Surprise!

May 17, 2016 / Patsy Kuipers / 1 Comment

Another April 19^th was drawing to a close. Like all the others since my husband Ray’s sudden death in 1997, it had been a day of remembrance, tinged with sorrow and joy. Each year those seemingly contradictory emotions mingle together as I grieve the loss of a godly, gone-too-soon partner and father, yet rejoice in the assurance I’ll see him again.

My adult daughters and I often text in the evenings, checking in with each other, comparing notes on the day’s activities. As bedtime approached the night of the 19th, Jessie texted, “Check out Sports Center. I think I might be on a Kiss Cam clip from the Hawks game.” Mary and I texted back excitedly that we’d be sure to watch. It was close to midnight so I set my DVR and went to bed. When I checked my phone the next morning, the flurry of texting between the sisters had continued as the video quickly went viral on the internet. Jessie, dubbed “Pizza Girl” by her newly-adoring fans, became an overnight sensation with Twitter posts proclaiming her a “national treasure” and “the hero we need now”. Her Facebook page nearly crashed as friends, including many from grade school and college, posted comments and congratulations. By the end of the week, the clip had appeared on The Today Show, had been picked up by countless internet news and entertainment sites, and had received nearly 2 million views on YouTube.

By now you may be thinking something along the lines of, “I don’t need to read a mother’s blog post wherein she brags about her daughter becoming an internet phenomenon.” But please keep reading. You see, Jessie isn’t really the main protagonist . . . her loving Heavenly Father is . . .

Two weeks before the Kiss Cam video appeared, Jessie and I met for lunch at Panera. When we sat down to eat, Jessie happily proclaimed, “I had two free items on my card, Mom. I needed a win today!” Little did we know, that was just a warm up.

God knows how to give good gifts to his children, ones that are tailor-made for them. Furthermore, his timing is perfect. April 19^th will always be a hard day for our family as we mourn our loss and wonder what life might have been like had Ray been with us across all the years he’s been gone. Now, however, there’s a footnote to that day – “Pizza Girl” was introduced to the world and the fun and delight her antics brought to so many will be forever tied to April 19^th.

But wait, there’s more. Jessie’s sense of humor has been evident since her earliest days. Her comedic timing is enviable as she entertains family, friends and community theater audiences. And where did her sense of humor come from? Her dad. I can still see them stretched out together on Saturday mornings, watching cartoons and laughing. Yes, I like to think Ray was chuckling right along with everyone else as Jessie devoured those pizza slices, completely overshadowing the couple smooching in front of her.

From something as small as two free Panera items to things as over-the-top as instant internet fame, we can count on our Father to reach out to us with gifts so personal and well-timed they leave no doubt He knows us intimately. May we have eyes that perceive those gifts, hearts that embrace the Giver and lips that sing his praise as we tell others of his amazing love.

One of the last photos taken of Ray, Mary and Jessie. (3-30-97) Ray’s “putting bunny ears” on Mary, a tradition Jessie continued (with fingers instead of an actual bunny) in many family photos over the years.

Jessie found a cat counterpart to the character she portrayed in a recent theater production.

If you haven’t seen Pizza Girl in action, just Google “Pizza Girl on Kiss Cam” and get in on the fun.

A different kind of grief

April 19, 2016 / Patsy Kuipers / 2 Comments

“19 years on the 19^th”. That phrase has been echoing in my mind for the past several weeks as yet another anniversary of my husband’s sudden death approached. Shortly after lunch 19 years ago today I told Ray goodbye for the last time . . .

In 1997 the 19^th fell on a Saturday. It was a beautiful, warm day, much like today. Life was proceeding normally – Ray left for his job at The Home Depot, I and my young daughters (ages 10 and 7 at the time) went shopping for summer attire. Mary, Jessie and I returned home around 7pm. We weren’t in the house 10 minutes when the phone rang. Chris, a patient care specialist from Kennestone Hospital was calling to tell me Ray had been brought to the emergency room from work and I needed to get there as soon as possible. No other details. It wasn’t until we were in a private room at the hospital that I got the devastating, life-changing news.

After a few questions about Ray’s health, Chris said a doctor would be in to talk to me. I pleaded, “Can’t you at least tell me if he’s alive?” For a moment she just looked at me. I asked more urgently, “Is he alive?” And then came the awful reply, “No, honey, he isn’t.” That scene, her words and the gasp of disbelief that simultaneously escaped me and my little girls will be forever etched in my mind.

