The best homemaking advice:
Choose-
People over possessions.
Progress over perfection.

Works every time.

Today is a day for remembering public servants.

I am thankful for our military, our government, our police, fire, and emergency workers. Our teachers, preachers, nurses, physicians and all those who, in their heart of hearts began their vocations with a sincere desire to serve others in truth.

Those who are compelled to serve an ideal, something greater than self.

Public servants who, regardless of ideals, are human.

So the service wrought  sometimes becomes self serving.

Sometimes unjust.

Sometimes rendered in pride and arrogance.

And I want to judge. I want them to be perfect.

I reflect on my service for the Savior. Service that began with a desire to serve Him in truth because He is ideal and truly great…and perfect.

Yet, my service is

Sometimes self serving.

Sometimes unjust.

Sometimes offered in pride and arrogance.

Often judged, never perfect.

Best of intentions, utter failures.

Still, as a servant I am compelled to serve.  I am drawn back to my sin bearer. My example. The one who is in me and works through me.

So, I try again. This time with a little more thought for others. With a better sense of fairness. With greater humility.

And try again.

And again.

Knowing flawed, human, service, is better than no service at all. And that in the trying is grace and growth. To both the giver and the receiver.

This morning I pulled weeds.

 A lot of weeds.

 Many things called for my attention this spring and summer and the garden is horribly neglected.

 I have a normal love/hate relationship with my garden–I love vegetables and flowers, but I hate to weed. What? You do too?

 I realized long ago that if I were to have a garden, it would have a fair amount of weeds as I tend to be a bit lazy.

 I have learned a few things about weeds.

 One, sometimes letting a weed alone is not a bad thing.

 Occasionally a weed will grow very large, and will come up easily with a tug. That same weed would not budge  when it was smaller.

Other times neglecting weeding has saved me the humiliation of weeding out a perfectly good plant, that was masquerading as a weed.

 Most of the time, I can keep the weeds at bay, and while my garden will never be picture perfect,it usually will bear some fruit and vegetables, and recover from my neglect of proper weeding and watering.

But this summer had more of its usual share of neglect, and the weeds are not coming up easy, in many areas they have choked the vegetables and flowers out entirely. I worked very hard, and have only scratched the surface of the garden. The tomatoes managed to give a little fruit, the cucumbers that showed such promise, just gave up, only a handful of green beans beat the weeds back, and the green peppers are tiny, tiny, tiny. 

 What my garden has really needed is more of my time.

I have another garden, a private garden that is showing some signs of neglect also. I have shared the responsibility of this garden for over 30 years, and it too  is struggling for my time and attention and care. 

From just a few seeds of kindness, respect, love and passion–  this garden has been fruitful and given much pleasure.     Yet it stands neglected.  

There is a need for weeding out some ugly words winding themselves around respect. 

Selfishness is threatening to choke out kindness, passion is failing to thrive from lack of the gardeners presence.

 And yet amidst the weeds, love still blooms. What beauty this garden promises!

Forgive me-I must go now, I have a garden to tend!

Her name is Faith Good.

I write her name in the roll book, Good, Faith.

She is only ten years old, and her faith is good.

She has suffered loss, the kind of loss that makes my heart heavy, my stomach queasy.

She teaches me and I learn about laying aside rejection and risking it all to love again.

 Unpretentious. She offers her heart up and grabs mine.

 I long for her faith.

 Transparent faith. Loving faith.  Enduring faith. Good Faith.

Early morning, feet poised a few inches above the floor, ready to touch the cool wood, tentatively, no longer bounding, when did it begin to hurt, this simple task of rising from bed?

 First to the bathroom, then to the coffee pot, one, very strong black cup of coffee, only one, fingers curled around the cup-not too big and not too small. This morning I trek to the back deck- to the rocker. Some mornings to the front bench, and when it is cold or raining to the big chair in the living room.

 A big, black book, a small black cup of coffee, and me and the Book, always the Book. I sip the coffee, open the Book, and drink in the words,  in life giving gulps.

Then I bow my head and savor. Savor the gift of this time. Savor the aroma, the conversation, the quiet, the love.

Perfect cup of coffee, perfect book, perfect start to the day.

Yesterday was my first child’s birthday.

I remember well, climbing five flights of steps to the labor and delivery floor of the naval hospital, I am sure there was another entrance, but my husband and I walked in the first door we saw, encountered a metal gate closing off the hall, took the stairs to the right and began to climb- me resting between landings and contractions.
No doubt,  that climb is what helped me deliver my son with comparative ease, though I did not appreciate, at the time, the barriers of gate and steps and in retrospect ignorance–why didn’t we get back in the car and drive to another entrance?
Isn’t life just like that?  We go through a door with expectation, encounter a barrier, and take the path available–the path that seems much more difficult, maybe even insurmountable, but it is the very path that helps to develop us.
I remember clearly, a prompt to lean into each step, to feel the metal banister under my hand, to hear the echo of our steps in the empty stairwell, the touch of my husbands hand on the small of my back-this was the beginning of my childs life, and I did not want to resist a minute of it. This time would not come again.
And so it is with a life well lived, the leaning into it and living the moment-not wishing it away, not resenting the circumstances, but looking for the joy and beauty in the moment-for this time will not come again.
It is not what you have or have not, but what you do with the life and resources you have been given.
It is spinning straw into gold.
Please come with me and take a moment to pause and celebrate each step of the climb.

Thank you son for helping me launch this little space–I don’t believe it is an accident that it was started on your birthday, or that you were the one that guided me through the process. I love you. Happy Birthday.

Thanks for stopping by!