Know What Bugs Me? Insect Demise

What bugs me is the way many insects meet their end. Think of the baby grasshoppers that get in the way when mowing a field. I don’t want to kill them, but with grass over a foot high and a zillion of them popping up in front of me like so many kernels of popcorn, I can’t help running over the ones in my path.

I wonder if they’re scurrying, calling to each other, “Man is in the fields,” as Bambi’s mother warned him of man in the woods.

Then there are the earthworms I uncover while I’m turning the soil for my garden. Why don’t they crawl a few inches to a cool spot in the moist earth? Are they super lazy, or can they not find their way back in?

If I put a clod of dirt over them, would they return to life as usual? I doubt it. They seem determined to lay in the sun and die.

 As for mosquitoes with their pesky buzzing sound, I don’t care much what happens to them.  In fact, the more the bats hunt and eat every night, the fewer bites for me.

But what about the occasional water bugs that make their way into in the basement in fall? They look similar to roaches but are slow-moving, never come up in the house, and don’t do much of anything as far as I can tell.

Before long, ready for life’s end, they turn on their backs and wiggle their legs as if to hasten death. If you turn them over, they’ll crawl away and do the same thing again.

Crickets come in the basement in fall too. Again, I don’t see the harm in them, so I let them go on about their business, but if they venture upstairs, Rocky and Sapphire, our cats, have a game in mind the crickets won’t like. When I find the cats with one, I scoop the tortured thing up and flush it down the toilet, hoping it will be a quicker death.

Life is brief and harsh for insects, but what can I do about it? If I prayed for the baby grasshoppers to hurry out of the field before I mow, the birds would be waiting. If I stopped to plant each earthworm back in the ground, I’d never get done planting my flowers.

Mosquitos, well, if the Good Lord wanted to do away with them, I’d be fine with that.

I don’t know what can be done for the poor little water bugs and crickets. I guess, like humans, they take a chance at life and hope that when the end comes, it’s peaceful.

We all have a life cycle, and heaven knows people can meet with violent deaths too. But I’m thankful I don’t have to pass away beneath a mower or swelter in the hot sun.

Or get swallowed whole by a monstrous animal.

Maybe we can take a lesson from the insects; get outside more, spread our wings and fly, hide from evil and be ready when our final day arrives.

Linda Sawyer is the author of Blessings Unexpected, a novel. She also writes essays, flash fiction and travel pieces.

Travel- The Perfect Day

What would constitute a perfect day for you? Lying under an umbrella on the beach reading a great book? Maybe a shopping day with plenty of money to spend? Or perhaps squandering a day in nature, soaking up all God’s beauty. 

In May, James and I visited the Biltmore Mansion and grounds. The bus we rode traversed a narrow country road, woods all around, birds chirping a welcome to the crisp spring morning. A vibrant blue sky hung above us, and Rhododendron trees in full bloom graced our path. We smiled and knew we were in for a perfect day.

The bus pulled up to the grand entrance of the Biltmore Mansion, and we headed inside, grabbed our speaker wands, and began a tour of the largest privately-owned home in America, a Chateauesque-style mansion built for George Washington Vanderbilt II in the late eighteen hundreds for the sum of six million dollars.

No detail was overlooked in this 135,000-square-foot home with 250 rooms. We paused at each majestic chamber and listened to the recording, letting our imaginations run wild.

In the billiard room, I envisioned men around the table, puffing cigars, one chalking the tip of his cue and striking the ball while the others observed, sipping brandy from crystal glasses.

Stopping at the music room, I fancied a group gathered around the piano while a gifted musician entertained. Women in fancy evening attire kept cool with silk and lace hand fans. Occasionally a man would pull a watch from his pocket to check the time.

The tour guided us to the first of thirty-five bedrooms in the mansion, Mr. Vanderbilt’s. I imagined him standing at one of the massive windows overlooking his property, thoughts turning in his mind. Perhaps he settled in at his desk and attended to some late-night business.  

In Mrs. Vanderbilt’s oval-shaped bedroom, sophisticated and stylish, I envisioned Edith Vanderbilt at her vanity with the gilded mirror. She’d have run a brush through her long hair while Little Cornelia looked on. Perhaps the child would’ve edged a tiny hand toward the rouge she longed to try on her cheeks.

