An Ideal Life

 Today a few different concepts converged in my mind. I heard a bit about a pastor named John Mark Comer, who writes books with titles like The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry and Live No Lies: Recognize and Resist the Three Enemies that Sabotage Your Peace. One interviewer from The Atlantic tried to get hold of Comer to interview him and faced a challenge; the man was taking his own advice of a peaceful and unhurried life so that he wasn't responding to emails or texts.

Another trendy ad on Facebook is showing me a new book, The Way of the Wildflower: Gospel Meditations to Unburden Your Anxious Soul. How can I live like a wildflower? Unworried. Snoozing in the sun. Beautiful in my simplicity. 

Jesus describes this life this way:

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?  Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?  Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?  And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin.  Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.  If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith?  So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’  For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them.  But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." (from Matthew 6)

My years of teaching literature left me with a handful of texts that stuck in my mind. One is "Bermudas" by Andrew Marvell (1621-1678). He describes the arrival of the first Englishmen to the island, and the Edenic life they found there -- or rather, the life they hoped for there. The poem is the song these immigrants sing from their boat as they arrive. They imagine an island where God provides every need and they only receive. He drops figs into their mouths and tosses melons at their feet. Not only do they not have to work for their food, they don't even have to think about it. They are like the wildflowers, dozing in abundance, utterly confident of God's provision.

I was not raised this way. I was raised in the DOING generation. Christianity was all about doing, and then doing more. It is extremely hard for me to stop doing, or even thinking about doing, and relax into simply being. I can barely conceive of a life where that is God's will for me: Rest, Being, Trust, Slowing down, Stop Doing Anything. For many of us, I think he'd have to break both our legs to slow us down. Even then, we'd probably be hobbling along on a walker, shouting to the others, "Wait for me! I can help!"

I do firmly believe that the New Earth where we will live for eternity is much like Marvell's Bermuda. Eden, I think, was also that way. I don't think Adam would have spent all day every day hacking back vines and weeding. There will be no pursuit of money, success, or power. (Think of that!) There will be no heroic deeds to save others from disaster, because there will be no disaster. Will I spend the first long spell on the New Earth asleep, recovering from a life of over-doing?

I'm now in the portion of life where I spend much thought time talking with the Holy Spirit, listening to God's voice to me. "Slow down," he says. "Rest." Yet my mind always returns to The-Next-Thing-I-Plan-To-Do. I need rewiring.

Hello, friends!

This morning I was reading in a few of your blogs and thought it was time for me to give a little update. ALL MY PHOTOS loaded in reverse order! So we'll have to start with the most recent things, and proceed to the oldest.

My sewing machine broke a little part. Adam is ordering a new one. It's the little curly metal piece that you put the thread through just before the needle. Don't know what it's called.

The farmers market started up again this past Saturday. That tent is my spot. Lovely friends at the market -- both vendors and customers!

I'm not much of a cook these days. But I did make some yummy tacos last week!

And a quiche! I love quiche.

Before my machine broke, I sewed a tiny fabric bowl.

Adam had another infusion at Duke for his auto-immune illness. He'll be feeling better soon.

I sewed some little quilted pouches that roll up and tie.

And I've been doing a very little bit of spinning. I need to get back to that ....

This is a Tummy-Time Mat I finished this winter -- a stiff quilt for a baby to spend time on the floor. It's a "Wonky Star" pattern.

I've been painting a good bit.

This is my favorite one recently:

We had a significant winter weather event with very cold temps and lots of snow, unusual for us. It took a long time to melt! I'm noting which of my outdoor potted plants survived this weather, and I'll be buying more of them. The two best were Gaura and Creeping Wire Vine.

I hope you are all very well and enjoying the warmer spring days. Time to be outdoors in the sunshine and breezes, messing with pots and soil!

Talking Politics

 That title might be enough for you to click away to a calmer topic. I understand -- I've avoided politics on my blog for many years. I avoid it altogether on my Youtube channel, and I try very hard to avoid addressing politics on Facebook. I'm afraid of offending friends and family whom I care about.

However, there comes a moment when one's silence is itself a wrong-doing. For me, that moment is now.

I've never supported Donald Trump's foray into politics. While so many of my fellow conservatives have supported him (either reluctantly while holding noses, or enthusiastically as if he were a savior), I've always smelled a rat. Trump has been in the public eye for most of his life. He never hid his character -- a bully, a braggart, a womanizer, a selfish manipulator, a vain and greedy man. Just because he bullied all other nominees out of the running in the GOP primaries in 2016 didn't mean he'd changed at all, to me.

