Grasses and Groaning

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Rare is the time when I’m alone in our home yet I find myself always craving it, the silence of sitting in my kitchen office with nothing but the humming of the refrigerator as my background noise.

These days we are keeping the shades in the dining room half open all day because the oppressive Oklahoma sun has taken it’s winter break.

There’s a pond behind our house, just beyond our picket fence.  It’s nothing to write home about, I can assure you, but when we first moved in I cried with joy at the very thought that I had a view of water from my kitchen window.

Sad how blessings depreciate with time, isn’t it?  I hardly even notice it anymore.

The pond is less visible these days because tall water grasses have popped up around , nearly obscuring our view of the water which used to so beautifully reflect the evergreens behind it.

These grasses are rusty gold and dead for the year, yet no matter how strongly the Oklahoma winter wind blows, they stay rooted in the watery muck, their roots so deep.

For days now the sight of these dead, wind bent reeds have been speaking something to me that I can’t put my finger on.

Something profound but completely elusive to my consciousness.

Then today, in the stillness of the house over my last sip of coffee I think I figured it out.

These grasses speak to the groaning within. Continue reading

Antique prayers and picture frames

This is one of my favorite corners of our home, a little bit gold, a little bit aqua, all thrifted, discovered, or salvaged.

This entire corner cost me less than $10, I love that.

The chocolate brown table was hauled out of the trash near our first married apartment.

The gold mirror tray was a garage sale find

The aqua watering can, I must confess, was an Ikea special that I took the spray paint to.

The cranberries were a Hobby Lobby purchase.

The frame, however, is the best story:  Found at a garage sale on the outskirts of town  for $1. When I started working on it I realized it was lined with old German newspapers that, although illegible to me, predate World War 1.

Oh the stories it could tell, I like to imagine that it came across the Atlantic on a steamer, wrapped in brown paper or in a trunk, the cherished possession of a woman with hopes for new life in America.

I could be all wrong, but I’m glad that it’s come to rest with us. Continue reading