Month: August 2020

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Hope and Peace

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.       Romans 15:13

I breathe in the clean, crisp air of a new morning. The rain has washed the landscape, my geraniums and petunias are bursting in their brilliant reds, purples, and whites. Familiar warbles and bird-songs in the trees above, a gentle baa from the barnyard, and I relax with my cup of coffee, content to know that this is my Father’s world.

He is the God of hope, and yes, he does fill me with all joy and peace . . . at this moment.

But what if I were in the middle of the fires that our neighbors are facing? What if I had been told last night that my loved one had been killed in an accident? What if I had listened to the news before I had my first cup of coffee?

Would God still be my source who fills me with joy and peace and hope?

 Joy. Peace. Hope. Is there any hope left in this fallen world threatened by extinction from virus, political upheaval, storms, fires, and violence? From where do joy and peace come when every newscast is brimming with the degradation of our culture?   Despair would be more natural.

Yet, I find hope, not by the world’s standards, nor because of my own optimistic soul. I find hope in a sovereign God. And I find joy and peace because I trust him to refill me again and again through the power of the Holy Spirit.

Yes, I am not alone, nor am I facing this world in my own power, with my own strength, with my own wisdom. This most comforting thought sustains my hope, peace, and yes, joy.

It is not optimism to trust all His promises. And I know those promises because I know Him.

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.

Romans 15:13 | NIV | faith Spirit Holy Spiri

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COVID Confusion?

I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. Sunday morning and it is seven-fifteen. The alarm should have gone off. I jumped (or rolled) out of bed and quickly donned my clothes. Although we are now watching church on-line during the COVID era, Sunday is special.

Judd remained in bed. That should have been my first clue.

Hurrying to the kitchen, I turned on the coffee pot, grabbed some Panera bagels from the freezer (we always have some kind of sweet rolls on Sunday), and made my way to the garage to begin my daily chores: feed the cats, fill the grain canisters, and make my way to the barnyard.

It could not have been a more beautiful morning! My heart was full of joy, and I softly sang: “Good morning, Lord, it’s great to see the sun again . . . “

The chickens and ducks, happy to be released from the pen, ran quickly to their bowls of grain.

Since Donkey and Goat were visiting the Troyer’s front pasture, I made my way across the gravel road to drop them a little grain and say “good morning.”

On my way back to the house, I stopped to check for the Sunday paper. The box was empty.

That should have been my second clue.

Grace Baptist’s curch service was scheduled for 8:00, so after grabbing a cup of coffee and a bagel, I began trying to check in to Facebook for the service. I was having a difficult time getting it to come up.

That should have been my third clue.

When Judd emerged from the bedroom, he noticed breakfast on the table and questioned, “So we have bagels this morning?”

“Well, yeees,” I replied as I continued looking frantically for the church service, “at least I am.” Judd went out to the front porch to enjoy his coffee and bagel.

Fourth clue that I was missing.

I gave up. Frustrated from searching and not finding a live service by now, I figured that there must be a glitch in technology.

 

Fifth clue?

Looking out the kitchen window, I noticed the Troyers were still home. They had started going back to church once it had opened, but with the virus currently in pandemic mode, we older folks were not going.

Maybe someone in the Troyer family was sick and they decided to stay home. So, I called Sara to find out.

“Why didn’t you go to church this morning?” I wondered aloud as she answered the phone.

“Go to church? Why would I go to church this morning?” She sounded very puzzled.

“Well, isn’t it Sunday?” By now I was beginning to feel a little bewildered myself.

“Mom, it is Wednesday.”

Okay, this is not easy to admit, but I had lost my sense of time. Is this what being in a sort-of house arrest does to you? Was I “tetched” by COVID?

For several days after that, as Judd and I lay in bed in the morning, I would say jokingly, “Is it Sunday morning, yet?”

BUT, what if no one had corrected me? Since I thought I was living in Sunday, should anyone correct me? Wasn’t what I imagined or felt important?

Or was it better to be brought back to some sense of reality?

I prefer reality, and if it takes someone living in a rational world to reflect that reality to me, please, for the sake of my sense and soul, and regardless of what our culture says today, please tell me Truth.

 

 

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on neighborly social distancing

Thud! Judd and I had just settled into our recliners in the living room. That strange sound had come from outside the kitchen window.

“What in the world was that?” I leaned forward, my eyes scanning the dining area to the kitchen. What I saw caused me to giggle and jump from my chair.

Our neighbor’s chickens have not heard of social distancing. Every morning for weeks they had been coming across the brome field to accompany me in my morning chores of feeding two chickens, two ducks, a goat, and a donkey. And then, they gravitate to the bird feeder.

Judd feeds the birds, and ever since our grandson, Hezekiah, has taken to bird-watching in a very serious manner, Judd has become more heavily invested in that bird-feeder. And he did not consider feeding chickens as part of the deal.

It became a ritual: every time he saw the chickens under his bird feeder pecking away at the kernels that had fallen to the ground, he would run out and chase them away . . . only for them to return as soon as he disappeared into the house.

The familiar scene became entertainment for our grandchildren who could watch from their large dining room window across the road while they completed their homeschool assignments.

At last, Judd decided it would take more than just chasing them from the bird feeder. With great resolve, he would shout, wave his arms, and chase them all the way across the brome field to their own chicken pen. It worked.

However, several days later, two of the hens, a Barred Rock and a rusty Americana, began to venture back to our yard, mostly hanging out with my chickens from across the fence. Within days, they became aware that I lived in this house, I brought grain from this house, and I fed chickens.

The scene that had brought a smile to my face was directly outside my kitchen window. Stretching to see inside were four beady-eyed chicken heads perched on two scrawny necks. The hens were sitting on the back of the porch swing, balancing like trapeze artists, and peeking in the kitchen window looking for that “lady-who-feeds-chickens.”

I thought they were cute; Judd did not. Running out the door Judd pursued those poor friendly chickens across the yard. The Americano ran to the donkey pen and flew up into a tree. The Barred Rock ran home.

The next morning, I found the Americano in the pen with my chickens. It did not take many days for the Barred Rock to join her sister in her new environment. They had finally figured out how to safely get fed by the lady-who-feeds-chickens without getting chased by the man-who-feeds-birds.