62/365

Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul alike. 
- John Muir, The Yosemite (1912)

(an afternoon spent walking through Bentsen State Park)

16/365

We live in a place where in January the daily high temperature averages around 70 degrees, and the nightly low temperature falls to about 50 degrees. It's pleasant, even delightful. We kind of think of it as a sweet reward for surviving six months of hot.

But on this day, the peak came early in the day. It topped out at 38 wet and windy degrees. And then it fell. To below the freezing point.

Now, be sure, I have lived in cold places. REALLY COLD. And I know that on the same day, there were plenty of places suffering much colder temps than we were. I know that people in those places scoff at 31 degrees.

But I betcha in most of those places, homes have insulation. Most of us here in Reynosa have cinder block walls. People who live in cold places have central heating these days. We have a little space heater, and a heating element in our mini-split air conditioning unit that tries to crank out some warmth, and five layers of blankets on the bed. I can see my breath while inside my house. And truthfully, I have it good. I know others living in conditions that make mine look luxurious.

Where I live, people face hurricanes with bravery, ready to hold down the fort against gale force winds and flooding rain. Where I live, if temperatures below the 40's are mentioned in a weather forecast, we do our best to imitate little brother Randy in The Christmas Story by putting on multiple layers of clothes, preferably covering our faces, too. We hold mugs of hot drinks. We huddle around the space heater, maybe even the stove, maybe even the coffee pot, anything that gives off warmth, like it is a campfire.

The saving grace in these cold snaps comes in a simple, hopeful, fact- they are short. I have the promise of knowing with assurance that in four days, the sun would come out again. The forecast tells us sun and normal, even above normal, temps are on the way.

Come visit next week. It should be lovely.

342/365

DPP8-

(We woke up to snow!)

Yeah, we know. For most points north of south Texas (and that would be pretty much all of the United States of America barring south Florida...), the amount of snowfall we received might be considered a mere dusting. But here, we treat the arrival of that icy white precipitation as A Weather Event.

Snow rarely comes to south Texas- "rarely" as in the last snow was seen here was in 2004- the legendary Christmas Morning Snow.  Before that, it was 1895. An entire generation of people Never Saw Snow in south Texas!

For those sort of reasons, we were expectant. One of my girls sent me video at 1:15 am of snow falling. Another set her alarm for 2am and for 3am just to be sure that she didn't miss it. Snow didn't come to Harlingen until daybreak. But it must have liked its trip to the Rio Grande Valley. It decided to stick around most of the morning.

We welcomed the visit! If you ask me, a snow once every ten years or so is just right. It didn't stick to the streets. The temperatures were not cold enough to really freeze. The snow fell wet and heavy on the ground, just wet enough and heavy enough to make a snowball from the roof of the car. A few resourceful folks created tiny little snowmen. Sadly, their carrot noses lay in a puddle by afternoon. It was good while it lasted.

But really, my northern friends, let's make a deal. We'll stop making fun of you complaining about summer heat when it gets to 90 for a few days in a row if you'll tolerate our occasional whining about cold. I mean, come on! We don't have heaters! I'm bundled up in layers in my little cinder block house. The cold damp hangs around- the next day we opened up the windows because it was warmer inside than out. We're good at being hot here- not cold!

Even so, Snowfall 2017 made for a great end of week surprise! See you again around 2030, ok?

304/365

I'm pretty sure that nearly everyone from the Rio Grande Valley would agree- every road trip out of the Valley begins with breakfast tacos. Accordingly, on the stop to fill up the gas tank, we also make our way indoors and line up to place our order. I watch as the workers scurry, alternating between filling a bulk order and the requests of those waiting patiently but anxiously, this surely the first stop of their long day to come. One woman rolls balls of dough with a small wooden dowel; another flips the discs on the grill, checking the tell-tale brown spots for readiness. Finally, our turn at the counter and we place our order, "Dos con juevos y tocino, por favor." She scoops the scrambled eggs with pieces of bacon and fills the center of the tortilla, rolling it all up in a shiny foil wrapper. I walk away and open the package and unroll the bundle to spoon in pico de gallo and salsa verde, taking that nearly always losing gamble that it won't drip onto my shirt in the final bites. The coffee also presents a risk. Although usually known to be pretty good for a gas station brew, today a definitely burned flavor exists, and not even a splash of half and half covers it up. I drink it anyway, watching the sunrise along the way. We are off.