Every move he's made has been for his own advancement. I feel he has the affliction of many elderly men past the age where sexual prowess is their driving force; he craves power and applause. He has successfully secured the one position in the world that gives him the ability to flex his political muscles. Is he neglecting domestic crises, focusing instead relentlessly on international dramas? Of course -- International muscles are more impressive that domestic ones. I have never seen a president less inclined to be a servant of the people.

As Bonhoeffer told us, to remain silent in the face of evil is to be complicit in it. "Not to speak is to speak." If I don't publicly state that I oppose the actions of Trump, then with my silence I'm saying that I support him. I cannot allow that. I must speak, even if only on a tiny old blog with few who see it.

I am mystified by my Christian friends who continue to support him. But I cannot let that silence me; that would be wrong. They must follow their consciences, and I must follow mine. The incident now that pulls me from silence is the attack on Venezuela, the bombings that took civilian lives, all so that Trump could kidnap a bad president and his wife and drag them to New York in handcuffs.

This is not the American way. Historically, we negotiate, we apply pressure, we unite with allies. But we don't bomb, we don't murder, we don't make lame excuses ("His people hate him!" "He's a drug thug!" "He probably stole an election!") These are not reasons the US gives for this kind of barbarity and invasion of another nation's sovereign space. It's not the American way, but it is the Trump way.

I'm watching Lucy Worsley's recent documentary, Blitz Spirit, about how common British folks handled the terror and trauma of WW2 bombings in England. They did not cave; they rose to the occasion to save their nation, to preserve who they were. I want Americans to do the same. Who are we? A band of thugs? Bullies in the world? Or are we the nation that sets an example of service, support, encouraging independence instead of stripping it away from others. Will Trump vocally honor Greenland's independence? Will he say what Americans have always said -- about ourselves and others -- that your land belongs to YOU, and we will defend your right to keep it and live in it and rule it as you see fit? That's the America we have been, and I want to  state loudly that we still are, in spite of the bully who currently sits in the Oval Office. May he depart back to his private life soon. 

We need a different leader who reminds us why we are great. We are great because our goal is to share freedom, independence, sovereignty, and self-governance around the world. American is great because she is slow to react, quick to help. We need a president who has those same values.

Merry Christmas!

This is one of my favorite things in the house for Christmas this year, a handmade hooked rug.

I found it at the thrift store for $2.

As some of you long-time readers may recall, this old manger was made by Adam many years ago. I don't remember where the figures came from, probably my mother.

Our church sanctuary and fellowship hall are beautifully decorated this Advent.

The Neuse River is stunning in all seasons!

What have I been making? Here's a "Purse Baby" I crocheted/sewed for my granddaughter.

It opens from being a purse, into a bassinette with a baby inside. I hadn't made one in years.

Before Thanksgiving, I strung dried orange slices, cranberries, and cinnamon sticks.

This is a new print card from me this year -- a Christmas fox!

And here are two of my three new hens! Aren't they pretty?

Merry Christmas from us at the little farm. No matter where you are in life right now -- happy and peaceful, or in distress and pain -- may the incredible grace of God in the infant Jesus help you through each day and bring gratitude somehow, for all the hope we have. He is our Light, in all the darkness.

When My Mother Died

 It's been almost three months since my mother died, and I think I'm beginning to process the thoughts and emotions surrounding this loss. A friend told me that we are never the same again after our mothers die. This is true for me. I accepted my daddy's death more easily, even though I have always been a "daddy's girl." But his death did not leave me alone; I had Mother. Now that she is gone, I am no longer anyone's child.

My mother lost the use of her legs about 9 months before her death, so those months required lots of personal care from family members and caregivers. She wanted badly to stay at home. No one lived with her full-time. She was accepted onto hospice care, which prevented her from being sent to a hospital or nursing home against her will. This was all quite challenging for her and for the family that lived nearby who accepted the daily care required for someone bed-bound.

Mother was mentally sound throughout these months, which was a blessing. About a month before her death she became ill, nauseous and unable to eat, after a 5-day respite visit to the hospice facility. She never recovered from this. Hospice finally relieved the nausea and vomiting, but she continued very weak and without appetite. Her decline was too slow for her liking. She'd always wanted to go quickly -- ideally, in her sleep one night. My daddy died within 24 hours of deciding to refuse treatment and entering hospice care, but he had an underlying health issue, diabetes. Mother had no threatening illness like that to help her on her way. 

It took about 3-4 weeks, and I was there for much of that time. The local family needed more support for her care, and someone to sleep at the house. These were the hard days. She woke in the night, crying for a drink. She sipped through a straw. She was very uncomfortable in the hospital bed and needed regular shifting. She required regular changing and cleaning. She hated to impose on us, but had to ask for everything. 

