A Garden Cultivates Pure Joy

If you are at all interested in gardening, you will love this hardcover book for your library. It features full-color photography of breathtaking gardens, images of vintage seed packets, magazine illustrations, as well as essays from famous gardeners, such as Tasha Tudor. and some not-so-famous ones (that would be me, yours truly).

How my work came to be included in this collection was one of those unexpected God surprises that I still find amazing. I posted about it in another blog community way back in 2006 when the book was first being put together. Maybe one day I will share that miracle here, since I am no longer active in the "other" blog community. It involved important editor people from—believe it or not—Better Homes and Gardens magazine, so ... see? A miracle, oh yes indeed.

Since the book's publication in 2008, whenever gardening season rolls around, I find myself drawn to its charming pages once again. I hope you enjoy a peek inside the book, and will join me for a stroll through a couple of my flower gardens. I'm sharing a few passages from my essay titled, "A Garden Cultivates Pure Joy," from Page 223 of the book.

"I had always dreamed of a yard filled with flowers, but I knew nothing about gardening, and with a toddler to chase all day, I wondered if there would ever be time for such things."

~ Dayle Allen Shockley

"I forgot all about flowerbeds until one spring morning when I walked to the front door and saw Amy, my neighbor across the street, digging in the dirt around a couple of rose bushes. She appeared to be working hard, but I noticed a pleasant look on her face."

~ Dayle Allen Shockley

"It wasn’t a big garden, nor all that fancy, but it was mine. I gladly fed and watered. I pruned and weeded. And I was not disappointed. The more I offered the seedlings, the more they yielded."

~ Dayle Allen Shockley

"I feel more alive in my garden than anywhere in the world."

~ Dayle Allen Shockley

"It’s a lot like raising a child. You’re contributing to the cycle of life, connected to something much bigger than yourself. And when you walk outside and see an orderly assortment of colors and textures, where chaos once reigned, it leaves you breathless."

~ Dayle Allen Shockley

"As I piled up spent blooms and pesky weeds on the ground beside me, my heart felt noticeably lighter. Liberated. Alive. Somewhere inside of me, a channel seemed to open up. Before long, I began talking to God as I worked."

~ Dayle Allen Shockley

"The very act of gardening is an exercise in hope. It is a lesson to the human spirit about turning nothing into something spectacular."

~ Dayle Allen Shockley

Taken from the essay, “A Garden Cultivates Pure Joy,”

by Dayle Allen Shockley, as seen in the book,

 The Gardener’s Bedside Reader, Kari Cornell, editor

(Voyageur Press 2008).

All rights reserved.

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This post is part of the weekly series, "Outdoor Wednesday,"

hosted by Susan at A Southern Daydreamer.

Also linking up with "Wordful Wednesday," at Seven Clown Circus.

A Birthday Prayer for my Daughter

(Photograph of Anna Marie by her grateful mother.)

Gracious God, from the moment I touched my daughter's newborn toes, my heart exploded with love for her. Although I didn't carry her in my body for nine months, I was instantly bound to her by the invisible threads that weave the human race together. She was my child, and I was her mother. Through miraculous circumstances, and after great pain, I had been handed a rare and precious treasure, and when she opened her eyes and looked at me for the first time, it was as if you were looking back at me. Only then did I fully understand that you had been working all along, even in the darkest season of my life.

During the years when I had prayed, 'Lord, please give me a child,' you heard and you knew exactly what was best for me. If I could turn back the clock, I wouldn't change a thing. Thank you for blessing our home with Anna Marie. She is the child I wished for in all of the barren years. Today, on her 24th birthday, my heart is filled with thanksgiving. I humbly ask for your divine protection and guidance in all of her tomorrows.

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“You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed” (Psalm 139:16).

Going Home

(Google photo)

On a sultry day in July, I boarded a passenger train in Dallas with my daughter—a toddler at the time—in tow. I had a bag filled with colors, coloring books, picture books, toys, and cookies, all in the hopes of keeping Anna Marie entertained on the trip home.

As the train glided down the track, slowly gaining speed, a restful feeling enveloped me. I had never experienced a train ride before, and found myself looking forward to the next few hours.