279/365

"No, gratitude born from humility is not a gratitude rooted in having more than someone else. It is a gratitude rooted in having anything at all."
Hannah Andersen, Humble Roots

Days that don't go the way you expect, they are humbling, aren't they? My day began with an incredibly ordinary expectation that things would go as they always do.
Except they didn't.

Oh, it wasn't anything life changing, nothing insurmountable that didn't work itself out by the end of the morning. And yet, it became easy to be distracted. Still, as I reflected later, my encouragement, my solace, remains that none of the events surprised my God, the Good Shepherd. I count myself as a people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand.

And so I give thanks for the quiet of morning, for the beauty of golden daybreak hues, for the sparkly dew and for the cool breeze of fall. For friends that perhaps grow more dear in human frailty. For the wrongs that are corrected with a few papers and signatures and a little bit of time. For lunch with my man and for the excitement of travel ahead. For "gratitude rooted in having anything at all."

274/365

The song from morning worship still played through my head as we headed west into the sunset, Let us love and sing and wonder, let us praise the Savior's name... We spent just over 24 hours at home, and I left thankful for it.

The afternoon before, we arrive back at home just after a car has crashed through three of our neighbors' fences, two wooden and one wrought iron. The car stops mangled in the middle of the corner yard. All of us neighbors gawk, incredulous, but it seems everyone survives the wreck. We arrive in time to comfort our girl, because the reverberations of such an impact can shake the best of us.

We grocery shop and stop for egg rolls and prepare a meal together. Everyone with a task, the computer screen shifts from recipe to recipe (isn't that the most convenient way to find a recipe and make a list these days?). We feast on peach crisp for dessert, probably the last of the season, while watching another episode of our on-going drama together. We skype our far-away family and smile and nod and wish we were 1000 miles closer. When our other girl arrives home from work, we heat up another plate of food and laugh over nonsense skits on late night TV.

Sunday morning brings the routines of habit, quiet and coffee and reading and memory work and ironing and jumping into the shower and leaving just at the moment to not be late. I take my place on the sofa for prayer, and the familiar voices around me offer petition and balm, both. I greet friends and try to catch up weeks in a moment. I miss faces, and I wish that I could talk to more. We soak in truth and "love and sing and wonder" at the mercies of the God we come to worship.

I leave with a friend to meet another, and soon, the gray skies pour down rain once again. We stop for for a cup of coffee, two for here, one to go, and share a piece of banana-supposed-to-be-pumpkin bread. We visit a friend, her stay in the rehab facility longer than her liking, and I hope we leave her encouraged. We ponder aging and families and laugh at our own growing frailties and weaknesses.

I dodge the rain and dash to my front door and settle on the couch for my Sunday afternoon shows. I stress out with bakers and laugh out loud at the running commentary my friend, watching simultaneously at her house, offers. We finish with a chat and a prayer, always grateful for easy in the midst of life hard.

An early dinner and a scramble for belongings, hugs and kisses all around, and we are back on the road. The sky changes as if playing a Technicolor film reel before our eyes, a fine finish to the extraordinary ordinary of a day.

264/365

We really shouldn't be, maybe we really aren't, surprised anymore when one of our tires loses its umphf and sits deflated. Flat tires have become commonplace here. I am sure that I have experienced more flat tires since moving to the border than in all of my life up to that point. There was that one time I was driving down the road and thought that the nice people were pulling up to tell me that my gas door was open. No. That was a flat tire. There have been dramatic and sudden blowouts at full speed on the highway. I have heard the hum and then the slow whompwhompwhomp of the tire gradually becoming flat until question ourselves, is it?, and then we can deny it no longer. And then there have been the days when we walk out to the car and the tire is flat. Today was one of those days.

I should confess, I still haven't changed my own tire. I count that as all grace. Always so far, some hero guy appears, usually but not always my husband, willing to get his hands black and his pants dusty dirty. I know where the jack is, but I've never had to slide it under the car or crank it up. My job is to hold the bolts and to line up the tire to see if the jack has lifted the car high enough. I try to touch the tire only with my fingertips and I try not to touch my clothes or my face. Somehow the black smudge of rubber finds its way to mark me anyway. Sometimes I have waved at oncoming traffic, so that the cars and trucks headed our way don't get too close to the car, or to the guy underneath the car. That is a worrisome job.

