but it will be a long process.
The Lord is good. So very, very good. I'm so grateful that, by definition, both mercy and grace are undeserved. "He brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock." Psalm 40:2 I'm claiming it as a promise, because I'm still very much in the pit. But God can't break a promise. Somehow, I'll end up on that rock.
Between vehicles passing, I'm listening to the birds. So many, all with different tweets, some close, some far away, all compelled to share their song. What I wouldn't give for wings. To be high above everything, eyes closed, soaring in the sunlight, not a care in the world. A woodpecker drums out a beat, then the poor confused rooster a few fields away sounds his call. Maybe his human works nights.
There are two bald spots in the front yard. One is a pitcher's mound, the other home plate. Our wiffle ball games are rowdy, as rowdy as plastic sports can be. For a still-broken window just past third base reminds me of the hard lesson I learned years ago about playing actual baseball in the front yard. I pitch, Aden takes it way too seriously, Trey talks trash, Brandon switch hits. It's fabulous fun.
First base is a huge hundred-foot tree. No clue what kind it is, but in the spring it drops beautiful yellow and orange flowers shaped like lilies on a lily pad. When we first moved into this house, the trunk had ridges in the bark that sort of formed an angry face, looking right at us. That's grown out now. But when the wind blows brisk enough, the high branches creak. A seriously cool tree.
Aden's baseball season is almost over, and oh what joy it has been. To get away and be immersed in something, to go maskless and watch these boys form friendships deepened by competition and respect. Half of his baseball team also played together for basketball. I cannot even describe how thankful I am for Aden to have these relationships. To be working hard and seeing results.
Trey has joined me outside. He can't get enough of basketball in the driveway, staying out late evenings until I have no idea how he even sees the ball. He tried out for and made the school team for this past school year. Have I written about that? Our anxious one, who never wanted to be watched or involved, decided on his own to play. Because of COVID, there were no games. And nothing I could watch. But my heart soars over his confidence, over God's answer to a prayer that began so long ago.
Squirrels are chasing each other up the twin oaks. A honeybee is having his way with the white weed-flowers beyond me. We moved the garden. It is in what was the hayfield beside the house. No more dealing with the tree in the middle, the overgrown pasture fence line filled with rabbit families, the low spot in the center where puddles never truly dried. It looks really good right now, but of course it's still early. The dirt is fine and brown, and there are rocks everywhere. Every. Where.
We need beans, badly. There are only two more jars in the cabinet, and I've been hanging tight to those. The seven rows came in about halfway with the first planting. Corn and tomatoes look good. Not a single cucumber, squash, or zucchini plant came up first go round. Second planting hasn't shown anything yet, but it's only been just over a week. We'll see what happens.
Brandon can eat chicken. We found this out last December, spurred to change by his meeting with Dr. Cox. No more beef and pork allowed for health reasons, so we had to give it a shot. First turkey was a success, then chicken. And brother have we ever been putting away some chicken. It's a whole new level of freedom in the kitchen, which came at a great time because since the pandemic started last year, I have had to make about six thousand meals. Made chicken fajitas last week and Brandon said it was the best thing I've ever cooked. After eighteen years, I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted.
My weight is out of control, an unfortunate and very visible indication of my emotional and spiritual state. I've been flirting with depression for a long time, burying my insecurities and stresses in comfort food and seriously messing up my brain in the process. Being home for so long hasn't helped - I last set foot in my little cubicle fourteen months ago today. Of course it's been an issue far longer than that, building little by little over the years. I've taken a step of faith to try and get a handle on myself, but it will be a long process.
The Lord is good. So very, very good. I'm so grateful that, by definition, both mercy and grace are undeserved. "He brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock." Psalm 40:2 I'm claiming it as a promise, because I'm still very much in the pit. But God can't break a promise. Somehow, I'll end up on that rock.
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