But oh how God has comforted, upheld and sustained us across all the years since that fateful night. Over and over again He’s proved himself as a protector of this widow and a Father to my fatherless girls. [1]

Our pastor recently began a sermon series on Philippians. The past two weeks he’s reminded us that Biblically-based joy is not dependent on circumstances. It’s grounded in the assurances of God regarding the past, present and future found in His Word. Our faith won’t exempt us from hardship. Believers will face trials and troubles of various kinds. Jesus told us as much, but He didn’t stop there. He encouraged us to take heart because He’s overcome the world. [2]

We know the end of the story. Even now He’s preparing a place for us.[3] So we grieve, but not as those who have no hope. [4] There will be times when we’re hurt and disappointed, times when we may cry out, “Why, Lord?”, but we won’t be alone for He’s promised to never leave us.[5] In our humanity we’ll experience a full range of emotions associated with the events of our lives – Jesus, fully man, wept over Lazarus’ death even though being fully God, He knew He’d raise him – yet the Truth will allow us to not be controlled by our feelings.

Soon after hearing Chris’s answer, it was as if a giant door slammed shut in my mind. Looking back, I realize I couldn’t have taken in the enormity of it all at one time without crumbling. Instead, the Lord provided a protective, albeit primarily subconscious, bubble of denial and disbelief. It allowed the reality of Ray’s death to drip into my soul bit by bit over weeks and months as I was ready to accept it. In the days immediately after, I was in a state of shock, yet the Lord enabled me to make difficult decisions regarding the visitation, service and Ray’s final resting place. Most amazing, He gave me the strength to speak for a few minutes at the end of his funeral. I’ll close this post with the sentiments I expressed when concluding my remarks that day.

None of us knows when the last goodbye will be said. Keep current in your relationships. Tell your family you love them. Thank your friends. Hug people who are dear to you. Let them know you care. And let us leave today rejoicing because we know Ray is in the presence of God. I believe he’s planting flowers right now and I look forward to joining him in God’s garden one day.

055

[1] Psalm 68:5

[2] John 16:33

[3] John 14:2-3

[4] 1 Thessalonians 4:13

[5] Deuteronomy 31:6, 8

Thrashing about, epilogue

February 23, 2016February 23, 2016 / Patsy Kuipers / 2 Comments

Often my blog posts are a result of me needing to remind myself of Truth and then deciding to share it with you, my readers, in hopes it will be an encouragement to you as well. Little did I know when I wrote “Thrashing about” (January 18^th) how many times I’d need to tell myself to “stop thrashing” in the weeks that followed.

A new little family member was scheduled to arrive exactly one month after I published that piece and I had things to do and people to see in the interim. Observing my behavior during that month, those closest to me probably wondered what the uproar was about. After all, I must have said “I’ve got to (fill in the blank) because Emma’s coming” dozens of times, like she was a hurricane barreling across the Atlantic and I was battening down the hatches before her arrival. I crossed most of my pre-Emma to dos off before the big day. But the battle against thrashing was far from over.

I took up residence at daughter Mary’s house on the evening of February 17th, knowing I’d be the around-the-clock responsible adult until she and Justin returned with Emma several days later. No big deal, right? I stay with 4 ½-year-old Joshua and 2-year-old Lyla on a regular basis, usually two days a week, eight to ten hours a day. But I go home at night, home where it’s quiet and I can recharge. Being on duty for 60+ hours straight – well, that’s a different story. I wasn’t sleeping or eating normally, much less having a meaningful quiet time. My focus was almost entirely on the immediate demands in front of me. I gradually lost sight of my Center and by the time daughter Jessie arrived Saturday morning to provide back-up, I was so tired physically and mentally I could barely stay on task.

But mid-day Saturday Mary and Justin returned home with baby Emma in tow. As I held her, I marveled at the fact there’s a brand new person to love and get to know. The stress of the previous three days was so worth it – my miniscule contribution to the process of her entrance into the world. After a few more hours, I went home, admittedly looking forward to quiet surroundings and to sleeping in my bed instead of on an air mattress . . .