I admired the oak paneling and strap-work ceiling in the Oak Sitting Room, an area between Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt’s bedrooms. I pictured the family enjoying the morning together in this private respite, a warm fire crackling in the fireplace, one of sixty-five in the mansion. Mrs. Vanderbilt might’ve worked on a list of the day’s activities while keeping an eye on Little Cornelia. I could almost hear the child chatting to her doll as she brushed its hair. And Mr. George Vanderbilt, I expect he’d have been reading the newspaper, focusing on the financial page.

We strolled to the library. The thousands of books intrigued me. I could see myself settling into a cozy chair beside a fireplace, book in hand, while another guest headed up the spiral staircase to the second-floor balcony. I fancied someone studying the impressive ceiling painting titled The Chariots of Aurora while another stood at the globe, fingertips exploring faraway destinations.

I asked a guide about a small book on the table. “It’s one of Mr. Vanderbilt’s reading journals,” she said. “He started recording the titles he’d read at eight years old. He averaged eighty-one books a year.”

 We passed through the tapestry gallery where three of the Triumph of the Seven Virtues hung, The Triumph of Prudence, The Triumph of Faith, and The Triumph of Charity, with Biblical images founded on the visions of Ezekiel woven in. Perhaps guests stood, arms folded, searching for these biblical images and symbols just as James and I did that day.

One of the most elegant rooms in the mansion was the banquet hall. I pictured the guests arriving for the evening meal, looking for a hand-written place card with their name on it, and settling in for a seven-course dinner. Imagine being at that table with the Vanderbilts, the delightful smells of delicious foods, and the sound of lively conversations between the guests as they chatted about their day’s events at the mansion.  

The first Christmas held in this room set a precedent. A thirty-five-foot-tall Fraser Fir, decorated with candles and ornaments, would’ve been on display. It’s reported that Mr. Vanderbilt had gifts purchased and given out to the guests and employees each Christmas.

The mansion had many other rooms and diversions, including a bowling alley and a swimming pool.  

 We peeked into the servant’s quarters on the mansion's lowest level. Although sparse, the housing was comfortable and had many perks, including a few bathrooms and a private staff dining room. With better accommodations at the mansion than locals had at home, many sought employment at the Biltmore.

Passing through the area where they’d worked and socialized and slept, it seemed I could hear the hustling and bustling of the many workers.

We viewed pantries large enough to store food for hundreds. Jars would’ve been full of canned vegetables, fruits, and jams. Cured hams would’ve hung from the ceiling.

We stood amazed at the central kitchen, a rotisserie kitchen, and a walk-in refrigerator. Can you picture the staff preparing huge meals and loading food onto the dumb waiter to be delivered to the upstairs staff?

The laundry, equipped with sophisticated equipment, was the last area we visited.  Comparing it to what we have now, I imagine working in this area was the least popular.

I wondered how many employees it took to keep the home clean, cook the meals, do the laundry, chop and stack firewood for all those fireplaces and attend to the grounds and outbuildings.

After our tour, we had a delicious lunch on the property at the Stable Café and then spent a few hours viewing several gardens on the magnificent grounds, a part of the estate we’d never had time to explore before.

 We were exhausted at the end of the day. Still, we’d seen an unbelievably lavish mansion, imagined the life of those who lived and worked inside, eaten a meal in what was once the stables, and strolled the grounds just as the Vanderbilts and their guests might have over a hundred years ago. It was indeed the perfect day.

Reunion at the Rainbow Bridge

Blaze strode to the Rainbow Bridge with a swagger. He wore a well-fitted red jacket with shiny gold buttons, his bushy tail flowing like a king’s robe. Perusing the cluster of happy animals anticipating the Grand Reunion, he spotted his friend Daisy. She’d been in God’s Country longer than he, but around here, time was of no essence.

Blaze meowed a greeting and nuzzled in beside Daisy. She barked a friendly welcome and pranced about the Rainbow Bridge, her head held high.

Their friend, Jake, shuffled toward them, his hard shell glistening in the heavenly light. The gathered animals stirred, eager to reunite with their beloved Big Ones. 

“Listen,” Blaze said as a trumpet sounded. Animals stretched their necks to see the gleaming gates of heaven open.

A crowd of newcomers entered. Most of them had white hair and stooped shoulders. They shuffled forward, feet dragging. “There he is!” Daisy barked out her excitement. “Honeybun, over here!”

