Note to friends: Obviously Spring has come and almost gone, but thought you might enjoy the missive anyway. Sorry, my blogs come in fits and spurts. :)
Mother Nature has redeemed herself with the glorious temperatures and expansive blue sky, fulfilling the seasonal expectation that spring is waiting around the corner.
The vigilant voice of caution whispering constant admonishments of the dangers that lie in hope and fruitful expectation was for once silent. Tentatively, I stepped onto the dead grass of the lawn, now pleasingly absent from its winter coat of snow and proclaimed, “Yes, winter is over!”
It was time to don the gloves and show the wintry world of dark, heatless days, slippery footing, spoiled food and agitated attitudes that I was better than that; with the assistance of spring, I rise to survive.
Even the tractor was back in the game, once my son-in-law blew the debris from the fuel lines, that is. Don’t you just love the merits of skilled know how? Finally, the scraper blade was attached, and I was ready to tackle the road.
It is a little like washing your hair before going to the salon or cleaning and straightening the house before the cleaning service appears. The road had to be prepared before the gravel trucks arrived. Some of the stone was salvaged and all the ruts, bumps, and holes were smoothed beyond recognition. I was even able to rebuild the crown, well, somewhat.
The road was ready and the gravel company promised they could get the job done before the predicted monsoon commenced. As I write, I am waiting for the last load and occasionally walk to the front door to admire the improvements. But, wait, there is more.
The onset of spring brings a very busy part of the year, on the farm, around the house, in the classroom or in the office. With a high level of activity comes the inevitable gremlin known far and wide as STRESS.
We just cannot escape all of it; like a parasite, it thrives on a host body. Some use eradicators and others simply get sucked dry. My solution is diversity; I close the computer, hang up the phone and hit the dirt, literally.
No master gardener by any stretch of the imagination, but I find it extremely therapeutic. In a 24 hour period, the rose bushes were thoroughly pruned- they will either be brilliant or succumb to sudden death syndrome- and the yard was relieved of several truck loads of limbs.
The flower beds were next and the task was to rake away the dead foliage from the last season. Once again, I was reminded of my failure to do the desired separating and transplanting that I always plan to do in the fall. As I pulled last year’s lifeless growth from the plants, I thought, maybe, it was not too late.
But, then, I saw it, the most remarkable discovery of the day. Nestled just beneath rotting debris of 2009 was the new growth and promise for my 2010 garden. My day was complete.
Until next time, be well.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Ah, Spring!
Mother Nature has redeemed herself with the glorious temperatures and expansive blue sky, filling all with a breath of life left that indeed the eternal promise of spring is right around the corner.
The vigilant voice of caution whispering constant admonishments of the dangers that lie in hope and fruitful expectation was for once silent. Tentatively, I stepped onto the dead grass of the lawn, now pleasingly absent of its winter coat of snow and proclaimed, “Yes, winter is over!”
It was time to don the gloves and show the wintry world of dark, heatless days, slippery footing, spoiled food and agitated attitudes that I was better than that; with the assistance of spring, I rise to survive.
Even the tractor was back in the game, once my son-in-law blew the debris from the fuel lines, that is. Don’t you just love the merits of skilled know how? Finally, the scraper blade was attached, and I was ready to tackle the road.
It is a little like washing your hair before going to the salon or cleaning and straightening the house before the cleaning service appears. The road had to be prepared before the gravel trucks arrived. Some of the stone was salvaged and all the ruts, bumps, and holes were smoothed beyond recognition. I was even able to rebuild the crown, well, somewhat.
The road was ready and the gravel company promised they could get the job done before the predicted monsoon commenced. As I write, I am waiting for the last load and occasionally walk to the front door to admire the improvements. But, wait, there is more.
The onset of spring brings a very busy part of the year, on the farm, around the house, in the classroom or in the office. With a high level of activity comes the inevitable gremlin known far and wide as STRESS.
We just cannot escape all of it; like a parasite, it thrives on a host body. Some use eradicators and others simply get sucked dry. My solution is diversity; I close the computer, hang up the phone and hit the dirt, literally.
No master gardener by any stretch of the imagination, but I find it extremely therapeutic. In a 24 hour period, the rose bushes were thoroughly pruned- they will either be brilliant or succumb to sudden death syndrome and the yard was relieved of several truck loads of limbs.
