One chilly afternoon as I was running errands and engrossed completely in the mundane, I happened to glance up to the sky. What I saw there filled me with inspiration, strength, and encouragement. The pale, wafer-thin disc of an almost-full moon hung delicately in the wintry sky. It appeared distant and cold, yet heartbreakingly beautiful. I turned to look at the opposite skyline, and it was warmed and illuminated by the fiery orb of the evening sun. My heart was lifted up to the Father of Lights, whose great power set both these lights in the heavens.

After a few short hours, the sun dropped behind the leafless western hills, and a dark mantle fell over the earth. Then, the moon rose up in the sky and shone forth, no longer dim and obscure. Its silvery rays turned the frost and snow to diamonds and put the stars to shame.

Jesus said, “As long as I am in the world; I am the light of the world.” His light shone among men only for the span of His brief lifetime, but it was expedient for us that He should go away. The light of His presence was removed from this earth and those who followed Him, the children of light, were left to be the light of the world.

We are like the wintry moon that appears in daytime. We have no light of our own, and beside Him our light could scarcely be discerned. Nevertheless, after He went away, we became like the moon when the sun has hidden behind the dark hills. We must arise in the darkness and reflect His light as He has commanded. The closer we are to the Sun of Righteousness, the more of His light we will be able to shed abroad in the world. Let us then be bathed in the Light that our light may also shine.


My Father’s Son

I am thinking so intently and wistfully tonight of my dad.  I was his second and last child and his second daughter. I guess he must have wanted a boy because he always called me “Son.” I was the recipient of cars and trucks, knives, tool belts, hatchets, cap guns and cowboy boots as I was growing up. I had a Daisy BB gun, and for my 15th birthday, I got a 410 gauge shotgun, which I still have. I followed his footsteps, became infected with his love for dogs, learned to shoot fairly well and ride a horse, and always, he referred to me as “Son.” When I started dating the man who became my husband, he thought my dad’s habit of calling me “Son” was the funniest thing he had ever heard.  

Maybe another child would have been hurt by that moniker or might have felt as if she had been a disappointment. I never did, and I was always a little proud of his unusual nickname for me. So, I grew up a tomboy, climbing trees and disdaining dolls. I chose “The Hunter’s Horn” over my mother’s magazines, and I begged to be allowed to go fox hunting with him; but at that, my mother drew the line.

Fox hounds are not really very good pets, but I loved to go with him when he fed them, and if he got a new dog, he would give me the privilege of naming it.  I happily bestowed fanciful names upon those poor dogs such as Tantivy and Jubilee.  He was probably embarrassed to call his dogs by name in front of his hunting pals, but he never rejected any of the names I proposed.

The years passed, and I became an adult, married, and had a child; but my father rarely addressed me as anything other than “Son.”  One cold November morning, my dad suffered a fatal heart attack and sadly, no one ever referred to me “Son” again.  I miss it.  Still, I am cheered by something my late stepmother said to me one of the last times I spoke with her.  She patted my hand and said, “Bless your heart,honey; you are just like your Daddy.” Hmmm, I guess I really am my father’s son after all. 

Memories are often obscure and elusive threads in the fabric of our psyche, but sometimes an image or incident will recall a hidden remembrance and release a vignette from the past. I experienced this recently when an online ad caught my eye, and I was transported from my web surfing to relive one of my childhood’s greatest pleasures.

The ad hawked Burpee’s seeds and nursery plants, and I was immediately reminded of the excitement that the arrival of the Henry Fields seed catalog elicited among our family members. My mother was an avid gardener and had a thumb as green as Ireland. She generally ordered seeds from the Fields catalog, and we would pore over the colorful book for hours.

I devoured every page, imagining rows of peas and corn, emerald shoots of onion blades, and dewy cabbage heads. My mother usually added to my vegetarian fantasies by cultivating plants that were not widely grown in our region at that time. She was the only gardener that I knew who actually grew eggplant, lemon cucumbers, and kohlrabi.

In addition to my vivid daydreams of vegetable gardening, I enjoyed looking at all the flowers and reading their names. The roses were my favorites both for beauty and for their romantic and interesting monikers. American Beauties and Mister Lincolns blazed from the pages in scarlet glory, but they could not eclipse Charlotte Armstrong’s bold pink petals or Jeanne d’Arc’s virtuous white blossoms. I found the Peace rose to be the most beautiful, but its name left me dissatisfied. There was nothing peaceful about the brillance of the burnished yellow petals streaked with fiery pink.

Along with vegetables and flowers, fruit held a prominent place in the catalog. I feasted my eyes and honed my reading skills on pages filled with glowing apples labeled MacIntosh and Jonathan, ruby Montmorency cherries, and blushing Elberta peaches.

The gardening catalog usually came in the mail in February, and with it came a hint of spring. The wind could blow and snowflakes beat the windowpanes, but Henry Fields proffered golden ears of corn, crimson tomato globes, orange sheaves of carrots, orchards of fruit, and a rainbow of flowers. Winter’s cold and ice could not withstand the warmth and brightness that emanated from those vibrant pages.

Harbingers of spring still abound. A note of birdsong, a warm breeze, blue skies, and greening grass all herald its approach, but I still long for roses and apples in February and for the mailman to bring the promise of bounty and beauty to my door.


I love to write, and I decided it was time to create a blog.  I hope that I find a readership, and I hope that my words will occasionally bring enrichment, insight, or entertainment to someone’s day.