October 24, 2008 . . .

               Remembering Mommie

My brother, Brad Hardin, and I bought this tree--a Pin Oak-- and had the Maryville (Tennessee) historic park (behind Brad's house) plant it in memory of our mother,

Shirley Temple Armistead (Hardin) Neville.

This is the plaque at the base of the tree. Brad and his girlfriend, Marcia, decorated the plaque. Mommie would have liked that. (By the way, I spell our mom's name "Mommie."  Brad spells our mom's name "Mommy." 
Neat huh?)

Our mom died suddenly of an ascending aortic aneurysm on the morning of November 24, 2008.

Basically her heart broke. So did ours.

Brad and I dearly loved her. My friends dearly loved her. And she dearly loved me, Brad, and all my friends.

One of the ways she loved us best was through cooking. Here's one of her bazillion  recipes -- "Cornbread Salad." (There's probably more on the back.) The best thing about this recipe is that it's written in her swirly-Shirley handwriting.

This Thanksgiving Day, November 24,

Brad, Marcia, Dow (Mommie's husband of 17 years), and I will go to the cemetery and say hi

and let her know we miss her

and be thankful for all she meant

and still means

and will always mean

in our lives

and in our hearts.

And so this Thanksgiving I will declare with the Psalmist . . .

"Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever!

Let Israel say, 'His steadfast love endures forever.'

Let the house of Aaron say, 'His steadfast love endures forever.'

Let the house of Hardin say, 'His steadfast love endures forever.'

Let those who fear the Lord say, 'His steadfast love endures forever.'

Out of my distress I called on the Lord; 
the Lord answered me and set me free....

(Psalm 118:1-5 with a Kay-tweakism)

Zach, the Undecided Cat

"It's hard to make up your bed while you're still sleeping in it. 
It's hard to make up your mind for the same reason." 
~Robert Brault

Snow Roses

Today at lunch one of my friends showed the group of us a picture of snow decorating her sister's rose bushes in Nebraska when it snowed on November 1. After we all moaned about snow already arriving in Nebraska so soon, we then began to joke about "snow roses" because the Nebraska roses
were still blooming
when the snow came.

I don't have lots of nice, hardy rose bushes, but for the last several weeks, in my back and front yard I've planted what could be considered
a symbolic

type of "snow rose"--the pansy.

Google says of the pansy: "Pansies are winter hardy in zones 4-8. They can survive light freezes and short periods of snow cover." I've seen pansies pressed to the ground after a hard frost or a deep snow. It looked like the little things were flatter than a flitter (flitter defined as "fine metallic fragments, especially as used for ornamentation"--Dictionary.com).  It looked like they were done for. 

 But "ta-daaaa" they arose and showed off their beautiful colors again.

I have planted pansies in whiskey barrels, in ceramic pots, in strawberry pots, and in beds circling my Bradford Pare tree because I want color throughout this winter. When all is steel gray or dead-grass brown, I want to see a little splash of color when I come home after work or when I look out into my yard while pouring my

first morning cup of coffee.

Working in the yard, in the dirt, is therapy for me. But it's also spiritual. Around this time of year, grief seems to have it's way with me. The precious holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas are now like terrorist holidays. They threaten my emotional, mental, and spiritual safety all because of acute loss and grief during this time. My heart, mind, and soul go on Red Alert during this time.
And often, when such high alert is activated 
be it in the world, in a nation,
or in a single woman's soul,
it is very hard to
quietly,
peacefully
sit down and pray.
Lately I've not done well at praying.

But when I dig, plant, and pat the dirt 
with my hands,

when I get on my knees
and lower myself to ground level,

when I mix potting soil and garden dirt
in my wheel barrow

like I'm folding egg whites into sugar,

when I design the flower pots and beds--

"this yellow one here and this purple one here and this blue one here and this white one here" --

in so many ways it's a physical mode of prayer
and praise and peace
offered to God

during my season of loss, pain, and grief.



Maybe that's why I've gone crazy

planting pansies everywhere

during the last several weeks.

Maybe it's a way of prayer for me during these holiday months when my normal path of prayer is

  stymied, blocked, and darkened. 

Maybe God hears my prayer through garden tools, dirt, and little snow roses.

When most people are putting up the tools

and winterizing their yards,

I'm out here planting up a storm

in the midst of my own personal storm.

Hear my prayers O Lord.