The flower beds were next and the task was to rake away the dead foliage from the last season. Once again, I was reminded of my failure to do the desired separating and transplanting that I always plan to do in the fall. As I pulled last year’s lifeless growth from the plants, I thought, maybe, it was not too late.
But, then, I saw it, the most remarkable discovery of the day. Nestled just beneath rotting debris of 2009 was the new growth and promise for my 2010 garden. My day was complete.
Until next time, be well.
The vigilant voice of caution whispering constant admonishments of the dangers that lie in hope and fruitful expectation was for once silent. Tentatively, I stepped onto the dead grass of the lawn, now pleasingly absent of its winter coat of snow and proclaimed, “Yes, winter is over!”
It was time to don the gloves and show the wintry world of dark, heatless days, slippery footing, spoiled food and agitated attitudes that I was better than that; with the assistance of spring, I rise to survive.
Even the tractor was back in the game, once my son-in-law blew the debris from the fuel lines, that is. Don’t you just love the merits of skilled know how? Finally, the scraper blade was attached, and I was ready to tackle the road.
It is a little like washing your hair before going to the salon or cleaning and straightening the house before the cleaning service appears. The road had to be prepared before the gravel trucks arrived. Some of the stone was salvaged and all the ruts, bumps, and holes were smoothed beyond recognition. I was even able to rebuild the crown, well, somewhat.
The road was ready and the gravel company promised they could get the job done before the predicted monsoon commenced. As I write, I am waiting for the last load and occasionally walk to the front door to admire the improvements. But, wait, there is more.
The onset of spring brings a very busy part of the year, on the farm, around the house, in the classroom or in the office. With a high level of activity comes the inevitable gremlin known far and wide as STRESS.
We just cannot escape all of it; like a parasite, it thrives on a host body. Some use eradicators and others simply get sucked dry. My solution is diversity; I close the computer, hang up the phone and hit the dirt, literally.
No master gardener by any stretch of the imagination, but I find it extremely therapeutic. In a 24 hour period, the rose bushes were thoroughly pruned- they will either be brilliant or succumb to sudden death syndrome and the yard was relieved of several truck loads of limbs.
The flower beds were next and the task was to rake away the dead foliage from the last season. Once again, I was reminded of my failure to do the desired separating and transplanting that I always plan to do in the fall. As I pulled last year’s lifeless growth from the plants, I thought, maybe, it was not too late.
But, then, I saw it, the most remarkable discovery of the day. Nestled just beneath rotting debris of 2009 was the new growth and promise for my 2010 garden. My day was complete.
Until next time, be well.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Cheap fun!
Not wanting to be accused of a “do as I say, not as I do” philosophy, I recently tried out some cheap inexpensive fun on my grandson Jordan. Gee, I hope he doesn’t get the idea that he is Mema’s guinea pig; then again, maybe that might not be all bad.
Life on the farm is never dull and the work is never done. Constant demands to nurture land and livestock have no regard for 40 hour work weeks, overtime, sick leave or vacations. For those that make the choice, it becomes a way of life, turning chores into adventures and including the entire family.
Clearing and maintaining creeks was an annual task and always meant discovery for those observant ones. Heaven forbid that we would stop to look, other than for self-protection, while burning brush or whacking weeds. The adventure was an anticipated delight at the end of the day. I wondered if today’s children were so different.
While I set about clearing the front creek, fond memories of mystery and delight flooded my thoughts. Years of working away from the farm produced a stream now overgrown with Olive bushes-unfortunately nothing edible- and choked with marsh-type grasses. The water flows ever so slowly and remains hidden from sight.
Not nearly as fit as in my youth, I am happy to use modern machinery to tackle such a task. A tractor, bush hog, bucket and chain were the tools of choice.
There are several pleasing attributes to the invasive Olive bush and the one I have become most fond of is its shallow roots. A chain hooked round the base of the bush and a tractor in low gear makes for fantastic results.
Once the bushes are removed and piled for burning, the mower is backed in where the banks are not too steep. For those hard to get to places, I will have to go back with a weed eater.
The final step in the operation is to open the creek by pushing the mud around or pulling it out with the bucket. Voila! The water now flows freely and the creek is open for playtime.
A couple of things I neglected to mention, the mud is really stinky, slimy and possesses an incredible sucking capacity. Also, from my perch atop the tractor, I could see I had disturb a sleeping snapper, several frogs and the treasure of all who love the creek, the prehistoric looking species called a crawdad.
Was my love of chasing critters in the gooey mud on a hot afternoon prehistoric as well? Time would soon tell.
