Garden tour

Yes, the virtual garden tour. All photos taken today. Tomorrow it will look different--things come, things go. I lost some things over the very harsh winter but thankfully most of the hydrangeas came through and the old cherry blossom tree is still hanging in there.

Front door, crepe myrtle trees, spirea

 
Back door, climbing hydrangeas, a peek at my Tibetan prayer flags :)

Back utility enclosure--the Japanese climbing hydrangea is going crazy there

Back yard under the cherry tree--there are chickadees nesting in the bird house

Volunteer ferns (came up when I pulled up the overgrown ivy) under the cherry tree

Front step--hosta in a pot

Front--under my kitchen window

 Back patio

Patio view from inside the living room

The sun

Oakleaf hydrangeas on the brick wall from the road

Pillow with no name

There was a big, big Amazon box on my doorstep a couple of days ago. I pretty much knew what it was before I opened it. My body pillow had arrived.

I’ve spent years sleeping single in a double bed. In most respects it’s not a problem. Actually it has a lot of advantages—no one snoring or kicking off the blankets or encroaching on my side of the bed. I can sleep in the middle of the bed. I can get up and get back into the bed a thousand times without anyone shouting, “Donna! For the love of God, can you just stay still for more than 5 minutes?” Or worse, “I’ve had it with you and your coughing—go sleep in the basement.” (I had pneumonia when he said that. I slept in the basement for weeks.)

The body pillow is filled with genuine goose down and has a hypoallergenic cover. It’s nearly as tall as I am and I can manipulate it to suit my moods. I can throw my leg over it when my hip hurts. (I hear Taj Mahal singing, “Throw your big leg on me mama ‘cause I might not feel this good again.")

Last night I had a crazy dream about trying to find a place to pour water into my computer. I often confuse the coffeemaker and the computer, can’t remember which one needs water to function. So when I woke up from the dream, feeling a little too warm, I kicked the body pillow on the floor. Can’t do that with a man. Don’t even try.

Since it shares my bed nightly, I’m thinking my sleeping companion needs a name. It needs to be a male name—that’s just the team I’m on. I know the pillow is made of goose down and the source of the goose down could be my inspiration for a name. I’m thinking pâté de foie gras, the pillow must be of French origin so I’ll call it Alain. Nope—checked the tag. It’s goose down from China. "Damn, why China," she whined. I could call it Mao Tse-tung but I’m not in the mood to snuggle with Chairman Mao. Or I could risk punishment, tear the tag from the pillow, and give it any name I want. I’m working on it. I think it’s worth the risk.

The humble abode

Finally . . . I'm keeping a long-term promise to post photos of the inside of my house. (Not including the lower level--respectable in its own right--and the exterior. Garden photos to come.) It's always changing, chalk paint furniture coming and going, things moving around. This is how it looks today.

Living Room (I know you'll love seeing my laundry drying outside)

Dining Room

Kitchen (Miss Eva eating in the corner)

First Floor Powder Room (note that Frida Kahlo cannot be on the same wall as the Guadalupe--they don't get along well)

Random Hall Photos

Guest Room

Guest Bath

Master Bedroom (my tranquil place, the park outside the windows. . . )

 Master Bathroom (with my bracelets)

My Office

Mantra

My mantra . . . grace.

Your love never fails

It never gives up

It never runs out on me

He promised me that His grace is sufficient. I have everything I need, everything. I have salvation, the unfailing grace of God.

If I need to find a reason to be grateful, I need only go to one thing—the grace of God, God who never gives up on me. Anything else—everything else—will come and go and my heart may, probably will ache with the losses. But God’s love is unchanging, a constant presence, whether or not I feel it. So I must trust, accept the inevitable changes and keep my sight on the constant. In the midst of a chaotic life, look to Him, hang on to Him. Don’t be distracted by the turmoil in life—He promised me there would be trouble, didn’t He? Rest in His promise, rest in the peace that He is always with me.

It’s all grace.

A ruffle too far

The blouse kept getting shoved to the back of my closet. It’s a sleeveless piece from J.Jill, a small flower print on brown linen that I bought only a few weeks ago (at a thrift store, of course). Today I pulled it out and really thought about it, wondering why I even bought it if I never intend to wear it. Everything about it is fine. Everything but the ruffles.
 

I am not a ruffles person. Not big on sequins either, or other types of adornment that include studs, polka dots, and the dreaded embroidery on the back pockets of jeans. Embroidery on the legs of jeans is even worse. Embroidery with sequins is unbearable. If given the choice to wear embroidered, sequined jeans or go au naturel, I'd probably get arrested.

 
Blanket apology to anyone who reads this and has any of the aforementioned adornments on their clothing—I’m trying not to be judgmental. Let me just say they these doodads don’t work well for me. They make my butt look fat. I’m sure you don’t have a fat butt.
 

So I did what I had to do or I would never be able to live with myself. I got out my scissors and cut some of the ruffles off of the blouse. Just snip, snip, snip. I felt much better about the blouse. Maybe I’ll sleep better without those ruffles in my closet. Still I’m not sure I’ll wear it—to me it will always be that silly ruffled blouse and I just don’t do ruffles.

