Every December, I retrieve a worn box from the basement containing a creche with clay figures Tava brought from Mexico. As I arrange them, I play my favorite Christmas music—James Taylor at Christmas—and reflect on the story set in a humble manger: the miracle of Mary’s baby, fully human and fully God, and the wide-eyed shepherds who came to worship. In this nativity set, the shepherds are absent, but they have left their little lamb to hold their place. 

The wise men appear with their gifts, though in the Gospel account, they visited Mary and Joseph later at home (see Matthew 2). An ox and a ram rest nearby, and though the scripture doesn’t specify animals, we can easily see them fitting into the manger scene. But then, there are the whimsical figures—a giraffe peering over Joseph’s shoulder and a baby elephant at the infant King’s feet—as if they belonged there. 

At first, it’s easy to dismiss the elephant and giraffe as not part of the historical account. But viewed allegorically, we might see ourselves in those out-of-place creatures—for who of us is worthy to stand before the God of Heaven? We are more out of place in God’s throne room than a giraffe in a manger. Yet because Jesus was born and offered His life as a sacrifice, we are invited into a relationship with an open door to God. 

Scripture describes this access: “...in Jesus Christ our Lord and through faith in Him, we may approach God with freedom and confidence” (Ephesians 3:11-12).

With that access in mind, the question naturally arises: how should we respond to Him? The last stanza of the old Christmas Carol “In the Bleak Midwinter” answers that question simply for me: 

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. 

If I were a wise man, I would know my part. 

What then can I give Him? 

I must give my heart.

My favorite version of that song is by James Taylor. You can hear it here.

At the Top of the Pillar

At the top of our front porch pillar is a colorful nest where five baby phoebes peer down silently as I pass. They stack together like spices in a pantry, and with their insatiable appetites, both parents work in tandem to provide a steady stream of food.

Early in the morning, I hear the male phoebe's song from across the yard. Perched on a bare yucca stem, he scans the ground for a fat bug to feed his nestlings. He swoops down, flying low like a crop duster, and pivots to catch his plump prey. After admiring his kill for a moment, he flies up to deliver a meal to the hungry chicks. Following him, the female wrestles with a butterfly to provide dinner for the voracious nestlings. Not all of their prey submit willingly. 

By this afternoon, three of the nestlings had climbed out of the nest and onto the pillar ledge, creating some breathing room in their stifling quarters. They won't be here much longer. At least then, the butterflies will be able to breathe a little easier.

Dad and the Acacia Tree

Where I grew up in rural Northern California, the four seasons were not sharply defined like they are here in the Ozarks. Most of the trees were evergreens, predominately redwoods, which didn't have noticeable seasonal changes; our seasons were defined more subtly. Summer was squealing with shock as we dipped into the frigid Smith River, and riding Larry Johnson's donkey, Joe. In the evenings, after dinner, we'd play softball with friends from the neighborhood, disbanding reluctantly at dusk when we could scarcely see home plate. 

Fall would begin with a familiar knot in my stomach at the loss of freedom. Then, I'd settle into the routine of math competitions, science projects, and history class with the handsome Mr. Vernon. 

But there was always something magical about spring. Spring was riding my bike to the beach down Moorehead Road, past the fields of cows and the handmade sign, For Sale - Red Wriggler Fish worms. Spring was the hum of bees, the fragrance of wildflowers on the wind, and the feeling that things were all right with the world.

In my world, spring was also defined by the acacia tree. My family lived in the parsonage behind the town's only church. In the front yard of the church was a vast acacia tree. It was a perfect tree for climbing, its massive limbs reaching so low that all but the very youngest of us could manage to scramble up and perch there after church. The limbs were covered with tiny holes, which, at the time, I thought were characteristic of acacia trees. I have since realized they were the work of woodpeckers and may have indicated something about the health of the tree. Whatever its condition, it always managed to put on a grand display in the spring when its tiny blossoms, like miniature yellow tennis balls, covered the tree, garnering the attention of everyone in town. 

My father, besides being the pastor, also acted as a groundskeeper. When he determined the tree was no longer safe, he cut it down without any notice, an act that managed to anger a significant part of the congregation and much of the community. But Dad was never too concerned about public opinion. He may have seemed impulsive at times, but he had probably been thinking about that tree for a long time. Dad didn't want to get into an extensive discussion about it or have a committee formed to study the implications of such an action. And he certainly didn't want to see any children get hurt.