“Hold on, Daisy,” Blaze purred.

The animals watched recognition light up the Big One’s eyes as the Lord’s presence shone across them. Millions of angels stood close to God, singing His praises, the sound of perfectly tuned instruments streaming from within their chests. Blaze shook his head in amazement. He knew angels could sing beautifully, but he was still puzzled about how the sound of instruments flowed from their mouths. He shrugged and accepted it as another of the Master’s miracles.  

The animals watched, and in the blink of an eye, the Master transformed the Big Ones bodies. Now healthy and strong, their minds fresh and alert, they dropped to the streets of gold, heads bowed, and praised God.   

I want to go to Honeybun, Daisy whined.”

“Not yet,” Blaze said. Let them spend time with the Master and meet their waiting families.” He watched, head stretched forward, ears perked. The Big Ones sang out their praises of the Master and moved to embrace Him. Blaze spotted Mama. She crawled to her Savior and took His nail-scarred hands into her own and kissed them. Standing, she tumbled into His arms. Her saintly smile and the joy in her eyes made Blaze purr. Excited whispers buzzed all around. Smiles stretched across the faces of those waiting for the Grand Reunion.

With a questioning look, Jake stretched his neck to search for Jen Jen. “You know she rescued me from the middle of the road. I got careless in my old age, and when her mother slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting me, Jen Jen begged her mother to bring me home, save me from the rolling trampling machines that passed through without warning.”

“I remember that story,” Daisy barked and thumped her tail on the golden street. 

“I didn’t live long after that,” Jake said. “And now I see Jen Jen didn’t either.  She was sick with what the Big Ones called leukemia; I remember her easing from her bed every day, bites of cut-up bell pepper, cabbage, or apples for me in her tiny, outstretched hand.”

A goat standing in the back and peering over the crowd said, “Is that her?” Several hamsters scurried about, chattering, eager to get a look. Two parakeets sitting on a perch described the child.   

That’s her! Jake said and started toward the crowd.

The animals watched the Big Ones rush to reunite with those already there. Wives fell into their husband’s open arms. Parents embraced their children. Brothers and sisters hugged and friends greeted one another, the long separation now behind them.

Daisy jumped to her feet and turned round and round, her tail wagging with delight. She rushed forward to greet Honeybun, who had taken her for rides in his truck, on walks through the neighborhood and offered her biscuits from a red box that made a delightful sound when he shook it. She paused a few feet away and sat waiting, obedient to his direction.

“Come on, Daisy,” he said and opened wide his arms. She ran full speed, sprang forward, and licked his face as he laughed and hugged her.    

Mama glanced up and spotted Blaze in his red jacket. Recognition lit up her face. Before she could reach him, he raced toward her, his short legs moving fast. She scooped him up and cuddled him in her arms, the sound of his purring combining with the music around them.

By now, Jake had made it to an opening and spotted Jen Jen. She stood very still, taking in the splendor of heaven; her eyes shone brightly, all traces of the dark circles under them gone. She leaped into the air as any vibrant six-year-old might, turned in circles, and ran to Jake. Dropping to her knees, she rubbed noses with him and pulled him into her lap. 

The Master stepped forward and held open His arms. “Come, everyone, people and animals alike—no need to wait another moment. Tomorrow and for thousands of days to come, there will be Great Reunions, but today is your turn.

Oinking and baaing, quacking and clucking, and so many other welcome home calls could be heard as the animals hurried from the Rainbow Bridge to reunite with their Big Ones. And what a day of rejoicing it was.

How Many Lives?

          How Many Lives?

Have major events caused you to change the course of your life and triggered you to rethink and reinvent yourself?  I’m in my golden years now, and because there’s so much to look back over, I’m often astonished at the growth and changes. Sometimes it even seems like I’ve lived multiple lives.

In 1969 as a young woman not even twenty years old and with David, my nineteen-month-old baby, my first husband and I left our home in Middle Tennessee and moved to North Wilkesboro, North Carolina, for work. With a desire to see and experience this country and the world, I first loved the idea of moving to a new state. And this quaint little town, known as the Key to the Blue Ridge Mountains, sounded like an excellent place to start. We packed a U-Haul with our meager belongings and headed into the wild blue yonder.  

