Psalm 92

Psalm 92: 1-4

It is good to give thanks to the LORD,

to sing praises to your name, O Most High;

to declare your steadfast love in the morning,

and your faithfulness by night,

to the music of the lute and the harp,

to the melody of the lyre.

For you, O LORD, have made my glad by your work;

at the works of your hands I sing for joy.

I awoke, O LORD, 

and You where still with me.

A retreat from my world 

into Your Arms,

Arms that will never leave me 

nor forsake me.

Thank you, Father, 

for the beauty of this world. 

The fall colors 
here in the North Georgia mountains ,
with the fog of early morning clinging to them, 
refresh and renew me and I know it is all a gift from You, 
evidence of Your ever-present love.  
Thank You for eyes to see 
You
this morning. 

May it always be so.  

Forgive me my busyness and hurry.  

Teach me to see 

and hear and experience

You

 in the everydayness of this life.

Thank you, Lord 

for Your loving kindness, 

which is new every morning.

The Joy of Late Summer Tomatoes

We are enjoying a rare and precious treat here in Alabama this beautiful October Sunday.  My husband found a supplier to satisfy our unending addiction to summer tomatoes.  A brilliant marketer-gardener planted a regular and a late crop of the delicious fruit.  We are such regulars, the gardener simply reaches under his produce table when he sees my husband, in his trademark Panama hat and Hawaiian shirt, approach and discreetly hands him his special stash of heirlooms each Saturday morning at the Pepper Place Farmer’s Market.

Heirloom tomatoes, as a rule, are not a pretty fruit.  Their wrinkles and pits may scare off the uninitiated, but to the addicted, they are beautiful.  Kind of like an ugly child to its grandparents.  Love sees no faults.

A little salt, a little pepper and the "Alabama Caviar" is ready.  Our sixteen-year-old even comes out of her room for a while to join in the feast.  World Peace is next on our list.

Too Many "To Do's" - Saturday's Woes

Some days I feel overwhelmed and splintered by all I have agreed to perform.   The jobs on the “to do” list tower together to make a pile of guilt that rival the height of the Burj Khalifa in Dubai.

The birds are being noisy and demanding my attention.  My husband scattered rye seed on the back lawn yesterday and the doves and cardinals can’t get enough.  There are birds in the trees around me that I haven’t even met yet.

We moved the big iron table with its six chairs to a shady spot in the back yard this morning and I just discovered that it has a strong wifi signal from the house.  Maybe my new writing spot has been created.

Thank you, birds and trees and greenness for helping me to forget myself and my personal skyscraper for a while.

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

I'm preparing today for the gathering together of a new group of home school students at our home. I'm hoping to share some of the joy and art of my favorite people. Mary Oliver's poetry entered my life a few years ago. Her words speak deeply into my soul. I shared this poem earlier, but offer it again today.

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down,
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?


~ Mary Oliver ~

(New and Selected Poems, Volume I)

The Picnic

I remember that picnic in Provence. Two daughters, my husband and I. We'd spent the day exploring, by car, the twisting vista rich roads of the South of France and hunger was fast approaching. Lavender fields competed with sunflowers in beauty and quantity. Our hearts were full, but our stomaches needed some attention. We drove into the cobbled streets, parked the rental car and begin the exploration of the enchanting town of Sault, Provence.

Boulle players, quietly discussing their art, bikers in tight outfits, lounging around for a mid-day rest and refueling of their human machines during this time of the Tour de France. Bikers were everywhere during our stay in France.

An Authentic Life

This is a writing that I was invited to publish on the Childlight USA site:

ChildlightUSA

Instrument of Peace - Prayer of St. Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury,pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.


O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen