tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5640931696079443482024-02-25T19:00:09.949-05:00Martha's KitchenServing Up Reflections on Faith, Food, and FarmUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger276125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-36042371582811958992023-10-04T18:43:00.000-04:002023-10-04T18:43:23.667-04:00October 4, 1998Today is the 25th anniversary of my ordination as Minister of Word and Sacrament. It has been 25 years of joy and sorrow, celebration and consolation. I have been privileged to be part of weddings, funerals, baptisms, communion. Countless church meals; hundreds – maybe a thousand – sermons; home and hospital visits. Gifted partners in ministry. Blessings too numerous to know. Some heartbreak, some disappointment, some conflict. But the overall feeling is joy – all joy. I am so grateful for this blessing, for these years, for this ministry.<p> </p>Pastor Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06607996353905010967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-58368818875970624902023-09-20T11:07:00.002-04:002023-09-20T11:07:43.972-04:00The Small ThingsMy brother has a grass landing strip on the farm that he uses when he flies his plane. It is about a mile up and back and always nicely mowed. I walk there most mornings with my dog, Buddy. <div><br /></div><div>There are lots of folks in the working world -- corporate and academia -- who advocate for seeing the “big picture,” and I suppose that is often good advice. Those who are “down in the weeds” can get so caught up in the details that they often miss the important things. I don’t disagree with that view. </div><div><br /></div><div>But walking the runway gives me a different perspective. Yes, there is the big picture – golden morning sun, big beautiful blue sky, green bean fields row upon row. But there are also the small things, down in the weeds. There are hundreds of tiny spider webs draped on the grass. They sparkle in the dew like silk snowflakes. Most of them are less than an inch or two in size, and when the sun is high in the sky, they melt away. But in the early morning, there they are, some upright like little sails, some like tiny bowls, and some draped haphazardly, flung on blades of grass. And there are hundreds of little unseen creatures that made these beautiful webs. What do they catch in them? I don’t know, but it must be enough to sustain them. </div><div><br /></div><div>And there are also tiny, tiny flowers deep in the mown grass. Their blossoms are almost too small to be noticed. Do they set seed now in preparation for next summer? Do the bees come to them? I don’t know that either. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I do know that there is such beauty in the world, all around – overhead and underfoot – some of it grand and glorious, and some of it tiny and precious. Thanks be to God!</div><div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> <p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixuL88wL_-xvvjd6XQXtujvu7V_6gXDuNiTY2NGPNONVHO9rXXQJxBKiwlmnjill7j8gwqRSZzogKSlj4FV-hqDWFBlKx4OgmgG8ZklgQWfajbIZYdO1tYWL0htCmXpcVDrFwNiov4sT_s-ZBWtgA2ICGgqP_Ue9-Z6dd3ZeQYLzTzKiWlyjyy_ezgWjM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2327" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixuL88wL_-xvvjd6XQXtujvu7V_6gXDuNiTY2NGPNONVHO9rXXQJxBKiwlmnjill7j8gwqRSZzogKSlj4FV-hqDWFBlKx4OgmgG8ZklgQWfajbIZYdO1tYWL0htCmXpcVDrFwNiov4sT_s-ZBWtgA2ICGgqP_Ue9-Z6dd3ZeQYLzTzKiWlyjyy_ezgWjM" width="181" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinj12QStelDSnyC35ebinGvMI4-7__MKYQED8Z7a3CI-yzKMo6gbMnK1oiegsOPFUNX_AJTQhYgm4_KnNNHI-PDsA4vz3O3du95voaOvjTdrR9SLgwaARw3vNd5ZGadvxxy6ej_VJDvwBY6MtUjcZsecv2ZYnbYoiwn4vgrb78cj49uuuD2D95yJHb_MY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3387" data-original-width="1778" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinj12QStelDSnyC35ebinGvMI4-7__MKYQED8Z7a3CI-yzKMo6gbMnK1oiegsOPFUNX_AJTQhYgm4_KnNNHI-PDsA4vz3O3du95voaOvjTdrR9SLgwaARw3vNd5ZGadvxxy6ej_VJDvwBY6MtUjcZsecv2ZYnbYoiwn4vgrb78cj49uuuD2D95yJHb_MY=w141-h240" width="141" /></a></div><br /></div><br />Pastor Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06607996353905010967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-82871813261338843732023-09-06T16:42:00.001-04:002023-09-06T16:42:25.154-04:00Leadership Lessons From The Farm (as applied to church perhaps...)<div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lesson 1: Don’t stand behind a horse. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sometimes it is dangerous to be in the back. The folks might get too far out in front. You could be left in the dust. Or they might decide to kick, or kick-back. And there might be a big mess back there that is best just left behind. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lesson 2: Don’t stand in front of a beehive. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sometimes it is dangerous to be in the front. The folks might feel you are in their way, not respecting their pathways. They might decide to defend their territory by attacking, stinging with words or worse.
