Dear Wild Prairie,

How I love to see God work in you. I love to watch Him change and renew you.

On an April morning, I walk between two rusty gate posts into the past. The house once built here by homesteaders is gone. Steps, which a child once sat on to pout lay discarded on their side in the grass. Someday, they will break down and disappear. 

The grass, once kept neat and trim, is waist high. The briars have begun there repossessing of the land. Weeds, wild berry bushes, and milkweed mix with a few enduring domestic plants over the burial ground of the past. 

Small trees have taken root where they will grow unnoticed under the old trees that once held children's rope swings and  provided shady play space for little girls creating mud pies; shade trees that helped keep the house cool and made a porch into a leafy retreat for family to gather and rest in after a hard day's work. These big trees will be toppled by wind and time and the small trees will have their day.

 

  

Yucca plants, blue iris, daffodils and daylilies still herald spring here and speak of summer and whisper of the past. Rocks circle a dry pool where little children once clamored, capturing lizards, and frogs on happy carefree afternoons.

A tired housewife laid her baby to sleep in a shaded spot and sat on a slat-backed chair enjoying the quiet time shelling peas for supper. Her husband has taken a trip to town to sell produce from the back of his old truck. Her older daughter is out back pulling weeds in the garden. Maybe a son is busy chopping wood for the winter ahead.

She's enjoying the iris, takes in a whiff of its fragrance, almost overshadowed by the honesysuckle trundling along the fence. She plans to divide the iris and plant more on each side of the new gate her husband put in this year. The gate that the prairie has bent, that rain now has rusted, that is missing from the iron posts that sit like an a book cover encasing missing pages.

That was long ago. You and God have ongoing plans for this spot on the prariie. Every year the past is further erased, and someday the farm that once sat on your welcome mat will be completely forgotten; not one person living will know it was there.

In the meantime, I will walk here and ponder the past, the courage in the face of hardships that our ancestors possessed, and the love of beauty in a human heart that planted iris.

Love You, Elece

Dear Rachel,

I wanted to write and thank you for the beautiful basket of Bougainvillea that you brought me on Easter Sunday. I hung it on a branch on the sycamore tree beside my birdfeeders and it is gorgeous. Its pale green and pink petals fluttering in the spring wind remind me of ruffles on a little girl's Easter dress.

Didn't it seem to you that spring green burst out of nowhere? It seemed sudden and I have been enjoying the sunny skies and warm breezes. The oak trees have unfurled their leaves like green pennants and catkins shower pollen on the newly mown grass. The pecan trees and the sycamores are just "breaking bud" as Dad would say.

The tulips have nodded in the wind until their petals dropped, and the redbud tree out front has begun to shed pink, the color of frosting on a strawberry cake, in a circle beneath its branches.The purple iris are blooming, and today a first yellow rose bud popped open on the bush outside the picture window. The azaleas are opening and they will soon be a splash as bright red as a cut ripe watermelon beside the white of the house.

The best thing about the flowers you sent me is the fact that you bought them for yourself and then loved them so that you decided to part with them. You were thrilled with the blooms, yet knowing I would love them you gave them to me. I know it was a gift from your heart.

The flowers have given me joy, just like having you for a daughter does.

Love You,

Mama

What the heart gives away is never gone...It is kept in the heart of others.

Robin St. Johns

AHHHHHHH

Dear Jesus,

What a beautiful day Easter has always been to me because of you! Dad used to take us to the early sunrise service and then to a lodge in the woods where they served pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast. We sang and prayed and ate at long rustic tables festooned with bouquets of buttery daffodils as the sun slanted through the windows on us.

I remember sunrise service at our home in Texas at the Jesus House. Mama served up platters of pancakes and filled pitchers with fresh icy cold milk. We had bouquets of daffodils there too. Someone played a guitar and we sang about how we cherish the cross because it was there you died because you loved us so and wanted to bring us the hope of overcoming death.

On the lawn at Grandma June's house in Louisiana, we watched the sun leap into the morning sky and we sang with the brothers and sisters there, "He lives! He lives! Christ Jesus lives today! He walks with me and talks with me along life's narrow way!"

Oh, do you remember how Jiggs and the men's quartet sang for us on Easter Sunday? They started out slow and low and dreadfully woeful.

"Low in the grave He lay, Jesus, my saviour;

Waiting the coming day, Jesus, my Lord!"

(Then with such pomp and power they sang:)

"UP FROM THE GRAVE HE AROSE,

With a mighty triumph o'r His foes!

He arose the victor from the dark domain,

And He lives forever with His saints to reign!

He arose! He arose!

Hallelujah! Christ arose!"

"Death could not keep its prey, Jesus, my saviour;

He rolled the stone away, Jesus, my Lord!

"UP FROM THE GRAVE HE AROSE,

With a mighty triumph o'r His foes!

He arose the victor from the dark domain;

And He lives forever with His saints to reign!

He arose! He arose!

Hallelujah! Christ arose!"

I can still hear them. Their deep and marvelous voices thundering in the old stone dome of the First Baptist Church in Manistee, Michigan. It was greater than any theater surround sound system on earth! I am sure that of all the praises you have heard, you must remember those.The sound went right through a person's soul and overpowered him. It made me laugh and cry at the same time!

This morning the sun rose bright and warm on my bedroom window and I watched these tulips open to the light. I thought about you and how good you are to us. I thought what a wonderful day it was when my spirit and heart opened to your light and I knew you were alive!

Thank you, Lord, for coming. Thank you for dying and for living again, for making all things beautiful in your time. And thank you for tulips waving like flags to the spring sky and oh, yes, thank you for songs to sing.