But as we settled into the basement-level apartment of an old rock home, the tiny town didn’t seem like the adventure I’d hoped for. Aside from looking after David, there was little else to do, and I grew woefully homesick and lonely within the first week. I considered going back to college, but with no money to finance it, I had to put that dream on hold.

The family visited while we were there, which helped, but I was glad to move to Fayetteville, NC, after six months. I got a job there, made friends, and gave little thought to North Wilkesboro – for fifty-two years. That’s when I read a novel titled, The Moonshiner’s Daughter by Donna Everhart.

Prohibition was in effect in this country from 1920 to 1933. But the law didn’t stop people from wanting to drink or being willing to produce and sell white lightning or purchase the finished product. After all, bootleggers had already been brewing and selling it and had regular routes like any delivery service of the day until the government made it illegal.

The secluded Blue Ridge Mountains in the rural south turned out to be a perfect place to set up and carry on the business of making moonshine, and it seems Wilkes County, NC, was the Moonshine Capital of the World.

When we moved there early in 1969, the wild days of bootlegging, outrunning the law, and keeping the customers stocked with white lightning were still vivid memories in the local’s minds. 

Because it was a dangerous business, bootleggers' cars had to be reliable and specifically modified to be fast enough to outrun the law. They’d often jump from the vehicle and run if they encountered a roadblock. Occasionally, the owners of the souped-up cars would race each other, thus the birth of NASCAR racing in 1947 in North Wilkesboro, NC. 

James had a service call in Raleigh, NC, in March this year. He said we’d stop in North Wilkesboro and look for the house I’d lived in a lifetime ago. I had no doubt I’d recognize it if it were still standing. But it had to be close to 100 years old by now. I expected it to be demolished and something new in its place. Besides, I didn’t have the address. Still, the idea of looking for it was intriguing. It wasn’t a happy time in my life, but it was the place that made me grow up and started me thinking about my future.

We arrived after lunch in the quaint town, still just a wide spot in the road. At first, I didn’t see the rock house as James drove through the neighborhood. Then I spotted it on the corner of Brame St and 9th St. “There it is,” I called out. We parked and walked around the place.

It was odd stepping back in time where the memory of that young girl with the baby still lingered. Thoughts of my life there filtered through my mind–caring for David, trying out new recipes in my one cookbook, and reading. I read Gone With the Wind for the first time when I lived there. I’d make a pizza from a Chef Boyardee box mix every Thursday, and we’d eat it at the local drive-in theater. I enjoyed the beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

As James and I climbed into the car to leave, I thought about how, like me, North Wilkesboro had reinvented itself over the years. Bootlegging lost its popularity as it became legal to buy alcohol, even white-lightning.  NASCAR moved to a new location. The town spread out some and became the birthplace of the Lowes chain.

A few years after leaving North Wilkesboro, I returned to Tennessee and had another baby, Wendy. Later I met and married the love of my life, James, and we had Jonathan. So, I raised children for thirty-six years, and when Jonathan was just a toddler, the grandchildren began coming along. I love that I was young enough to enjoy them. The first four grew up alongside Jonathan. And now, I am also blessed with two younger grandchildren and four great-grandchildren.  

I’ve been lucky enough to visit almost every state and lived in six. I owned and managed a prosperous wallpapering business, earned a college degree, and had a successful nursing career. Now I take pictures, grow flowers and write.

Like the old rock house in North Wilkesboro, my outer structure has seen better days. And just as the old place served as a home for many others over the years and the little town grew and evolved, my thousands of experiences and memories have transformed my life into one I now savor and enjoy. How about you? How many lives have formed the person you are today?

Resting in the Lord

I said, “Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest.” Psalms 55:6 NIV

I’ve watched an army of millions work together as a single-minded entity that knows its tasks and lets nothing deter it from its mission. Where is this vast force, you ask? Right beneath your feet. Observe ants, some traipsing in one direction carrying a white substance almost the size of their bodies while dodging those eager to return to the food source. Nothing distracts them. They’re organized, can lift twenty times their body weight, and know how to tap into resources.

Watching the hardworking ants makes me question my performance in serving the Lord. Do you, like me, wonder what you could accomplish if you set about the business of the Lord’s work with the same zeal the ants exhibit? I could offer more focused prayers, memorize more scripture, be more open to the Holy Spirit’s leading in my writing and serve the needs of others better.