Now I have tire guys. I know of the tire shop in Hidalgo and of the tire guy down the street and around the corner in Reynosa. I first met the tire guy on Harrison in Harlingen, but sadly, his shop burned in a black smoky fire. Now I visit the tire guy off the Loop in Harlingen. He's friendly and trustworthy and reliable. He charges $6 to take off a tire, repair it, and put it back, and does it in less than 10 minutes. I sit and listen to the air pump and the whine of taking off the bolts like some NASCAR pit crew might do. He wrestles the tire into the old bathtub and discovers the hole, usually the fault of a nail. He rolls the tire over to the equipment to repair it, and then he exchanges the tires and he replaces the spare back to its rightful position on the back of the car.

When flat tires become part of normal.
We'll talk about windshields another day...

242/365

After a summer of sandals day in and day out, the feet need some help. Here's a great thing about having a bunch of daughters, I can nearly always find someone to join me on an outing. We walk in and immediately find empty seats. Debating colors, I finally take a bottle off the shelf and wait to be called. I take off my sandals and roll up my pants. I push the buttons on the remote control until the chair moves in every manner possible, pulsing and kneading and rolling and vibrating my spine. My feet soak in a tub of warm bluish waters. The dear lady sits on s short rolling stool, hunched at my feet, my calloused, Fred Flintstone-yabba-dabba-dooo, feet. She pushes  on my cuticles and clips and files and smooths my toenails. I'm pretty sure that she pulls out the cheese grater and the wood rasp to remove the dead skin on my heels. She lotions my legs. She paints on University Red and a top coat of shiny clear on those chubby toes (better balance, say I!). And after nearly 30 minutes of work, those feet of mine look amazingly, almost miraculously, neat and clean. She slips each of my feet carefully into a crazy flip flop contraption and I'm ready to shuffle out the door. But bless. She sits at people's nasty feet all day. She listens to gossip and telanovelas and one-sided phone conversations. She inhales the fumes of acetone and polish. I hope my tip and smiles and multiple thank you's is enough.

236/365

"You are not taking this seriously," they accuse  me as the tropical depression turned tropical storm threatens to morph again into Hurricane Harvey. At this point it seems rather unlikely that we will be affected with more than rain. OK sure, maybe a good amount of rain, but still... However, there's little that I dislike more than two united teenagers telling me "I told you so." Therefore, when our city opens up opportunity to get free sandbags, I agree; yes, we should go pick up our ration.

My concerned weather-watchers and I hop in the car and drive over to the city building complex, where a surprisingly long line of cars has formed down the the shoulder of the highway. Having an appointment in 30 minutes, I almost drive away. But willing to give it a try and not wanting to be chastised, we queue up. The line moves with unexpected efficiency. We never even have to get out of the car, rolling forward to show our address, rolling forward to get the mark on the windshield, rolling forward to receive our sandbag allotment, rolling forward to thank the workers. We are back on the road with 10 minutes to spare. Once home, we strategically place our six bags of sand. Six doesn't seem like much. Will six sacks of sand stop a flood? Surely our house wouldn't flood...?

I err and turn on talk radio. Never underestimate the power of disaster semi-hysteria. It will make you question everything that you think you know to be enough. We go to our usual spot to fill our water jugs and they are out of water. We make a second successful stop, and then calculate how much water that would give each of us. I start to doubt its sufficiency. I look at the gas gauge on each car with a leery eye. I think Sam's Club to be just the destination, our one-stop fill up  and pantry reinforcement location. But the line for gas extends around the perimeter of the parking lot. And the bottled water is sold out. I ask my daughter if we need more bread, and decide our stock is fine. But then I turn the corner and the bread racks are empty and I start to doubt. Maybe I do need more bread?! And now I can't get it?! Surely I need more pita chips? And don't we need a box of canned tomatoes, a flat of Cup O' Noodles? I don't even like Cup O' Noodles. Wait! Cup O' Noodles needs water! I buy a case of Topo Chico, our favorite carbonated mineral water, and package of 16 hamburger buns to compensate. And another bottle of wine. Just in case.

We learn that our university bound daughter can't move in, her school straight in the projected path of the storm. We learn that the school campus is closed indefinitely. We learn that our daughter and son-in-law living north of us have to evacuate and are coming south. We learn that our friend's condo on South Padre Island needs to be checked. We do what we can do and we wonder if it is enough. Everywhere we go, the talk is of the storm. How big will it be? How long will it last? Where will it go? We check the radar again. We make chocolate chip cookie bars. We wait.