Jordan arrived at the farm about 5PM to find me on the tractor still pulling bushes and I was oh so ready to quit for the day. True to the daily plan of playing before settling in to homework, I suggested he change into his farm clothes and meet me at the other end of the creek. Having enticed him with tales of turtles, frogs and crawdads, he was cautiously intrigued returning promptly in ragged shorts and no shoes.
Plunging in with little hesitation, he was quickly up to his knees in soupy gray mud. He mentioned frequently that he hoped he wasn’t stepping on something that would bite him. Despite his lingering apprehension, the search for crawdads commenced with fervor.
A teeny baby, a medium sized specimen and then he found the granddaddy. Huge for a native, this fellow or girl (we couldn’t tell, that’s a follow up for science class) was about 4 inches long with sizeable pincers. After careful examination and showing it off to anyone we could find, it was returned to the same spot where retrieved.
Frogs were plentiful and those little black beetle like bugs we called speedboats were bombed always unsuccessfully. It was finally time to find the turtle.
I had seen it in the same area on two other occasions. Jordan didn’t believe it was there declaring it had crawled on to the pond. I think maybe he hoped it wasn’t nearby, but he was genuinely pleased to be the first one to spot it. The turtle was underwater with its head against a rock at the bottom of a tiny waterfall. You could tell by the size of its tail that it was very, very big.
Reluctantly, we headed to the house to clean up. I started supper while the almost-13 year old tackled his homework. The test was over; I was pleased with the findings. The creek would see us again.
Until next time, be well.
Life on the farm is never dull and the work is never done. Constant demands to nurture land and livestock have no regard for 40 hour work weeks, overtime, sick leave or vacations. For those that make the choice, it becomes a way of life, turning chores into adventures and including the entire family.
Clearing and maintaining creeks was an annual task and always meant discovery for those observant ones. Heaven forbid that we would stop to look, other than for self-protection, while burning brush or whacking weeds. The adventure was an anticipated delight at the end of the day. I wondered if today’s children were so different.
While I set about clearing the front creek, fond memories of mystery and delight flooded my thoughts. Years of working away from the farm produced a stream now overgrown with Olive bushes-unfortunately nothing edible- and choked with marsh-type grasses. The water flows ever so slowly and remains hidden from sight.
Not nearly as fit as in my youth, I am happy to use modern machinery to tackle such a task. A tractor, bush hog, bucket and chain were the tools of choice.
There are several pleasing attributes to the invasive Olive bush and the one I have become most fond of is its shallow roots. A chain hooked round the base of the bush and a tractor in low gear makes for fantastic results.
Once the bushes are removed and piled for burning, the mower is backed in where the banks are not too steep. For those hard to get to places, I will have to go back with a weed eater.
The final step in the operation is to open the creek by pushing the mud around or pulling it out with the bucket. Voila! The water now flows freely and the creek is open for playtime.
A couple of things I neglected to mention, the mud is really stinky, slimy and possesses an incredible sucking capacity. Also, from my perch atop the tractor, I could see I had disturb a sleeping snapper, several frogs and the treasure of all who love the creek, the prehistoric looking species called a crawdad.
Was my love of chasing critters in the gooey mud on a hot afternoon prehistoric as well? Time would soon tell.
Jordan arrived at the farm about 5PM to find me on the tractor still pulling bushes and I was oh so ready to quit for the day. True to the daily plan of playing before settling in to homework, I suggested he change into his farm clothes and meet me at the other end of the creek. Having enticed him with tales of turtles, frogs and crawdads, he was cautiously intrigued returning promptly in ragged shorts and no shoes.
Plunging in with little hesitation, he was quickly up to his knees in soupy gray mud. He mentioned frequently that he hoped he wasn’t stepping on something that would bite him. Despite his lingering apprehension, the search for crawdads commenced with fervor.
A teeny baby, a medium sized specimen and then he found the granddaddy. Huge for a native, this fellow or girl (we couldn’t tell, that’s a follow up for science class) was about 4 inches long with sizeable pincers. After careful examination and showing it off to anyone we could find, it was returned to the same spot where retrieved.
Frogs were plentiful and those little black beetle like bugs we called speedboats were bombed always unsuccessfully. It was finally time to find the turtle.
I had seen it in the same area on two other occasions. Jordan didn’t believe it was there declaring it had crawled on to the pond. I think maybe he hoped it wasn’t nearby, but he was genuinely pleased to be the first one to spot it. The turtle was underwater with its head against a rock at the bottom of a tiny waterfall. You could tell by the size of its tail that it was very, very big.
