Tuesday, June 26, 2012

In My Garden

I was born to be a gardener.
My mother made sure of that. First she married my father who’s last name was Gardner. Then she planned our home so that wherever we lived our yard was filled with flowers. Some always made their way into the house one way or the other. She used to tell us that, “You’re closer to God in a garden than any place else on earth.”

I remember sitting with my sister on the front porch at my first home, waiting for the mailman. Big hydrangeas, and red Hollyhocks peeked over our shoulders, waiting too.

In my second home we had scrub oak and juniper bushes in the back yard by our swing. We would try to swing high enough to touch our toes to the oak leaves and rustle the purple berries. The front yard was filled with daisies and sweet peas under the porch roof. The small grass covered hill was our playground as we rolled down in the green summer grass and sled in the winter snow. A stand of Aspens gave us a golden carpet to rake and play in as autumn turned to winter with chilly nights and crystal stars watching over us.

Our third home had the most beautiful garden. Dad went down into the canyon behind our house and brought large stones into the back yard making a second terrace lower on the hill beneath the one already there. He made cement stepping-stones so we could walk through the second terrace filled with petunias, pansies and lilacs. At the bottom of the yard were raspberries and roses. Scarlet runner beans ran along the fence adding a touch of bright color and a stern warning not to touch. We never did.  Silver lace vines climbed up the back porch to the second story roof. My sister and I used to climb out the bathroom window and sit hidden behind the vines, spying on whoever dared to enter our yard and the boys next door.

As we grew to be teenagers and the older boys left home we moved to a smaller yard filled with petunias and roses. Giant dinner plate dahlias and gladiolas grew under the bedroom window. A nursery in the state sold my mom a redwood tree to try to grow in the mountains of New Mexico. He didn’t think it would grow, but he didn’t know my mom. A few years ago the towering tree was hit by lightening and had to be cut down. It was a sad day for my dad, a reminder of mom, now both gone.

My mom always told us that plants produce oxygen and cool the atmosphere. It’s our responsibility to  provide for our neighbors.  I’ve taken that challenge and have planted seventy planters on my roof top garden. Breathe well neighbor.
In my garden grow many flowers.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

It Isn't Easy Being Green


 One of my favorite scriptures is John 13: 34-35
 “A new commandment I give unto you. That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.
By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.”

This scripture always reminds me of my youngest son. When he was about five years old he came storming into my room crying, “I hate my brother!” I put my arms around him and said, “No, you love your brother. You just hate the things he’s doing to you.”
A short while later I heard the beginning of a lifelong change in attitude that my young son made. From their room I could hear him yelling angrily, “I love you but I hate what you’re doing to me!”
Throughout his life he tried to love people; to be kind; to befriend the friendless and serve those around him. His teachers commented many times on his loving service towards his fellow students and their teachers. When he left on his mission this scripture was the theme for his farewell.
One day he found a tiny jewel box key and asked his grandmother what it was the key to.
She told him it was the key to her heart and told him he could keep it. Anytime he wanted a hug, he would go to his grandmother and say “Tic a lock” and collect his hug. He even shared it with Joey, a little neighbor boy who had just lost his mother. Joey would come over to play and “tic a lock” a hug from her. As my son was leaving for the mission home I gave him a huge hotel room key I had found to remind him to have a big heart and love the people he served in Montana.

I knew a woman, when I was much younger, who would lie in bed every morning until she thought of a way she could show her love to someone that day. She started every day with a commitment to be a disciple of Christ.

For our book club ,one month while I lived in New Mexico  we chose

The Five Love Languages: The Secret to Love that Lasts by Gary D. Chapman

The author says that there are five ways people accept love and if we can tell which way they prefer we can show our love more successfully .
Dr. Chapman guides couples in identifying, understanding, and speaking their spouse’s primary love language—quality time, words of affirmation, gifts, acts of service, or physical touch. I think mine is having my feet rubbed.
What is your primary love language?
What ways do you show your love to those around you?
I wish the people of the world would wake up every morning and think “How can I show my love to someone today” Imagine how our world would change.
Have a beautiful summer.
Just don’t call me Sweetie!