Being messy

I'm baking chocolate chip cookies this afternoon and freezing them as fast as I can. Who isn't tempted to consume warm cookies right out of the oven? Brent, Becky and Austyn Grace visit here next week and then we'll eat those thawed confections together. Since all the Wolfes like underbaked cookies, the first batch out of the oven can be little more than warmed dough. Getting those gooey morsels just right requires a balance somewhere between softness that would make the Keebler elves ashamed of their hard crunchy cookies and globs of amorphous dough that break apart. The underbaked cookies taste great, but they sure create sticky hands and poor looking specimens that the Iron Chef would banish from his kitchen.
Another messy scene occurred when we went to Brewster's in Statesboro, GA. There, Austyn Grace got a baby ice cream cone for her second birthday. She devoured that thing with relish and wore about as much as she ate. We laughed, she giggled, and the two dogs we had with us tried to lick Austyn Grace to pieces.
Somehow I wish the messes I can get into were as inconsequential and as humorous as cookies and ice cream. But as adults we realize that some personal interactions, poor financial or career choices, or unexplainable life situations leave messes in their wake that have no easy answers or quick remedies. Cleaning up after cookie baking or ice cream spills is far easier. Nevertheless, I do clean up kitchen catastrophes and wash toddler clothing. Can I do any less with the other messes? Cleaning up will take more time and work, and humor will not usually hallmark them, but those clean-ups can have far-reaching repercussions for good in my character. Hmmmmm. That'll give me something to ponder as I do the dishes.

Porch time

My husband likes to read, plan projects, watch the birds, process and think whenever he sits out on our 25-foot long porch. He craves solitude and energizes from it. He thrives on what he dubs "porch time." When we had this cabin built in 2002, my good friend and principal of the high school where I worked lauded the value of time to process all the information that bombards us daily. He commended Dave for his porch time. Even in cold weather my husband dons his ski parka and sits out there for long stretches of time.
On the other hand, I'll admit to being a fair-weather porch sitter, but I do find it refreshing to work out there in these summer months. I pick wild flowers and place various arrangements on the porch table. This small table also accommodates the lap top, my Bible, some gardening tools, and whatever books I'm in the process of reading. Despite the clutter on the table, I relish the views of the trees, four bird feeders, and the field of wild flowers, the fruit of my husband's sowing boxes of wild flower seeds the first four summers we came out here for vacations.
I now take the time to unwind, to simply appreciate the beauty of all that surrounds us here. I also write, read or talk with my husband or the kids when they call. Echoing Thoreau, I purpose to live "intentionally" in these woods. And I try to process what I read, see or hear and not just drink in ever increasing draughts from our information-laden society. I'll be posting this later tonight because I'm headed back out to the porch. Hope you get some porch time yourself today.

And sweetly distills in the dew and the rain

You may recognize the above title as a line from the hymn, "O Worship the King, All Glorious Above." Today the rains came to western Maryland and I, driving home from having had a doctor's appointment in Annapolis, drove through sheer deluges as I came across I 68. So what "sweetly [distilled] in the rain"? Interestingly, enough, I often cast my eyes to the definition of "prayer" from the Shorter Catechism, attempting to memorize it as I drove. Having no DVD player and a limited number of radio channels provided the quiet time for concentration, and I held the paper as, phrase by phrase, I tried to cajole my addled brain cells into memorization.
The first phrase, "Prayer is an offering up of our desires unto God for things agreeable to His will," gives me pause. Precise language impresses me; "an offering up" carries more impact than "an offering." I need to trust God, believing His sovereignty knows and ordains "things agreeable to His will," events that will bring Him glory and conform me more to His image. Fine, when all goes well, but what about the 34-year-old dad who died? That death returns me to meditating and surrendering my idea of how things should go "to God for things agreeable to His will." May the rain on the daisies help distill such a prayer offering.

Fragility of Life

Breezes atop Winding Ridge blow most days, but on Sunday afternoons I pay better attention. I watch sunshine peeking through windows and casting shadows on the wood walls; I contemplate more of what's important and less of what's impending in the upcoming week. My older son and his wife have attended the funeral of a 34-year-old friend who leaves a wife and two children to face life without him. That's a bitter pill in this life, but will we treat our spouse with more love and appreciation in the everyday happenings of life a few days from now? We are such forgetful creatures. But for right now, on this ridge where I live, the stirrings of love for my husband of 41 years blow over me and remind me to love with gale force.