Bottom line: Each situation is different. Sometimes you are dealing with a horse; sometimes, with a colony of bees. Sometimes you need to in front, leading the way, staying out of the muck. Sometimes you need to be in back, following, observing, moving carefully and gently. In any case, the wisdom lies in choosing the place that honors the situation and keeps you safe. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">And a third lesson: If you are with the farm dog, just try to keep up! Enjoy the walk, have a little fun, follow his nose, and go places together!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpri5eF__UXzo9edfnB8RCFllAHynI9jMLKDKIQXZIm8N7x4w2xCWAovOoq7E5cyLo0zbBYtskktBPpYjFxGWgib7NNHFNcOo3KTyLSnOYrgk6T3k0PkVNzIZPRju95K4yKsEhHsykfY5WE2lneWfEdj8PyRZK1VaaX4PgtiVWBhnZFVHOXXY3Pg3j8cU" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpri5eF__UXzo9edfnB8RCFllAHynI9jMLKDKIQXZIm8N7x4w2xCWAovOoq7E5cyLo0zbBYtskktBPpYjFxGWgib7NNHFNcOo3KTyLSnOYrgk6T3k0PkVNzIZPRju95K4yKsEhHsykfY5WE2lneWfEdj8PyRZK1VaaX4PgtiVWBhnZFVHOXXY3Pg3j8cU=w400-h226" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Horse and beehive!</td></tr></tbody></table></div>Pastor Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06607996353905010967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-36257962808418017502023-06-16T11:41:00.001-04:002023-06-16T11:41:00.137-04:00Hair<div><br /></div>I’m sure I fretted about my hair when I was in high school, but I don’t much remember it. I had a basic style, parted on the side, tucked behind my ears, and teased a bit on the top and back, probably lots of hair spray! In college, I let it grow long. After that, somewhere along the way I adopted a kind of page-boy with a side part, and that was my hair style for a long, long time. I didn’t fuss with it, just wash and dry, regular trims, no big deal. Then I had to have chemo, and suddenly my hair – or its impending loss -- seemed like a very big deal. When it started to come out, my friend shaved my head. I got a wig, but mostly I wore scarves that the women at my church taught me to tie. When my hair grew back, I left it short. And after a second round of chemo a dozen years after the first, it stayed short, a basic wash-and-go style. <div><br /></div><div>For all of my lack of expertise with hair-styling, I’ve had some notable experiences over the years. When they were in high school, two of my young friends asked me to do their hair for prom, and it turned out fine (miracle of miracles!). One of those young women later asked me to do her hair for her wedding day. We practiced in advance, and I was able to do what she wanted. And then, she got her hair cut before the wedding. My heart was in my throat as I was figuring out what to do, but it all worked out somehow. She was beautiful, and she would have been beautiful regardless of what I did with her hair! </div><div><br /></div><div>Several months ago, I started “fixing” Mama’s hair after she shampooed it. As I got more practice and was doing okay with it, I felt a little more confidence. And then she could not make her last salon appointment, so I got out my good fabric scissors and cut it. It isn’t perfect, but it isn’t awful either. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am mindful of her hair and thankful that I can help her with it. And I am thankful, too, that Jesus is also mindful of it. “Even the hairs of your head are all counted,” he says, and it comforts me to know that he is paying even more attention to her hair than I am!
<p> </p></div>Pastor Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06607996353905010967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-36522250069397375112023-06-13T08:01:00.001-04:002023-06-13T08:01:20.472-04:00Funeral Procession<div><br /></div>I officiated at a funeral last week. The drive from the funeral home to the cemetery was almost 30 miles, and we slowly drove. It was a lovely day, driving by corn fields and blueberry farms, small churches, general stores, and crossroads. There is a custom here -- and maybe elsewhere, too -- that drivers meeting a funeral procession pull over and stop. Not everyone does that, but many do. On Friday as we made our way to the cemetery, people driving tractors, work trucks, cars, and pickups pulled over until we passed. This little tribute is very moving to me, total strangers pausing to honor the dead. Maybe it is an acknowledgement, too, that we will all end our days, and that we would hope for others to stop and honor our lives. And I was reminded of some lines of poetry: <div><br /></div><div>Because I could not stop for Death – </div><div>He kindly stopped for me – </div><div>The Carriage held but just Ourselves – </div><div>And Immortality. </div><div><br /></div><div>We slowly drove – He knew no haste </div><div>And I had put away </div><div>My labor and my leisure too, </div><div>For His Civility – </div><div> … </div><div><i>Emily Dickinson</i></div><div><p> </p></div>Pastor Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06607996353905010967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-46562509055392137802023-05-29T19:39:00.001-04:002023-05-29T19:39:55.259-04:00The Dove of Peace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNfZroJ2PXh3jp3P5IA7DUbTeTU0jRGHol-VHS8KigNT_IyUSgoITBtgwKV4jdhY1AgShRhwA6iTa1drulzM3QKAq3PrEeYVxg8EA0jJkwDgGDi13StNdMwYUD8YPIin6_TH-4r-ZjqYqhOFQqFp0Gi8SNkXURiP7HfV7FfjR-wqOrdtfPM6-Oglm/s1036/349077032_641104091410280_3668232026065735043_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="949" data-original-width="1036" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNfZroJ2PXh3jp3P5IA7DUbTeTU0jRGHol-VHS8KigNT_IyUSgoITBtgwKV4jdhY1AgShRhwA6iTa1drulzM3QKAq3PrEeYVxg8EA0jJkwDgGDi13StNdMwYUD8YPIin6_TH-4r-ZjqYqhOFQqFp0Gi8SNkXURiP7HfV7FfjR-wqOrdtfPM6-Oglm/s320/349077032_641104091410280_3668232026065735043_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>This week we celebrated Pentecost at our little country church. Many folks wore red, we had red candles, red pinwheels, red vestments, red paraments. And then after worship, we had lunch with a red velvet (birthday!) cake with candles. It was a wonderful way to remember and claim the gift of the Holy Spirit. </div><div><br /></div><div>My sermon was ready early in the week. Our mother has had some health issues that have caused a lot of worry and uncertainty in our household, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to lead worship on Sunday. Here is part of what I prepared in advance and was able to preach on the Day of Pentecost: </div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">It is the Spirit that comes into the chaos of our times, when we don’t know exactly what to do, when we feel lost. The Holy Spirit is God in our souls; it is Christ in our lives. It is what gets us up and gets us going in the morning. It is what sings us to sleep at night. It is that part of God in Christ that cares for us, comforts us, calls us, and challenges us.