One way or another, people managed to get over the loss, and nobody could stay mad at Dad for long. He was just too fun to be around. His laughter would fill a room like the aroma of mom's Sunday pot roast.

After all these years, I've decided that, besides keeping the church kids safe, my father did us all a favor by cutting down that old acacia tree. He reminded us that nothing here on earth, not even things of exquisite beauty, are permanent. Centuries ago, the prophet Isaiah said it best:

"The grass withers and the flowers fall,

because the breath of the Lord blows on them.

Surely the people are grass.

The grass withers and the flowers fall,

but the word of our God endures forever."

Isaiah 40:7, 8

In a world of falling blossoms, it's good to know that the God whose word endures is the One who loves us deeply, who sent His only Son so we can live.

And this is the testimony:

God has given us eternal life,

and this life is in His Son.

1 John 5:11

First published on March 20, 2011

Thunder

 

After a long, cold winter, the earth has heaved a sigh of relief, It's warm breath moistening the air and spurring new growth. 

In the afternoons, thunderheads have been sprouting against blue skies, promising rain and delivering little, even though showers poured down all around us. But this morning, a storm kicked off with Goliath's bowling ball bouncing on the roof, followed by raging wind and rain. 

I love Midwest thunderstorms; they always sound like they mean business. Growing up in the Northwest, most of the thunder I remember was distant and didn't send dogs slinking under the bed. 

I was in my twenties when I moved from Oregon to Kansas City. Dad had recounted with fondness the storms of his youth in Illinois. I waited through a bitter winter before experiencing my first Midwest spring storm. Thunder jolted me awake in the middle of the night, and deciding to get all I could out of the show, I padded into the tiny apartment kitchen and popped some popcorn. 

Back in the bedroom, I sat on the floor near the sliding glass doors, my neck craned, and watched in wonder as lightning split the sky, and the heavens roared. It was spectacular, everything I had hoped for.

I will never cease to marvel at thunder and lightning or the reminder that the One who made the storm is the One who loves us more than we can comprehend.

Who can understand how He spreads out the clouds,

how He thunders from His pavilion?

Job 36:19 

For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son... 

John 3:16 

Check out more sky images at the Skywatch site!

First published on June 7, 2014,

Cockleburs

After October's drought, when the ground was dry as cocoa powder without the flavor, and dust clouds followed our every footstep, the rain on our hilltop this week was a welcome relief. Unfortunately, not everyone benefited; storms caused roads and bridges to wash out and damaged fields and fences, but that's a story for someone else to tell. 

By Tuesday, we had accumulated 12 3/4 inches, and envisioning the streams and tiny rivulets down the hill, I couldn't resist the call of the hollow. Gus and I headed down the familiar trail to a slope overlooking the broad valley. Two brooks rushed over the recently dry rocks, then merged to form a swollen stream flowing to the lake. From my vantage point, the enchantment of it all took my breath away. I knew the valley teamed with ticks, stick tights, and cockleburs, and my better judgment told me to turn back, but the beauty before me beckoned me on.

Down the hill, Gus sprinted across the creek as I picked my way over slippery rocks, the water rushing over my water-proof boots and squishing between my toes.

Once across, I called Gus, and my heart sank as I saw his head pop up from the midst of a field of ripe cockleburs. He limped my way, but the damage had already been done. Many of the small, thorny fruits of the plant were attached to his coat, and every step he took toward me attracted more. 

When he reached me, I stooped and extracted a few from between his paws and others I could get quickly; the rest had to wait until we got home. Armed with cuticle scissors, I began the painstaking removal process, which took nearly an hour and a half and gave me plenty of time to regret my decision to venture into the hollow. Despite the discomfort, Gus remained remarkably patient and trusting, and when it was over,  he was free of the thorns and handsome again. 

Gus's tail before

Gus's tail after

Except for his tail, that is. He noticed the chop job the next day, and if you see him, please don't mention it; he's a little chagrined about his new haircut.

Teddy Bear Bees

Under an azure blue October sky, Gus and I have been observing insects. Lately, we've been captivated by the maneuvers of a small militia of carpenter bees at work on the salvia.

These gentle creatures, clad in fuzzy jackets, always remind me of teddy bears. Just a month ago, the swarm was too numerous to count, which didn't stop me from trying, but now, five or six of them at a time seem like a crowd. 

