Scissors, please

A gruesome site greeted me when tending the garden after being gone for a week of family vacation.  Sure, there were the typical weeds and such, no big deal, just hands and knees stuff.  But what gave me a drop-shoulder-roll-eyes kind of pause was the leftover feathered carcass of a bird that had obviously been trying to pilfer my blackberries, but had gotten entangled in the netting.

Not a pretty site.  Not a happy ending.  (I will spare any readers a photo.)  I mean, he was, after all, just trying to get something to eat, doing what birds do naturally.  It’s not like I could put up a “No Trespassing” sign, although my dad suggested I could hang up some brightly colored ribbons.  That could help them at least see the netting, but the berries are just so inviting, I’m not sure it would divert them enough.

Where’d THAT come from?

Today our sweet 2-year-old granddaughter turns THREE!!  I continue to store up memories that only grandchildren can bestow.  Her memory, however, is a bit different:

For example, our dear one won’t remember the day she received her wonderful cartoon bed as a gift from her parents.  Her dad found it especially for Christmas, modeled after a favorite anime character, and it is as soft and comfortable and cute as can be.  At two and a half, however, her brain is so busy forming a gazillion neuro-pathways that it’s a little

Preserving more than berries

My first attempts at gardening several years ago were pretty funny.  The bunnies, as much as I love them, kept helping themselves to my tender tomato plants.  I’d come out to check my little lovelies, and DRAT!  There went another one!  So I started to concoct various creative boundaries and kept replanting.  I even tried that trick of putting a garden hose around the area so the furry thumpers would think there was a snake lurking about.

It was less than effective, except to amuse Bob, who christened the area my DMZ. 

My friend, Louise, has a garden.  I mean, a real garden.  My garden is more of an adult re-living her childhood of playing in the dirt.  Louise and her husband—they actually know what they’re doing.

When they moved in a few years ago, there was no

AND, he cleans bathrooms…!!

It’s kinda hard to argue with your husband when he’s cleaning the bathroom because, well…HE’S CLEANING THE BATHROOM!!  Granted, for you younger women who implemented the non-traditional delegation of labor from day one of the honeymoon, this may not seem like a big deal.  But for those of us who grew up during the revered years of the reigning queen of domesticity (“June Cleaver”), just trust me…it’s a big deal.

To score Bob a few more points in the annuls of wifedom, his comment to me several years ago was, “It’s my goal in life for you to never clean another bathroom.” 

And after my subsequent recovery…

(Just kidding.)

But he wasn’t, and I should be so worthy of such lofty goals!?!  So, our little tête-à-tête had to do with an ingredient I had

PUSH to enter

Assertiveness has never been one of my innate qualities.  I don’t remember ever getting a spanking in my life, not necessarily because my parents were liberal-minded types against any form of corporate discipline; it may be more like you could look at me and make me cringe in fear.  (I’ve improved with age, but not too much.) 

So when I read the story of Caleb’s daughter, Acsah, I’m a bit intrigued.  Caleb was on Joshua’s side when Moses originally sent in the crew to check out the Promised Land.  Ten of the fellas came back with their tails tucked between their legs, intimidated by the people’s size and strength.  Caleb and Joshua, on the other hand, were ready to go in with both barrels blazing. 

Now, several decades down

Harmony, in any language.

One of Bob’s brothers was a army paratrooper out of Fort Bragg.  He then went on to get his M.Div. from Fuller in California.  So somewhere along the way he was dubbed “the warrior priest”.  (We still have a couple of his army jackets—your tax dollars at work…)

Evidently, English is not an easy second language to learn, but Richie mentioned how difficult it was to learn Greek and Hebrew.  I can only imagine the hours he spent at a desk pouring over books and notes.  It had to be an intentional positioning of his body and mind to make sense of all those squiggly marks!

So I have an increased respect for those who delve into the classic languages, and those who have sacrificed much more than time to bring us the Bible in our own tongue.  Through the years, even I have picked up a few words here and there. I have a sweet gold necklace that Bob’s mom brought back to me from a visit to Israel that is my name in Hebrew.  (At least, that’s what she was told; for all I know it could say “go home, Yankee pig”, but that’s beside the point.)  Years ago, I