But it was not meant to be.

Shortly after our departure from Dallas, the train's air-conditioning system malfunctioned. To make matters worse, an unexpected delay arose, leaving us stopped dead still on the tracks for a solid hour. I spent a small fortune on weak sodas, just trying to keep us cool. Before long, we had eaten all of the cookies, I had read every book twice, Anna Marie had colored all of the pictures, and finally cried herself to sleep.

Now, hot and wilted, she lay sleeping across my knees as we neared our destination, her hair hanging in short, sweaty wisps. It had been a disappointing experience. I longed for the comforts of home.

As the train slowed, Houston's skyline twinkled against the night sky—a welcome sight. Whistling past the folks waiting outside the depot, I caught a glimpse of my husband. For a split second, our eyes met. He waved, a broad smile spreading across his face, as he ran to meet us.

With heavy steps, I stumbled out the doorway and into his loving embrace. At last, the long journey was over.

As Christians, we are on a journey. There have been many ups and downs, many miles covered. We have endured the heat of the battle, and often paid high prices for things that didn’t satisfy. We have cried many tears and tasted the bitterness of disappointment.

But one day, this Glory Train will glide to a stop, the doors will open, and we'll see the face of our Savior. Loving arms will embrace us, as He wipes the tears from our eyes. One look into his face will make the toils of the journey worthwhile. Home—home, at last.

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This post is part of "Spiritual Sundays," hosted by Charlotte and Ginger.
Click on over and be encouraged.

Summer camp can be frightening, especially for moms

My daughter turned nine in what I call the summer of my bleeding heart. It all started when her cousin mentioned the two of them going to summer camp. My daughter was ecstatic. I, on the other hand, terrified. I'd never let go of her for a whole week. Would she remember to bathe? Who would come her hair? What if she cried for me at night? Despite such tormenting questions, several weeks later found us at the place of surrender.

For the rest of the story, I hope you'll click over to Emily's wonderful blog, Chatting at the Sky, where I am honored to be guest blogging for her today, while she finishes up a book she's working on. I, for one, can't wait to read it.

Thanks, Emily, for this opportunity.

One Moment in Time

You’ve heard it said that life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away. And that’s true. This great big thing called life really boils down to moments remembered.

The photo collage that I put together here consists of single moments. A sunrise in New York. A hot afternoon in Texas. A sunset in Alabama. An August moon. They're all moments that took my breath away, and for different reasons.

Some of our breathtaking moments make memories of the richest kind. But there are also those moments that take our breath away, and not for good reasons. Tragedies. Foolish choices. Lost love. Betrayal. Heartbreak. But that's how life is. Trouble comes to all of us. Sometimes because of our own mistakes; other times through no fault of our own. If you're like me, you wish you had an “off” button whenever such a memory pops up. Better yet, an “erase” button that would wipe it out for good. Instead, you learn to cope.

Then, there are those moments that are breathtakingly sweet, yet colored with a certain shade of sadness. Moments that produce what I call bittersweet memories.

One such memory occurred in the early spring of 1986. I was in a hospital bed, still recovering from a major surgery. My sister, Elaine, had come by to see me and had brought along her precious daughter, Shelaine, who was not quite two (and who turned 26 recently). We lived down the street from each other at that time, and I often kept Shelaine while her mom and dad took care of church business, or were out of town. She and I were a tight pair and I couldn’t have loved her more if she had been my own child.

On this particular day, I was not in a good state, emotionally. The surgery I had just undergone was a hysterectomy. Knowing how my life was permanently changed, and knowing I could do nothing about it, despair threatened to overwhelm me. It had not been a good day at all.

But upon seeing my precious niece, my spirits lifted considerably. I’ll never forget the scene. Shelaine was wearing a blue and yellow crocheted dress, her blonde hair all in curls. She had just had her picture taken, and “adorable” doesn’t begin to describe how she looked that day.

I asked Elaine if she would put Shelaine in the bed with me, so I could get a hug from her before they left. She did, and as Shelaine scooted over to get closer, I began to cry. Not out loud, but tears trickled down my face and onto the hospital gown I was wearing. My tears were for lots of reasons; some I didn’t fully understand. I hadn’t meant to cry; it just happened.

