Stretching time …

It’s a mid-summer morning, and I am sitting in the shade, listening to the birds sing and the A/C hum. Temps will hit the high 80s later, but right now, it’s just about perfect.

Despite my best attempts at almost daily weeding (okay, to be honest, that might be a stretch), my loosely-termed vegetable garden has become a tangled mess of morning glories climbing over everything. Though I planted no vegetables this year, a couple of volunteers have triumphed in the overgrowth – one nameless tomato and a vining squash of some kind. I will let that one tumble about to see what develops. Maybe spaghetti squash, judging by a closer look? Zinnias and cosmos seeds that I scattered as an afterthought are holding their own and starting to flower. I’ll do my best to protect their stronghold in the hopes of backyard bouquets to come. Needing no assistance from me, a couple of blooming sunflowers tower over the chaos. 

As I watch the butterflies flit about the flowers, I can’t help but marvel at the life that I am surrounded by. Evidence that I am loved. Evidence that we are loved. All of us. Each one of us. Deeply, deeply, loved.

When it comes down to it, I have everything I need. And if you are reading this, you probably do too. And though the days seem short, we all have been given enough hours in each day to do what we are here to do. My default setting is, there is never enough time! But something tells me that my calculations are incorrect. Something tells me that perhaps what’s on my to-do list may be incorrect, for taking a moment like this seems to stretch time by making the most of it. 

My plan is for a productive day – a carpet-cleaning, house-straightening, grocery-shopping kind of a day. Company is coming. I have painting projects on the deck, and temperamental weather threatens my progress. The sun shines during the day, and rainstorms arrive without warning at night. As anyone can tell you, you can’t paint wet wood!

I am anxious to get to it, chomping at the bit. It’s hard to sit. It’s hard to sit. Just a moment ago, I would have been content to stay in this spot for the duration of the morning. Or at least until the sun brought the heat. Now, with just a few minutes of pondering all that needs doing, my brain has kicked into gear, engine revving. Come on! Let’s go! We’ve got things to do!!!

Yes, I have things to do. Good things. Worthwhile things. But this is important too. It may not feel as immediately rewarding as watching a fresh coat of paint go down, but I am building something that will outlast any coat of paint. That is what I love about this process. Thoughts and ideas written down can span generations and have even an eternal quality about them. Just think of the ancient texts that we still read today, though written centuries ago. 

Okay, I admit that sounds pretty grandiose. Suddenly Charlie Brown’s discourse on Pig Pen’s dust cloud comes to mind – Don’t think of it as dust. Think of it as maybe the soil of some great past civilization. Maybe the soil of ancient Babylon. It staggers the imagination. He may be carrying soil that was trod upon by Solomon, or even Nebuchadnezzar!

Anyway, who is to say who might read these words long after my time has passed? The thought makes it hard to yield to the chores waiting. Maybe just one more moment of watching the maple leaves dance gently in the breeze. Green leaves tinged with red, though September is weeks away. Hummingbirds dive into the feeder nearby. Contented pups sit, wondering if today will be a day for stretching their legs on our stretch of road. Not likely, you two. Sorry. Hot summer roads are not kind to tender paws.

Thanks for the day, Lord.
Thanks for the day.
Thanks for sending birds to my trees to sing just for me.
It’s a pretty great place you’ve created, you know?
Of course, you know.
Of course, you do.
Thanks for showing me how to see.
Thanks for showing me how to be.
Thanks for this span. My span. In eternity.

Just … thanks.

❤️ Cath