When life seems chaotic, as it often does, when you don’t know what to do, when you feel like you are losing your grip, losing your way, losing your faith – look for the Holy Spirit. Look for the dove of peace.</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">And then on Saturday, the day before Pentecost, a white dove appeared in our yard. We live in the country, and there are lots of birds around, and I’ve seen a lot of mourning doves, but I have never seen a white dove here. My brother thinks it is a pigeon, one that was raised for racing and just got lost. But I worked in a city and I know pigeons –this is not a pigeon. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When I wrote what I did (“….When you don’t know what to do… look for the dove…”) I don’t know that I really took that seriously. But the dove has been here for three days now. And it feels like the presence of the Spirit. It feels like a blessing from God. It feels like peace.
I still don’t know what to do. It feels that we are still dealing with chaos and uncertainty, and at times we feel lost. But the Spirit is with us. And if it took a lost pigeon to make that point, then so be it. Thanks be to God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit!
</div><div><p> </p></div>Pastor Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06607996353905010967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-1935650954270573782023-02-27T07:00:00.001-05:002023-02-27T07:00:00.154-05:00Happy Birthday, Baby Brother!<span style="font-family: georgia;">I remember the day you came home from the hospital. Mama was in the front bedroom (which is now mine) in bed with you nestled in beside her. I was so excited to meet you! I remember running to the kitchen and back to bring a glass of water to Mama, but maybe to you! And I loved you with an undying love. Until at about six months old…. when you pulled the eye off my teddy bear! And Jane and I put you in our doll cribs and played with you like you were a baby doll. And then we had you join in our elaborate “Judy and Sandra” and “Miss Lane and Miss Vane” games. You were either Tommy (our child?) or our dog. You didn’t care – you just played with us! </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We have had lots of adventures over the years (some that involved stitches and switches!) and they have not ended. We love you, baby brother, and give thanks for your life!</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p></div>Pastor Marthahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06607996353905010967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-36764131537897056482023-02-22T07:30:00.001-05:002023-02-22T07:30:00.178-05:00Ash WednesdayThis is my land
that I hold in my hand. <div>But not mine – rather all who came before – </div><div> known to me and
natives here eons ago. </div><div><br /></div><div>And not mine but all who come after – </div><div>unknown to me – </div><div> ones I cannot instruct or control who will do as they will with this dirt, this place. </div><div><br /></div><div>May it grow food and flowers for them; </div><div> ground them in grass wet with dew; </div><div> harbor earthworms; </div><div> hatch dragonflies; </div><div> form a basin for puddles when it rains a century from now. </div><div><br /></div><div>May it form a basin for me, </div><div>when I lay down my ashes, </div><div> when I live out the prophecy of ashes to ashes, dust to dust. </div><div><br /></div><div>May I become one with this land, this earth, this dirt. </div><div><br /></div><div>May my soul, spirit, dirt </div><div>nourish generations to come, </div><div>those I do not know and never will. </div><div><br /></div><div>And yet they will know me </div><div>and they will hold me in their hand. </div><div><br /></div><div>I will be part of the land –
theirs and mine.
<p> </p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-71631995321018083552023-02-19T20:37:00.007-05:002023-02-19T20:37:57.355-05:00January 30<p>January 30 was a lovely day, warm and sunny. I looked out the kitchen window and saw that the first breath of spring was blooming. It is a lovely shrub that puts out small white flowers with the sweetest fragrance, very, very early in the year. So I cut branches and brought them inside.</p><p>January 30 was also the day my sister-in-law died.</p><p>First breath of spring, and last breath of Janet.</p><p>Rest in peace, sweet sister. We love you.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-47199295057262242412022-11-20T15:25:00.000-05:002022-11-20T15:25:10.194-05:00"Every Animal is God's Pet"<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">We are thankful for and blessed by the animals in our lives. We share the house with three cats; Buddy is becoming a true farm dog, roaming outdoors (to the limits of his invisible fence…). And there are the horse, the goats, the chickens, the bees. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">We are responsible for their care and feeding. They need hooves trimmed, feed mixed, mite treatment, daily feeding. But we are also responsible for a relationship with them: snuggling on the couch, playing frisbee in the yard, feeding horse treats, talking to the goats and the chickens and even the bees. It is a precious connection. As we care for them, so they care for us. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">On Sunday, the minister asked the children what they were thankful for, and one said animals. And my great-niece then observed that “every animal is God’s pet.” In God's kingdom, every animal is loved and cared for, every animal is precious in God’s eyes, every animal is a holy creature, a beautiful part of creation. Amen, Hattie B!