 

Like skilled acrobats, they catch rides on the swaying flower stems, ducking their heads inside the blooms to sip the sweet nectar, then carry pollen from blossom to blossom, humming as they go. 

"How many are your works, Lord!

In wisdom you made them all;

the earth is full of your creatures."

Psalm 104:24

You can read the whole chapter here, and it's truly outstanding!

It's a Girl!

After observing a monarch butterfly chrysalis for 19 days, I almost gave up on a butterfly emerging. But the chrysalis was transparent this morning, and I could see a tiny monarch butterfly inside. That was encouraging. This afternoon, when I returned from a Ladies' Prayer Brunch with four friends (where at least one prayer went up for the monarch), I invited them into the house, hoping to find something spectacular. We were delighted to see a flawless female monarch hanging from her empty, crumpled chrysalis. She had thick black veins and was missing the black dots on the lower wings that identify males. We named her Amelia. She has a treacherous journey ahead.

Life can be tough for a monarch. Of the thirteen caterpillars I saw on the purple milkweed early last month, I only found five chrysalises. A fat lizard lurking a few yards away in the dog kennel was a prime suspect in their demise. The five caterpillars that formed chrysalises suffered a similarly sad fate. None of them made it to maturity. So, when I discovered two more caterpillars on the butterfly milkweed in my raised garden at the end of September, I was happy to have another chance to witness an awe-inspiring transformation. 

I watched the two for a few days. Only one remained when I returned from church on Sunday at the end of last month. I was determined to keep sight of this one. The tiny creature made her way around the raised garden as slowly as a robo vac mapping a room, but with even less certainty, then crawled to the ground and continued her trek. To form a chrysalis, she needed to find an upright form to attach to, but the search was challenging. From a caterpillar's perspective, even blades of grass looked like trees. 

As much as I hate to interfere with nature, I was getting hungry. So by the time she reversed her direction the third time, when she crawled onto a leaf,  I picked it up and carried it to the laid stone structure that holds our birdbath. Another quest ensued before the caterpillar found her spot- a sheltered rock protected from direct sunlight on the structure's north side. There, she stopped and rested. When I checked in on her that night, she had attached her back end with silken strands and hung in a J shape. By the next morning, she had shed her outer skin, and a soft green jewel hung there, decorated with spots of brightest gold.

Our first frost was forecasted for Wednesday this week, so Tuesday afternoon, besides covering some plants and bringing others in, I carefully detached the chrysalis from the stone it had chosen to hang from, brought it inside the house, and hung it from a chain near the window. That's where we found Amelia this morning, a brand-new, perfect butterfly clinging to the chrysalis. She stayed there as I transported her outside on the chain and hung it on the front porch. When I checked on her next, she was struggling on the bricks below. Picking a geranium blossom, I extended it to her. She seemed relieved to discover it and gingerly climbed aboard. I propped it in the geranium plant, and there she rested. When I returned, she had flown away.

Amelia may be staying near the Buffalo River tonight, but I hope it's warmer wherever she stays. And I hope she makes lots of friends in Mexico. Adios, Amelia!

 

The weather has been perfect lately, with warm days and cool, leave-your-windows-open-nights, and as the sun rose this morning, I went to check on the monarch caterpillars in my garden. I located five hanging upside down from the leaves of a large yucca plant, attached by silken threads. I was away for a good part of the morning. When I returned, they had already wiggled out of their exoskeletons, revealing the chrysalises inside. The chrysalises are beautiful jewels of soft green with glittering gold dots, and they provide a perfect home for what will, we hope, emerge as the king of butterflies. 

Stay tuned.

Contemplating Caterpillars

When I found thirteen monarch caterpillars clustered on my purple milkweed yesterday morning, they were pleasantly plump. They had eaten a large portion of leaves and were busy finishing their breakfast. By this afternoon, the number had dropped to eight. Failing a hungry bear or a wasp attack*, five had most likely left the milkweed and were looking for a place to attach and form a chrysalis. I spotted one on a nearby yucca.

By dinnertime, the caterpillar had firmly attached itself to the yucca leaf with silk threads. It hung in a "J" shape, appearing lifeless. If everything goes well, it will hang there for about eighteen hours or longer before forming a beautifully striking chrysalis. I hope to witness this transformation; I'll share it with you if I do.

Incidentally, the purple milkweed probably won't bloom, which is disappointing. It's a stunning native plant. However, anticipating observing a chrysalis and the potential emergence of a new butterfly makes the sacrifice seem worthwhile.