. . . hmm, the water never got past lukewarm when I was taking my shower. Sure enough, a trek to the basement revealed the hot water heater was leaking. I put a bucket under the drip and spent a restless night praying I wouldn’t find a flood the next morning. I passed Sunday afternoon trying to drain the tank with a garden hose. It drained alright – for five straight hours! Any remaining shred of patience and good humor quickly dissipated when I realized I’d have to turn off the main water supply and spend the night at my parents’ house. I’m sad to say I met their warm welcome with, “I didn’t need this to deal with. I’m too tired. I just wanted to be at home and regroup for a couple of days.” Whine, whine, whine. I imagine I sounded a lot like Jonah when the worm devoured the plant God had provided to shade him from the blazing sun.

I must admit I don’t like myself much when I lose sight of Truth and let circumstances get the best of me. I knew it was time to resort to some major self-exhortation, reminding myself of a hard-learned lesson . . .

My husband Ray was very even-tempered. For the most part he took things in stride, remaining calm when I’d be all bent out of shape about something. One such time when I was complaining to him about some long-since-forgotten “tragedy”, I had the audacity to ask him, “Does anything short of death upset you?” His reply: “Not much.” Though many years have passed since our conversation, it still saddens me to write those lines. Just a few months after that exchange, I’d learn Ray was oh so right. One of the difficult lessons God taught me in the aftermath of his death and one I never want to forget: there really isn’t much short of death worth getting upset about. Situations that are fixable, even though they may be annoying and require you to spend time and money you’d rather spend elsewhere don’t merit significant hand-wringing, worry or angst. But no matter what we’re facing, be it life-changing or trivial, God has promised to never leave us or forsake us.

I’m blessed my parents live close by. My hot water heater’s been replaced and I slept in my own bed last night. There’s a new baby girl to love, a precious gift from God. The One who tenderly holds me in the palm of his hand knows every detail and will provide for every need. No thrashing required.

Joshua and Lyla watching over baby Emma

Give life, remix

November 28, 2015 / Patsy Kuipers / 1 Comment

For over 20 years I’ve been blessed to know Susan Hunt, author, speaker, friend. I’ve benefited from her Bible studies, her writing, her wisdom and her gentle yet firm guidance when it comes to truth and the need to obey God. She is and has been a spiritual mother to me and countless other women.

Of the many Biblical doctrines I’ve learned from Susan, one that resonates most deeply for me is that of being a life-giver instead of a life-taker. Moment by moment, as we go about our daily activities, interacting with others, we have opportunities to give or take life, to build up or tear down, to encourage or criticize.

This precept has become one of my guiding principles.

On an early November day two years ago, I was on the receiving end of life-taking and life-giving actions. The events I’m about to describe occurred one after the other, providing a vivid contrast between the two . . .

When I arrived at a local place of interest for a tour I’d signed up for, I approached the organizer of the event. Instead of greeting me, she turned away. Any benefit of the doubt I tried to grant her regarding the possibility she hadn’t seen me or was having a bad day was quickly erased when she cheerfully welcomed another attendee. Indeed, she spent the next almost-two hours happily interacting with others in attendance without speaking to me or acknowledging my presence in any way. Although I conversed with other participants, the icy treatment I received was difficult to endure. If I hadn’t been concerned about offending the person leading the tour, I would have disappeared somewhere along the way. In many ways I already felt invisible.

I made my way back home in tears, depleted physically as well as emotionally. As I drove into my cul-de-sac, I realized there was a car in my driveway, my daughter’s car. My gaze shifted to the front door where she and my then-two-year-old grandson stood. In an instant, I knew God had sent me a much-needed gift. As I got out of the car Joshua trotted toward me enthusiastically, clutching a bag of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies he and Mary had made. The sticky note on the bag said, “Hi, Grammie! We love you!” I felt life flowing from these two dear ones, warming my heart that had been so badly bruised by the unkindness of the morning. By the time we shared a picnic and I watched Joshua frolic on the playground in my neighborhood, my well-being had been restored. (I would be remiss not to mention my house was Mary and Joshua’s second stop. Their first? A life-giving cookie delivery to a long-time family friend who’d lost his wife to cancer a couple of weeks earlier.)

Admittedly, these actions may seem relatively small in the overall scheme of life – dismissive behavior and a cookie delivery – but isn’t that the point? As I write about them two years later, both still have the power to bring tears to my eyes albeit for very different reasons. I can feel the pain inflicted by life-taking silence; the healing wrought by life-giving inclusion.