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"> </span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-87562193782753071832022-11-08T16:24:00.002-05:002022-11-08T16:24:44.158-05:00Thoughts on Election Day<span style="font-family: georgia;">We voted last week, early voting, curbside. The poll workers were pleasant and personable, helpful. The early voting site was not ideal for them – an ancient school gym with no heat, no place to plug in a coffee pot, no microwave to heat food. But they were there, doing an important job for democracy. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Many others are voting today, and I am so glad. The news reports that turnout is heavy, both in person and by mail. It is important. I want people to vote, even those who will choose candidates other than those I chose. I want people to vote, and I want all votes to be counted – no matter how long it takes. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> My father was born in 1918 and lived to be 98. He saw incredible changes in the world. It is astonishing to me that during his lifetime women were granted the right to vote. In the last year of his life, a woman was the nominee for President of the US, and he voted in that election…
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Today, I made an Election Cake. This is a yeasted cake, really more of a sweetened bread, with dried fruit and nuts. It has roots in <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/1988/11/02/garden/de-gustibus-election-cake-noble-tradition.html ">Connecticut</a>, my former home. Baking it today somehow connects me to the early, early days of this democracy. I wonder if those who made the cake in 1771 worried about the turnout; I wonder if they worried about voter suppression; I wonder if they worried about election deniers; I wonder if they worried about the future of their nation.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The cake is delicious. I shared a big piece with our neighbor. And maybe I will eat some more in the hours and days to come as we await the returns.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBQXPg65UV7KRVEktz8kcOytKC_aDJ5g9IdqUSBpKvWywR6ANbFVG0qeUf272v8eP-R1u9BUab0tdcjueNoLUw54Sgk_X95djFOQcvLtj1xqH8d_MUkjxXgPmOzcuMbrqDnIeICnyL-M17b8AfVWkRagYfAbed2h5qQOS5W12rSymAv46MUcPsNis5w/s3765/fullsizeoutput_a4c8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3765" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBQXPg65UV7KRVEktz8kcOytKC_aDJ5g9IdqUSBpKvWywR6ANbFVG0qeUf272v8eP-R1u9BUab0tdcjueNoLUw54Sgk_X95djFOQcvLtj1xqH8d_MUkjxXgPmOzcuMbrqDnIeICnyL-M17b8AfVWkRagYfAbed2h5qQOS5W12rSymAv46MUcPsNis5w/s320/fullsizeoutput_a4c8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1023611-election-cake">Election Cake</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-14041674849476164022022-11-02T12:07:00.004-04:002022-11-09T07:04:22.884-05:00Doing Unto Others<span style="font-family: georgia;">Many years ago, I was invited to a friend's home for Thanksgiving dinner. One of the other guests was a woman who was affected by dementia. I remember that we were all in the kitchen as my friend made the finishing touches to our meal: stirring the gravy, popping the rolls in the oven, dishing up the cranberry sauce. I’m sure we were all pitching in. It was the kind of happy chaos that precedes a fancy meal. Ruth was sitting quieting at the table, watching, not speaking, a little frown on her face. My friend took a stick of butter and a butter dish and set it before her, asking her to prepare the butter for us. Ruth’s face cleared, and this woman who had made thousands of meals for her family got right to work. It took her a long time to unwrap the butter and get it on the dish, but no one was in a hurry, she was content, and we were all helping get the meal ready. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’ve mentioned this event to my friend, and she doesn’t remember any of it. For her, that kindness was nothing special, just her way of including everyone. For her, it was second nature. She doesn’t remember it, but I’ve never forgotten it. I hope that I might respond the same way. And I hope that someone might put a stick of butter in front of me some day. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Inasmuch as you did it to the least of these, you did it to me…”. (Matthew 25:40)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><img alt="Download PNG Stick of unsalted butter - Free Transparent PNG" class="n3VNCb KAlRDb" data-noaft="1" height="253" jsaction="load:XAeZkd;" jsname="HiaYvf" src="https://png.monster/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/png.monster-673.png" style="height: 337.13458528951486px; margin: 0px; width: 587px;" width="441" /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-60968291972161627152022-10-31T11:59:00.000-04:002022-10-31T11:59:04.032-04:00The Noise of Politics, by Walter Brueggemann<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in 0in 7.5pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;">We watch as the jets fly in <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> with the power people and</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> the money people,</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> the suits, the budgets, the billions.