All We Need Is Love...

We all want to be loved, don’t we? But what is this thing called love?

When I think of love, so many things encompass my mind. If you asked 20 people to define love, you may get 20 different answers. Perhaps many of us don’t really understand this thing called love – even though we desire it, yearn for it and make so many choices in the pursuit of it.

If you have never felt love, seen love, given love – you are confused by those of us who spend so much time thinking about it. Because true love, deep love, passionate love - it changes you. It messes you up. In a quote from one of my favorite movies “Moonstruck”, it “ruins everything”.

Love is an emotion, a feeling, an action, a thought, a deed. It can be associated with most anything one might do on this earth. An act that appears to one person as so simple, so minute they give it little thought, can be considered one of the deepest examples of love to another.

The scripture has some things to say about love...Love is patient, love is kind, it is not quick to anger, love endures all. Such nice descriptions, such good things. But another scripture says that God is love, and that He first loved us and sent His son to die for us…. the crucifixion. Something that those of us who call upon the name of Jesus look at as the greatest example of love ever - was violent and ugly. I relate to both sides of this coin. It is the perplexity of this thing called love, on the one hand so gentle, so beautiful, and the next moment it brings a grief that can rip your heart in two.

There are times when in the loving of one person, we hurt another. Not long after Bill and I got married, my mom came to live with us. She could no longer live on her own and we welcomed her into our home. When she came to live with us we had a great deal going on. First, Bill and I were newly married. Second, I had my own business, plus a part time job. And last but not least, my youngest Anna, who was about 14 at the time, was going through a very dark period. She refused to go to school, didn’t talk (except to say “I don’t know” at evey question posed to her) and was “sulkingly” trying to adjust to a divorced and remarried mom.

The care of my mom, my business, and my daughter required a great deal of me and I had to make choices. I loved very deeply all those in this “triangle” - my mom, my partner in the business who was also my friend and my baby girl. But I knew the drowning of me would help no one and I had to choose where my attentions would lie. I chose Anna. In choosing to focus on her, I had to kick my mom out and leave the business behind. Hurting my mom and partner in the process, but I believe saving Anna’s life. And I have no doubt her life was in the balance. Thankfully, years later, Anna safely grown, I got another chance to care for my mom and reunite with my partner and friend. Love covers a multitude of sins and triumphs over all.

Where there is love, there is certainly joy, but, as mentioned before, this same love can bring raging pain and sorrow. Because when we love, we hurt. If we did not love, most likely much of the hurt would not come, but then, neither would the joy. So, this love I speak of is a choice. If we choose to open our heart to love and be loved, we also choose to open our heart to pain and sorrow.

A good example of this “schizophrenia” of love happened when Bill and I were dating. Soon after we began our relationship, I found myself in love with him, truly in love for the first time at 40 years old. The previous year, I divorced after being married 25 years, having never experienced the things I was with Bill. I was so unfamiliar with this new condition, it put me in somewhat of a panic and I was unsure what was happening to me. But as a great friendship grew into something “other than”, leaving the platonic behind and moving into courtship, I was thrilled with the wonder of being “in love”. With it, came the sense of “need” for this other person in my life. The fact was, yes, if I had to, I could live without this person, but I did not WANT TO. Having him in my life added, completed, complimented, challenged. I allowed myself to NEED him. The coolest thing…he loved me back. I was head over heels and he was too – we both jumped in and allowed this new found love to envelope us.

But, there were times when we would be together, that this overwhelming sadness would come upon me. I would be in his arms, and would begin to weep with sorrow, heaving with tears. I became filled with a sadness that did not seem to fit with this wonderful joy I had. It was the bitter and the sweet…I was so joyful that this love had come my way, but so bitter and saddened that I had lived so long without it. I had never known fully what I was missing.

Poor Bill. A perfectly good make out time interrupted by these bursts of tears. I am sure it perplexed him as much as it did me, because when these times of sorrow would come, he would ask no questions, gently lay my head on his shoulder, let me cry and with his hand on my head, softly pray in tongues over me till the tears stopped. And little by little, I was cleansed of my sorrow, able to bask in the safety of his love.

I know there are those who guard their heart from loving too deeply, afraid of hurt and pain. But of all the love I have given and all of the love I have received, the best love has always been the one given in abandon, with the whole heart. It’s the love that bares ones soul and leaves you “out there - to’ up draws” and all, nothing hidden; extreme. Have I gotten hurt? Damn right, more times than I can count. But this one thing about love I know for sure, I have never been sorry that I have given it, but regret has come when I have withheld it.

The pain of love, the joy of love. It is a mystery how the two can reside as one, but I know I can’t live without the joy of it, so for that joy I will gladly risk the pain.






Watching Big Brother...

Oh, it’s not the kind of “big brother” that phrase has come to be associated with, it’s an actual big brother...mine, and his name is Ed. Bill and I just spent a few days with him and his family in Door County, Wisconsin.

Door County is a lovely place located on the peninsula of Wisconsin. Green Bay on one side, Lake Michigan on the other...just beautiful. They rent a cottage on the Green Bay side and that is where we stayed. Egg Harbor to be exact. It’s a lovely little town full of craft shops, restaurants, art galleries and an array of small businesses. Not a McDonalds in sight!

Ed and his wife DeeAnn have been going up there every year for the past 16 years (they started before their daughter Ellie was born; she is 10). Many family members and friends have joined them over the years. They love it up there - including Ellie - which is pretty cool I think for a 10 year old. They have favorite restaurants, activities and places that they go every year for the week they stay. They have several “traditions” of must do things...even Ellie. One of hers involves “Blue Moon” ice cream.

We had a great time. It was fun sharing with them a place they enjoy so much. The cottage has a gorgeous view of the sunset, the water was clear and the setting around us serene. We went to "Al Johnson's" restaurant and saw goats on the roof and ate swedish pancakes, we ate cherry pie at "Sweetie Pies", which even my husband (who is not a fruit pie fan) had to admit was the best cherry pie he ever had. We took a ferry (one of my favorite things on this earth to do) to Washington Island and explored there where I held an ostrich egg and enjoyed art made by locals. But those things are not what impressed me the most...what I take with me from my time in Door County was my brother Ed...more accurately, my brother the father...this is the memory that stays with me.

Perhaps it is because during our visit Ed and I chatted about our dad and childhood. We shared memories of growing up and recounted some classic stories about my dad. Whatever the reason, my heart is full of my brother the father and I feel it’s a story worth telling.

Growing up, my brother Ed was not known for his patience or calmness. He was known to yell a bit and had quite a temper...we all did really. He tormented me as a child with his teasing, but he would also come to my defense when threatened by the neighborhood kids. Usual stuff with siblings...one minute screaming at the top of your lungs to each other, but the next minute helping to pick you up if you fall.