Jesus himself essentially instructed us to be life-givers when He said, “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” Likewise, He refers to the command to love your neighbor as yourself as second only to the command to love God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength. Mighty affirmations of our calling to be life-givers; important reminders of the profound impact our words and actions can have on others . . . for good and for harm.

As we enter this Advent season, when to do lists are long and patience is short, when distractions abound and expectations are high, let us make an extra effort to be life-givers in our homes and our communities. In so doing we’ll honor the One who came that we might have life and have it abundantly.

A time to heal

October 13, 2015 / Patsy Kuipers / 4 Comments

Watching my hand heal from carpal tunnel surgery has been a fascinating experience, a daily reminder of the truth of Psalm 139:14: we are fearfully and wonderfully made.

When I left the hospital my hand was swathed in an impressive bandage that made my appendage look like a soft white club. Judging by the size of the dressing you would have thought I’d had my hand replaced! Three days later, my daughter Jessie carefully unwrapped the massive bandage as my mom watched, none of us quite sure what to expect when my hand was finally revealed. I, not liking the sight of blood or incisions especially when they’re on me, averted my gaze. Mom’s, “Oh, that’s not bad at all”, was quickly followed by Jessie’s, “It looks a bit gruesome though.” The latter comment kept me from looking . . . for days! Instead, Mom faithfully changed the small-by-comparison Band-Aide® each night, offering more encouraging commentary which was enough to assure me progress was being made.

When my daughter Mary first saw my hand without the post-surgery dressing she remarked, “I bet it feels good to have your hand unwrapped.” It was certainly more comfortable, but without the enormous bandage I felt quite vulnerable and became very protective of my hand. In her self-titled role of “Nurse Jane”, Mom not only checked my incision nightly, but admonished me multiple times a day not to overdo it or hurt my hand. I assured her (repeatedly) that I’d be very careful since I’d be the one to suffer if I hurt myself. Indeed, I was so focused on recovering well, I followed the surgeon’s instructions to the letter and did my best to protect my incision, which I looked at frequently AFTER the stitches were removed. I even forsook working in my beloved garden for a whole month!

Bit by bit, my strength and range of motion improved as I tried to do a little more each day and let my hand tell me when I was asking it to do too much. One morning, several weeks after surgery, my hand felt almost normal. “Yes! I’m well!” . . . Nope! The next day, and for several days afterwards, I experienced cramping and occasional shooting pain in my hand. Healing had progressed to a deeper level. A week or so after that first almost-normal day, I experienced another day with little to no surgery-related discomfort. I expect there will be more good days and less pain as the recovery process continues to completion and am confident the final outcome will be positive.

The pain of loss can be every bit as sharp and piercing as any surgeon’s scalpel. Though the wounds are invisible, it’s just as important and appropriate to take care of ourselves when we’re hurting emotionally. Resting, receiving encouragement and assistance from supportive people, and protecting ourselves from further harm are critical components of healing, whether the injuries are physical or emotional.

And don’t underestimate the value of time . . .

Grieving is a process as individual as physical healing and every bit as back and forth. There are days when a new normal starts to feel comfortable, followed by a return to hours marked by profound sadness upon realizing all over again that things won’t ever be the way they were. Two steps forward, one back. Three steps forward, two back. But gradually, in time, healing takes place because the One who made us, fearfully and wonderfully, is the same One who never lets us go. He has compassion on us, remembering we’re dust and knowing what it’s like to experience the sorrows of this life because the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

So let us be gentle and patient with ourselves and with each other, following the example of He who took up our pain and bore our sorrows that we might be healed.

Healing

May 31, 2015June 1, 2015 / Patsy Kuipers / 2 Comments

I was hungry when I finally arrived at home after our longer-than-usual church service. My first inclination was to go inside and fix lunch, but we’d gotten a much-needed shower overnight and I wanted to check the rain gauge. My front walk was still wet, though not terribly slippery. Nonetheless, I was careful as I made my way to the rain gauge and noted its contents. As I was returning it to its place, my neighbors pulled into their driveway so I waved to them as they got out of the car.

