Corn, fresh picked! Tomatoes ripe on the vine and Peaches juicy and sweet!
When I was a girl at my parents table, Summer fresh food was my favorite. I was just explaining to friends this week how, during corn season, which by the way was much shorter in those olden days than it is now,
a common summer dinner was
fresh corn straight from the farm, boiled for just a few short minutes, sliced tomatoes sprinkled generously with salt and pepper, served with fresh bread.
This week I have shared several dinners with friends and fresh corn and tomatoes were on the menu every time. They were delicious and brought back fond memories of Those years.
A few days earlier I was looking for something to make for lunch. On the counter was the platter of fruit I try to keep fresh and ready. There was an avocado, a beautiful tomato and a ripe peach. Perfect! It came to me then.
Peach, Tomato and Avocado salad. I chose to eat it just like that. It really doesn’t need another thing. These flavors are wonderful together. A touch of salt and pepper would add a touch of taste. To dress it up a bit more you can also add olive oil and or balsamic vinegar OR a TBLSP. of Fig balsamic. (Longos carries it)
Summer and it seems unusual, maybe odd. I am here, at my sister’s house which is out of the ordinary for sure, for July.
July is meant for sun and water and the lake really. That cottage. The little one surrounded by bigger, sprawling, barely visible and at a closer glance, beautiful ones. Ours, the one I thank God for every time I pull in, is a gift. It’s that place where, more than any other, I can sit and look, at water and sky and trees and beauty. When I am there alone it is as though God has made that water, clean air, with me in mind.
I not only see it. I feel it.
Beauty. What God has made is beyond magnificent.
For years, maybe 8 although I lose track of them, Nano, my mother, has spent weeks there with me. For those years it was the peak of her anticipation. She drank in that beauty just as I do. Her joy was full when she sat beside that lake and looked. Felt the air. Breathed it in. It’s a walk, from the wooden steps to the bottom of the stone steps. Even I, feel my heart beating fast when I get back to the top after a time of sitting or swimming or paddling. Even then, at the beginning, she was already old according to the number.
These Summers past, she has walked down and then up. There was the year she sat, for fun, on the jet ski for a photo. The next year it was just a bit too much to get herself Onboard. Last July I noticed she was not as anxious to make the trek down, knowing it would mean the walk, up. She was content to sit on the deck and look.
This year has brought more change and now, this July I am Here since she cannot be There. We are sitting here. She is watching as I cook and wash and water and all the while we are together.
She says every so often, with just a hint of a tremor in her voice, that her heart breaks at knowing her cottage days are over. I nod and what is there to say other than, “yes, my heart hurts too.” We could reminisce about those days, those years, but maybe for now we will remember in our own hearts. Recall smiling times.
Remembering together is hard. Sad. They were good days. We had fun and we will both remember until memory is gone.
I read some verses tonight and God was living in those words. He is. Living in those words.
Listen to your father who gave you life, and do not despise your mother when she is old. Proverbs 23:22
My mother’s children try to model these words. I am far removed from her, often. I am not here to do what needs doing. My sister is. She does the doing for all three of us. US, consists of two girls and a boy and God has given us lives to live that have taken us, for much of our mother’s life, away. We three have our own now. Husbands, wife, Families, responsibilities, work, people. Yet still, our mother is.
I walked into the little suite where she lives. It was three days ago now and how can the days fly so fast? She was waiting for me and I went in and there was that smile that means, I am so glad to see you. It has always been good to see my mother but now, each time is special. A gift. As she got up and found that cane and we prepared to go to my sister’s house, I glanced at her little table. There was a cloth because of course she would never have a table without a cloth on it. It is a small table and on one end is her sewing machine. It isn’t much used these days but it sits at the ready. Just in case. There was a candy dish and it is the same one that sat on our coffee table a life time ago. The candies are different but the dish is the same.
In the middle of the table which happens to be just a few inches from the other end, was a reminder of another time. I had forgotten.
The notepad and pen
There it sat and then I remembered. The little house. The manse. The parsonage. The preacher’s house. It was closer to where I sit tonight than where I usually sit on a Friday night. A little town, up the highway from this Alberta City. A village really. On all sides as far as my 8 year old eyes could see, fields. Beautiful, covered with wheat and hay and corn and we lived there and my dad, Papa was the preacher, pastor, caregiver, counselor, at the little church around the corner. That little town was far away from where the preacher had left his parents and siblings. Far away from the little village where Nano had left her loved ones. It was a time when, leaving loved ones behind meant there was no plan to see them again. Maybe it would happen and possibly not. We went to the little church on Sunday morning and then came home for Sunday Dinner. Rest time came next and quiet.
Every Sunday. Every Sunday, before our light supper, before we went back down the street to the little church, Nano sat herself at the dining room table. It was always covered in a table cloth and usually it was lace. She sat at that table and opened her Writing Pad and began.