A little about my brother Ed today...he’s a kind man with a big heart that is changing the world one soul at a time...he leads and teaches by example. Some things that make him happy are sitting in a rocking chair, watching Cubs games, playing golf and spending time with family.

I watch Ed today with his family, and he is patient, a great teacher, thoughtful and takes his role as husband and father seriously. This doesn’t surprise me, since I have seen him with my kids and he is great. Years ago, when my kids were little and Ed was single, we would visit for weekends. His place was a couple hours away, near Chicago, and the weekend would be such a wonderful break from our everyday life. His first home there was an apartment, then later he built a house. We were always welcomed to both with open arms. He thought ahead and had the fridge stocked with food. There were always clean sheets and a comfy place to sleep. He
always made us feel at home and treated us to dinners, breakfasts and activities...it was a refuge. He took an interest in my kids and was patient and loving to them and they were never a bother. His focus was always to teach them something with most activities. He helped make it fun to learn and was a really cool uncle. It was never a chore for them to go visit him, they always looked forward to it. He even let my son Job live with him and his family when Job finished high school so he could attend a culinary school near where Ed lived. He provided a home, resources and guidance to
my son...which I am sure was not always easy...Job was a handful at that time in his life. But he did not give up on him even when Job quit school and his investment in him is evident today...Job later finished school (on his own dime) and is now working as a chef. He got married and has 2 kids of his own and is a wonderful man and father who has never forgotten what Ed did for him.

I think what impresses me about my brother’s fathering is that much of what he does was not done for him. Now, I am not slamming my dad...I long ago made peace with what he was and what he wasn’t and know that he loved us very much. My dad fathered better than he got for sure. I make note of it because it is so awesome to me when we rise above what we did not have to make something wonderful, instead of passing on to another generation our mess. And that’s how I see Ed. He took what my dad did do and expanded it, improved it, added to it.

One of my favorite Ed and dad stories happened over 30 years ago in my home, after I was married and had 2 of my 3 kids. Ed was a young man still living with our parents...probably college age and home for the summer. My then husband and I owned our own home but knew very little of repairs and upkeep. Our toilet was stopped up and we had no money to call a plumber. My dad was an electrician by trade, but knew some about plumbing, so he came to the rescue (one of many times) and brought my brother Ed along with him. Ed, my dad and my first husband got to work. They unseated the toilet and removed it from the floor. Low and behold, the problem was immediately visible. One of my delightful children (who were about 3 and 5 at the time) had decided to flush a canning jar lid down the toilet. It fit perfectly over the opening to the pipe and covered it completely. So, they removed the obstruction and went about the task of removing the old wax ring seal and placing a new one. This can be a pretty yucky job. The wax is gooey and fits around an opening that waste passes through...get the picture? But the three men pushed on and I went in to check on them just as they were finishing. My dad, much like Ed, liked to turn activities into learning opportunities. So as they surveyed their work, sewage soaked canning jar lid and old wax ring about them, my dad turned to Ed and said “Well, some day when you own your own home and you need to fix a toilet, now you’ll know what to do”. Ed looked up at him and said “Yup; I’m gonna call a plumber!”

He is an involved and engaged father. He makes Ellie warm chocolate milk morning and evening. He takes turns putting her to bed and reading to her. He allows her to follow her dream of being an Olympic ice skater...even after a couple of broken bones. She is a priority for him and I know he would do anything to keep her safe and cared for. And if things were out of his control, he would willingly call upon God’s power to intervene.

He speaks to Ellie as God would; loving, kind, encouraging, believing that she can do and be anything her heart desires, a rebuke when needed, but unconditional love and acceptance always. One of the most powerful things I took note of...he is there for her and he is consistent. He says only what he intends to do and does what he says. So, there is security in her life - and any woman will tell you that feeling secure is in the top 5 “things we want to have” list. The way he treats her is an example of how her husband should treat her...and from what I have seen her husband “to be” will have some big shoes to fill. My prayer is that she will never settle for anything less.

I Remember Mommy.....

Today is Mother’s Day. We take a day to celebrate motherhood and our moms.

Last year on Mother’s Day was the last time I saw my mother. She had been ill for five weeks and in the hospital. She fought through several bouts in Intensive Care and seemed on the road to coming back home. We had just moved her a few days earlier to a Rehab Facility, which is where we had a special Mother’s Day gathering with her. It was our last day with her, but it was a wonderful time and I am so thankful that it was so special. It was as if she was thinking "I'm really tired and since this has been such a great day; I'll make it my last". She passed that night.

So today, in honor of her, and really all mothers, I post the eulogy I shared at her funeral. It is stories of life, love, pain and triumph. Those of you that have lost a mom will relate, those of you that still have your mom with you will hopefully be moved to appreciate her even more and show her that appreciation while she is still with you on this earth. Give your mom an extra hug from me.

MOM’S KINGDOM

As I was writing this eulogy, a word kept coming into my heart and mind, and that was “Kingdom”. In particular, Christ’s Kingdom and what that entailed, and as I thought about it, “Mom’s Kingdom” became my title for this eulogy. A Kingdom is:

1. A state or people ruled over by a king or queen
2. A realm or area of activity in which a particular thing is thought to dominate

In “Mom’s Kingdom,” she ruled with quiet strength and led by determination and example. Her realm was dominated by love.

Eleanor Crabill was a strong woman of great resolve. She made it through a pretty difficult childhood. She married young, had two daughters and shortly after became a single mother at a time when that was pretty “scandalous”. But, she picked up her roots in New York and came to South Bend, where she met my father, and had 4 more children. Marriage to my dad was not always easy and raising 4 more kids not a walk in the park either. But my mom was strong willed, faithful, and determined.

My mom was not what you would call “bubbly” or “cheerful” in her ways, but neither was she sad or oppressive. In fact, I attribute most of what I have accomplished to her positive words to me growing up. She believed you could do anything and if I had said to her as a child, “I want to grow up to be president of the United States”, even though that would have seemed pretty far fetched for a girl at that time, she would have said “Then try as hard as you can and be the best you can be”, never putting any thoughts of failure or impossibility in my mind.

My mom loved to read and as a child she read to us and because of that I believe, I also love to read, as do all my siblings. This truly is one of the greatest gifts she gave to us, because in reading books, you can go anywhere and be anything, even if you have no money or means. So, from a young age my world was expanded far past our house in the “hood” on Huey Street.