Love you, Elece

Dear Joe,

I didn't close my eyes when you prayed Sunday. Sorry, but I wanted to watch your face. I watched you and I was happy to get a glimpse of who you are. I wanted to see what sort of a person you are becoming, what kind of husband you are to Audra, if you are strong enough and good enough for our precious girl.

When she chose you - I was surprised. Almost, I will admit, appalled. You did not at all fit the image I had formed in my mind of the man Audra would choose. (Maybe no son-in-law does.) But Audra was convinced. She was certain and I was happy with her and for her. Yet, I have not stopped watching.

Now, you have fathered six children and each child has changed you. Each year of your walk with God and your marriage to Audra has seen a new person emerge more and more.

As you prayed, I thought about what a miracle you are. You, Joseph Michie, once a lost and lonely young man, staggered by the weight of life and stumbling in the way of sin. Now, a new man, praying there for your wife, your mother, and your mother-in-law. How amazing is that transformation? How wonderful is that!

It made me so glad! You have come so far since you turned onto the path of light and began to become a man of God.  You have grown so much since you determined to be a good father and a great husband. I want to watch as you become the man God sees in you--the man He sees when you pray.

Of course, I wasn't the only one looking during your prayer and I bet it made Him glad too.

Love you, Elece

Dear Ellen,

I am so happy to have met you this winter. If you were ever in Brownie Scouts, I'll bet you remember the little song: "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other is gold." We sang this diddy in a round and it could go on and on. I guess I will still remember it when I have forgotten who I am and where I live! :)

You seem to be a quiet person. The thing I liked about you right away was your smile and your friendly voice. You are not pretentious.You just let people see who you are and take you or leave you. That is a pleasant way to live.

You are an unselfish person. I noticed how you always wait on people, offering a chair, or something to drink, or your own sweater.You are hospitable and that is a good characteristic in a friend. You invited us all into your home for a visit and made us all feel welcome and at home. I like to know I have friends I could drop in on and they would be glad to see me and not upset.

You must know that I am that sort too, so come visit when you can. I may be a little hard to decipher, but I like people and I love having company. I enjoying getting to know a new friend. I know sometimes those friendships last for years and years. Let's hope for that!

Love you, Elece

Dear God,

It is the end of March in Oklahoma. My daffodills are blooming and the other bulbs sending up their spears to the blue sky. Soon the irises, the tulips, and the hyacinths will bloom. But this morning sleet is pelting the side of the house. The rain fell all night followed by freezing rain and then an hour or two of sleet, sounding like rice popping as it hits the windowpanes.

I ventured out into the cold wet wind to fill my empty bird feeders, grab the mail, and pick a bouquet with ice on it. The mud puddles and the water still standing from the last rain are frozen now. Snow is swirling out of the northwest - large soggy flakes. The weatherman predicts four to eight inches before the day is over. We have had these last of March snow storms before and they are soon gone and spring moves in with southern breezes and warmer days soon afterward.

In Louisiana, I was enthralled by the camellias that budded out on bushes and produced assorted orage, red, pink and salmon colored blossoms against shiny leather-like green leaves. What pretty flowers! I brought a potted one here to try my hand at raising them. Though roses grow well here, camellias don't stand a chance against the freezes we have. The lilacs I carried home from Michigan failed for want of enough cold.

Here we have the Indian Paintbrush, the Prairie Primrose, and the wild rose that trundles in great sagging sprays over pasture fences. Every place has its natural graces. Cardinals, cowbirds, chickadees, white-throated sparrows, downy woodpeckers, and nuthatches are busy outside my window like so many mobile flowers.

Brenna's little donkeys have eaten the center out of a round coil of hay. They seek the shelter of their open-sided shed on days like today. The cows and horses don't seen to mind the cold. They graze lazily along the wooded side of the orchard.

Winter clings and then is gone. Spring, summer, and autumn each hold allure and trials of their own. I love living where I get to experience all the seasons fully. Things change and new joys and challenges entertain us.

Thank you for the seasons, especially these that keep us hopeful.

Love you, Elece

Dear Friend from the Past,

I wish I knew your name, but I never had the opportunity to meet you.  You lived on a homestead farm along Highway 16. Your house is gone now. (I wonder if it was still there in the 1950's when I was born.) All that is left is an old cistern where you drew water  when you planted daffodils one spring. I imagine you carrying a full bucket of water to pour over the red Oklahoma dirt beside your gate where you had decided to place the bulbs.

Cows and horses now graze in pastures nearby and the wind sweeps across the grasses- uncut where once wagons slowed to see the bright flowers that spelled spring to their hearts. I know you loved those earliest blooms. I know they encouraged you, but I'll bet you never thought that someday after your house and barn had been bulldozed for pasture, those flowers would keep growing and spreading and encouraging.

Many cars and trucks pass by your old home place every day now. Some drivers notice the yellow flowers waving in the spring breezes. I am one of them. I know you were busy. I know you were hard working and had children to care for, chickens and farm animals to feed, eggs to gather, and bread to bake. Yet, you took time to plant.

I love the legacy of daffodils left behind by you mothers before us. I envision the garden gates, the storm cellars, and front steps of houses now gone, of women now gone, of families now gone. I wonder what life was like for you pioneers and I presume that  you were happy people, because you  planted daffodils.

Every spring the daffodils still bloom and it is a glorious sight. I wish you could see them.  I wish you knew that I pull off the road and walk back through the grass to pick  bouquets of the slender green stems and lemony trumpets. They are the symbol of spring to many. To me, they are the perfect  picture of hope. You planted them in hope for future springs you were looking forward to. They bring hope still.

Aren't they a cheerful sight in my kitchen windowsill- like a letter through time from your house to mine?

Thanks, Friend, thanks so much.

Love you, Elece