When Shelaine saw my tears, she reached up, patted my face with her little hands, and in the purest voice, said, “Is alright, Aunt Dayle. Is alright.”

I loved her way with words and I’m not sure I’ve ever received any sweeter comfort in my life. It was one of those moments that takes your breath away. Even today, when things aren’t going so well, I think of my sweet niece’s reassuring words that day, and I am, again, comforted by the memory of that one moment in time.

What is a moment that took your breath away? I hope you'll take the time to record such moments in a journal somewhere... or a blog, perhaps, as I just did … and maybe share it with fellow-bloggers, as I am doing now.

Until next time, faithful friends, when all is said and done, moments are all we have. Make them count.

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What Good Fathers Do

My father can't explain the rationale of calculus, nor the activities on Wall Street. He doesn't understand a thing about computers, and wouldn't know a motherboard from a washboard. A father of the 50’s and 60's, he doesn’t cook, do laundry, make beds or iron clothes. I doubt he ever changed a diaper in his life.

But whatever Daddy lacks in technology proficiency and domestic skills, he has made up for in other ways.

As a child, I thought of my father as a very brave man. A man who always made things better.

In my first recollection of him, I am a toddler. He is holding me in his arms, walking around a darkened room while I cry, frightened by a nightmare. My breath comes out in jerky gasps, and even now, I can still hear Daddy's smooth baritone voice as he prays for his scared little girl.

When I was six, I attempted to show off my bike-riding skills to an important guest. Instead of the flawless demonstration I hoped for, I was mortified when I crashed headlong into the side of the house. My father tenderly led me inside for some first-aid.

Daddy often drove me and my sisters to the library after school, where he would wait patiently while we checked out mountains of books. One afternoon, while racing to the car, I tripped over a large crack in the sidewalk. Suddenly, I flew through the air, landing with a brutal bang on hands and knees, books scattering in every direction. I remember looking up and seeing Daddy leap out of the car to inspect my scrapes. And I remember him carrying me to the car, and how safe I felt in his arms.

There is an old picture somewhere of my dad holding up a dead snake as long as he is tall. As a little girl, I used to stare at that picture and think, How could anybody be so brave?

But that is what good fathers do. They kill the snakes. They do what nobody else wants to do.

If we had a flat tire, Daddy got out in the heat (or sleet) and changed it. If a noise was heard in the night, Daddy was expected to go check it out. If we got caught in a rainstorm while driving to church or elsewhere, it was understood that Daddy would let us out under the awning, while he parked the car and got drenched on his way inside. If the roof leaked, we never doubted that Daddy would find the hole and plug it. If a mouse left evidence laying around, Daddy was expected to bait a trap, inspect it for success, and dispose of whatever landed there.

And at the end of the day, Daddy was the one who sat at a little scuffed desk and paid the bills. Not once do I recall him mentioning money being tight, even though I feel certain there were times when it was.

As the years passed, I came to the shocking realization that fathers aren’t perfect—not even those who kill snakes. They make mistakes. They act like jerks. And sometimes they break their children’s hearts.

But I also learned that whenever fathers acknowledge their mistakes, mend their ways, and ask their children to forgive them, then they are brave indeed.

Eventually, I got too big and too proud for my dad to carry around after a bad fall, but he still carried me in his heart.

I was 22 when I became engaged to a handsome young man I’ll call Joe. With eyes the color of a robin’s egg. Joe was going to make my every dream come true. We planned a late-summer wedding; I couldn’t wait for my father to escort me down the aisle.

But one night, three weeks before the wedding, Joe called to say it was off. Just like that. It felt like a giant stone sat on my chest. Not only was my heart broken over a lost love, but I thought of all the planning and all the purchases, including my wedding gown, and 400 invitations that were to be mailed the very next day. I remembered all of the gifts that friends had generously given already. They would have to be returned with a sad note attached: Thank you for your generous gift of such and so, but I regret to inform you that the wedding has been cancelled. Deep down, I wanted to die.

