Chilly, finally, after the unusually warm weather we’ve been having. The earth was wet from rain in the night, temperature in the high 30s, so I had bundled up, and had pulled on gloves for the trek to the lake, even though it is hard to handle Winston and the camera while wearing gloves. Lake Gregory was spectacular, and as I often do, I thought I don’t come down here enough. Before the day was over, rain pelted our woods, and our yards, and soft, watery snow fell in its typical silent way.
How did God make all this? Did He sit down somewhere–a kind of creation studio–and consider the varieties of trees, flowers, leaf shapes, stone colors, animal faces, ocean volume, sand for the deserts, whiskers and noses . . .?
I saw that several large trees have been felled near the lodge. Why? Were they diseased, or just somehow in the way or . . .? I have friends who have recently danced about with death, some even at this moment are dodging and weaving, and I have a sense of its dreadfulness, and that the cutting down of life smacks of pain and decay, and we don’t like it.
“How many want to go to Heaven today?” Nathaniel’s little five-year-old voice boomed from the upstairs area as we sat around in the living room with guests. No one answered, so that little grandson of mine asked again, “How many want to go to Heaven today?” We adults–Christians, ministers–grinned, looked at each other, and decided none of us wanted to go today. Strange, huh? Or not?
Yesterday, hard rain struck our earth here in Crestline, frigid cold enveloped our land, and then hail pebbles by the thousand pelted our decks and our gardens.
Today, I walked among the invigorated plants where I saw that water drops still lipped on the edges of some of them. Last fall I stuffed a tub that sets on the side planter with bulbs. Today, an Iris is open. Another is a splendid promise.
When we walked by his enclosure again a little latter, he was fast asleep.
During the month of October there are no admission charges to the San Diego Zoo for youngsters 11 years and under. On Saturday, Jerry and I loaded up Brady and Ella and we four walked about for more than five hours. During that time, we saw this glorious bird, who first showed its magnificent eyelashes to great advantage.
I love these acorns, which to me appear as little people with cute, notched hats atop their smooth brown faces. I love them . . . except that we have hundreds, nay thousands falling from the great oak branches overhead onto our decks, our steps, and our driveway. Jerry mutters as he sweeps . . . again.
I’m fascinated by acorns not only for their cuteness, but because of their potential . . . their message . . . their story. For within each of these is capsuled hope, adventure, a bursting forth, a new life.
Captured some still life images today . . . Still . . . yet existing in a busy world. Still . . . yet speaking to form, to color, to texture, to life . . . A voice of age.I bought this pomegranate because of its brilliant color and because I know there are dozens of glistening rubies hidden within this simple orb.
Heirloom tomatoes are not smooth, evenly circular, of consistent tones, nor are they predictable . . . except that their taste is exquisite.
Psalm 149:4 For the LORD taketh pleasure in his people: he will beautify the meek with salvation.