*A few years ago, I watched a wasp pluck a caterpillar off milkweed and carry it away.

 

Chip's Golden Escape

Seeing Gus the Golden Retriever interact with the wildlife in our backyard always amuses me. While he often enjoys watching squirrels out the window...

...they are ubiquitous, and sometimes, he tires of them.

However, there's a chipmunk that frequents the deck (we'll call him Chip). When Chip appears, Gus's attention is riveted by the small, furry ball of energy with his quick, darting movements. I'm grateful for the diversion that the tiny creature provides him.

On a recent pristine morning, I slid the deck door open, unaware of Chip's presence. Gus was out the door in a split second; he pounced and held the panicky fur ball in his mouth. My heart raced as the only sound in the vicinity came from me, yelling at the top of my lungs, 'Gus, drop it!' In that heart-stopping moment, I feared the worst. In retrospect, I shouldn't have let him watch that documentary about lemmings in Scandinavia, their fate sealed by the jaws of wild creatures. But hindsight is 20/20. To my immense relief, Gus let go, and the seemingly unharmed chipmunk made a hasty escape before diving into his hidy hole underground.

I spent the day in anguish, wondering about the psychological aftermath of the attack on Chip. Had Gus lost his primary source of indoor entertainment? But Chip proved to be resilient. Contrary to my expectations, he returned that afternoon, busily stuffing his cheeks with sunflower seeds while keeping a vigilant eye on his escape route. Gus, innocent and carefree, was unfazed by my worries and didn't seem surprised that his furry friend had reappeared.

After the attack, I pictured Chip back in his den, trembling in his recliner for a few minutes, then, determined, picking up the pieces of his day and heading to the cupboard for a bit of chocolate. There are just some things sunflower seeds can't fix.

GREEN

GREEN cover spread

I just finished a book for young children entitled GREEN. It's about spring's arrival after a long winter.

You can see the entire book here: https://www.blurb.com/books/11501641-green

GREEN spread 1

Forest Songs

After hearing reports of these birds in the area, a pair of rose-breasted grosbeaks finally showed up in our yard. The male is stunning with his bold colors...

...and he wears his heart right out in front, where everybody can see it.

The female looks like, well, like she has a good personality.

Orchard orioles have also made an appearance here lately. They are smaller than the Baltimore orioles, and instead of the brilliant orange feathers of their cousins, theirs are dark russet brown.

The males of both species may be singing the most beautiful songs in our forest, but I think the grosbeak is my favorite by a feather. You can hear them here:

Rose-breasted grosbeak song

Orchard oriole song

 

Food Fight

 

Fruit Basket Upset

 

Nearly a week ago, in the early light of dawn, something looked out of place at the hummingbird feeder out our back window. A male Baltimore Oriole, dressed in brilliant orange and black, was perched there trying to sip a liquid breakfast. 

 

Male Baltimore Oriole

 

Female Baltimore Oriole

 

These birds sometimes migrate through our area, and although we'd heard reports of them here in the past few years, it has been four years since we've seen any in our yard. Some years, they spend a night or two and are gone, but that year they came in a large flock and stayed for a fortnight. Their antics became a typical conversation starter. Instead of "Get your turkey?" the standard greeting in town was "Are you feeding the orioles?" 

 

Attached to our deck, near the bird feeder, is a bare cedar tree, and the limbs make good perches for birds. They also provide an excellent place to skewer oranges, so I cut some in half and decorated the tree with the juicy fruit. It didn't take the orioles long to notice. 

 

 

 

They would fly down from their perch high in the hickory tree, land near an orange, and dig in, scrounging out every morsel and picking the oranges clean, like a lion cleaning the bones of its prey. They are endlessly entertaining, and for the most part, the oranges have kept them off the hummingbird feeders.

 

 

Squirrels and titmice have checked out the oranges, too, and lately, the woodpeckers have been gathering the orange pulp with their long tongues. Unfortunately, as much as we like woodpeckers, they can sometimes make a mess at the hummingbird feeders and also deprive the tiny birds of their nectar. So here's a thought; if we could get the woodpeckers trained to oranges, maybe they'd stay off the hummingbird feeders.

For a while last evening, the hummingbirds were on their feeders, the orioles were on the oranges, and the woodpeckers were eating sunflower seeds and bugs. Everything was as it should be. Then a hummingbird started drinking from the orange. What's next? We can only wonder.