Sunday in June

Yesterday after market we took our many bags of dirty clothes to the laundromat to wash since our washer is broken. I was grateful for the machinery and the opportunity to take care of many loads of laundry in one afternoon. The sun was baking and it was way too hot to do any productive work at home anyway.

We got home and as we drove up the driveway I saw Annie walking her new lambs to the barn.

She was walking.

They were bouncing.

Everyone needs to see new little lambs at some point in their life.

I don't feel like doing a lot of laughing these days, but watching those creatures bounce like rubber balls made me laugh out loud.

The girls and I spent the rest of the evening sitting on the front porch doing one of my many favorite things: we shelled lots and lots of peas I purchased for a pittance from our kind market vendor neighbor. I then cooked some up in butter alongside some fresh trout and we ate, exhausted, at 9pm. I was so tired I fell asleep in the bed with almost every light left on in the house. Turned them off at 4:30 and gratefully went back to sleep.

Today has been restful.

We went to church early. Thomas went with a couple to spend the afternoon with them and go to youth group. Maggie and Patrick each went with church friends to lunch and are now at a Salem Avalanche game. Nora and Rose are enjoying each other's company on a lazy afternoon and I read for almost 2 hours, undisturbed, watching gray clouds build and almost break loose over the farm, but not quite.

The colors here are so brilliant on an early June evening after an almost thunderstorm. The golden sun gilds the hay fields that need to be baled. There are so many greens in the trees and the grasses and the gardens that I couldn't begin to count them. I bet my artist mother probably could!

It was hard ignoring the work that needs to be done.

But not too hard. Tomorrow is a new day.

I thought I should mention that this morning as I drank my coffee and read the Psalms for the morning out of the Book of Common Prayer, it felt a bit rote and dry. The first Psalm was one with which I was very familiar. I remembered memorizing it with Thomas in his early elementary homeschool years. I like it.

But it felt dry and empty this morning.

I kept reading, out of habit and reached the next Psalm. Psalm 29. As the Psalmist calls out the the gods to give the LORD worship and glory, he describes the voice of the Lord upon the waters, and the glory of God like thunder. He describes the voice of the LORD as such a tremendous power that it could make giant cedar trees in Lebanon break. I imagined the storms and the wind we have and the crashing of the trees.

Then the Psalmist, a former farmer/shepherd, tells that the Lord makes Lebanon skip like a calf, and Mount Hermon like a young wild ox. I thought of our calves and lambs, frolicking with joy and delight. I wondered if he could make a nation skip like our happy animals, could he make me filled with joy and delight?

Sitting tired in my chair, nursing my coffee, I read the last verse of the chapter and wept with gratitude; "The LORD shall give strength to his people; the LORD shall give his people the blessing of peace." Psalm 29:11

I don't know why I wept, but I was touched, and the scriptures no longer were dry and rote for me.

The evening is early. I may inspect the garden and weed in the cool if the no-see-ums aren't too bad. I wonder if the girls would be content to skip supper this evening? Scrambled eggs on toast? A glass of Coco's milk?

Oh, and another thing, as I ramble on, where is my friend the whipporwill? He has usually been singing me love songs by this time of the year. I feel sad to not hear his voice. The bull frogs are singing, so are the many nighttime bugs. The fireflies are in full sparkle once dark falls upon us, and let me tell you, they put on a fantastic display that rivals any Christmas light decorations, in my humble opinion. But oh, how I wish to hear the song of the whipporwill as I lay down my head to sleep.

If he is at your house, could you remind him to come over to our part of the valley at least occasionally?