Reluctantly, we headed to the house to clean up. I started supper while the almost-13 year old tackled his homework. The test was over; I was pleased with the findings. The creek would see us again.
Until next time, be well.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
One more snow story!
Can you stand yet another snow story?
I have found that enduring an initial challenge is tough but not the true test of survival. The consistent repeat of breakdowns, obstacles, and complications tries one’s patience until we hear ourselves proclaim, “Aagh, I can’t take anymore.”
It was there that I found myself this past weekend. The power (heat, water and lights) was out by late Friday night. On Saturday morning, I stood on the front porch and could no longer see the driveway, not even an outline, just one large expanse of field.
I thought about a lot of things, but kept remembering a favorite line by Jimmy Stewart in the movie Shenandoah (1965): "If we don't try, we don't do. And if we don't do; then why are we on this Earth?" Things could be much worse; things are much worse for thousands of people. What’s a little snow?
The tractor started, thank you, thank you! Paths were created around the yard for the dogs and a cleared walk from the woodshed to the house. I knew it would be days before I could get even the Subaru out, but breaking a path now would help later. I made it all the way to the Reva Road, but barely made it back home.
Time to set up the campsite indoors.
Flashlight, candles, good book, water in the bathtub, fire started and wood on the back porch: check, check and check.
The den would be perfect, if I could somehow keep the heat in and the cold air from the rest of the house out. We once had a door on that room and, believe me, replacing it has now become a top priority.
In the meantime hanging a blanket affixed with thumbtacks over the opening was just the ticket. The sofa was moved to a spot directly in front of the fireplace and life was good. OK, not so good, but certainly tolerable.
Oh, sure, I speculated about those who lived like this all the time and was grateful for Mr. Edison, and knowing my deprivation was only temporary.
The greater interest for me was the lack of communication with the rest of the world. No phones, TV, newspaper, Internet or visitors, now this was an idea worthy of contemplation. How many major events went unobserved, much less engaged in, at least not in a timely manner, by the uninformed rural masses?
Culpeper did not have its own newspaper until 1827; news was conveyed most often by word of mouth by travelers stopping at a local tavern. And, what if you did not get off the farm and into town for a month or more? One was simply occupied by the immediate concerns of family and daily life.
It makes one wonder just who supported such actions as the American Revolution or the American Civil War.
My challenges are not over, but it was time well endured.
Until next time, be well.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Memories of Sarah the Sow
Daylight was nowhere in sight, yet my three four-legged companions sent out an urgent call for me to arise from the comfort of my bed. No emergency, no prowlers and no wayward predators in the yard: the cat was simply in his usual “I’m hungry, now” mode and the dogs, well, who knows, it was just time to get going.
As the four of us were navigating the descent to the front door, I found myself reminiscing about all the wonderful animals in my life and what grand memories they had provided.
The variety of “critter” friends ran the gamut from cows to kittens and almost everything in between. At one time, I had three sows and one particular favorite named Sarah. They lived at the back of the farm on a cool wooded lot with a fresh stream running through the middle, until it was time to give birth.
Hogs generally have large litters of piglets and can inadvertently crush them during the first few days. In a determination to lose nary a one, the sows would be relocated to a barn building in close proximity to the house within a few weeks of the impending event.
Sarah, a large black and white hog, had long since lost her piglet cuteness. Hogs can be quite dangerous and especially protective of their young. Sarah weighed well over 200 pounds, had a big snout, big teeth and a hairy, scaly, dirt body. It was a really good thing that we had nurtured our relationship with her from the beginning.
During a lovely couple of weeks in May, Sarah was residing close by as we all anxiously awaited the delivery of her first litter. The thought has often crossed my mind that she did not know whether she was a hog or just one of the dogs.
She spent her nights in a sheltered-straw -filled pen that afforded her all the privacy an expectant mother could want. Though she could come and go at will, her days were occupied with the family pets, engaged in much of the dog-like activities.
It was not uncommon to spot her curled up together with the cats and dogs enjoying an afternoon nap or serving sentinel duty as the guardian of the estate.
Once, an unsuspecting stranger drove to the front of the sidewalk only to be unabashedly greeted by Sarah. Who knows what raced through his mind, but he never got out of the car and we never saw him again.