And then it happened. As I turned back, I caught the toe of my shoe on the edge of the walk. Before I knew it I was falling – not one of those slow motion kind of falls, but a rapid, slam-into-the-pavement plunge. In the second or two it took to unceremoniously reach the ground, all I could think was “Don’t hit your face!!!” (I’d recently re-read a friend’s account of hitting the floor face-first when he was younger, cracking both front teeth in the process, and was praying I wouldn’t meet a similar fate.) Bam! I came to an abrupt halt, but sprang up just as quickly. I didn’t wait to see if I’d hurt myself, wanting instead to avoid the embarrassment of being seen sprawled out on my front walk by the neighbors I’d cheerfully greeted just moments before.

Within seconds I realized my right hand had taken the brunt of the fall. The edge of the walk opened up a deep gash approximately an inch long in the flesh beneath my thumb. The shock of falling quickly combined with my low blood sugar, making me woozy as I saw the blood seeping out of my palm. I walked unsteadily to my neighbor’s house for assistance bandaging the wound then returned home and lay down. I don’t remember when I finally felt like eating.

The good news: no broken bones (or teeth!) In addition to the gash on my hand there were only some scratches across my nose and a small cut on my upper lip. I can’t imagine how I managed to plummet without sustaining any other injuries – nary a scratch or bruise anywhere else!

The next day I told Joshua about my fall. As I showed him my various injuries, I asked if he’d kiss them and make them better for me like I always do for him. He carefully considered my request then replied, “No Grammie, that’s too many boo-boos.” Later in the week I lifted the bandage on my hand and let him take a peek at the wound. After briefly contemplating the sight, he said, “Don’t worry, Grammie, God will give you new skin to cover up the hole.” And so He has. Slowly, steadily over the weeks since I nearly face-planted on my front walk, the gash has closed and new skin has appeared. Truly we are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Several weeks after my fall, Joshua suffered an unpleasant injury of his own. He and June, the family dog, were both interested in a prized turkey feather. When Joshua reached for it June showed her displeasure by nipping him under his left eye. Wincing in pain, Joshua started wailing. When I got to him moments later, there was a trickle of blood on his face. I attempted to remain calm so I could comfort my little buddy, but my anxiety increased as his sobbing continued. Then my phone chimed. Justin, alerted by Mary as to the drama unfolding at home, requested to FaceTime with Joshua. Upon seeing his father’s face, Joshua quieted enough to hear what Justin had to say. In a calm, steady voice he reassured Joshua, reminding him of other times he’d been hurt, how things had subsequently gotten better and that this time would be no different. As Joshua’s tears subsided into intermittent sniffling, tears sprang to my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. In allowing me to witness this affectionate act of reassurance by an earthly father toward his distraught child, God reminded me of His love for me. Justin’s words echoed a message I needed to hear, “You’re hurting, but you’ve been hurt before. Remember, Patsy, it will get better. I’ve never left or forsaken you and I never will.”

Suffering comes in many forms. Some of the most painful injuries aren’t physical ones. Disappointments and losses can pierce our hearts and threaten to crush our spirits. But they don’t have the final say . . .

There’s now a scar at the base of my right thumb. It reminds me of the One whose wounds bring ultimate healing. Who is faithful to all His promises. Who assures His children that a day will come when He’ll wipe away every tear.

In Remembrance

April 25, 2015April 15, 2022 / Patsy Kuipers / 1 Comment

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal. Love leaves a memory no one can steal.” (Unknown)

Eighteen years ago today my beloved husband was laid to rest in a tiny cemetery in North Carolina. The part of my heart that belonged to Ray went into the grave with him that sunny, late-April afternoon. Several weeks later I placed a call to “Focus on the Family” to request materials on dealing with grief. In the midst of my conversation with the kind person who answered I said, “I feel like part of me is missing.” I’ll never forget her reply, both compassionate and oh-so-insightful: “During the time you were married you and your husband became one. Part of you is missing.”

Months passed and I was having yet another day where I was struggling with the pain of losing someone so dear. Sensing my sadness, the woman I was meeting with inquired about how I was coping. When I confessed how difficult some days were she introduced me to a concept I’ve held onto ever since. She suggested I envision a beautiful piece of furniture, a chest with many drawers, each containing memories and their associated emotions. She went on with the analogy saying, “When memories of your husband’s death arise at a time when you feel you aren’t able to deal with them, imagine tucking them into one of the drawers, closing it gently and re-opening it when you’re ready to do so.” I’ll admit there have been times when a drawer has sprung open and caught me off guard. Times when a memory has overwhelmed me and I’ve struggled to shut the drawer. But more often the mental image has served me well.