There were letters to her mother, my nano. Letters to her father, my grandpa. Letters to friends, cousins, dear ones. I watched every Sunday of my childhood as this mother shared her life, with those she might never see again. Her handwriting was beautiful and never hard to read. She wrote and signed and fastened the envelope and added a stamp and left them piled on the table for tomorrow. Tomorrow, they were taken to the post office and from there they went to the ones who would read and remember and share and whose hearts would be full of joy at the arrival of “word” from this dear one so far away. Oh how she must have missed her precious ones and yet never did she complain. How blessed we are to see each other often. Our World is small. Very. Far is not, really. We are not together like some. Stopping for coffee together. Dinner, lunch, sitting, seeing. Together is not often but it is precious, when.
She has lived hard and happy and sad and really hard and joyful and heartbreak and yet, 92 years later, she is.
Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. James 1:17
We know, because we have read it, have lived and experienced it, that every good gift is from Him.
We know and are thankful.
So, she is, living and whole although as her doctor reminded her some years ago, her body is wearing out. It is and yet her heart keeps beating and God gives her life.
Nano was telling me tonight that every morning when she opens her eyes she reminds herself of
Psalm 118:24 This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.
It’s been more than three months since we sat together at my sister’s counter and chit chatted about aprons and children and all kinds of memories. We like to do that, the two of us. When I visit, five days from now, we will say good bye to my sister and her husband and they will go, for rest and fun and together time with friends. Nano will come once again to my sister’s house and we will spend a few days.
Next week we will hopefully spend some of our table, counter time outside. My sister has a beautiful garden and yard and we will sit and maybe eat something and will look at the beauty. We don’t always talk. It isn’t needed. We sit and look. Sitting and looking is underrated in this 21st century. It is deemed a waste, of time. I am learning in this second half of my life to think carefully about what’s important. Life is short and don’t we know That all too well. It has been just a few months since the boy, man, father, son, husband, brother, friend went to his forever home. Just last week we, people I know and I, said good bye to another friend. He too has gone to his forever home and we are thankful that he is where God has chosen to take Him. Maybe a bit early if we ask his wife, but she sent him off, sitting next to his bed and encouraging him to “Go to Jesus”. He went and she is alone now. But not really alone because she has people who love her. Friends. They will encourage her and pray and hold her hands up. Just like Aaron and Hur did for Moses. People here, in our city and our place of work, in our church, in our neighborhood, need help sometimes to hold their hands up.
It’s hard to choose a favorite from this Bible sitting next to me, but Exodus 17 is on the list. At the Christian bookstore you can find these little figurines. One is holding a baby and one is kneeling. There’s one with a man, his arm around a woman.
I like the one that is a girl with her arms outstretched. I expect that the artist who created her intended her to be modeling ‘praise’.
A friend gave this one to me a while back. It was when I was going through a pretty tough patch. She said “this is for you, so you will know I am here helping to hold your hands up, even when you can’t.” She lives far away and I rarely see her, but I think of her often. I keep that little resin girl in my pantry and when I open the door and look at her I remember. Someone is helping to hold my hands up. Sometimes I am sure I can’t do it any more. My hands are too heavy. But knowing I have a friend who is praying, is good. She has had a few tough spots of her own and I have been reminded when I look at that girl sitting on my pantry shelf that remembering other people’s need for help, with keeping their arms raised, is good. Prayer is good and even when we feel weak we can still help to hold a friends hands up, high.
So when someone leaves us, for, Heaven or just the other side of the country or the World, it’s good to have people. They encourage us. Especially if they remind us that Jesus is remembering us too.
WE
that’s we who attend a church where Jesus is talked about a lot, where God is worshipped more than money or stuff or worry or fear or anger. Where we ask what He thinks and want Him to answer us
WE
often say how good it is to be part of a family. Of course we all have families and some are happy and some not. I am telling you about God’s family. His family is here and it is in a lot of places. All around the World truthfully. When we are out and about and we find people who are part of that family, it’s a good thing.
We tend to resemble one another.
You know how it is in our birth family. We can look alike. Well in God’s family we often look very similar. Or maybe I should say, we Should look similar. Oh I don’t mean the colour of our eyes or our cheeck bones or dimples. This similarity should be in our attitude. The way we work and talk and those sorts of things.
We should be very much alike because our goal is to be like Jesus. We are here to glorify Him and that means modeling the behavior of the only perfect person that ever lived. He was perfect of course because He is God. It’s okay though. He is very kind and teaches us how to live. It’s pretty amazing.
I almost said awesome but I try not to. I know I get a bit over zealous about some things, but I kind of feel like awesome is really at the top. You can’t get higher than awesome. I looked it up in the dictionary and it said, breathtaking, awe-inspiring, magnificent, wonderful, and a few others. I kind of see a picture of God when I read these words so I leave That one for describing Him. Anyway, it’s pretty amazing that He is Awesome. Indeed.