Some of my greatest memories from childhood were at Christmastime. Mom always made a big deal about “Santa”. The stockings were always hung on Christmas Eve, “The Night Before Christmas” was always read and we always woke up early to see if Santa came. One year, apparently “Santa” had overslept, because when we started downstairs, mom yelled up the stairs that “Santa had not come yet, go back to bed”. Thankfully, just a short time later Santa showed up and we were able to open our presents.


Mom was not one to give you advice unless you asked for it . And the advice would most likely include some form of “You can’t change anybody else, they have to do it for themselves. You can only change yourself”. That was a frequent “momism” that she said many times throughout my life, but there was another one I remember hearing often, and my most memorable recollection of it was related to me by my sister Patty. I was in labor with my first child and Patty was going to give us a ride to the hospital. I was out in the car waiting, and as Patty was leaving the house mom said to her “It’s going to get worse before it gets better”. She was right, it did, but about 8 hours later I gave birth to my beautiful baby Shay.

And as with most moms, she could have a critical word or two for you that cut like nobody else. My two words from her were “Oh Susie!” and they came whenever she measured my hips for a garment she was making for me.

Mom was not a big talker, but had a quick wit and could be pretty funny. Several years ago, she had  fallen and broken her wrist. It was clear she would not be able to stay by herself, so she was going to live with Bill and I. At the time, we had two cats. My husband was telling her that they were quite friendly and loved to sit on laps and snuggle. He said “You may find them sleeping with you sometimes”. She thought for a moment, then responded, “That might be nice, it’s been awhile since anyone’s wanted to sleep with me”. Another time she really made me laugh was just recently when she was in the hospital. She had been diagnosed with influenza, and the drugs they gave her to treat this made her a little “out of it”. One evening during this time we were in the room with her and she kept fidgeting and trying to get out of bed. I said “What’s wrong mom?” She said, “I need to get to the bathroom”. Now, she was in no shape to get out of bed, so I told her I would call the nurse. Then, realizing she had a catheter in place, I inquired which type of “bathroom duties” she needed to take care of, and she looked up at me with a dead serious look on her face and said “Well, I don’t think that’s any of your business!”

Mom was one of the most unselfish and generous people I knew. She always put her children before herself and would have given us her last dollar if we were in need. She taught us well to save our money, always pay cash, never credit, pay your bills on time and don’t live beyond your means. However, if we happened to not follow these guidelines, or were in need because of some calamity, she was always there to help you out and never made you feel bad for having to ask.

Growing up, I hardly remember my mom without a tape measure hanging around her neck. She not only sewed because she enjoyed it, but to make extra money. So she always had customers coming in and garments in the works. Of course she is trying to accomplish all this with four kids running around the house. That’s where that trusty tape measure came in. If we got too out of hand, that “practical necklace” was right there, quick as a flash being lashed towards you, usually as you were trying to run to get out of its way. It wasn’t too bad with the old cloth tape measures; the worst that got you was the little metal end. But when mom got the new and improved fiberglass tape measures…ouch! Those had a little more sting to them. My brother Ed was the quickest of the bunch, because she usually had to get another tool of her trade, the yardstick, to reach him. I must not have been a very fast runner, because I usually got stuck in the corner of the couch, with mom over me, a new lash with every word, or sometimes syllable that came out of her mouth. “I – told — you — to — list —en — to — me!” or whatever my offense happened to be. But my favorite was when she would say, AS she was lashing me, “Stop—that—cry—ing!” And of course, I wanted to yell back... “then—stop—hit —ting — me!” But, never did. And, as you can see, I survived these well-deserved lashings just fine, and so far, I’ve murdered no one and served no prison time.

My mom was not really into cooking that much, but we ate pretty well growing up. And while we ate quite a bit of “Ragu” sauce and “Duncan Hines” cakes, there were a few things mom made that I have never been able to replicate, nor have I had it better anywhere else. Every Sunday was fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. Nobody fried chicken like my mom! And I have never had better gravy than she would make. Every year I try to duplicate the wonderful dressing that our Thanksgiving turkey would be stuffed with. While I have been able to master her Chicken and Dumplings, I have never seen anyone else outside our family make it like she did. Of course there was “Ham, Cabbage, Carrot and Potato Soup,” and my brother Ed is still hoping that someone will continue the legacy of her “Christmas Cutout Cookies” that she gave up making many years ago. So for someone who didn’t like to cook all that much, she made some "doozies".

My mom came from a generation that was taught to keep secrets, not tell your business and so forth. Because of this, there was a lot about my parents that we did not know about. As mom grew older, I certainly began asking more questions and she at times would give me answers. It was hard to realize she had been keeping so much inside of her, never sharing her pain with someone who cared and might be able to comfort and encourage her. Some of the secrets she kept she was afraid to share with us because she thought we might think badly of her. But I found it only made me love her more and appreciate what she had endured. Children are much more resilient than we give them credit for I think, and while growing up around parents that kept their own counsel had the opposite effect on me, I usually tell all my business, there are a few things that I have kept from my kids for the same reasons my mom did. But recent events in my life have convinced me that the truth is better than a lie and Christ covers my every offense. Looking back, I would have wished to have known more of my mom, not less. Because to know her, is to understand myself better, my upbringing. The clearer the picture, the better the view and it meant so much when she would share with me, even though some of her recollections were quite painful. It helped me to see her as not just my mom, but also as a woman who had lived at least a couple of lives before I ever came along.

It’s hard as your parents grow older and they come to a place of needing your care. No more are they the protectors, the fixers – you now assume that role of seeing to their needs and making sure they are safe and taken care of. There is a balance to be brought to this care, making sure you respect them as your parent, understanding how hard it is for them to give up their independence. I don’t count this as a burden by any means, it was a blessing. Mom allowed us to care for her and realized her limitations and willingly accepted help. There were her times of saying, “Oh, I know you’re so busy” and she would feel somewhat guilty for calling on us. But I think we all tried to assure her that there was nothing more important at that moment than her care. And then, in the midst of her hospital stay, when she was in intensive care, weak and still very sick, those times of being my mommy would still come through. One of the danger signals that she was not doing well, would be confusion and lethargy, which because of her weak lungs would be a signal of her retaining too much Co2, which was life threatening. So, after having gone through this a couple of times, I would take to asking her often, “Do you know where you are mom? Or “What’s your name? One of these times I asked her if she knew who I was, and she looked up at me, with a sweet smile and said, “Well, you’re my Susie”.

I wish I had called her more. I wish I had her over for dinner more. I wish we had played Scrabble. I wish I had asked more questions and listened to more answers. I wish I had said thank you more. I don’t say these “I wishes” as a regret, but in realizing that I will no longer have the chance to do it with her, I hope that I will do it more with others and that through my words, others will be encouraged to do the same.