We arrive at the island and stop and breathe in the calm before the storm. The water has begun to churn, and even so, a few still linger on the beach. The sky and the water take on dark jewel tones, and the clouds hover ominously, and still, I am tempted, almost mesmerized, to stay, to sit from a 5th floor vantage point and watch the coming torrent move forward. We shake off the irrational allure and head back west across the causeway, noticing boards going up on store windows, noticing emergency workers starting to strategically stage their vehicles.

The night passes peacefully. At the daybreak the sky shows itself cloudy, but barely a sprinkle of rain splashes on the windshield. Hardly a stiff breeze blows in a place where strong winds are commonplace. And yet, on the radar Harvey looms ominous, ever creeping slowly slowly to the coast.

Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me,
    for in you my soul takes refuge;
in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge,
    till the storms of destruction pass by.
Psalm 57:1

(update: Harvey decided not to visit the Rio Grande Valley, not a bit. Now we have a lot of water and a some like new sandbags to show for it. The difference of 150 miles seems incredulous as we watch the storm reports from places north and look at the sun outside our windows. We pray for friends in dangerous places. My girls are still waiting. We will forever take refuge in our God, in the shadow of his wings.)

229/365

I pulled off the blacktop and into the shoulder and rolled down the window and tried to get the steer to look my way. He did, and he looked rather annoyed at the intrusion on his mid-afternoon stroll.
Really, I can hardly blame him...

Sure, the skies are clear and the view is sublime, but does a care even care? Certainly, cows feel the August heat too, don't they? I keep wondering, when the sun beams hot overhead, when there's no shade in these south Texas fields, where there's not a drop of water nearby, when the grass is on the driest side of green, do the cows think, "Psheesh. I'm over this whole summer thing..."

Or do they just graze and sometimes stop to look up at the crazy lady on the side of the road?

228/365

O God beyond all praising,
we worship you today
and sing the love amazing
that songs cannot repay;
for we can only wonder
at every gift you send,
at blessings without number
and mercies without end:
we lift our hearts before you
and wait upon your word,
we honour and adore you,
our great and mighty Lord.

Then hear, O gracious Saviour,
accept the love we bring,
that we who know your favour
may serve you as our king;
and whether our tomorrows
be filled with good or ill,
We'll triumph through our sorrows
and rise to bless you still:
to marvel at your beauty
and glory in your ways,
and make a joyful duty
our sacrifice of praise.

"O God Beyond All Praising," Michael A. Perry (1982)

221/365

Somewhere far down the coast, the tempest raged, dark and wet and gusty, I know. But here, the tall clouds on the horizon looked to be only a beautiful warning of the coming storm. We didn't yet know what it would look like.

And isn't this all of life? Isn't always there some storm in route, if not already tossing around us?And yet, "In the middle of the pain of life in a fallen world, we groan with hope, knowing that when the new creation does come in its fullness, then all our groaning will not be remembered."
(Gloria Furman, Missional Motherhood) 

I keep my eyes fixed on the horizon of eternity.

220/365

We walked maybe 10 yards before we spotted our first and second and third chacalaca, those chubby dusty brown birds scavenging under the low shrubs outside the Visitor's Center. Several hours later, we had spotted at least a dozen more bird species, overhead and in the trees. Lizards, long and short, fat and small, zip across our path, at least every couple of minutes. Rabbits and squirrels hop and skip on the trail, and then stop wide-eyed as if they are surprised to see us. Butterflies and moths flutter by along the way. We wonder where the ocelot and jaguarundi might be hiding to watch us. Spanish moss hangs thick and heavy and a bit gloomy. The Sighting of the Day must be the Very Impressive Blue Indigo snake, dark and thick and long and hustling, slithering to get out of our way. We see scat, full of seed, and wonder what animal could be responsible for littering the trails. We visit a cemetery full of wooden crosses, graves one hundred years old.

We spent the morning at the Santa Ana National Wildlife Refuge, a federally managed park that nestles right up to the US/Mexico border at the Rio Grande river in south Texas. The morning sun burned bright hot as it moved overhead. Cicadas played the high-pitched whine and click soundtrack to our hike. We saw just two other people for most the morning, although I've read that 165,000 visitors arrive at the park each year. It's a gem of a place, a place where you cannot help but recognize and be impressed by the stark and harsh beauty of this tropical dessert zone.

