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The Days of Summer

Once a summer I go to the woods with Elv. I missed my day last summer. So yesterday was it.

The day flew by quickly. I was going to blog, but there were distractions. Once a spotted fawn, apparently wayward with no mother, came right up to me. Reaching for my phone broke the spell and it pranced away. There was time to visit with my dad and sister on WhatsApp and the phone. Stalking a monarch butterfly on the flowering milkweed with intentions of getting a picture was useless.

Useless, unless you understand how priceless it is to have this moment to do something so entirely nonsensical. Right then, with nothing else in the world, that I could be doing or should be doing.  I have nothing tangible to show for the experience. Nothing, except getting a glimpse of creation so fragile, yet so safe from the likes of me. Only God could think how to make a monarch butterfly do what it does to Mexico and back and I can’t even get one picture. Who is in control around here is again, front and center. I can trust Him.

This summer is better than last summer. For everyone, I suppose, considering. Am I the only person eating up the opportunities to play with the grandkids, visit with people, and shop unmasked, plus go to church every single Sunday?

I discovered this beautiful cat at work. She’s tin-made, has texture and grace, besides having an attractive attitude. She posed for me beside a framed sea glass cat. Life is quite funny-weird, too, which also is wonderful to me this summer.

Morning coffee-in-bed trays should at least spark great ideas. So I created this one last week.

Flowers and fishing, summer 2021. So much better than all the references to everything 2020.

The current babies. Margaret and Dawson. Sometimes I only want to breathe in their baby-ness and know they’re growing up for Jesus, because their parents did, by God’s grace, in spite of our humanness and mistakes. This is probably the keenest gratitude ever. Someday, our children will understand.

This picture is priceless for reasons I can’t write here. But I will say this. There’s something amazing about daughters raised in town on a street surrounded acre, turning into farm girls after marriage. And not because their husbands are farmers either. Nope. Our four daughters are more like their  grandmothers than like me. How does that work?

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