Mom was a very intelligent, well-read woman who could have done anything she wanted I believe. She chose to take care of us kids and invest in us. She seemed to understand that one of the greatest things a human being can ever accomplish for God is to invest in someone else’s future. There is no greater “work” for the kingdom of God than that…there is that word, “Kingdom”. For who is the Kingdom for, and who is it made up of, but us? Sure, it’s wonderful to witness to the world and feed starving children, to translate bibles and preach awesome sermons. But, as Christ did, she spent her life investing in the few that she knew would go on to make a difference on this earth, and therefore eternity.

The last day of mom’s kingdom on earth was Mother’s Day. About 20 family members had gathered around to celebrate with her at the Rehab facility she was staying at (in hopes of getting strong enough to come home). And there she was, her last day on earth, a queen in her court, loving subjects gathered around to celebrate her. As the group quieted down to hear what she had to say, the voice that had been weakened by her recent illness strengthened as she spoke what was to be her last proclamation; a blessing for all who gathered and expanded well beyond the walls of the room that we were in. She put her hands together, as if in prayer, and then extended them towards us and said “I love you all, and am proud of each and every one of you.” The words she spoke, some children wait a lifetime to hear, but she made sure we heard them often.

She has left a legacy of unselfish love in her children, family and those who knew her. Because of her life, just within her own family her realm reaches throughout the world to New York, California, Illinois, Michigan, Afghanistan, and soon Puerto Rico, just to name a few. Comfort has been given to hundreds, souls have been led to the Lord, and then encouraged to stay with the Lord, shelter has been given to those who needed lodging, money has been given to those who are in need, hospitality has been extended to those who are hungry in body and soul. Eleanor Crabill’s kingdom is one that is rich and will continue to carry on into eternity. We are going to miss our mommy, but her rule of love lives on in us.

Taming The Lions...

(dande)lions that is.

It is the season of growth. We love the budding trees, the pretty flowers, the nesting robins. All signs that the harsh winter is over and we can now look forward to warmer weather, fresh produce, backyard barbecues and long walks. But there is something else that grows this time of year...weeds. Of special interest to my husband is the dandelion.

We like a green lawn as well as anybody, but we are not very intentional about it. By that, I mean we don’t use fertilizers, pesticides and all that. Bill mows on a regular basis and we may water if it is really dry, but not even that too much. We are actually looking at ways to reduce the size of our lawn, because grass takes so much water to keep it looking nice (and having less space to mow wouldn’t disappoint us either). So, we are extending our flowers in the front yard and using mulch to keep the moisture in. We are committed to the “green” philosophy.

But last year Bill became particularly interested in ridding our lawn of the dandelion. This season already, he has spent several days digging up (or popping) dandelions. A couple times this week when he came home, one of the first things he'd say is "Should I go pop some dandelions?" He has even taken to reminding me daily that I could also go out and do some “popping” too; I remind him that it has been raining quite a bit of late....☺

He figures that digging them up is the only way to rid our lawn of these things without using a weed killer (which kills the grass too by the way). So, I decided to do a little “digging” of my own concerning these pesky little flowers...he won’t be happy with these tidbits I found in my research:

• Most gardeners detest them, but the more you try to weed them up, the faster they grow.

• The taproot is deep, twisted, and brittle and can grow up to 10 feet long! Unless you remove the root completely, it will regenerate. If you break off more pieces than you unearth, the dandelion wins

• And how about this joke... “What’s a dandelion digger for?” a dandelion asked.“It’s a human invention to help us reproduce,” another dandelion replied.

Sounds like my mom’s old method of just picking the heads off wasn’t so lazy after all!

We all know the dandelion...those little yellow flowers that pop up everywhere in the spring and summer. Every kid has picked one that has gone to seed...little white puffs...and then innocently blown on the white ball to watch the seeds float through the air (and thus spread the weed even further). In my research of dandelions it is said that each little seed is a mini parachute.


We don’t like them a whole lot, but they are actually pretty interesting. There are several theories on the name “dandelion“. I got these from ”Wikipedia“, which really can’t be trusted for accurate info since it can be edited at anyone’s whim, but I chose it because it is consistent with other sites describing dandelions.

The English name dandelion is a corruption of the French dent de lion meaning "lion's tooth", referring to the coarsely-toothed leaves. The names of the plant have the same meaning in several other European languages, such as the Italian dente di leone, Spanish diente de león, Portuguese dente-de-leão, Norwegian Løvetann, and German Löwenzahn. In modern French the plant is named pissenlit, which means "urinate in bed", apparently referring to its diuretic properties. Likewise, "pissabeds" is an English folk-name for this plant. In various north-eastern Italian dialects the plant is known as pisacan ("dog pisses"), referring to how common they are found at the side of pavements, while in many other northern Italian dialects it is known as soffione ("blowing") referring to the blowing the seeds from the stalk. The same is true for German, where Pusteblume ("blowing flower") is a popular designation. Likewise, in Polish it is called "dmuchawiec", deriving from dmuchać ("to blow"). Whilst in its flowering form the Poles know it as Mlecz, a word derived from "milk", due to the plant's milky sap. Dandelions are especially well-adapted to a modern world of "disturbed habitats," such as lawns and sunny, open places. They were even introduced into the Midwest from Europe to provide food for the imported honeybees in early spring. They now grow virtually worldwide. Dandelions spread further, are more difficult to exterminate, and grow under more under adverse circumstances than most competitors.

Pretty tough cookies it seems. Just the way they grow is a survival tactic. Their leaves uncurl and reach up, so all the moisture travels down to the center, where the root is (that root that can grow to 10 feet). They are also edible, so if you are interested in turning your hard work into a harvest, here is a website with recipes

http://www.mountain-breeze.com/kitchen/dandelions/

I kind of hate to share all this with my sweetie, as he is so determined with this. He was so proud of a dandelion that he dug up the other day that he brought it in the house to show me the 3 foot root. It gives him a sense of satisfaction to look out and not see any of the yellow puffs sticking up...so I will support him in his on-going effort to rid our yard of these things. The weekend is coming up and it’s been raining all week; wonder what he’ll be doing....

Bat Tales...

I sit on my patio on this beautiful Monday morning and think over the events of a full weekend — a “fun” walk for charity, a patio breakfast with a good friend that included wonderful thought provoking discussion about God and His ways (our form of church these days), a first time visit to an “X’pressions Session” poetry night where I shared more of my writings in one evening than I have in a couple of years worth of open mics, and completing some much needed yard work and making firm plans for our upcoming vegetable garden. But, there is one thing not in this list that stands out because the effect of it is still causing me to take pause before I step into each room of my house...we had a bat invade our space this weekend.