</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;">We wonder about monetary policy<br /> because we are among the haves,<br />and about generosity<br /> because we care about the have-nots.</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;">By slower modes we notice<br /> Lazarus and the poor arriving from Africa,<br /> and the beggars from Central Europe, and<br /> the throng of environmentalists<br /> with their vision of butterflies and oil<br /> of flowers and tanks<br /> of growing things and killing fields.</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;">We wonder about peace and war,<br /> about ecology and development,<br /> about hope and entitlement.</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;">We listen beyond jeering protesters and<br /> soaring jets and<br /> faintly we hear the mumbling of the crucified one,<br /> something about<br /> feeding the hungry<br /> and giving drink to the thirsty,<br /> about clothing the naked,<br /> and noticing the prisoners,<br /> more about the least and about holiness among them.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;">We are moved by the mumbles of the gospel,<br /> even while we are tenured in our privilege.</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;">We are half ready to join the choir of hope,<br />half afraid things might change,<br /> and in a third half of our faith turning to you,<br /> and your outpouring love<br /> that works justice and<br /> that binds us each and all to one another.</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, serif;">So we pray amidst jeering protesters<br /> and soaring jets.<br /> Come by here and make new,<br /> even at some risk to our entitlements.</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: -webkit-standard, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="poemreview" style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(17, 17, 17); color: #111111; margin: 0px auto; width: 425px;"><p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 10px;"><br /></p></div><p style="box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(17, 17, 17); color: #111111; margin: 0px 0px 10px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Walter Brueggemann. <em style="box-sizing: border-box;"><a href="https://www.journeywithjesus.net/BookNotes/Walter_Brueggemann_Prayers_For_A_Privileged_People.shtml" style="background-position: 0px 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #bb3116; text-decoration: none;">Prayers for a Privileged People</a></em> (Nashville: Abingdon, 2008), pp. 21-22.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-16623454237981445112022-10-16T17:26:00.001-04:002022-10-16T17:26:23.877-04:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipBMNHavWpdoH8bJIP5oTXjxdfqOZTb2UA4od7Ycnchq7p59EDN0pgnEWlVeU50DKMnH5i-CuAFV1UA6qSF5tW_GXo0I-S4JtrsH88hdFpCUtjYg-h6mr4Uy-wIK50dMhGk8cdSfBhaQ-jSBBbkd2huahTmS2f06jZoOYGemyNz9_WenSPNbAKGvdZuQ/s4032/X91A79zKR%25OFinI8SVOJ5w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipBMNHavWpdoH8bJIP5oTXjxdfqOZTb2UA4od7Ycnchq7p59EDN0pgnEWlVeU50DKMnH5i-CuAFV1UA6qSF5tW_GXo0I-S4JtrsH88hdFpCUtjYg-h6mr4Uy-wIK50dMhGk8cdSfBhaQ-jSBBbkd2huahTmS2f06jZoOYGemyNz9_WenSPNbAKGvdZuQ/w400-h300/X91A79zKR%25OFinI8SVOJ5w.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise at Holden Beach</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I went to the beach to sew with a group of folks I had never met. A wonderful woman from Virginia hosts a quilting retreat each year near my home, and I signed up last fall. All year I have looked forward to this week. The people were so nice, the food delicious, the sewing soothing. And the scenery was lovely – magnificent sunrises, full moon shining down, ocean waves. <div><br /></div><div>And then I took a tumble on some unlit stairs in the dark and shattered my patella…. So I came home early to rest up for surgery next week. My sister is waiting on me hand and foot (hand and knee?), and I am not in much pain at this point.
And the wonderful women in my sewing room took such good care of me there and have sent me get-well wishes and pillow for propping up my leg. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is a little miraculous that people I did not know a week ago are now dear friends! I will see them again next year, if not before on a fabric-shopping excursion. And next time – no stairs in the dark!
<p> </p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-40559939105095125812022-05-30T20:43:00.003-04:002022-05-30T20:44:54.894-04:00Anniversary....Twenty years ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was the beginning of a long journey into a foreign land, a place with its own language, customs, dress, behaviors, and residents. I became a kind of dual citizen, I suppose, with one foot in the time and place before cancer and one in the aftermath. In these decades, I have grown stronger, kinder, gentler, and much more aware of my own frailties. I remember someone saying once in those early days that I was “brave.” I felt nothing like that, but I was carried, I know, by the love and prayers of others.
