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?

308/365

When we left the house in the morning, the skies showed gray and the temps settled low, a pretty cool (and I'm not meaning "hip" or
"fashionable"...) fall morning, even by the standards of the folks who live here. And I was freezing. I gazed out the window as we drove by the cornfields, thinking of my farmer friends, thinking of the harvest yet coming in. And then I realized- there was white scattered over the dark earth. I considered, what could it be?
I even asked my husband, "What's that white stuff in the fields?"
Ummm...
Snow. It was snow.
(full disclosure- I realized my error VERY quickly! And then I had a good laugh at myself, honest, I did!)

Dear Midwest,
You are lovely. But it's the front of November. And I've been living in south Texas and northern Mexico for a while now. My blood has thinned; I really do think it has.

Now I remember what I don't miss...

251/365

Our gate guard, Miguel, keeps one clean street. He works constantly to make sure that our little section of pavement, the perpetually dusty road in front of our properties, stays swept. Every morning he can be found sweeping, making piles of dust and dirt and whisking it away (usually to some invisible boundary just past our property and probably into our neighbor's section of street, but I guess that guy doesn't care much...).

But for Miguel, the real challenge comes when it rains. Our neighborhood lies close to the river, less than half a mile as the crow flies, and the drainage goes slow at best. It doesn't take much of a shower to make a pond in the street. Then Miguel really gets to work. He pushes away water until, something akin to Moses, he parts the seas. Sometimes we think he lives for the work after rain.

On this particular day, I came in from Texas, and I drove through a Texas-sized cloudburst on the way in, remnants of Hurricane Katia on the Mexican coast circling over our region. Rain came down in sheets requiring my windshield wipers to wave at full speed and even soliciting that crazy-to-me-south-Texas reaction of driving with your hazard lights on. The rainstorm had not yet reached our location, a bit farther west, but once through the storm, I watched it in the rear view mirror the rest of the way down the road. I saw the dark clouds on the horizon. I knew the rain was coming. I came ready to warn Miguel.

Most days, the conversation with Miguel goes like this:
¿Como estas, hoy? (How are you today?)
Estamos aqui. Va a llover. (We are here. It's going to rain.)
Most days, true, we are here. But most days, alas, it is not going to rain.
Today, I walked to the gate and as he opened it, granted, under very sunny skies, I reported,
¡Hola! Va a llover pronto. (Hello! It's going to rain soon.)
Today Miguel surprised me.
No, no va a llover hoy.
What? He's telling me that no, today it's not going to rain. I laugh!
Vamos a ver! (We'll see!)
He smiles and shakes his head at me and opens the gate.

I go about my business indoors and after a while, I realize- I am hearing more than the fans. I can smell the must of rain in the air. I peek outdoors. It's raining! And at a pretty good rate, besides. I was right. The storm has arrived. The rain doesn't last too very long, and by the time I leave the property again, the skies have cleared. Miguel has the broom out.
Sabía que llover, he tells me. (I knew it would rain.)
Claro que sí! I reply with a grin. (Of course!)

245/365

The sun glows golden and starts to cast early evening shadows as we walk along the shore. We balance the slope between the water and the shore and dash back and forth from the waves, guessing just how far down we can venture before the tide grabs our feet. Raindrops begin to fall, first enough apart to dash between and then, gradually, faster and closer. We turn back towards sidewalk, towards shelter. It always seems to be a narrow margin, that distance between rainbow and storm.

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.)

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.

142/365

A tornado struck Sunday evening, and although that event happened 150 miles to the west of us, we felt the effects even the next day. The twister twisted the high tension power line towers in Nuevo Laredo almost like a child's Erector set, and as such, electricity flickered in and out all day along the Mexican side of the border. I showed up to the neighborhood elementary school to find the gates locked up and kids playing in the streets. In these still muggy days, the hardest part of no power is definitely no air conditioning, no fans. Somehow, the lights came back on in time for the evening activities, and the kids were ready to go. 'Tis definitely the season para paraguas at the border.

22/365

The wind blew gustily on the afternoon walk through the 'hood. Hair in our faces, we leaned into the rush. Today we passed the shadows of dogs jumping behind fences and cats arched on the front walk, hair standing up straight. Football fans gathered around big screens in open garage dens. Children passed by on bikes and ran through the front yard with Captain America shields. I could smell Fabuloso and fresh-cut grass and meat on the grill. And still, the sound of the howl of the wind was all that I could hear.

17/365

I grew up in the southwest sun, in the Land of Enchantment, where you are surprised if you wake up and the sun is not shining. I live in a place where two-thirds of the year dawns very bright. We had forgotten, perhaps, how yet another cold, grey, wet Midwest day can dig deep into your soul and cause you to question if the sun will indeed come out tomorrow. And then, putting away Christmas- table upon table filled with smiling Santas and plump snowmen and the reds and greens of the season, when none of us were really feeling that false commercial cheer, not much at all. But a really good cherry fritter and a cup of hot coffee at the neighborhood donut shop? That sure can't hurt when trying to sweeten even the most gloomy of mornings.

13/366

It was on my mind, really it was, but when it's in the 70's outside, it is so easy to forget. It was on the runway in Houson, ready to take off for Michigan, that I remembered.
My coat yet hangs in my closet at home.
Alas.

7/365

It's like when you're moving forward, but you're not exactly sure what you're heading towards.
- The Edge

318/366

I didn't expect the sprinkles when I walked out the door to worship, and the fresh coolness of the day somehow surprised and refreshed me. I feel sadness for those who don't know the simple contentedness that comes each week in anticipating Sunday worship. He indeed allows us to be filled with all the fullness of God. 

I am thankful for
cool, fresh mornings,
prayers of the saints,
well-prepared teachers and iron sharpening iron,
prayer and praise,
a surprise lunch out,
dear friends around the table,
apple pie on the counter,
girls on the couch,
a lesson ready,
his hand in mine to end the day.

135/366

The day was clear and cool and we quickly realized that we are altogether acclimated to south Texas heat. My temperature finger was numb the entire day. Thanks to a steaming bowl of Pho to work the magic of warming us up.

131/366

Prematurely daylight turns to dark.
Lightning flashes.
The rain comes in waves.
We begin to remember what severe thunderstorm season looks like.

27/366

“Today is one of those excellent January partly cloudies in which light chooses an unexpected part of the landscape to trick out in gilt, and then the shadow sweeps it away. You know you’re alive. You take huge steps, trying to feel the planet’s roundness arc between your feet.”

- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

13/366

winter comes to south Texas...

3/366

The sun came out and everything looked golden.

362/365

the kind of day we wait for, sunny and bright and cool and clear and a hoody feels just right, AND the sunflowers are still in bloom in December.

310/365

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.
- 1 Corinthians 13:12

The hazy fog of the morning reminds me of the mysteries of this life, of the mysteries of faith. I realize that I have become increasingly skeptical of those who speak in absolutes, declaring emphatically on subjects such as marriage and parenting and faith and life. I'm trusting His sovereign grace in and with and by His providences, ever thankful for the promise of Romans 8:28 in all things.