Now, I don’t know if you have experienced one of these little creatures in your abode before, but most likely, if you have, you will not have forgotten it.

We had bats in our house on a few occasions when I was a kid. If you were lucky, you noticed them when they were still, sleeping above a doorway or in the corner of the ceiling. These were pretty easy to catch...dad put his gloves on, grabbed an empty coffee container and snuck up on it, covered it with the Folgers can and slid the lid on, hopefully before the bat escaped.

If you were not so lucky, then you discovered the bat as it was swooping through the house, (usually at night) and then chaos would reign as you opened every door and window you could in hopes that it would find a way out. None of this happened without a fair amount of screaming, running and even hiding, everyone looking out for themselves, wanting to get a closed door between them and this scary creature.

Now, my dad kind of liked us to face our fears and so he would show us the bat after he caught it. Then, we could see that it did not really have the wing span of a vulture and it was actually pretty small and (unless it had rabies) harmless. He probably thought that seeing it captured would help us to not be so scared of it, figuring that at some point in the future we may be faced with ridding our home of one.

Well, seeing that thing up close, eyes bugging, mouth opening and closing, sometimes making that freaky squeak was kind of “cool”, especially since my dad seemed to have this thing secured (in my mom’s metal tongs which she used to fry chicken with every Sunday), but it also cemented the image in my mind of just how ugly these things are. The truth is, I am as freaked out by bats at 50 as I was at 8.

So, heres the scene of my latest experience: I wake up early Sunday morning to prepare for the patio breakfast a few hours away. I pick up around the house, do some dishes, sweep the kitchen floor, wipe down counters and assemble ingredients. We are going to have bacon, eggs and pancakes topped with sauteed spiced apples. I will make all this (except the apples, which I saute on the stove inside) on our kick ass grill we got last year that has an extra burner on the side with a cast iron griddle. Real maple syrup for the pancakes, fresh chives from my garden for the eggs, a bold cup of coffee or perhaps a latte...I anticipate a lovely morning.

I get done with my chores in short order and as I survey my tidy kitchen I realize there is plenty of time to sit and relax before I need to wake Bill up (he loves sleeping in on the weekend). I make a latte and grab the Sunday paper. It is just getting light outside as I settle in, still a few hours till our patio breakfast.

I’ve made it through the ads, the Parade magazine, obituaries and world news and am thinking about checking my email when I hear this weird noise...it’s something banging against metal. So, I move off the couch I am on and over to the love-seat in front of the window, because I figure it’s someone outside messing with a car. But, I quickly realize the noise is just below me, in the cold air duct under the love-seat. I listen for a minute and I don’t feel good about the sound — not good at all. So I get up and seek assistance from my sleeping husband by going to the bottom of the stairs and yelling, “Bill, come here! Bill, theres a noise down here!” One of Bill’s least favorite things in the entire universe is me yelling up the stairs...I know this very well, but my years of habitually doing just that (first to my siblings and then to my own kids) overtakes me because of the urgency I am feeling. There was something in there making this noise and I did not want to be the one to find out what it was!

He emerges from the bedroom, half awake and not happy in the way I have gotten him up. “Whats going on?” he asks and I tell him of the noise. We both go to the love-seat and listen. Sure enough, something is there in the duct making this noise. So, he moves the couch out and takes a look in the grate but can see nothing and asks me to get a flashlight. I do this and after a minute or so he says “It’s a bat; want to see?” I am in disbelief that this noise would have been a bat...I was thinking bird or mouse...and I put my knees on the love-seat next to him and lean over the back to take a look. I’m thinking it’s going to be kind of far down the duct, where there is a lower ledge...a safe enough distance to observe it from. So, when he shines the light on our little visitor, I am surprised by how close it is to the opening of the metal grate. The bat is still when Bill first shines the light on it, but then suddenly moves and it startles me and I let out a yelp and jump back. This action startles Bill and he barks at me that my “freaking out” won’t help, or something like that. Well, this does not go well with me and does nothing to comfort my racing heart and so I grab my laptop and stomp off to the family room where I figure I’ll be safe from the bat, my husband’s attitude and will check my email in peace, closing the door behind me and leaving him to figure out what to do.

It is only a few moments before Bill follows me and apologizes for his harsh words and I am just about to forgive him when through the open door of the family room, in flies the bat. Our family room is small and this bat is flying in circles around it above our heads (I should note that Bill is a foot taller than me, so his head is closest to the flying bat). This causes Bill to let out a shriek (a very manly one for sure) and my response is to hit the floor and just scream. He is right by the door and steps out in the hall and says “Come on sweetie, get out!” “I can’t, I can’t” I scream as the bat swoops back and forth above me. Covering my head with my hands, I curl up on the floor, lamenting that in tidying up that morning I removed all the throw blankets to be laundered. “Yes you can, just come on!” Bill yells at me. So, encouraged by his voice, I do a “run/crawl” towards him on all fours and he slams the door behind me.

If we could have had a video crew at that moment, I would win the big prize on the funniest video shows! I could spend my next vacation at some fancy all inclusive resort in an exotic locale with all the money we’d win. I must have looked insane. I can laugh now, but at that moment...

Bill holds me, tries to calm me down (as I am in tears by now) and again apologizes for snapping at me. He admits that bats “freak him out” too (thus the manly shriek) and we both just stand there for a minute while our hearts stop racing.

We plan our attack. He prepares himself with a hooded jacket and gloves. I tell him of my fathers trusty coffee can method and he grabs the old red “Hill’s Brothers” can I have sitting on top of my cupboard for decoration. We attach a blanket over the doorway first, so that just in case it tries to escape as Bill opens the door, it will be trapped. We take one last look at each other, I say a “God be with you and grab my laptop” blessing over him and he cracks open the door, coffee can and lid in hand. He looks around, but does not see the bat flying, and steps all the way in and closes the door, while I retreat to the adjacent bathroom and close the door behind me - I am taking no chances.

A few moments go by and he emerges with the news that the bat is once again in a cold air duct. He knows this because he can hear the familiar banging. What are the chances of this? Like I said, I have had experience with bats in my house before, both as a kid and later in my first marriage (that’s another crazy bat story). I’ve never had one in the ducts! Now, I am kind of freaking out again because if it is in the ducts, it could emerge anywhere in the house...and how would we know which room? Bill assures me that the cold air ducts, or “return” ducts as he calls them, are different from the “supply” ducts (registers). So, all we have to worry about is covering up those return ducts. But first, he has me turn on the furnace fan, since it has some air cleaning, “electro-static” thing that would hopefully shock the bat if he tried to “cross over” to the supply ducts (registers). While I go to the fan control he goes to the basement to see if he can hear where the bat is. My next task is covering up all the return ducts, which do not have levers to open and close them like the registers.