When I go to visit Nano I will help to hold her arms up. When you get to be 92 1/2, staying strong and being joy filled is a challenge. My sister helps her and Nano is thankful. She knows her life is still full of blessing and she tells us she knows. I will share and Be,
along with her.
Not just because she is my mother and it Is my turn and it isn’t just that mother’s are dear and they need their children. You see, I am living to be like Jesus.
He is perfect and can live His perfect life through my broken one.
Best of all, even when I am broken, I can encourage. Because He is whole and He lives in me.
He is Faithful!
Lamentations 3:21-23
But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
My sister has a green thumb the likes of which I have not often seen.
She can grow just about anything. Despite the fact that she lives in the part of this country where summer can quickly turn into winter and sunshine into rain or hail or worse. The growing season there is short. And still she works miracles. Her dahlias which are actually annuals, she digs up and stores away and puts them back in the ground ‘next year’. Her dahlias could win awards for the size of them. I planted some this spring. They are two feet high, spindly, most pathetic looking and nary a bud to be found. I am hopeful. Not sure that is entirely practical or realistic. Nevertheless, hope is buried deep within me and I am watching eagerly for the first sign of flower life.
The flower thing is annoying to me but I manage to keep discouragement at bay. There is however, another plant that will not produce anything but the odd minute stalk in my garden.
I show you this so that you might feel some empathy for my poor disheartening, brown thumb.
Now, I have been told, mostly by this sister and our mother that rhubarb is very easy to grow. It is apparently somewhat like a weed and can become a nuisance as it ‘takes over’. It is perennial and comes back year after year, bigger and more ‘fruitful’ (pun intended)
At first I believed these girls and set out to grow my own. As a matter of fact, my aunt generously dug up a beautiful piece of her own rhubarb plant and tossed it in a bucket and I, with great anticipation drove it to the perfect spot and planted it the best I could and then
waited.
I suspected after two years of waiting that perhaps, I had a problem. Then, dear Nano shared some very important information with me. You must keep it well watered and free from weeds and other plant life that might creep into it’s space. This news would have been valuable two years earlier and I realized that easy to grow should come with a disclaimer, if you know what you are doing and follow a few simple but very important rules. Needless to say, I did the only thing left to do. I gave up! I quit! Tossed in the towel! I don’t really like rhubarb anyway.
Yes, I resorted to lying to myself so I would feel a bit better about my poor gardening skills.
The truth is, I love beautiful gardens. I could sit and look at a bed of flowers for minutes on end. Here though, is the crux of the matter. I dislike (not quite strong enough) gardenING. This sister has told me several times that she loves to dig in the dirt and plant and nurture what she sees growing. Her garden is proof that what she says must be true. You surely would not spend all of those evenings and mornings working and cultivating and pulling and watering if you couldn’t stand doing it. Surely.
So we have established that my rhubarb (and other) growing skills are lacking and yet I so appreciate the bounty that comes from the hard work of others. That is one reason I like to visit a market. Whether it be Granville Island in Vancouver, or St. Lawrence, just down the road and around the corner and past a few other streets, from me. I like to stop at small farm stands along the roads I travel and am thankful for the hours of toil these farmer/gardener folk commit to. Theirs is a hard, without much financial reward, kind of life. Some of them do it because their grandfather before them and then their father, did it. The land is part of them and they could not consider doing anything else. Growing is serious business to these people.
I am thankful for them. I am thankful for what they produce.
Interesting word.
One of those in our english language that is a verb as well as a noun.
I commend them for their ability to produce produce.
For a time, when I was a wee lass, I lived in a community of farmers. Regularly we, the preacher and his family, were presented with gifts of fresh vegetables and honey and chickens and I remember that time in my life. It is as vivid today as it was all those years ago. Cold winters and windy, sunny summers. Full of growing and hard work, picking and “putting up”.
We didn’t have much but we were content with what we had. It was all delicious. I think one reason I find cooking such a joyous thing to do is because of the freshness I get to do it with. There are not many things we cannot find if we decide to created something delectable.
So back to the beginning of this tale of discouragement.
Rhubarb
I went to the market a couple of days ago and looked and pondered and considered and picked up a few things and decided as I did all of this, what I would make for our guests last night. I know it is not a terribly efficient way to prepare to cook but that’s how I often do it. I like to see what’s out there. At times I stumble upon an ingredient that becomes the main event and I hadn’t even considered it.
So what I am getting to now is, I stumbled upon a package of rhubarb.
The leaves were gone and it looked nothing like that in my sisters garden. My mouth began to water. Rhubarb is funny like that. When I look at it I start to get the krinkles in that spot in my mouth where the sour taste buds are. I saw the rhubarb and I saw the fresh Ontario Strawberries and there it was. Dessert! I only needed to decide what form this strawberry and Rhubarb dessert would take.
I brought it home and washed it and set it aside and carried on. The next day it hit me.