The next morning, Joe called saying he needed to see me in person before leaving town. When he knocked on the door, I moved to open it, but my father beat me to it. In one swift motion, he opened the door and said, “Now Joe, I want you to know that I’m not pleased with how you’ve broken my daughter’s heart. You need to say what you came to say, then leave. Is that understood?” My father is a tall man and I remember thinking he’d never looked taller—nor Joe more terrified. I honestly thought Daddy might punch him.

It was Sigmund Freud who said, “I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.” And I don’t think you fully outgrow that need. Even though I have a wonderful husband and a grown daughter now, there is comfort in knowing that should I ever have a real crisis in my life, my father, on a moment’s notice, would drive the distance to make it better. He would kill the snake, plug the leak and dispose of whatever lay in the trap. He is, after all, my father, and that is what good fathers do.

This essay appears in the new title, A Cup of Comfort for Fathers, (Adams Media), edited by Colleen Sell.

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This post is part of the inspirational weekly series, "Spiritual Sundays," hosted by Ginger and Charlotte.

Seasons

If you click on this photo, you can see that the pear tree is having a great season. Every day seems to find the branches a bit lower from the weight of its growing fruit. If the squirrels don’t beat me to it, I plan to enjoy bowls of fresh pears before long.

When we bought our home in 1989, this pear tree was just a sapling. But in the last 21 years, its noble branches have grown, stretching outward and upward like so many worshipers in the sun. It has survived hurricane winds and torrential rains, freaky Texas ice storms, and weeks of drought. There have even been a few seasons of the dreaded webworm. Not every year has been a good one for the pear tree.

But no matter what the seasons have offered, the pear tree found a way to survive.

"To everything, there is a season," a wise man once wrote. And it's a wise lesson to learn. Our lives are made up of seasons—blissful seasons; seasons of anguish; prosperous seasons; seasons of want. Some years find us so busy we wonder if the roller-coaster will ever stop. Take it from someone who's lived five decades now, it will. No season lasts forever; they have beginnings and endings, each one having served its purpose.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds, or the day after that and all the days that may follow. None of us do. But my prayer is not to spend the rest of my life with nothing but sunny skies and balmy temperatures, but rather the strength and the courage to not only endure whatever the seasons bring to me, but to keep producing sweet fruit, in spite of them.

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This post is part of the following weekly series:

Emily's "Tuesdays Unwrapped" at Chatting At The Sky
Susan's "Outdoor Wednesday" at A Southern Daydreamer

Summertime ~ Inside and Out

Summer has never been my favorite season. Here in Southeast Texas, it's hot and humid and there's no relief for months and months. But, since I can't imagine living anywhere but the South, I do the best I can to get into the spirit of the season.

Here’s what summer looks like in and around my home.

The first thing is to clear off the mantel and cover it with shells in glass vases collected from various trips.

Add to that a few photos that remind us of summers past.

The coffee table and hearth are transformed.

Our reading material changes.

We dream of porches with yellow rockers.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen ...

I save the spot above the sink for summer keepsakes. These are from Cape Cod last summer. The pickings were a bit puny, but I love them just the same.

And outdoors ...

The lawn is velvety green, thanks to my hard-working man.

And thanks to yours truly, we always have a few pops of color in the flower gardens (I must have flowers, if only one or two). I add a few whimsical notions every year, to make us smile. What you can't see very well here are the really large rocks scattered throughout, all gathered in our travels from here to yon. I'm not much into souveniers; just give me rocks and shells and I'm a happy camper.

My butterfly weed is looking great.

Haven't seen any butterflies though.

Out back, the ferns are flourishing.

Our new thermometer gets a workout.

This was actually a cool day.

At the end of a long day in the yard, this is a familiar scene.

The Man and his shadow, Diesel.

A trip to my favorite produce farm

and I've got supper on my mind ...

... and summer on a plate.

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This post is part of Cindy's weekly "Show and Tell" series.