The week before and the week after the anniversary of Ray’s death I’m quite intentional about opening the drawer. I think about how we spent our last few days, oblivious to the fact our time together was winding down. I remember the day of his passing with such clarity it could have happened recently, not so long ago. And I recollect the days following, when I had to make decisions I never expected, much less wanted to make at such an early age. My reminiscences are deliberate and purposeful, a way to honor Ray as well as remind myself of lessons learned and affirmed by losing him, such as:

The importance of numbering our days aright and keeping current in our relationships with those we hold dear.
The need to keep things in perspective, saving emotional distress for things that can’t be “fixed,” no matter how much money or time you invest. (And its corollary: things can be replaced, people can’t be.)
The ability of prayer to strengthen and support when raised up by myriad family members and friends on one’s behalf.

I’ve kept a journal for ages. On the night I returned home from the hospital, dazed and in a mild state of shock, I penned these words: “This is the worst day of my life up to this point – Ray, my dear, dear husband and friend died tonight. Even as I write it I don’t believe it. It will probably take time for the numbness to wear off, but when it does, Lord, please enfold Mary, Jessie and me in your love. I don’t understand this and I can’t even begin to imagine what my life will be like without him.” I was right. I couldn’t imagine what life would be like and to this day I don’t understand. But God heard my cry that night and many nights since. He’s been so faithful to me and my family, loving and sustaining us all the years we’ve been without Ray.

Which brings me to another point regarding the imaginary chest: it contains numerous drawers. Although some hold remembrances that evoke sadness, there are many more containing memories associated with great joy. I open those on a regular basis, reliving and savoring the moments, praising God for His goodness and grace. And each year when April 19^th comes around, I remind myself I’m another year closer to once again seeing the man I was blessed to call my husband. The reunion is guaranteed because of the broken body and spilled blood of the One who instructed His followers to remember Him, His sacrifice, His promises. And so we wait in hope and assurance.

Feed the birds, take 2

February 24, 2015 / Patsy Kuipers / Leave a comment

My alarm clock didn’t go off this morning. Consequently I made it downstairs later than usual and later than I’d planned. A quick glance at the bird feeder revealed an almost-empty receptacle, with only an inch or so of millet languishing in the bottom of the cylinder. A few hopeful birds hopped along the deck railing and then, upon finding no sunflower seed, flew forlornly back to the branches of the snow-covered trees. Yes, we had a light snow last night, just enough to decorate everything and make for a lovely sight this morning. But it was also enough to make the birds even more in need of those precious seeds than usual so I pulled a coat on over my robe and pjs and refilled the feeder before making my own breakfast.

I was immediately rewarded by the appearance of several dozen birds – on the feeder, on the deck and dotted throughout the trees closest to the house, awaiting their turn to retrieve one of the highly-coveted seeds. Chickadees, titmice, juncos, cardinals (including a male, his red feathers appearing especially bright against the white snow), plus several kinds of sparrows and finches flitted merrily about – all rejoicing over the replenished food supply.

Within a few days of first placing the feeder on a plant hook by my deck, I became aware of how quickly the birds accustomed themselves to dining on the seeds it holds, depending on me to fill and refill it. And, as their reliance on me has grown, I feel a corresponding responsibility to make sure they’re well fed. I delight in the relationship that’s developed between me and these small creatures. In caring for them, I know I’m helping keep an eye on some of God’s sparrows. I can’t help but think He takes joy in watching me partake of all He provides just as I relish watching the birds feast on the sunflower seed. Unlike me, though, God is never late in providing what I need; neither will His storehouses ever be empty. Not only do the cattle on a thousand hills (along with everything else) belong to Him, but as my loving heavenly Father, I can trust Him for all my needs. As the birds rejoiced over the restocked feeder this morning, may I ever exalt and give thanks to the One who tenderly sustains me.

Prudent pruning

February 7, 2015 / Patsy Kuipers / 4 Comments

In my October post, “Ode to a Crape Myrtle”, I denounced the practice of severely pruning those lovely trees. The dreadful act is sometimes referred to as “crape murder”. Early to mid-winter each year I see far too many pitiful victims of this particular crime. But this year, on a street I traverse almost every day, stands one of the most pathetic examples I’ve ever beheld. Not only has the beautiful tree been stripped of its majestic branches, but the perpetrator used a sealant of some sort to paint over several of the wounds. When pruning cuts are made correctly, the tree’s natural defenses will allow it to heal without the application of such products, which in some cases even cause harm to the plant.

