To everything there is a time

We sang pretty Becky to heaven this morning with her almost 1-year-old granddaughter gurgling on the front pew. The baby’s too young to remember her glamorous grandmother, but there is some mention that she might be channeling her, fussing when she leaves a party, for instance.

The heat index outside the church was well over 100; the fuchsia crape myrtle blooms  in the wavy old window panes nodded in a sluggish breeze that was more the earth sighing in discomfort than an actual breeze.

Summer in the South, and Becky’s too-early death reminds us to enjoy even this, to enjoy the heat and the humidity and the thunderstorms that slake the plants’ thirst but do nothing to the temperatures.

I look at Becky’s blessings in that front pew and think of the blessings she, in turn, gave them, especially the graceful way she handled her illness. I hope I can do a fraction as well, and in the meantime, I owe it to myself and my family to take care of the good health with which I’ve been blessed.

While shoveling food into my mouth, I threw away that good health with both  hands. Not being a good steward of my gifts, which I’m working on these days. Being a good steward extends to the gifts from our garden as well., When I got home from the funeral, I froze a couple quarts of Golden Queen corn, saving five ears for our lunch.

He Who Grew the Beautiful Corn husked and silked it perfectly. I tossed it into boiling water for four minutes, then dropped the ears into big bowls of ice water. I sliced the kernels from the cobs, cutting about two-thirds of the way down into the kernels, then packed the drained kernels in zippered plastic, three cups to a bag.

I felt as though it were in Becky’s honor that I appreciated everything at hand in the kitchen and, most especially, the perfect meal of lightly buttered and salted corn on the cob. All things bright and beautiful, the Lord God made them all.



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