This still, beautiful place has been in the news recently. It has been marked as the site of the next border wall project. And frankly, that ires me greatly, for many reasons. I believe that there are better solutions to navigate immigration issues than with a fence across a wildlife refuge. I believe that other options can be found to truly improve our nation's security than to scar this land with a wall. I believe that we can be far more creative, much more resourceful, smarter and better stewards of the land, than to resort to fencing off this place.

John Muir, early advocate for the wilderness, wrote, “Everybody needs beauty...places to play in and pray in where nature may heal and cheer and give strength to the body and soul alike.” I hope that the Santa Ana National Wildlife Refuge continues to be one of those places.
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218/365

Nevertheless, I am continually with you;
    you hold my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
    and afterward you will receive me to glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
    And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
    but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
Psalm 73:23-26

210/365

For every beast of the forest is mine,
    the cattle on a thousand hills.
I know all the birds of the hills,
    and all that moves in the field is mine.
-Psalm 50:10-11

Another day bright and hot, and even sitting under cover, under fan, we feel the sweat form on our brow. I consider how very little is under my control, and fall again into prayer. And there I humbly remember that He who owns all the beasts of the field is completely trustworthy in our lives, too.

207/365

In hindsight, probably the last minute dash for a raspa was mistimed at best. Probably I should have chosen a stand closer to home. Maybe I should have resisted the temptation to the sweet primary brights altogether. It all seemed like it was going to work, that I could have my ice AND make it to dinner on time, my crockpot ready to carry out the door. The street signals untypically changed in our favor. I chose the back road route and hardly a car could be seen ahead. And then, I squinted; sure enough, in the distance, the slight movement of the train gave cause for concern.
"I don't think it will last long."
"It's almost through, right?"
"It can't be THAT much longer."
"WHAT?! It's STOPPING?"
Yes. Stopped. Completely halted.
At that moment, "We might be late," turned to "Dang. We're late."
And we were.
But all in all, the raspa was worth it.

205/365

Recipe for One Good Day-
Morning latte,
Hatch Green Chile Egg Potato Sausage breakfast taco,
Morning shared in Reynosa with the best company, the best,
Bridge line confessions,
Bookstore escape with only one title,
Spinach Mushroom Piadina,
New library card (which deserves it's own post. The friendliest customer service, bright light crisp, a new book to go, and MORE OVERDRIVE!! Yes, this is true- not the dream where I wake up and owe money...),
Wish shopping,
Making her new purchase fit in the back,
Large unsweet tea with lemon,
11 hours uninterrupted,
Home again, home again,
Back down the road,
New shower curtain and bath mat,
Steak with my favorite electrician,
Home again, home again.

Finish heart happy and deeply content.

187/365

I see the bright yellow plane swoop down behind the tree line, and I drive ahead to the roadside edge of the cotton field. I recognize the craft and I know the pilot and I pull over and get out to watch. Puffy clouds stacked high against the bright blue sky provide a technicolor backdrop to the show. The hum of the airplane engine gives narration to the unnatural maneuvers over power lines and across the green of the ground. The plane glides low before powering up and turning wide for another pass. I am mesmerized.

If only I didn't keep the smell of chemicals after the display...

147/365

An Saturday afternoon in south Texas.
One chore after another filled my day-
picking up and cleaning counters and mopping floors. Making lists and running errands and grocery shopping.
But stop.

Look at that wide open sky.
Ahhhh.
South Texas.

144/365

God, all nature sings thy glory,
and thy works proclaim thy might;
ordered vastness in the heavens,
ordered course of day and night;
beauty in the changing seasons,
beauty in the storming sea;
all the changing moods of nature
praise the changeless Trinity,

Clearer still we see thy hand
in man whom thou hast made for thee;
ruler of creation's glory,
image of thy majesty.
Music, art, the fruitful garden,
all the labor of his days,
are the calling of his Maker
to the harvest feast of praise.

But our sins have spoiled thine image,
nature, conscience only serve
as unceasing, grim reminders
of the wrath which we deserve.
Yet thy grace and saving mercy
in thy Word of truth revealed
claim the praise of all who know thee,
in the blood of Jesus sealed.

God of glory, power, mercy,
all creation praises thee;
we, thy creatures, would adore thee
now and through eternity.
Saved to magnify thy goodness,
grant us strength to do thy will;
with our acts as with our voices 
thy commandments to fulfill.

- "God, All Nature Sings Thy Glory," David Clowny (1960) (to the tune to Beethoven's "Ode to Joy")