I am a person who comes to help in emergencies. I don't know why this is so. I'm good in a crisis: I don't break down, I'm fairly decisive and dependable, I help stabilize the situation. I'm willing to make the phone calls and do the next thing. I also process the trauma of those emergencies later, much later. My mother wanted to die in her home, and she did. It was early in the morning, so Hospice wasn't there. My sister-in-law, my niece and her baby, and I stood around Mother's bed, sang "Jesus Loves Me" and "Near the Cross" to her, and she took her last breath. That sounds peaceful, but it was not.

I found it a gruesome experience. Mother's dog had woken me about 4:00 am with unusual behavior. She knew what was happening. Mother's breathing changed from very slow (many seconds between breaths), to rapid and noisy, gasping. She was also in pain, because the last time that we turned her from one side to the other, she cried out, "No!" That was the evening before. So in the morning she was facing the window. She liked to see the sunshine and the trees. I'd called my sister-in-law and told her I thought it might be time. Thus we three stood around her bed. She was gasping for breath, her eyes closed. But they opened toward the end, and in the final minute or two, she opened her mouth wider, her teeth showing as her body tried very hard to take in more air. The color of her legs had changed, as the hospice nurse had told us it would, to a deep red-purple, and it moved quickly up her legs as her heart struggled to supply necessary oxygen. I knew my mother wanted very much to die. She'd asked us, "Why is it taking so long?" But her body -- it didn't want to die. Bodies never do, I think. It was fighting against it. This was very hard to watch, but watch we must because that is what she'd asked. 

I don't think she'd anticipated this, that her request would require this of us. She took one last large, gasping breath.  Somehow, I thought there would be one more, and we waited about 10 seconds I think, and she took one more. Her eyes were open, her teeth bared. And somehow that last image of her -- her dark hair streaming on the pillow behind her, her eyes staring at the window, her old teeth showing -- that's the image that has stayed with me. This has been very hard, because my mother was a lovely, kind person, a beautiful woman. Two nights ago I finally dreamed about her, and she looked like herself: beautiful. That has helped.

On the Sunday my daddy died, his hospice room was full of people -- church people came after the service, and stood around for ages, chatting about football and the weather. I found it appalling. My daddy was lying there, trying to hold it together for his visitors, while his body was doing that same last fight. I think that experience is why my mother asked that no non-family visitors be allowed in the house for those last days, even her pastor. She wanted only her children and grandchildren around her, which does sound wonderful, but the burden is also heavy for family.

I've written all this detail so that anyone out there who is contemplating the final care for themselves or for a loved one, will consider these things too. Nobody tells you how awful those last days and especially hours can be. I do not want to put my family through that. I would rather go into a hospice facility and allow professionals to handle those last hours. I didn't cry when she died; I didn't cry for days. It took quite a while. I've struggled with the experience. I think I might have handled it better emotionally, if I had not had to witness it as I did. Other people might handle and process it better.

It is extremely difficult to have her gone. Her absence still hits me unexpectedly -- I'm thinking of her, and then I remember that she's no longer there. I often think of her body in its casket, in the West Virginia soil in winter. So cold. The words are so true: earth to earth. Her spirit apparently left her body at that very second while I was watching her body fight against it, but unlike in the movies, there was no little wisp of light, curling up from her face through the roof to heaven. The reality is more difficult, an ice-cold body in ice-cold dirt.

One of my favorite movies is The Secret of Roan Inish, about a young Irish girl whose mother dies. Fiona is awake at night, staring out the window of her grandparents' home, thinking of her dead mother. "Mother," she whispers into the night. I do that too. "Mother," I whisper, hoping she is listening. I have nothing else to say. She understands, if she hears me, that that one word expresses all I feel.

Even a Cup of Cold Water

 I'm putting these thoughts here more as a journal entry, so I can find them later -- really mostly Scripture passages all on one subject: How essential are acts of mercy to being a Christian?

Isaiah 58:6-9 -- "Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh? Then shall your light break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up speedily; your righteousness shall go before you; the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard. Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer; you shall cry, and he will say, 'Here I am.'"

(See the previous verses to find out how some folks who thought they were God's people, were not. They focused on going to church, fasting, and self-humbling actions.)

*****

James 2:14-17 -- "What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, 'Go in peace, be warmed and filled,' without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead."

(And if giving lip-service to helping the poor is bad enough to cause dead faith, as in NO faith, then how much worse if one were to ridicule the poor, exploit the poor, or make their poverty worse? Some who claim to love Jesus do these very things!)

