The Lord has a field day at Walmart

   

     My daughter, Corrie, made this quilt for me for Mother's Day. The pieces fit together right, the same way life does when we invite the Lord to work in our life.

    I had two Walmart double-bagged bags in my cart. There wasn't enough room to put them into my truck. The man in the car beside me said, "I'll put those in for you."
     "Thanks!"
     A wee girl in his car said, "That was nice."
     "Yes it was."
     I headed to my driver's side and couldn't get in. A sedan was trying to back out. "Wait, just give me a minute."
     Behind my truck I checked the traffic and did my best Goldilocks impression. That truck is too fast. The second one isn't much better. Oh, that van is just right. I put my open palm up for the driver to stop five parking spaces back. He and his passenger broke into wide smiles.
     As I approached the sedan, the noise level was that of a flock of hungry birds. The couple were talking all over each other and glowing, literally. I peeked in, "You can go now." 
     She said, "Nobody has ever done anything like this for us." 
     "You're welcome."
     They went on their way. The van pulled in. I got in my truck. The first man was standing where he could see in my windshield. His arms were lighty crossed. His smile was soft.
      I muttered to my left, "What do I do now, Lord?"
     "Roll the window down."
     Out of my mouth came, "We were people helping people. That's what World Peace looks like."

2018 ©️Red Convertible Travel Series

MOTHER'S DAY 2009

. . . a day set aside to celebrate the one who birthed us and all who nurture us.

My mother: My right thumb has a small rise on the knuckle exactly like hers. I see her rolling balls of yeast dough in her hands making buns; creating the divinity I've never been able to duplicate; serving grasshopper pie after a large meal; playing the "The 12th Street Rag" on the piano; hands folded in her lap when we needed to tell her something; creating my tap dancing dress from yards of lavender gingham; canning green beans; putting Denver mud on my chest. In my mind she is always there, alive, well, helpful and beautiful. Love knows no bounds. It connects hearts forever.

Grandmother Mae: My namesake, her cut finger wrapped in a white cloth. Work didn't stop, she maneuvered around it making apple dumplings and fixing chicken and dumplings for Grandpa and I when I was in high school. Quilting is her testimony to salvaging the beauty of the worn and frayed.

Aunt Bobbe: My cheerleader who laughed at my jokes. She'd "do" my nails and take it off before I went home. Not acceptable for little girls, according to Dad. I missed her the most. She passed before I understood we shed our body to live in changed form; she's still my cheerleader.

My sister, Janis: Slim fingers with polished nails. I see her as a child holding a baby chick to her ear to hear it peep. Her home is large enough for all of us for dinner. It thrills her to cook for Thanksgiving, as if feeding an army, and she gets excited making travel plans. No matter what she's into, her hands stay soft and smooth.

Corrie: My favorite second child. "Mom," she'd say exasperated, "you can't have more than one second child." That's why she's my favorite. Her hands have slim, smooth piano fingers that make great music and fluffy crochet. I see her lovingly cupping their dog, Maggie's, face.

Krysia: Her hands were small with wider knuckles like mine and Mother's. She used her index fingers to type, made quiche and remodeled. Her hands stayed smooth. What bothered her most about my caring for her was what it did to my hands: frequent washing made them rough, crack and bleed.

Carol, more than a daughter-in-law, a friend: Large hands, large heart, good cook. She takes her time, makes a mean shrimp dip, perfectly fried fish, creamed asparagus, rhubarb crisp. Always kind, she is a there when needed.

To all who nurture here and from beyond, thank you, thank you for uplifting life. God Bless and Happy Mother's Day.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Mother's Day and Creeping Clocks

Happy Mother's Day to all who mother. It is sunny, windy and cold here in Nebraska. The windchill is thirty degrees. An old-wives tale says not to plant garden before May 15th.

Spring is showing off its colors. A profusion of fuchsia flowers explodes from the neighbor's redbud tree. Beside our front door our flowering crab is covered in white blooms sweet-scenting each inhale.

