Two photo-documented surprise parties—one an entire month before my actual birth date—did away with any ideas I might have entertained about ignoring my 60^th birthday. Truth be told, I’d never had a birthday number that bothered me, but I was feeling a little iffy about 60.

 

God is always good though; and sometimes uses plain language to remind me. So I wasn’t surprised last night when the tightly folded little paper I drew out of my personalized Scriptures jar said:

 

All the days of your life, Jan,

 

are written in My special book.

Psalm 139:16

 

“All” means every single one. So, it must be time to own that particular fear and walk straight away into it.

 

At my second surprise birthday party, Faith Cora gave me a bright shiny red and silver dangly “60” necklace. She’d picked it out all by herself; and beamed with pride when she handed it to me yesterday and told me to wear it.

 

I decided this morning that it was probably the perfect necklace to compliment my Sunday morning ensemble; and the grin on her face, when she saw it, confirmed that I’d made the right choice.

 

She chose our after-church lunch destination and rode with me there. I asked her if she’d like to wear my necklace into the restaurant; and she said, “No, Mama Jan. I really like it, but it’s your necklace to wear”.

 

And so it is.

 

Orange has joined the meadow—the happy text I sent to Jessie, my daughter-in-law, a few early mornings ago.

 

I’ve been flat out amazed at the sheer joy I feel every time a new color, or variety of flower, appears in Flutter-butter’s Wildflower Surprise Garden. The name’s a mouthful, to be sure; but Faith Cora’s hands helped sow it, so her imagination got to name it.

 

She spotted a new colored cornflower in the meadow’s middle yesterday and we waded our way through tall red clover to see it up close. So far, the cornflowers have appeared dressed in shades of vivid periwinkle, pale lilac, white, vibrant pink, pastel pink, and the newest—red grape-Aggie maroon. It amazes me that each flower displays slight varying shades plus some have different colored centers. We watch the unopened buds closely because it’s anybody’s guess as to what color they’re going to be.

 

My spirit soars in praise when God offers me such daily blessings; and I talk to Him—sometimes to the flowers too—when I walk through their wildly jumbled profusion.

 

 

Holy, holy, holy…Lord God Almighty

 

Early in the morning my praise shall rise to thee.

 

 

And today’s early morning, latte-time, Word bouquet:

 

 

“Look at the lilies and how they grow.

 

They don’t work or make their clothing,

 

yet Solomon in all his glory

 

was not dressed as beautifully as they are.

 

And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers

 

that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow,

 

he will certainly care for you…

  

Luke 12:17-18

 

Several years ago I spent a week in Cabo san Lucas with my brother, Joe, and sister-in-law, Julie’s, family. It was the July after Dan had been killed in October; and grief was constant and heavy within me. I had no fear of death for myself and, truth be told, would have welcomed it as a relief from the unrelenting pain. I’d done years of professional grief counseling—as the counselor—but never as the griever; and there’s an indescribably far distance between the two.

 

Cabo’s located on the very tippy toe end of Mexico’s Baja Peninsula where dark blue Pacific waves crash to literally shake the sandy beach. Our trip coincided with the tail end of a major storm system so the wave swells were huge. We sailed, sans life jackets, in a rickety little boat completely around the furthest rocky promontory tip; but turned back when the Mexican Coast Guard’s boat followed us and bullhorn-blasted at our little boat’s captain to turn the boat around. All my pictures from that part of the trip are wave-swelled crooked.

 

No level horizons—inside or out.

 

Julie talked Joe (he, good-naturedly, said for absolutely the last time) into visiting a time-share presentation at one of the many gorgeous resorts along the coast. One of the rewards for their attending was a zip line adventure for Julie, Kinsey and me.

 

The first night we’d arrived had brought a torrential rainstorm with flooding down the dirt hills surrounding our hotel anchored only yards above the water. The pounding rainstorm and crashing surf made wonderfully soothing background sleeping noise.