I had lived a good life in those years before cancer, productive, helpful, useful, involved in good and important things, I like to think. But I had also taken on a lot that was not always life-giving. <div><br /></div><div>One of the great gifts of cancer for me was a reckoning of time. I knew in a different way that my time is limited; and I knew that I wanted to make the most of it. So I let some things go. I made new priorities. I reordered how I spent my precious time. Over the years, some of the superfluous crept back in, some of the busy-work, some of the things that seemed to separate me from God. In this anniversary year, I am again reassessing what it is I need to do. I am leaving behind some things that were good and right for a time, but not forever. I am taking up new work that seems a true calling. I am living as though each day is a gift – and of course, it is, but we often lose sight of that. So I am cooking for my family, taking up new work as a court-appointed special advocate for children, preaching and pastoring, gardening, sewing, and giving thanks every day for being alive. </div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><br /></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I will not die an unlived life. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me, </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>to make me less afraid, more accessible, </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I choose to risk my significance; </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>to live so that which came to me as a seed goes to the next as a blossom </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>and that which came to me as a blossom, goes on as fruit.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> <span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Dawna Markova</div></blockquote><div><p> </p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-82007550196282755392022-03-20T15:23:00.001-04:002022-03-20T15:23:30.864-04:00March 20!<span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf8xt4-0IoSDcCgtsBMCRne56AkvaOsSkaTYj0C5Oqk-Zg3D3AXPXRzYMat7fUZRJsVbGPaGkuRv6tgZUIKklzPhYCASw1n5y1FRwQ4HIhztBFSfa3Y-MZV2dPt7Us9EDOwfwLlsfGmFu-EhOcOVhM4d67Dag0PJdsmgjyWcZH98lRyHCsGh3CD2rEpg/s4032/PfmKXbetTluNteTzAv81Sw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf8xt4-0IoSDcCgtsBMCRne56AkvaOsSkaTYj0C5Oqk-Zg3D3AXPXRzYMat7fUZRJsVbGPaGkuRv6tgZUIKklzPhYCASw1n5y1FRwQ4HIhztBFSfa3Y-MZV2dPt7Us9EDOwfwLlsfGmFu-EhOcOVhM4d67Dag0PJdsmgjyWcZH98lRyHCsGh3CD2rEpg/w400-h300/PfmKXbetTluNteTzAv81Sw.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring sunrise at the farm<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Today is the first day of spring and it is my birthday. According my own long-ago views, I am old! But I don’t feel old, and when I look in the mirror, I don’t see an old lady looking back. “Old” has become so much, well, older than it used to be. </span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Twenty years ago, if I had allowed myself to think about it, I probably couldn’t have imagined living to this age. The cancer diagnosis then was followed by another, a dozen years later. Two rounds of cancer, with chemo and surgery and all the rest, shifted my focus from the long view to the here-and-now. I had known in my head that I wouldn’t live forever, but then my heart learned it. It sounds trite, but the lesson of the heart is to make every day count, to do the things that make for peace, to live in love – with those around me, with the world, with God. Some days that is easier to do than other days, but it is always worth trying. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Spring and a birthday – two good causes for celebrating a new season!
</span><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-83188367403093843852022-03-13T20:53:00.005-04:002022-03-13T20:53:48.774-04:00Grocery Shopping....<div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">March 13, 2020, was a Friday – Friday the thirteenth. We had a study group at church on hymnody. Mama and I went and after it was over, I needed a few things at the grocery store. I don’t remember what anymore, but I didn’t want to go all the way to my usual store, so we went to the one near church, an IGA. I got want I needed – whatever it was – and we went home. And that was the last time I shopped in a grocery store. I have not gone into a grocery store to buy food in two years. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Everything came to a grinding halt that weekend. We still had in-person worship but we cancelled our church luncheon for March 15. (A family size pan of lasagna was in my freezer for a long time.) ven on the 13th, I had posted signs on the doors for folks to keep their distance from each other. Soon after, we were no longer worshipping in person, and that would go on for a very long time. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">In these past two years, I have mastered the art of on-line grocery shopping. I make my lists, send them in, and drive up for curb-side. It is convenient (for me), and allows me to shop around from home. I’ve gotten to know the folks who pick my groceries. And they are good! I’ve made a few mistakes – ending up once with four pounds of radishes and a bag of frozen French fries so big it lasted for six months. But what a blessing for me. I have not had to go into the store; I have not worried about getting sick there; I have been able to pay for and pick up our food. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I give thanks regularly for those who make this possible – the ones who shop my orders and bring them to my car; the stores that pivoted overnight to do this; the truck drivers delivering toilet paper and spinach. And I wonder if I will ever go back to a weekly trip to the grocery store, with my written list in hand. I wonder if I will ever just run in for one or two things. I wonder if things will ever be the way they were “before.”
</span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-65941046630047114462022-03-01T17:02:00.016-05:002022-03-02T13:41:51.358-05:00Cheers.....<div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Sometimes I get a song stuck in my head – an earworm. Often it is a hymn, and usually one that I don’t even especially like. The song that has stayed with me lately, though, is the theme song to <i>Cheers</i>, a TV show that hasn’t aired in almost 30 years. This is the opening bit:
</span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>Making your way in the world today </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>Takes everything you've got </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>Taking a break from all your worries </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>Sure would help a lot </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>Wouldn't you like to get away? </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I don’t know why the song came to me, but isn’t it the right theme song for now? Lots of folks would like to get away – away on vacation, away for a worry-free night out, away from bills and masks and stress. And: </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>Sometimes you want to go </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>Where everybody knows your name </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>And they're always glad you came </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>You want to be where you can see </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>Our troubles are all the same </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>You want to be where everybody knows your name </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The fictional bar <i>Cheers</i> was that place for a small group. And church has been like that for some folks – a place where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came. A deep sense of being known and (still) welcomed is a precious thing. It is the essence, I think, of the love of God. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Our <i>Cheers</i> and our churches are flawed institutions. We don’t always want to know those who come, especially the ones who challenge us, who differ from us. We don’t always welcome those who need it the most. But in the world today, where it takes everything we’ve got to keep on with the keeping on, we need each other. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Unlike the song, these days our troubles are not all the same: The people I know are not fleeing a war or fighting for their lives. But maybe, deep down, we all long to be known, to be loved, to be welcomed into the holy embrace of God.