A couple of weeks ago we opened windows for the first time this year and heard cries for mulch from neglected landscaping. I moaned; inside work wasn't done. To do a "bag count," I had "to walk" the yard. Pre-school Aja saw me and came to help. I said it could be 100. She said, "I can do it." There isn't anything she thinks she can't do. After Simons' Lawn Service power-raked, she stomped over, "Did you know somebody was mowing your yard? Why didn't you ask me? I would have done it."

Menard's had a cypress mulch sale. I loaded my 4-door buick several times. Forty-two was the most a yard-man loaded and didn't obstruct a mirror. Great job. My car smelled like a Florida swamp.

For a minimum of handling, I unloaded the bags where I wanted them placed. To my surprise the neighbors offered to help. One took a small shovel to remove the weeds. I ripped the bags and the other one spread it -- twenty-eight bags worth. Their parents were shocked. You see, Aja is four and Ryker is six. What great neighbors.

Landscaped plants happily "tucked in," I am back working in the house with occasional weeding visits to the yard. Tomatoes won't be planted until next weekend. When we had a warm spell I shopped to update my phlox garden. The clerk frowned and said, "Creeping clocks?"

I looked at my creeping clocks garden and saw, you guessed it, a clock. It is completely surrounded by lavender phlox close to the ground. From 12 to 2 a shrub obstructs lunch and nap time. However, I think I'll get rid of the shrub; winter split it from a ball to a bowl.
The daffodils at 4 did their bit and have stepped back. 5 has an unusual gift that doesn't show up every year. I love its name: fritalari aliagris (phonetic spelling). Tickles the tongue, doesn't it. One to two-inch tulip-shaped checkerboard flowers hang from a short stem. This year the checks were maroon and cream.
Tulips and daffodils do their thing at 10. A pair of deep pink and one yellow tulip stand guard over break time. Large rocks and pebbles hold down the center. A few wild purple violets have popped up here and there painting happy reminders of childhood May baskets.

To Mother's everywhere: May you find the joy in little things; May you know your place is important in the larger scheme of life. God Bless.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY 2007

MSN photo

Mothers of all life, this is our day.

Whether you lay eggs or give live birth,

we are all one.

God Bless

One of our cards read, "It's as if the doors of Heaven have been opened for a while." True.

Baby powder, Johnson's baby soap, tiny warm breaths, red lips, long dark lashes, and a mass of dark hair were just as Grandma predicted. I felt instant overwhelming love, as if I'd known her forever. Her helplessness matched my protectiveness.

Fast forward. Devastating news: cancer broke her back. She wouldn't live to see Christmas 2006. "This is not fatal, it's just a glitch in my system. I am not a statistic," she replied. I believed her. Her late father had come to her in a dream and told her she was not dying from this. He confirmed my gut feeling that she not only survives, she thrives and moves into a full life.

The morning after I received the diagnosis I awoke to see her cradled in Jesus Christ's arms with two tall ministering Angels working on her. Jesus told me he would carry her and see her through. She couldn't be in better hands. Thank you Lord.

To the outer world she and I stand strong in faith, two anchored trees in a hurricane of doubters. I stopped my life to breathe life into hers. Countless prayers from friends, family and people we will never know sustain and encourage us. Humor and gratitude are soul food.

By the Grace of God she not only lives, she improves steadily. It's May. This week she drove for the first time in over a year. No more screaming pain. She weaned herself off pain meds that messed with her mind. Her will isn't tough-as-nails, it's tough-as-railroad spikes.

Our Pastor says it's miraculous what the Lord has done, and is doing in her. The blessings are huge and many, and they keep coming. Her Oncologist, Chiropractor and Physical Therapist are each outstanding in their field. She hopes people see her life and healing as proof that God does care, and works for, in and through us. Without Him we are nothing.

copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series