As I also mentioned in my previous post, I committed the crime once, in ignorance, before being enlightened. I have since done only minor, clean-up type pruning to the gorgeous ‘Natchez’ Ray planted over 20 years ago. As the tree has outgrown me, I’ve relied on professional assistance to remove crossed or crowded branches. Most recently, my tree was expertly “limbed up” to provide more light to the plants beneath its canopy and to lighten the load it carries when completely leafed-out and covered with blossoms.

So, you see, I’m not against all pruning, just pruning done recklessly or unnecessarily. Correct pruning is often an essential part of maintaining a plant’s health, enhancing its aesthetic value or increasing its fruitfulness. Likewise, there are times when we need to be pruned. Fortunately, we belong to a discerning Master Gardener. He determines exactly where and how to make the required cuts to enable us to bear more fruit for Him. Sometimes the pruning is severe and the process is painful, but we can always trust Him. He knows us by name and loves us far more than we can imagine . . . and He’s tenderly transforming us into who He created us to be.

Warmed by the Son

November 16, 2014 / Patsy Kuipers / Leave a comment

Contrary to popular belief, fall, not spring, is the best time to plant most perennials. As air temperatures cool, top growth gradually comes to a halt. Since soil temperatures drop more slowly, the plant can then shift additional energy to its roots, thereby establishing a healthy network to convey water and nutrients to support the plant’s next round of growth the following year.

As is usually the case, we’ve been experiencing a beautiful fall here in the Atlanta area, with daytime highs near 70⁰F and nighttime lows in the 50s. However, I’ve been busy and haven’t been able to spend nearly as much time outside as I would have liked. Finally, there was an opening on my calendar last Thursday. I set my sights on installing numerous plants, some purchased, some adopted from friends, along the path taking shape through the woods.

Wouldn’t you know it? By the time Thursday rolled around, the arctic blast that’s put a big part of the country into an early deep freeze had made its way to north Georgia. Not one to be deterred from my mission to get the plants out of their pots and into the ground, I proceeded to spend several hours happily planting my new friends as my fingers and toes got colder and colder.

As forecast, temperatures that night dipped below freezing – well below when the wind chill was factored in. When I got downstairs the next morning, I went to the kitchen window overlooking the woods and scanned the scene, trying to ascertain how the plants had fared in the less-than-ideal conditions. The Calycanthus was upright, its bright yellow leaves a cheerful greeting in the early morning light. The Fatsia were slightly drooped, yet still green. But where was the beautiful Ilicium floridanum ‘Pink Frost’ that had enchanted me the day before with its spicy scent and lovely green leaves outlined with a margin of creamy white? Surely that brownish mass of sagging leaves wasn’t it! I quickly pulled a heavy coat on over my PJs, slipped my feet into my work boots and headed to the woods for a closer look. Alas, it was the Ilicium. Its leaves so graceful and aromatic the day before were stiff. In that moment, I think I knew what Charlie Brown must have felt like when he put the first ornament on his spindly little Christmas tree, only to watch it bend to the ground, overwhelmed by the weight. “I’ve killed it!” As I trudged back inside, I chided myself with thoughts of “Why didn’t I heed the forecast and leave the Illicium in its pot in a sheltered area?”

Even though there was a brisk wind and the temperature remained below average, the sun shone brightly throughout the day. Several hours after I made my initial trek to the woods, I peered out the window again. Much to my surprise, the color had returned to the Illicium! Once more, I made my way to the woods for a closer look. Sure enough – the leaves were supple and fragrant. Just like Charlie Brown’s tree, all it needed was a little tender love and care. In this case, the TLC came in the form of warmth from the sun.

There are times when chilling winds blow through our lives. They present themselves in myriad forms – harsh words, a disappointing turn of events, unfulfilled hopes. Jesus told us, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33) Indeed, he is the Light of the world, guiding, reassuring, encouraging us along the way. The warmth of his presence can revive and restore our souls. And we are called to provide that same care to others. “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.” (2 Corinthians 1: 3-4)

May we love others well because we have been well-loved. (I John 4:19)

Back 2 the Garden

Reflections on faith and flowers, family and friends

God’s tender care