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><span>Making our way in the world today t</span>akes everything we've got. Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-79232853896857329722022-02-03T19:24:00.007-05:002022-02-03T19:24:59.727-05:00Anniversary<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgn6HaIV2px1zZduoTPdr_C6uGD7DcbiVNX8DtUtlvq-gVRPDEjh4wvoVaQgs7ERhKwBl8juUWjV75-Nh7ObdU9MvRebExw5zCKXwVzm3NKgP1VhkM32jwkYsPC5IYuIzZiJDKdd80chiSJokHkfXhS_-tCin_nlp81laGh8xf8uGe46_fP3qqQWumrOQ=s1650" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1650" data-original-width="1275" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgn6HaIV2px1zZduoTPdr_C6uGD7DcbiVNX8DtUtlvq-gVRPDEjh4wvoVaQgs7ERhKwBl8juUWjV75-Nh7ObdU9MvRebExw5zCKXwVzm3NKgP1VhkM32jwkYsPC5IYuIzZiJDKdd80chiSJokHkfXhS_-tCin_nlp81laGh8xf8uGe46_fP3qqQWumrOQ=s320" width="247" /></a></div><br /></div><div><br />Five years ago today, I locked the door of my little house in Connecticut, got in my car, and drove to North Carolina – came home. It was a long trip, both that day and the whole journey of my life. I have traveled far from the farm in the South. I have learned a lot, seen a lot, grown a lot. But somehow through all of it, this farm, this place, has always been home. I always knew I would come back when I retired. And I knew it would be different from my growing up because I am different. <div></div><br /></div><div>In these five years, I have raised chickens, kept bees, pastored two churches, become a Master Gardener, remodeled a farmhouse, cooked more than 2000 meals, made three quilts, and learned anew the precious love of family. I have learned to sleep past 4:30. I have doctored a horse, fed the goats, and kissed a dog goodbye. These have been good and holy days. And here’s to more sweet days and years to come!<div><p> </p></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-21921293901295917652022-01-29T07:34:00.006-05:002022-01-29T07:40:46.954-05:00A Snowy Day<span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='473' height='393' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwEBXxdlsLDIEdXdUk4E9Ek_qTqpD5QNh6R8dw4GeD4KQdcupmf8yKSVZmtuGbvrRYhlHi_-R9S-a-0jkO5jQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>It is snowing, and it is lovely – fat flakes floating down, covering the grass, transforming the common, beautifying the world outside my windows. For my family, here in the South on a Saturday, this is a treat. We will be indoors except for feeding the animals, staying warm by the fire, waiting for reports from kids who will manage, somehow, to go sledding. But for my friends and former neighbors in New England, this storm is a different story. There, they have dangerous cold, heavy snow, strong winds. And there are many who cannot stay home: snow plow drivers, police officers, fire fighters, health care workers, and more. </span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">How you interpret an event often depends on where you sit. For those who can sit inside, a snow storm is wonderful. It is a delight for those who rarely experience it and get to choose whether to stay in or go out and play. But that same snow can be a trial and a danger to others. I give thanks today for all who brave the elements to protect and care for others. I grieve for those who are unhoused. I rejoice for the children who will bundle up and play outside. And I know that I have the privilege of being warm and well-fed, staying inside, watching the flakes fly.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">And next week, the forecast is for temps in the 70s.....<br /><br /></span><div><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-32077054071390594162022-01-20T13:21:00.000-05:002022-01-20T13:21:04.007-05:00The Girls Are Back!<span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKp0jGsRPVAqy9HyD07m4nr-rgMYHqr1Ux48Szx4hsCqYjEiHXnx12ks2ABE8iE1okbpQFe0BrC6Up6Af6POYJK-84NZJgCECaqwxmw0IYLejdvV4LJ2QIWFQR4LIdrfN6J-bn1GWXW6dx4sWWfL5BBB6Jqytv9-OgG5ayivGCcMN6IKBBPBOuL5ITgQ=s3211" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3211" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKp0jGsRPVAqy9HyD07m4nr-rgMYHqr1Ux48Szx4hsCqYjEiHXnx12ks2ABE8iE1okbpQFe0BrC6Up6Af6POYJK-84NZJgCECaqwxmw0IYLejdvV4LJ2QIWFQR4LIdrfN6J-bn1GWXW6dx4sWWfL5BBB6Jqytv9-OgG5ayivGCcMN6IKBBPBOuL5ITgQ=s320" width="301" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>My chickens all had a hard molt in the late fall. They completely stopped laying in mid-October – not one single egg. I fed them dehydrated worms as a source of high protein and lots of good snacks. And their feathers grew as they ate the extras. And still they did not lay any eggs. All through November – no eggs. All through December – no eggs. But in January, they have returned to giving me eggs! In the lower right nesting box they have been leaving one, two, or three eggs every day. We are once again eating deviled eggs for lunch and omelets for supper. The hens are fat and fluffy, their feathers filled out again. My girls are back at work. And all is right with the world -- at least in this tiny corner!