Prodigal daughter

I’ve got a headache. Not a respectable headache worthy of particular note or drama. It’s not pounding. I’m not holding my temples, writhing in pain, or buried beneath my sheets to avoid the light. It’s just a boring headache that feels like the inside of my head is stuffed with dirty diapers.

It has been a really quiet day. I never left the house, didn’t listen to music, and haven’t spoken to a single person all day. I’ve just spent the day inside my head with the dirty diapers.

This is my cry for help. Lord, I hope you’re listening. Things are difficult in my life right now, yet at the same time I’m feeling particularly far away from God. He hasn’t gone anywhere—He’s right where He always is, door open—but I simply haven’t bothered to stay in communication with Him. And now the guilt is getting worse—not just because I’ve been distant from God but because I’m a sinner, not a nice person, unworthy of the love and esteem of anyone, including my Creator. I’ve got this feeling of doom, expecting God to rain down some sort of punishment on me.

So, here I am, the prodigal daughter, begging for His mercy, asking Him to show me how to bridge the gulf between us. I’m scratching feebly at His door, without even the audacity to pound boldly. My well is dry. I don’t have the energy to shout so I just whine.

“Lord, it’s me. Here I am again. I’m sorry I'm such a shit. I miss you. Please let me in.”

Times like this make me yearn for a strong connection to Him. I need to feel His presence in my life. I am brought low to feel my indebtedness, to understand His unending forgiveness, that pure grace.

If I just ask, He will make me new again. My heavenly father will welcome me home again and again. It has not been a good season for my growth in faith. I have faltered and all the troubles of an ordinary life seem to be magnified when I’m not walking in faith.

And today I read in 2 Corinthians 1 that God will still deliver us. It was the word “still” that jumped out at me. No matter how many times I falter and fail, no matter how many times I wander away from Him, He will still be there to welcome me back with open arms, with no recrimination.

This troubled world

Yes, I cried. Tears dripping on today’s Washington Post.

By intention I live a tranquil, sheltered life. I picked up the newspaper today and read about the new Degas/Cassatt exhibit opening at the National Gallery of Art. Wow, I think, I have to see that—it might be enough to make me go the few miles into the city. Maybe I’ll even be wild and crazy and take the Metro into town. I was eager to read the Weekend section of the paper for reviews of local farmers markets to learn where I could go to find the freshest and most exciting delicacies of the season.

But it was impossible to miss the photo on the front page of today’s newspaper—a young Burmese mother holding her starving infant. I wanted to look away, to fold the paper inside out so I never had to be reminded that such an image exists and that it dare to put a dagger into my peaceful life. Tears welled up in my eyes. How could anyone with a heart look at that image and feel nothing?

The article with the photo described the situation in a refugee camp in Burma. Muslim refugees are being starved, virtually ignored by their government, barred from assistance by foreign relief agencies, and bullied by extremist Buddhists. Yes, apparently there are extremist Buddhists in Burma. Something I never imagined could exist. Isn’t that the complete antithesis of Buddhism? What people do in the name of religion never ceases to amaze me. But this one has risen to the top of my list of incomprehensible things about alleged people of faith.

My quotidian concerns include where I can find perfect raspberries this week. I fret about my technique for making coffee. I get angry when Whole Foods runs out of Power Muffins. Admittedly I am a self-indulgent middle class American woman who never had to worry about her babies getting enough food or health care. I hate the stereotype and there’s something I hate about myself for being so comfortable in it, for feeling that I deserve these things.

When I saw the photo I cried for the woman’s heartbreak. I cried for a world that never ceases to be cruel and unfair. I cried for myself, for all the times I have looked away from these photos. And I feel powerless in a world gone wrong, trapped in a humanity besieged by evil and pain. If I dare look at it.

Can you give me some solace, O Lord? Can you give me some hope in this troubled world?

 I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world. 

John 16:33

Photo credit: Andre Malerba, Getty Images

My grace is sufficient

Mark was a big-hearted man who loved his family. He loved the Lord. He was my little brother and today marks that sad day he was murdered—shot in the back 3 years ago in his own front yard.

So I read scripture to try to make sense of it, to find some solace for my aching heart. I read 2^nd Corinthians, the section about Paul’s “thorn” in which Paul asks God to remove the thorn but God says no, the thorn stays. God’s words to Paul:

 My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. 2Cor 12:9

I think about God’s response and how I can find some peace in His words. I suppose the Lord’s power is being made perfect because of my own incredible weakness. As if His power could be any more perfect. So glad I can help, that I can do something to make Him beyond perfect. Just doing my part being incredibly weak. But I digress. . .

For me, this message should be my mantra—“my grace is sufficient for you.” This is God comforting me when I feel the sadness, the loss, the anger, the endless questions about His plan and His goodness in light of this horrible human tragedy. My brother gets killed, it hurts, and I look to heaven and remind myself that He said His grace is sufficient.

So I suspend my lack of understanding. Nothing changes what happened. If I’m angry with God, disappointed in a life full of things that seem unfair, nothing changes. But if I trust the Lord, it changes my heart, it gives me peace beyond understanding because He has said to me, directly to me, “My grace is sufficient for you.”

 

Miss you, little brother.