I’m surprised at feelings I’ve had since I began writing Dear Dad letters. Sometimes I’m afraid I’m trying to get something from Dad that he can’t give me. I don’t think I am. I definitely feel I’m ‘out there,’ in the driver’s seat without a finished roadmap, uncertain where this will lead.
Most surprising, though, Read the rest of this entry »
Bearded cacti in Silver Garden
Longwood Gardens PA
Dear Dad,
About those ‘letters’ I mentioned in my last letter (no pun intended!)…
Here they are: Read the rest of this entry »
Pomegranate in Bonsai Garden,
Longwood Gardens
Dear Dad,
Here’s an idea I had today. I was trying to figure out how, at our ages, I would like to begin a conversation with you. So I had this wild idea, based on my experience with the other main man in my life, my husband. Read the rest of this entry »
Here’s a happy poem from Amy Carmichael. It reminds me of creation, Sabbath rest, children, and what it takes to survive in a sometimes desolate landscape. These bluebells are in the British Isles. Amy grew up in Ireland, and doubtless enjoyed bluebells like these when she was growing up.
Texas bluebells, the state’s flower, were one of Diane’s favorites. On one of my spring trips to Houston, which happily included our daughter, Diane and her family drove us out into the country to view spectacular Texas bluebells. This post is in honor of Diane, whose eyes were as blue as the bluebells of Texas.
I think Amy wrote this poem especially for children, of which she was one at least in spirit. You might try reading it out loud–just for fun!
Bluebells
Once in a granite hill
God carved a hollow place,
Called the blue air, and said, “Now fill
This emptiness of space.”
Or was it angels came,
And set among the fells
A crystal bowl, and filled the same
With handfuls of bluebells?
Hot hours walked overhead;
Our valley grew more sweet,
Though elsewhere gentle colors fled
Fearing those burning feet.
Those burning feet—the fells
Are withered where they go,
But still the misty blue bluebells
Only the bluer blow.
O God, who made the bowl
And filled it full of blue,
Canst Thou not make of this, my soul,
A vase of flowers, too?
Let not the hot hours make
Thy child as withered fells,
But fill me full, for love’s dear sake,
With blue as of bluebells.
Amy Carmichael, Mountain Breezes:
The Collected Poems of Amy Carmichael, pp. 132-33
© 1999, The Dohnavur Fellowship, published by Christian Literature Crusade.
Published in Pans (prior to 1917) and Made in the Pans (1917)
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 24 January 2015
Photo credit: http://www.loweswatercam.co.uk
Dear Dad,
I’ve been thinking about you a lot this week. Wondering about things that happened and didn’t happen. Wondering what it would be like if….
Actually, I got to the ‘what if’ stage just about an hour ago. Read the rest of this entry »
It’s November. My husband and I just finished a hike through the meadow at Longwood Gardens Though the weather forecast promised warm afternoon sun, it’s gray, cold and misty. On a whim, I ask my husband to take a picture of this sign. Read the rest of this entry »
I laughed as I wrote the dialogue between my body and me. We’ve been having this conversation for a while. It has, however, escalated in the last month while I’ve been recovering from a respiratory virus. Read the rest of this entry »
Self-contempt has been my primary issue for years. Until I learned to have compassion on myself, it was almost impossible not to have contempt for others. Here’s what self-contempt has looked like Read the rest of this entry »
Contempt – intrusive, ever-present, almost impossible to pin down. But that’s exactly why I need to talk about it.
After several false starts, Read the rest of this entry »
