Send the Rain

My herbs have been neglected. They are in large pots on the front porch, but it's so easy to walk by them everyday without really seeing. One day I noticed that my dill had all shriveled up. I pulled up the little plants and rubbed the dry stalks over the pot of soil. Then I stirred it up with a twig and gave it a bit of water. A green thumb is something I lack, but I thought maybe something would sprout.

I watered the pot for a few days, but nothing happened. Things are busy around here, and after about two weeks with no results I let myself forget all about it again.

It's been raining. Tender green blades are poking up.

My prayer today is that God would water the areas in my life I have so long neglected. There are places I have planted good seeds, then became distracted and weary of tending them. I pray for the Master Gardener to impart life, for resurrection in the dry places.

Send the rain.

Hands

She stood waiting for Him. When He came near she noticed how unflinching his gaze was.

"Let me see your hands," He said.

Her eyes widened.

"My hands?"

"Yes."

Slowly she held out her hands. He took hers in His and scrutinized them.

"Your hands look dirty," He said.

A blush crept up her neck.

"I cannot get the stains out. It's from working in the garden," she explained.

He nodded.

He continued to look closely her hands.

He indicated a partially healed mark.

"What happened here?"

" The burn?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I was cooking and touched a hot pan."

"And the scar?"

She thought it was such a tiny scar that no one would notice, but He did.

"I was washing windows and one broke."

"Why are your hands wet?" He asked.

"A little boy fell over there," she gestured, "just a moment ago. I was waiting for You and had nothing else to wipe his tears with, so I used my hands."

"The garden," He said, "Was it my garden you were working in?"

"Why, yes Lord, it was," she said.

"Were you cooking for My servant when you burnt your hand?"

"Yes Lord," she said, remembering that she had been.

"This scar," He held up her hand, "Were you washing windows in the house built for those who come to hear of Me?"

She nodded.

"And these tears here in your palm, are they the tears of one of My lambs?"

"Yes Lord," she whispered.

"Beloved," He said to her, "You have the most beautiful hands."

Holiday Weekend

A weekend at home,
surrounded by my children
large and small.

Couches are full,
T.V. turned on,
movie time.

The cupboard is empty of bowls.
They wait, in the sink,
to be washed . . .
again.

I made Mom's Chicken Soup,
jello (three kinds)
and
a jug of sweet tea.

We are almost out of tissues.
The little one asks,
"Can Daddy go get me some Puffs?"

I spoon in purple medicine
and pass out white tablets.

A cool cloth.

She scowls,
looks at her brother
and accuses,
"He germed up the cereal bars."
Coughs.
"I bet he licked them."

Sweet Muffins

I wanted to make muffins this morning. I cook like my Nana did. Most of the time I don't bother to measure or look in a cookbook, but sometimes you need a recipe. I dug through my recipe box. What were they called? Breakfast Muffins? Easy Muffins? I flipped through cards for Angie's Cake, Baked Beans, Chocolate Frosting, Hawaiian Pork Chops. I smiled, remembering the time my box seemed unusually disorganized. I was shuffling through the cards that day when my then eight year old son said, "You know how you always say you can't find the recipe?"

"Mmm hmmm," I said, intent on my search.

"I fixed that," he said.

I looked up.

"You did?"

"Yup," he said proudly. "I put them in alphabetical order."

Nana had three boys, too.

I found the card. They are called Sweet Muffins.