</span><div><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-2248221349042951442022-01-16T13:48:00.000-05:002022-01-16T13:48:14.781-05:00January Storm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjmycWCcQJxKnDdDw-NLWv5mKUTkixHRLVfNSoNwTsRT7oSB2Gh1-RBlUuDLULI-n9yfh7eVdGASpXHt7o4VCIms456OJrMOyS67lMEeHQmNd-K3enoNMkeawjxqIe3hpOAGoh7NTRIeP/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjmycWCcQJxKnDdDw-NLWv5mKUTkixHRLVfNSoNwTsRT7oSB2Gh1-RBlUuDLULI-n9yfh7eVdGASpXHt7o4VCIms456OJrMOyS67lMEeHQmNd-K3enoNMkeawjxqIe3hpOAGoh7NTRIeP/w300-h400/IMG_1192.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Tiny icicles hang from the broad, bright green magnolia leaves. There is a sheen of ice on the outdoor surfaces. It is cold. Folks here were hoping for snow and there might have been a few flakes in the wee hours. But mostly this storm is rain for us, cold, soaking rain. As the temps creep up, the ice begins to melt. It is a rainy Sunday, gray and dreary. <p> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-57280780739829318692022-01-14T13:15:00.006-05:002022-01-14T13:17:30.029-05:00Confusion<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='428' height='356' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwzhj5-VLAc753UiMtR2w_hDc831LW3bbRUWYC6K9qzMWyH0YJ6WqSxubo5dxRyhJhsP2yM2z3aVBm1jFrqAg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div> <br /><p></p><p>It is January. It is supposed to be – if not cold – then at least cool. But we have had many days with temps above 70, even some 80 degree days. The dandelions have popped up in the yard; the forsythia is starting to bloom. Today it is 55 and sunny, and the bees are out and about, foraging, some of them coming back to the hive with loaded pollen baskets. The queen is probably starting to lay. They will all need food, so they will eat up their stored honey. And if this goes on, they will not survive what passes for winter these days. So I am feeding them sugar and hoping they make it. They are so confused. We are all confused….</p><div><br /></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-56101516422487422732022-01-14T07:59:00.004-05:002022-01-14T08:15:20.499-05:00Perspective<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihmumb08D2RLWm3eyb-kCn4KFQeOB8xl9tKsx38929UP2KWcKMerUyGyzsosgyH9Yd23yVOQSwyt8h0V27n8RsryE-HqFTi-QsHovmdt-iryB9giNVx8J0SK8_W-QuZ7vSJHDMliWLyzKvQq007vpIkHeUWoKcO2q7AXVoyLcAwCZ_IO0UEFKUA-XTCA=s4032" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihmumb08D2RLWm3eyb-kCn4KFQeOB8xl9tKsx38929UP2KWcKMerUyGyzsosgyH9Yd23yVOQSwyt8h0V27n8RsryE-HqFTi-QsHovmdt-iryB9giNVx8J0SK8_W-QuZ7vSJHDMliWLyzKvQq007vpIkHeUWoKcO2q7AXVoyLcAwCZ_IO0UEFKUA-XTCA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">J's sunset (posted with her permission)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">My sister has joined me in painting with watercolors. It is an activity that is challenging and comforting, freeing and frustrating. There is some technique that we practice but mostly we experiment with various combinations of water and paint. A few days ago, we painted a sunrise, a morning sky with pale sun and purple and pink clouds. Her colors were vibrant and lively, but she was critical of her work, thinking that it did not look “right,” that it was not like the picture we were using for our guide. And then she turned her paper upside down and it was a sunset instead. And it was perfect! </span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">And it makes me think that sometimes when I am dissatisfied with something, when I think things are not quite right, I just need to turn them upside down and change my perspective...</span><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-564093169607944348.post-14222832252168733682022-01-12T07:27:00.002-05:002022-01-12T07:27:30.860-05:00Detour<span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><div>The main route from our farm to “town” is closed for road work, so yesterday when I went to a doctor’s appointment, I had a detour. That way around has soaring bridges over the river, and it winds through wide stands of pine trees. The dome of the sky was pearlescent blue, melting into pink along the horizon. The sun was just beginning to rise. It was so beautiful – one of those moments that makes you catch your breath. I had the radio on, listening to the morning news. There were stories about tragic deaths, violent dictators, hatred acted out in streets and governments sickness and poverty and despair. So much of the news was evil and ugly, and yet I had detoured into the midst of goodness and beauty. What a contrast ... and a whispered commandment to seek beauty, to live in the light, to overcome evil with goodness (Romans 12:21).</div></span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7u606FJTLrYi5ZPyI2FacKORLxMSvQ_NMyUB-K7ASfh0s7wB7L5dSv9f6WcjFtxfVqnuW2fmdr_Zz3WFQwgtrfHEVH79ybbnM0a1PgDLn-I5ArZ2A9hIWIBxBD2nGV8-F9PfanZ-1SnBQbnjb9ytOXSbreVCABQxsZAVhEX7NoidEQAzx1j9DOvQPoA=s1024" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7u606FJTLrYi5ZPyI2FacKORLxMSvQ_NMyUB-K7ASfh0s7wB7L5dSv9f6WcjFtxfVqnuW2fmdr_Zz3WFQwgtrfHEVH79ybbnM0a1PgDLn-I5ArZ2A9hIWIBxBD2nGV8-F9PfanZ-1SnBQbnjb9ytOXSbreVCABQxsZAVhEX7NoidEQAzx1j9DOvQPoA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pine trees at sunrise near Wilmington -- <br />not quite what I saw, but I was driving and did not take a photo!</td></tr></tbody></table></span><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0