As the gestation period came to a close, Sarah was spending more and more time in her special place. She would daily rearrange the straw to make a more suitable place for the little ones. There was no question that she knew something important was about to happen.
The long-awaited birthing finally arrived and respecting her needs and instincts, we watched from a distance, at least for the first 24 hours.
Then, like any proud family, we took pictures and sent out announcements.
Until next time, be well.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
A dreamy "white Christmas" or maybe not
Oh, my gosh! Getting the dreamy “white Christmas” was certainly a double edged sword. I guess the old adage, “Be careful what you wish for,” just may have proven its meaning.
My memories of 22” snowfalls do exist but remain, for the most part, in my childhood. I have found myself thinking about those folks who move to warmer climes for the winter months and have a greater appreciation for the benefits.
They say confession is good for the soul, so here goes. Good country girl that I am, I was not well prepared snowfall on Dec. 18 and 19. There was no firewood on the back stoop and no surplus of diesel fuel for the tractor. In addition, the rotary mower was still attached to the tractor.
I guess I thought I still had time to finish trimming the fields before switching the mower with the scraper blade.
A run down the driveway with the trusty tractor while the snow falls, is usually all that is necessary to keep open the lifeline to the outside world. However, despite efforts to warm the engine, the tractor would not start.
No problem, or so I thought, the all-wheel drive Subaru was certainly up to the job. About ¾ of the way down the lane, we hit a drift and seeming a bit stressed, the little car seemed to say, “Unless you want to walk home, you better turn me around now and head back to the house.” The message came through loud and clear, and I responded accordingly.
Fearing a loss of electrical power, the next task was undertaken immediately; transportation of firewood from the woodshed to the back porch was critical. The snow was getting deeper and the level of precipitation had the distinct appearance of a blizzard.
The drifts were knee deep, and I wondered why I ever thought this was fun!
After several laborious trips to and from and satisfied that there was plentiful fuel to keep the primary fireplace burning for hours, I retreated to the warmth of the house. I knew the road would have to be tackled again, but later.
I ventured out one more time on Saturday to see if the tractor would start, but again, no success.
Sunday morning I arose determined to resolve my predicament. Normally being confined by a half mile road of four foot drifts would have been a welcome relief, but I had tickets to a Christmas concert at the Kennedy Center on Monday. It would require a lot more than this challenge to cause me to cancel.
The tractor started this time and with the aid of the front end loader, the road was opened. Feeling pretty proud of myself, I hopped in the Subaru to test my work, but 30 minutes later I was in a snow bank and had to hoof it home.
Early Monday morning brought the generosity of my next door neighbor and his tractor.
The concert was great.
Until next time, be well.
My memories of 22” snowfalls do exist but remain, for the most part, in my childhood. I have found myself thinking about those folks who move to warmer climes for the winter months and have a greater appreciation for the benefits.
They say confession is good for the soul, so here goes. Good country girl that I am, I was not well prepared snowfall on Dec. 18 and 19. There was no firewood on the back stoop and no surplus of diesel fuel for the tractor. In addition, the rotary mower was still attached to the tractor.
I guess I thought I still had time to finish trimming the fields before switching the mower with the scraper blade.
A run down the driveway with the trusty tractor while the snow falls, is usually all that is necessary to keep open the lifeline to the outside world. However, despite efforts to warm the engine, the tractor would not start.
No problem, or so I thought, the all-wheel drive Subaru was certainly up to the job. About ¾ of the way down the lane, we hit a drift and seeming a bit stressed, the little car seemed to say, “Unless you want to walk home, you better turn me around now and head back to the house.” The message came through loud and clear, and I responded accordingly.
Fearing a loss of electrical power, the next task was undertaken immediately; transportation of firewood from the woodshed to the back porch was critical. The snow was getting deeper and the level of precipitation had the distinct appearance of a blizzard.
The drifts were knee deep, and I wondered why I ever thought this was fun!
After several laborious trips to and from and satisfied that there was plentiful fuel to keep the primary fireplace burning for hours, I retreated to the warmth of the house. I knew the road would have to be tackled again, but later.
I ventured out one more time on Saturday to see if the tractor would start, but again, no success.
Sunday morning I arose determined to resolve my predicament. Normally being confined by a half mile road of four foot drifts would have been a welcome relief, but I had tickets to a Christmas concert at the Kennedy Center on Monday. It would require a lot more than this challenge to cause me to cancel.