*****

Proverbs 19:17 -- "Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the LORD, and he will repay him for his deed."

(Think of that! Jesus puts Himself in the place of the poor, needy, and destitute. And if you help them, He considers that you have helped Him. Those acts of mercy put you directly on God's radar screen, and He knows you.)

There are many other verses, especially in Psalms and Proverbs, about how God hears the cries of the needy and oppressed. Do you want God to hear your prayers? Be needy and oppressed. If you can't do that, then help the needy and oppressed, and God will notice you.

*****

Matthew 7:21 - 23 -- "Not everyone who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' will enter the kingdom of heaven, but the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. On that day (i.e. judgment day) many will say to me, 'Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?' And then will I declare to them, 'I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.'"

(Clearly, many people will think they are going  to heaven because of how they have lived: they've preached, they've even battled evil and performed miracles. But God does not know them. "You?" he says. "I don't know you. Who are you? A child of mine? No, I don't recall you at all.")

*****

Lastly, on judgment day, Jesus will sit on His throne to judge everyone -- every person and every nation. First He will separate His brothers and sisters from those who are not His. 

Matthew 25:34-46 -- "Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me."

There is no mention even of a profession of faith here! (Not that a profession isn't important, of course. It's a wonderful thing. But do these people even think they are going to heaven? Do they think they are beloved of God?) 

When told they are going to heaven, they're surprised. "Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?" they ask Him.

These folks did not do acts of mercy for religious reasons. They did not do them for the Lord. They simply did acts of mercy out of compassion. Jesus has to tell them, "Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me." This of course corresponds to the proverb above -- on this earth, Jesus identifies with the poor.

What about the other people before the throne, the ones who God does not know, who are not blessed by Him, and who will not enter heaven? Jesus says to them, "Depart form me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me."

They are naturally shocked. They don't remember ever seeing Jesus during their lives, and if they had they certainly wouldn't have neglected Him this way. "Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to you?" They protest that they are innocent, and that Jesus is mistaken.

But Jesus identifies with the poor, the needy, the prisoner and the sick. They neglected these people all their lives, instead devoting themselves to other religious duties -- church attendance, Sunday school teaching, singing cantatas, fasting and praying, studying theology, evangelism. Perhaps they were even super-religious and taught in a seminary, or were missionaries or touring Christian singers, or wrote long blog posts about the Bible. None of that saved them, and none of it indicated faith. None of it showed that God knew them, which is so much more essential than that they thought they knew God.

"Truly, I say to you, as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me."

And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.

How many Christians have squirmed a little at this passage, and then ignored it. It doesn't correspond well with what we've been taught about "you're not saved by works" and "focus on studying the Word," and "it's all about faith, and faith alone."

This is very convicting to me. I've spent my life primarily doing the church duties and only lately caring much about works of mercy. I want to change that. I want not only to feel compassion when I see the needy, but to do something.

Isn't it fascinating that Matthew, the ex-tax collector, the wealthy man turned disciple, should include so much of this thinking in his book about Jesus? He must've regretted his years of exploiting the poor and longed to turn that around.

*****

Matthew 10: 40-42 -- "Whoever receives you receives me, and whoever receives me receives him who sent me," Jesus told his 12 disciples. "The one who receives a prophet because he is a prophet will receive a prophet's reward (we know that's not much!), and the one who receives a righteous person because he is a righteous person will receive a righteous person's reward (also not much). And whoever gives one of these little ones even a cup of cold water because he is a disciple, truly, I say to you, he will by no means lose his reward."

Do you want to know you are God's child, loved of Him and going to heaven? A cup of cold water will do. Many cups, plus soup, a warm coat, a place to sleep, a visit to a local prison. You may not know it, but you will find Jesus there.

The Passing of Beauty

 

My grandmother’s mantel clock chimes familiarly.

It is forty-five minutes late.

Autumn leaves shimmer yellow and

their light quivers on the sheets

where my mother lies,

whispering her breaths.

Her old toes wiggle out

into the air.

I ask if she is comfortable.

The house is quiet as we wait,

As the grandchildren drive here

to see her a last time.

Chopin, our favorite, faintly drifts

in the air as she breathes, and stops,

and breathes.

I lie on the couch in the afternoon,

listening for her.

My eyes close, then flutter open

and look for the sheets to lift

and fall. And lift.

A pot of spaghetti sauce bubbles

quietly on the stove,

Her recipe, her million meals,

her love, her children

and grandchildren.

Her life, such a beautiful life.

Even now, such a beautiful life.

White Oak, WVa

Sept. 12, 2025