What to cover them with? Having just completed our taxes, I have a large supply of empty file folders close at hand and opened up, they are the perfect size to cover the ducts. Some openings are large and require two, but no worries, I have plenty. I go room to room covering up the openings. As I do, I eye the registers as well. Now, while I do trust my husband's knowledge of duct work and such, I still take the time to close the open registers in the rooms that I go through, just in case the bat breeches the divide between these two systems. You just never know...

Next, we open up the window above the duct in the family room, where we last saw the bat. Then we take the afore mentioned blanket and secure it around the duct on the floor and the open window above it. Bill removes the duct cover and goes to the basement to bang on ducts in the hope that the bat will emerge through the open window. I watch the window while Bill bangs away. I watch for a few minutes, but see nothing.

Now, I still have our friend coming to join us for breakfast soon, so I tell Bill I need to get breakfast going and leave my place as window guard. He stays in the basement to listen for the bat. It’s there, he hears it, apparently pretty low in the system, close to the furnace. Bill bangs away at the ducts, hoping to coax the bat to leave, perhaps from “whence he came” (although we don’t know where that would be exactly) or through our very scientifically rigged open window.

He gives up on this after hearing no activity for a time. We go about the morning, having our delightful breakfast on the patio, looking up periodically at the open window in hopes of seeing a bat emerge. We tell our friend about the craziness of the day and he almost pees his pants laughing at our tale, imagining my screaming run/crawl out the door and Bill’s manly shriek. The three of us banter about the enormity of power these bats have on us and we each admit how silly it is, but that it is there nonetheless.

After breakfast we listen and the ducts seem to be quiet. Now, this should reassure me shouldn’t it? But we never did see that bat come out of the window, so I just can’t be sure where it is. What if it did get through the barricades somehow and it is in my house, just waiting to be discovered. So, now I go back to the very beginning of my tale...that pause before I step into each room of my house. As I mentioned before, I have some history with bats. The flying bats are quick to be noticed and the commotion they cause considerable. But, when those bats are asleep, they find a nice little corner to rest in, or a door jam to light upon. And you just never know when they are going to take flight again. So, as I go into each room, I kind of duck my head and quickly scan all the corners, making sure there is not a little black blob attached to anything. I have a couple of scares as I see a hook in the ceiling or shadow on the wall.

Every noise is subject to investigation for the rest of the evening (that fun walk took us away from home for several hours during the day), but we never hear the original cause for concern, the banging metal. So, we hope for the best and pray the bat has not given up the ghost in the ductwork, rotting away in the warming weather.

Since we got through the night with no bat flying around, I am feeling pretty good as I walk through the house when I get up this morning, but I am still checking those corners and doorways. I can even smile as I recall yesterdays drama. But I have to admit, my heart jumped a little as I realized that Bill would be off to work soon, and I would be left here alone...I really hope that bat made its escape.

Turning 50...

In November of last year, I reached the age of 50. Many people look at this age as walking towards the end, but for me, it has been a new beginning. I was not depressed, discouraged or sad about my age, but counted myself blessed to have reached it and looking forward to the future. I decided to celebrate it with a gathering of friends and family where there was singing and dancing, food, poetry and surprises. I wrote this poem for the occasion.

Fifty

Fifty years alive on this earth
I decided to greet it with merriment and mirth

Half of a century, the “middle” part of age
What it would feel like was hard to gauge

Is life really half over, or has it just begun?
Cause I gotta tell you, I am having a lot of fun!

God has brought joy unspeakable to this heart of mine
The table of my life is full of rich food and great wine

This age finds me loved, at peace and secure
Grateful for all that I’ve had to endure

So, I look back and ponder fifty years of life
Some years calm, some filled with strife

Theres been the darkness of abuse by the neighbor Mr. White
My silence assured by shame and fright

Innocence lost, but somehow regained
By the love of Christ and the power in His name

I watched as my sister got beatings and bruises
Too weak to walk away from the chaos and abuses

My counselor’s had a couple of vacations dealing with those things
But in the end, there was healing that gave me wings

To fly away from hurt and loss
Proving to myself God has always been boss

I’ve birthed 3 children, been married twice
Living a life not always sugar and spice

In my fifty years I’ve seen trouble and pain
But hope and peace have been my life’s gain

I’m a wife and a mommy
I’m a friend and a grammy

I’m a teacher and a lover

I’m a dancer undercover

I’m a sinner and a saint
I can love and I can hate

I’ve buried my parents, a sister and in-laws
Spent many years mulling over my flaws

The middle age spread I swore I’d never get
Has caught up with me sure, but I’m not giving up yet

I’ve got tapes aplenty to help work off my weight

And God give me strength to turn down a plate

Theres been giving, theres been taking
Theres been loving, theres been faking

I’ve been a worker outside and a mommy at home
Had a business that I could call my own

I’ve traveled to different countries, seen the ocean and water falls
I’ve broken through barriers and torn down walls

Walls of words that loomed over my head
Words of doubt, tales of dread

Not everyone was sure I’d make it this far
But you’ll hear about that when I write my memoir

So many things left still to do
I don’t know if I’ll ever be through

Adventures to write, stories to tell
Lives to touch, books to sell

I’m not afraid of what fifty will bring
Theres joy in my heart and to that I cling

My joints may creak, my eyes may play tricks
But my heart is still strong beating tick, tick, tick

It’s what pushes me through good times and bad
And for that, I am surely glad

So that I can see fifty and many years beyond
To love family and friends of whom I am so fond

Asking myself what fifty would be…
I look in the mirror and I see me!

Sue Barnard October 2008

Bob Funkhouser, artist extraordinaire

Food prepared by my son, Chef Job

Dancing the Night Away

My baby Anna surprised me by flying in for the party

Janet Norris sang "Superwoman" like no other

Making Calls For Daddy...

“Hello?” I answer in my best I am already awake voice. The phone call that woke me up is from the hospital. The voice on the other end says “This is Mr. Crabill’s nurse. He’s not sleeping and we need you to come and get him settled down.” I look at the clock and it’s close to midnight. “I’ll be right there.” I don’t ask any questions because I already know what’s going on. Several weeks ago my dad had a stroke. He has been in the hospital ever since, pretty much confined to his bed. At first, he did not speak much, but has now gotten his voice back with a vengeance. He cannot swallow very well, so he has a feeding tube (which he has pulled out several times) and can’t handle solid foods. The first week or so we weren’t sure if he was going to make it. But there he was, at 84, fighting his way through to stay alive and letting everyone know about it.

Dad does not sleep well and the nurses call regularly. My sister Patty and I share the task of going to sit with him and calm him down.