 

The rain also caused some rerouting of our zip line canyon course because, or so we heard, some of the tall support poles had slipped out of place. Evidently the course finale was to traverse a criss-crossed wire platform, fall off backwards, and then rappel down the high cliff side; but instead of ending the course, it was our introduction.

 

I’d never rappelled before; but, if you have no fear of death, it’s a piece of cake. When I finally reached cliff bottom, the belayer holding my rope, high-fived me and asked how many times I’d done it before.

 

The course was likely designed for adrenaline junkies and I loved it; because I could actually feel something other than grief. It was a beautiful blistery-hot day and we had to walk some distances between some of the connections. A couple of the stopping spots had ice water available for drinking and drenching self; the extremes were exhilarating.

 

The very last zip-over covered a wide-stretching deep canyon containing a streambed, small cabin and some people on horseback. I don’t know how the operator of the sending platform was supposed to time the send-off of each rider—and very possibly he didn’t know either—because he sent me too soon after the man in front of me. When I arrived, the receiving operator was supposed to grab my feet and secure me. However, he was frantically unhooking the man ahead of me and couldn’t grab me too. So I began sliding backwards down the line and out over the canyon; the further I slid away, the more my weight pulled down the cable line.

 

Absolutely nothing I could do to help myself—so I waited.

 

The receiver finally unharnessed the man ahead of me, quickly buckled himself into gear; then crab-crawled, hand and feet over wire, out to rescue me. When he reached me, he wrapped his legs around mine and began pulling both of us back to the platform behind him.

 

I asked if I could help, but he totally ignored my words; and focused instead on getting us both to safety. Then the sender operator sent my sister-in-law, Julie, too soon right behind me and she had to be rescued; but that’s another story. All in all, it was a very good day.

 

The memory rushed to mind yesterday morning when I read April 18^th’s entry in “Streams in the Desert”:

 

“I once believed that after I prayed, it was my responsibility to do everything in my power to bring about the answer.”

 

“We all know how difficult it is to rescue a drowning person who tries to help his rescuer, and it is equally difficult for the Lord to fight our battles for us when we insist upon trying to fight them ourselves…for our interference hinders His work.”

 

“He simply wanted me to wait in an attitude of praise and do only what He told me.”

 

 

 

Be still in the presence of the Lord,

 

and wait patiently for him to act.

 

Psalm 37:7

 

 

Amen.

 

 

Waiting in the grocery store checkout line, I entertained myself by skimming over a pictorial history of Kate Middleton’s dresses in “People” magazine. While Ms. Middleton’s a lovely young woman with beautiful clothes; there’s hardly a way to describe my activity and make it sound worthwhile. Bottom line for my spent line-waiting time = wasted.

 

A young store employee interrupted my dress review and told me that he could check out my groceries in a different line. He then said that he knew I didn’t want to waste my time waiting (perhaps he’d noticed what I was reading); and that he’d read a study that reported the average American, by age 60, has spent two years waiting in lines.

 

I responded with something like you’d better be thinking positive things, instead of grumbling, while standing in line or you’ll have put a lot of negative into your life while you wait.

 

Then I left the store mulling over what he’d said—two years sure is a lot of time; and I can honestly say I don’t remember a single one of those dresses. I have, however, been thinking about better ways to use my time in the checkout line; and this came to mind:

 

 

Never stop praying.

 

1 Thessalonians 5:17

 

 

Not a complicated directive; more like straight forward non-ambiguous. So. That’s my goal—use line-waiting time as a trigger to prompt me to talk to the Lord.

 

I remember when “The Hiding Place” was released—a movie about Corrie ten Boom’s punishment in a Nazi concentration camp for harboring over 800 Jews during WW11. It amazed me how the horrors she lived through, and the miracles she saw, strengthened her faith in the goodness of God. I love her experientially pragmatic and ever-so-wise words on prayer:

 

Don’t pray when you feel like it.

Have an appointment with the Lord and keep it.

A man is powerful on his knees.

 

And so, I would add—is a woman standing in prayer in a grocery store checkout line.