The tractor started this time and with the aid of the front end loader, the road was opened. Feeling pretty proud of myself, I hopped in the Subaru to test my work, but 30 minutes later I was in a snow bank and had to hoof it home.
Early Monday morning brought the generosity of my next door neighbor and his tractor.
The concert was great.
Until next time, be well.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Christmas
My Dearest Grandchildren,
It is Christmas once again and I wonder what you must be thinking. Three of you are certainly cognizant of the world around you and the little one will learn in due time, maybe by your example.
So, do you think that it’s all about the birth of a baby 100s of years ago? I know you have been taught about Jesus, but I am wondering if you know why His birthday is so special.
For sure a lot of people don’t seem to care much, or if they do, it is secondary, right? First, comes buying the presents. And even though it is Jesus’ birthday, the presents are not for Him. Oddly, the presents are to everyone else. That must be more than a little confusing.
OK, so if we treated it like any other birthday, what kind of presents would you bring to the party for the birthday boy? I bet each of you would have some really great ideas. He would be no different from you on your birthday, hoping to receive gifts on His list.
I can hear you now, “But, Memaw, we don’t know what He likes.”
It would be helpful, first off, to picture Him, not as a baby that never gets any older, at least not until Easter. He has thoughts and feelings, friends and family, and wishes for things just like you and even old Memaw.
He probably would like to spend time with His friends and family, have a tasty and filling meal, get some toys to play with and later some tools to help Him do His work.
I imagine He would want to be warm if it is cold and cool if it is hot, not have to sleep outside in bad weather, medicine if He were sick and the joy of living in a world where justice prevails and violence has lost its grip.
Again, I see the puzzled looks upon your faces, “How do we give Him that stuff; He isn’t really here? If I get presents, isn’t that the same?”
Not exactly, we must remember that it is still His birthday and the presents need to fulfill His wish list.
Perhaps, you are thinking that He was a carpenter, and maybe He would like a new battery-operated drill. You are on the right track, but maybe what He would like even more is for you to help your sister build that fort in the back yard or offer to lend a hand to fix your neighbor’s leaky roof.
Do not worry about the cost; you possess far more wealth than you can imagine.
So, put on your thinking caps and figure out the kinds of presents that will bring warmth, love, health, productivity, laughter and most importantly, peace.
These are the gifts He has requested and we can give them in His name to our own friends and family and maybe even a few to those we haven’t met yet.
Merry Christmas, to you all!
It is Christmas once again and I wonder what you must be thinking. Three of you are certainly cognizant of the world around you and the little one will learn in due time, maybe by your example.
So, do you think that it’s all about the birth of a baby 100s of years ago? I know you have been taught about Jesus, but I am wondering if you know why His birthday is so special.
For sure a lot of people don’t seem to care much, or if they do, it is secondary, right? First, comes buying the presents. And even though it is Jesus’ birthday, the presents are not for Him. Oddly, the presents are to everyone else. That must be more than a little confusing.
OK, so if we treated it like any other birthday, what kind of presents would you bring to the party for the birthday boy? I bet each of you would have some really great ideas. He would be no different from you on your birthday, hoping to receive gifts on His list.
I can hear you now, “But, Memaw, we don’t know what He likes.”
It would be helpful, first off, to picture Him, not as a baby that never gets any older, at least not until Easter. He has thoughts and feelings, friends and family, and wishes for things just like you and even old Memaw.
He probably would like to spend time with His friends and family, have a tasty and filling meal, get some toys to play with and later some tools to help Him do His work.
I imagine He would want to be warm if it is cold and cool if it is hot, not have to sleep outside in bad weather, medicine if He were sick and the joy of living in a world where justice prevails and violence has lost its grip.
Again, I see the puzzled looks upon your faces, “How do we give Him that stuff; He isn’t really here? If I get presents, isn’t that the same?”
Not exactly, we must remember that it is still His birthday and the presents need to fulfill His wish list.
Perhaps, you are thinking that He was a carpenter, and maybe He would like a new battery-operated drill. You are on the right track, but maybe what He would like even more is for you to help your sister build that fort in the back yard or offer to lend a hand to fix your neighbor’s leaky roof.
Do not worry about the cost; you possess far more wealth than you can imagine.
So, put on your thinking caps and figure out the kinds of presents that will bring warmth, love, health, productivity, laughter and most importantly, peace.
These are the gifts He has requested and we can give them in His name to our own friends and family and maybe even a few to those we haven’t met yet.
Merry Christmas, to you all!
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