Since he has been in the hospital, Dad disturbs everyone with his calling out and making all sorts of racket to get their attention. His favorite thing is banging his “pull up” bar that hangs above his bed. Intended to strengthen his arms, it looks like one of those dinner bells in the shape of a triangle you see in old westerns. The cook comes out and bangs it with a piece of steel to let everyone know “chow’s on”. Well, my dad must remember those scenes too because that’s what he does – bangs this bar to get someone’s attention when he is bored. Which happens a lot. One night when I came after one of their calls, they had his bed pulled out in the hallway, near the nurses station because it was the only way they could get him to quiet down. His vision is very poor, so being able to hear activity helped.

So, after this latest call, I throw on some clothes, tell my sleeping husband what is going on, and make the 10 minute drive to the hospital. I come in, greet my dad and get “Susie, I’m so glad you’re here!” He seems oblivious that it is late at night and I should be home and in bed. So, I smile and ask how he is. These visits usually go the same each time; we chat a little, I ask if there is anything he needs, then after he tells me how glad he is that I am there, he calms down, and I try to sleep in the recliner in his room. It gets quiet, save for the TV that is on 24/7. Many times, as “Nick at Nite” or CNN drones in the background, I would just begin to fall asleep and he would call out to me – “Susie!” “Yeah dad, what do you need?” I would say to him. He would respond, “Oh, nothing, I just wanted to make sure you were there.” Several times a night this would go on. As I said, Dad doesn’t see very well, so perhaps he needed the extra assurance of my voice to convince him of my presence. “You sure you don’t need something Dad?” I’d ask. “No, no, go back to sleep” he’d usually say.

But one night, hearing my voice was not enough. He was wide awake and wanted something. He wanted me to make some phone calls for him. “Dad, it’s 2 a.m., I can’t call people now. Who do you need to talk to?” I asked. He began naming people he wanted to call. “Why do you want to call them now Dad?” He all of a sudden got hit with the urge to “right” some things…there was $20 owed here, some guy he talked bad about there. One guy he just wanted to check on because he was concerned about him for some reason. But everything he was telling me about happened 30 or so years ago. “But dad, it’s late, let’s wait till tomorrow” I said. No deal. He was very insistent that he needed to talk to them right then, it could not wait till the light of day. I pleaded with him to wait till morning but he was on a mission and would not be swayed. He even remembered their phone numbers! I could hardly believe it. I mean, he had not even seen some of these people since before I was born I bet, but he could recite their phone numbers, using the old alphabet exchange for our area - CE (23), short for “Central”.

I was not sure what to do. I knew that most likely the phone numbers were no good anymore. But, what if the number did have a home and I got a hold of someone? It was the middle of the night! The chances that it would be who dad wanted to talk to were pretty slim, but I’d be waking somebody up, that was for sure. And even if the call was from a long lost buddy, I did not think the person on the other end of the phone would be any too happy about being called in the middle of the night, even if it meant getting that twenty bucks returned. But, he was very insistent that I call.

Now, even though I was in my 30’s at the time, married and had three kids of my own, I was still very much his little girl when it came to his instruction. His tone of voice could still cause me to tremble a bit, so with reluctant obedience, I picked up the phone. He called out someone’s name and repeated a phone number. My heart was pounding as I dialed, and inside I was praying that no one would answer. God’s mercy was there and the number was disconnected. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as I told him this, thinking it would bring him to his senses and put an end to the task.

Nope, there were more numbers, others he wanted called. I pleaded again for him to wait, but he would not be reasoned with. There would be no peace this night until I made these phone calls. Realizing I might not be so lucky on the next call, and someone might actually answer, I made a decision that makes me cringe to this day…I dialed time and temperature instead of the number he was reciting. I can’t say I felt good about it, but at the time, felt it was for the best, since in case someone did answer the phone, I knew there was a pretty good chance it would not be who he was looking for. I mean, my dad was 84 at the time, how many of these people were even still alive? So, I told him there was no answer. I guess I was more willing to face my dad’s disappointment than having a stranger cuss me out at 2 a.m. I was more than willing to call them later, at a more reasonable hour, so I figured there was no harm done.

After these two attempts, he gave up, satisfied that I had tried. We talked a little about the people he was trying to reach and why, which seemed to help. Then he let it go, never bringing it up again.

There would be several opportunities like this in the next few years to get to know my dad a little better. It was only when he got sick and began to share some things about his life that I realized how little I knew of him. My dad was 50 when I was born, so much of his life had already happened, out of my sight. He was from a generation that didn’t share much of their struggles. But his sickness changed that. Stories of childhood surfaced, lost loves, dreams, and unfinished plans. I saw for the first time just how much pain my dad lived with every day. Not a physical pain, but a pain that was on the inside. He was tormented by many things that happened in his life. Harsh words and actions from his childhood that had taken root and had never been resolved, like never being good enough for his dad and his mom resenting him from the moment he was born because he weighed 13 pounds.

I thought about this quite a bit afterwards and wondered what brought on this sudden urge to make things right after so many years? Was it his brush with death because of the stroke? Was it our talks about God and heaven? Whatever it was, I am thankful for the chance to know him a little better, even though it meant exposing his pain and hurt.

It’s hard sometimes to imagine your parents as “real” people, separate from being “mom and dad”. But to do so gives you much more insight into them as adults and the way they parented you. Some of the bad stuff I experienced in my childhood was due to the bad parenting my mom and dad had, but so was much of the good. They fought against many of the painful things they experienced and refused to subject their kids to the same pain. As rough as my childhood was sometimes, after talking to my dad while he was ill, I realize it is miraculous that it was not a disaster.

It’s an odd thing being the child of an ailing parent. Roles are reversed and you become the caretaker, the protector, maybe even the decision maker. The fine line between treating them as a child and respecting their place as your parent gets crossed sometimes. You get as confused as they are in how you should handle situations. I was fortunate to have a measure of grace in dealing with my dad. Realizing he could not do much anymore, yet at the same time understanding his need for some “control”, to feel he still had some independence – to respect him and all that he had been to me. In those last years of his life, much of the “bad” stuff from childhood became less important to focus on.

While at the time those late night visits were rough, exhausting and frustrating, I am so grateful for them. When I think back, I can even smile at his noise making, calling out and odd requests. He was with us only a few more years after that stroke and he became even more challenging, especially for my mom, who chose to care for him at home till his death. But, the older I get, the more precious I realize time is. My dad spent a lot of his life locked up inside, carrying the burdens of guilt and pain. My experiences with him helped me to understand his life better and to remind me to keep my slate as clean as possible, not holding onto things that could weigh me down. Even in death, his fathering continues.

Perspective...