The Gift of Unconditional Love

One of the many things I took for granted growing up was my parents’ unconditional love for me. No matter my behavior, no matter my actions, no matter how much I may have embarrassed them, or broke their hearts (and as a teenager, it was aplenty), they loved me. They were able to separate me, as their child, from my bad behavior. I never felt unloved for one minute of my life. Ever! Even during the spankings they occasionally rendered, I never felt unloved.

It wasn’t until years later, when I was older, and a mother, and could look back on things with a bit of wisdom, that I understood how deep and how unconditional their love for me really was, and what a gift they had given me. Not every child is so fortunate.

Children and teenagers need unconditional love. They need to know they can make mistakes and mess up and embarrass us, and even break our hearts, and it will be OK. We won’t stop loving them. We may not love or condone their behavior, and we may even have to ask them to leave our home, should the behavior become so obnoxious, but we will always love them.

I remember one time when my daughter was about three, I said to her, "There's nothing in the world you could ever do to make me stop loving you. Always remember that, sweetie." She got this puzzled look on her face. "Even if I killed you?" she asked incredulously, hands on hips. (Drama Queen, her middle name.) "Even if you killed me," I said. "I'd take my last breath loving my baby girl." It was funny at the time, but it's so very true.

My parents' unconditional love for me taught me to love unconditionally. And that's how God loves all of us. We may behave badly and break His heart, but He loves us no less. We're His kids! He may not love how we behave, but He will always love us! What comfort that brings.

Whether you're young or all grown up, if you have parents who love you unconditionally, consider yourself blessed.... and then return the favor to your children. It's a priceless gift.

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This post is part of Emily's "Tuesdays Unwrapped" weekly series.

How we set a table in Southeast Texas

If you came here hoping to see a picture-perfect table, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I'm just a simple kind of gal. You'll never find anything too fancy here, but since you stopped by, let me show you how we set a table in my neck of the woods.

Y'all step right up and make yourself at home.

Grab a plate, a bowl, or whatever suits your fancy.

Select the jar of your choice. Iced-tea awaits.

Utensils, optional.

Let the grill master know how you want it cooked,

then it's chow time.

When the night closes in, and the mosquitos come out to play, we'll slap a clean tablecloth on the table, pump up the lights, then head inside ...

... for cake and coffee and pleasant conversation.

Y'all come back soon ... and we'll do it again.

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This post is part of Susan's "Tablescape Thursday."

Also linking up with Cindy for "Show and Tell."

The Gift of Silence

Not long ago, my twin sister and I drove to a nearby botanical garden to take in the sights. It's a place I used to visit a lot when my daughter was small. Upon arriving, I realized how much I'd missed it. As we strolled along cobblestone paths, we came upon a shady bench that sat among the trees—an open invitation to rest. (That's me in the photograph, drinking in the view and inhaling the quiet.)

Ah, the exquisite sound of silence.

In the clamor of our lives it's easy to lose sight of who we are and what beliefs we hold. Our principles are often based solely on what we have heard from voices around us. That is why we should seek out silence. In silence we can think for ourselves, looking deeply into our souls for personal values and convictions. We can identify goals and dreams, and devise a plan for fulfilling them.

Silence also puts us in tune with the extraordinary world around us. We can catch sight of those often missed gems—strips of golden sunlight wrapping around a porch, the elaborate pattern of a leaf, a full moon's path across a still lake. It is in silence that we hear soothing, healing sounds—the mellifluous song of a bird, a gentle wind whispering through leaves, our heart beating, the scampering of a squirrel up the trunk of a tree, the voice of God.

Why do we cover the silence in our world?

Perhaps we are afraid of what we might encounter in the solitude of ourselves. Past mistakes. Present miseries. Future fears. But maybe if we sought out silence now and then we would discover solutions to our predicaments. Maybe we would find the courage to make peace with our past. Who knows?

Occasionally, I do something solely for myself. It might be strolling through a flower garden, visiting a tranquil site or I might just drape my great-grandmother's scrap quilt around me and curl up on the couch with a steaming cup of chocolate. But no matter how or where I position myself, my objective during these moments is to shut out the noise around me, to utterly experience the sound of silence. And I am always amazed by what I see and hear, by the gifts that are there for the taking.

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Photograph by Gayle.