on gardening and making things grow.

We pulled out the old plow when we wanted deeper furrows. Father said all the earth needed to be turned upside down and we had the morning to make life out there. The top soil was dry, but when we shoveled down we found the left-over moisture of April showers. It is not so very hard, to dig down and bring up freshness.

We put in the sweet onions and whistled something like a tune we somewhat knew. Sister and I repeated lines by Frances Hodgson Burnett—“a bit of earth… to plant seeds in—to make things grow—to see them come alive.” Then we put in the corn. And it took us time to find the watering can brother lost. But we collected worms in an old pot the whole time so we could go fishing later.

When the sun hit the top of the sky, mother brought us iced tea. And we all laughed at the little games we played while we worked. There is not much we could think of that would be better to do. Because we all need a garden, if for nothing else, than to make life in.

sunset in the sound.

For the beauty of the earth. The words plink about like a church piano. But the symphony joins in as eyes see surroundings. Moss on everything. Light, in the crevices and splattered over water. Salt water. Nose wrinkles as tongue tastes wet fingers. Salty alright. And fishermen go to work as the remaining gather, to rest to a seaside sunset. Sea lions safely away yet curious. Great pines stoic per normal.

For the beauty of each hour. It is dramatic, though true to scene, how breaths catch each time the sun melts a little lower. A beach of waiting, until the glow sinks all the way through the Olympics, right into the Puget Sound. Hard to go home after finales. The many over-shoulder glances testify to hearts wanting to want. And don’t we? There are only a smattering of still moments to sit in like these. We miss them more than we live them. Oh, to even know of all we fly by, that we might begin to change, to pace rightly the race.

For the joy of ear and eye. The words remind to take in the grandeur with full treasure stores of acknowledging—true, well-deep thoughts that taper into gratitude. Then single file. The remaining climb up and out of sandy pebbles. Back to firesides we won’t light because, and this is glorious, the warmth didn’t melt away. So we will sing truly all the way home.

For Thyself, best Gift Divine.

life, we love thee.

We stand tip-toed to sky-high dreams, and wonder at life. It is delight to ask. To listen. It is delight to learn from the answers.

There are dark months. But when we walk into light we see it better for those long tunnels.

“And Life, I love thee. Not because thou art long, or because thou hast done great things for me, but simply because I have thee from God.”[1]

Sunrise at Lake Washington.

We have life. Not for an extraordinary amount of time, not for the purposes we often end up making it about. We have it all the same. Easy to forget to love it though. Easy to say we hate it instead.

We walk into long lines and bad health. We fail, we hurt, and we declare joy-doom over it all—“Hate this. So much.” Most times we have perfectly good reasons to, but that does not make us the happier. Complaining, even if justifiable, is a sure shot to a poor, frowning type of life.

And we have to stop. Stop complaining.

We have to mean it when we tell them, “it is okay.” No more shoving the anger down into the pot. It always boils over. It does. When we are inconvenienced, that is right when life is. It is when we decide whether or not we keep treating people like people. When we choose to rush, or to sit silent in a moment, that is right when life is. When we do the work and whistle like jolly dwarves in the mine. May not be any diamonds today, but let us whistle our hearts back to happiness. For this is right when life is.

We want to say it, in all authenticity—“Life, I love thee!” So we should try. See it as the given thing of precious days that it is. See the Giver in His goodness. And when we look up this morning, we find a sun and feel a breeze that thick scales of discontent would not let us experience those mornings before. Life—we love thee.

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[1] Jim Elliot