A perspective is a view or a vista that one sees
But it seems we can’t see the forest for the trees

You see things your way, I see them mine
It’s been this way from the beginning of time

You see things one way, I see them another
But in our differences must we smother each other?

My perspective says go slow; yours says we must go fast
I guess I don’t care if I get there last

I say we must confront, you say give it more time
You are bent to be a little more kind

Even quoting the bible can make things clear as mud
As different denominations create their own buzz

One says sex by themselves for satisfaction does suffice
Another will say it’s the devil’s device

Some say that divorce means you can’t go to heaven
Is this the truth or just the devil’s leaven?

I’ve heard it’s better to be righteous than right
This may mean walking away from a fight

Now, I don’t mind fighting if the purpose is true
I just don’t think the fight is always with you

“The man in the mirror” as the song goes
Is usually the one that deserves the most blows

I fight my flesh that wants always to be heard
So I can shut my mouth and listen to your words

We must go to our heart and it’s intent to make choices
Because the world is full of confusing voices

To trust that my right and left will be guided
By a view that is not always right or left sided

That the colors I choose will be for beauty
Not out of a sense of self-serving duty

So you go your way, I’ll go mine
I pray we end up at the same place at the same time

And on the road to getting there we’ll cherish those met
Living our lives without judgment or regret

Sue Barnard 10/07

Spring

Spring is coming. It’s a promise, a given, consistent and known. Yet every year, it amazes me.

I have witnessed the change of seasons for 50 years. Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall. All the seasons bring something unique and different than the other. But Spring…it is a “rebirth” of sorts, and because it follows the harshness of winter, provides the most hope in nature and in my life. Spring brings with it great promise of things to come…Growth, flowers, color, fragrance – life. Just as sure as winter brings death and dormancy, spring brings life and activity.

Snow can be beautiful, and the cold weather can bring about hot chocolate, warm fires and lots of snuggling. But for me, the moment Christmas is over, I am through with winter and look forward to Spring. I begin counting the months, then the weeks until its expected start. After each wintertime gas bill, I calculate how soon before I can turn the heat down. If I can just keep my mind on the first crocus, or sprouting leaves on trees, or the extra money I’ll save on the gas bills, it gives me hope and I can then trudge through the cold, snow and ice once again, to clean off my car.

Spring. I look for it, hope for it, pray for it and tell myself over and over “it’s coming”, and I still get as excited as a 3 year old when the first signs appear. When my kids were little, it was always a big deal the day we saw our first robin. I can still hear their excited voices say “Mommy, I see a robin!” and I’d smile and make a fuss just like my mom did when I was young. It was always a day to take note of and it meant that things were different now, like the robin held some magical power to change the weather. With that same sense of wonder from my youth, each year on the day I see my first spring bird, I will exclaim “I saw a robin today!” to a friend, or my husband, or the check out lady at Martin’s. Sometimes it’s met with equal exuberance, but more often it is “hmmm, that’s nice”. Their reaction to my excitedness about spring seems to be – it happens every year; what’s the big deal? So, I would call my mommy and tell her I saw my first robin and with the same delight as when I was little she would say, “Did you? That’s great! That means spring is coming!”. She died last May and I missed sharing the news with her this year.

Spring isn’t a date and comes when it sees fit. It decides whether it will agree with the human calendar. Spring is a change, and change brings possibilities to me. Maybe this spring will bring more physical activity, which could bring about the desire to exercise, which might bring about a love for walking, which would bring weight loss, which could bring about…you get the picture. It seems nothing is impossible in the spring. Maybe this year I will get my yard in order…or lay those new stones…or hang clothes out to dry…or clean out my car…anything could happen!!!

Spring brings about gratefulness. When I step outside and feel the warmth of the morning instead of bitter cold, I am grateful. Even when the sun isn’t shining and it’s raining out, I am grateful that it is not snow. The saying from childhood pops into my head: “April showers brings May flowers” and I am grateful for the assurance that something good will come of gloominess of rain.

Spring opens my eyes and ears. It makes me notice everyday things that we take for granted, but are really amazing. As soon as I can, I sit outside on my patio, morning coffee in hand and feast on the small sanctuary in my yard. Birds gathering materials for nests, squirrels foraging, breezes blowing and the tinkling of wind chimes making music. Over the years I’ve gotten to know several songs of the birds and as I hear the cardinal chirping or the morning dove cooing and the blue jay cackling, I love to spot them in the trees when I recognize their call. Sparrows bobbing up and down all over the yard as the males dance to win a mate. It amuses me to watch as the females seem to pay them no mind, flitting off to another waiting to woo her. Each year is a love/hate relationship with the squirrels. I love to watch them run and play through the yard, chattering, racing each other up the trees, and looking like circus performers as they navigate the electrical wires. “How do they do that?” I wonder each time I witness this feat. But then, they turn on me and dig up my newly planted petunias or shimmy up my bird feeder and pillage food meant for creatures smaller and weaker than them. Sometimes when I sit out there alone, meditating on all the activity, I think, “Does anybody else notice this stuff?”.

Spring is a gamble of sorts. Will those bulbs I planted come up this year? Did those pesky squirrels get them in their quest for buried nuts? Some years I have daffodils springing up in the middle of my yard, surely carried there by a well-meaning squirrel. And every year I look at the brown, dry, dead remains from plants that are “perennials”, and I think there is no way they have survived the winter. They are supposed to return each year, but I still look with awe and delight as the first green growth appears under the old brown leaves on my lavender or the red sprouts of new leaves on the dry branches of my rosebushes. Even the day lilies, which seem as if nothing could kill them, still amaze me as they sprout up out of the ground with the purpose of bringing flowers that will last only one day before closing up.

Easter comes in the Spring. We celebrate resurrection, faith, hope, and belief in power greater than us. That is Spring. Out of death and the hardness of a frozen ground there is proof that what we see with our eyes is not all that there is. That even in bitterness and unpleasant conditions, there is something else at work; beauty has not been discarded. That there are roots always alive and preparing for just the right time to sprout new growth. The assurance that even when it seems we are in our most unproductive season, there are things at work inside, underneath, waiting to be born, to come to life. Spring awakens sleeping beauty and calls back things gone away. Spring says to them, it’s ok, come out, come back; you are wanted – you can grow here, you are not forgotten. Spring reminds me that all that is true in nature about changing seasons is true of me. Promises and dreams just waiting for the right time, the right season to push through the hard ground of the limitations in my mind to bloom and bear fruit. That just like in Indiana you don’t grow corn in January, so with my life I must wait for the favorable season to bear certain fruit. These lessons in nature have given me hope. Spring has awakened me and helped me to see that my season has changed, Winter is over…