Tenderness

Last week, I went to get my hair cut. The woman giving me a shampoo asked if I was “tender-headed” and I said no. She then gave me a good scrubbing and a wonderful scalp massage. 

I’m not sure anyone has asked me about being tender-headed. A more familiar expression to me is tender-hearted, and there are several in our family who are often described that way. I don’t know that I am one of those. But maybe I should have told the person washing my hair that I was tender-headed. It is in my head that I feel tenderness for the world. I think about the horrors that are reported every single day, big and small, and my head is filled with sadness, grief, frustration, and disbelief at all the daily cruelty. And I find myself wishing, hoping, praying for tender heads rather than hotheads in places of power and decision-making.

 

Update.....

The corn is now higher than my head and starting to tassel. Here and there, I can see baby ears starting. It has rained at just the right time. The sunflowers, however, are no more…. The deer ate them all, leaving only the lower part of the stems, all stripped clean of the leaves. And then the weeds grew, so the rows are green but not with sunflowers. The deer need to eat, and a tender buffet right there is tempting, I suppose. But I will miss the blooms in the summer mornings.

 http://pastormartha.blogspot.com/2025/05/time.html

Neighbors

Some of the pickles!

When I lived in New England, it was rare for someone just to drop in. People (me included) almost always called in advance, to see if the timing was convenient or if folks would be home. But here in the country, it is very different. People stop by all the time. And they usually bring something. Sometimes it is a story or an old newspaper article about a long-passed relative. Lately, it is produce. People have brought pints and pints of blueberries, cabbages, the last broccoli from a garden, a bucket of peas. And this week, it was squash, pounds of squash; and then, green beans. So I got out my jars and pickling salt and canner. I have make 20 pints of squash pickles and six pints of pickled green beans. We will share them with neighbors, and eat them in the winter, when they will be like a taste of summer in a jar!

 

May 4

Daddy was born on May 4, 1918. He lived to be 98 years old. Last year, on May 4 – his birthday -- Mama said she thought she was getting a cold, but she didn’t seem to feel really sick until Wednesday, May 8. It wasn’t a cold – it was pneumonia. The year before, she had pneumonia at about the same time. We nursed her through then, but last year was too much. She died on May 11, 2024. She was also 98 years old. 

She was an educator for all her career. And her final act was one of teaching: She donated her body to East Carolina University for medical students to learn about anatomy. She graduated from East Carolina, as did her mother, her daughter-in-law, and her grand-daughter. What an act of generosity, and what a legacy!  

This year, on May 4 -- Daddy’s birthday -- we buried her ashes. We did everything we think she wanted us to do. She is buried in exactly the same grave where he is. After eight years of life without him, she is physically where she said she wanted to be. We wrote our messages of love on the box that held her ashes. Our brother put the box in the ground, and my sister and I helped to bury it. It was sweet and sad, and we were surrounded by so much love. 

She was known and loved for the letters she wrote. She thanked people for anything and everything – a plant, a visit, a bucket of peas, a job well done. Those letters were precious. It seemed just right to read 2 Corinthians 3:2-3: “You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, known and read by all, and you show that you are a letter of Christ, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets that are human hearts.” She did write on our hearts, inscribing our lives with her love. 

It has been a year and a bit, and I miss her every day.

 

Time

When I walk with my dog, our way passes between the fields, corn on one side and sunflowers on the other. What started as bare ground yielded to faint green as the seeds sprouted. Now the corn is knee high and the sunflowers are growing, too, except in some spots where the deer have eaten the tender stalks. In a few months, the plants will be taller than I am, and my way will be lit with golden sunflowers and tasseled corn. 

Once upon a time, my life was governed by a calendar and a clock – meetings here, meetings there, things to schedule, places to go and people to see, deadlines and timelines. Now, I find myself marking time by how much the corn has grown. It is a different rhythm, sweet and satisfying. I still have things to do, appointments to keep, a calendar, but watching the corn grow and talking to the dog fill me with peace.