I want a willing heart for whatever God commissions me to do, to stay on the task just as the ants do in their work, for nothing should stop me from trying to help grow God’s Kingdom here on earth. But I grow tired. I have chores to complete and commitments to honor. I start to question my ability to stay on task, to finish the work of my Master.

Our loving God knows all living creatures have limitations. We need rest, even the ants. Studies have found that the average worker ant takes approximately 250 naps each day amounting to nearly five hours of sleep. These frequent breaks ensure well-rested workers, ready to serve and defend the colony.  

Let us petition God for strength and energy to use our gifts productively. And when we grow tired, may we, like the dove, fly away to a place of shelter, of rest near the heart of God. He will refresh us in His abundant mercy.  

Heavenly Father, Please help me be a willing servant, to work at the tasks you set me to. And when I grow tired, refresh me and restore my strength. Thank you. Amen 

Thank you for taking the time to stop by and read my devotion. Leave a comment below and please take the time to sign up to receive new posts in your inbox.

Prayers, sweat and tears

After working two months to restore my website, I am so happy to say it is back up and running. Look for my newest travel story this Friday.

An Enchanted Discovery

An Enchanted Discovery

A Travel Story by Linda Sawyer

Imagine a time long ago when folks eagerly awaited the first daffodil of the season, when spring lingered and azaleas and dogwoods burst into bloom to proclaim Easter.

In this place, mothers paused to chat with neighbors, fathers hitched a horse to the family wagon and went to work. And children played in backyards, their chatter and giggles filling the air.

In April of 2018 while walking and waiting for James to complete a service call, I ventured into a quaint neighborhood and made an enchanted discovery. I’d happened upon a place so beautiful I’d want to meander a long time, exploring.

Fort Wood Historic District sits on a mountain in Chattanooga near downtown. The older homes are beautiful and well-kept, their yards adorned with flowers. Squirrels scamper about lazily and American flags wave in the yards of many homes.

Canopies of massive trees shade the streets and the stately homes have the name and year of origin etched in stone at the property entrance.

As I topped the long hill leading to this neighborhood, I stopped to rest at the Perkins Victorian Garden. Birds sang their joyous songs, an occasional pedestrian passed and Lookout Mountain stood proud in the background.  

Strolling through the neighborhood where azaleas bloomed and a gentle breeze stirred, I realized the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga borders this historic district and also has beautiful grounds with landscaping to please any flower lover or photographer.

 As I sauntered up one steep hill and down another, I came to a house where a lady sat on the porch, her entire front yard planted in flowers. She waved at me and I stopped to chat.

On another street a boy about twelve years old lingered near several hens. He told me his family owned them and they provided all the eggs they needed.

 Eventually I came upon this home, a three story mansion with 14,000 square feet built in 1889 by Edmond G. Watkins who eventually became mayor of Chattanooga. Its foundation rests on stones moved from a Union Army redoubt, at Fort Wood. A sign read, The Mayor’s Mansion Inn. Delight filled my heart. James and I would be able to book a room in this lovely old home and be a part of the community if only for a night.

In January of 2021 we got around to our first overnight stay. The Mayor’s Mansion Inn has fourteen gables, hand-laid parquet floors and eleven guest rooms. Mayor’s Mansion remained a private home until 1929. Later it served a variety of functions: a funeral home, a fraternity house and offices for various businesses. In 1996, after restoration, it opened as The Mayor’s Mansion Inn, a bed and breakfast.

James and I checked in on a Friday afternoon and followed the innkeeper up the stairway and to our room which overlooked the gardens from a side window, the UT campus in front and Lookout Mountain on the other side. It was love at first sight.

Something I really like about bed and breakfast inns is that each suite is different and the doors are often left open. After we brought in our luggage, we explored every floor. Although every room was beautiful, these two were the most elegant.

Some rooms had fresh delivered flowers with notes attached, others had balloons and candy. The Inn was certainly a romantic getaway.

We grabbed a fresh-baked cookie from the welcome area and settled into our cozy room. Below, the veranda was empty but looked inviting. We could imagine sitting out there on a warm spring day, sipping a tall glass of sweet, iced tea and chatting with other guests. But on this January day the chill kept us inside.

I’ve walked this neighborhood every year since my enchanted discovery and I’ve come to believe we haven’t entirely left behind the times of old. After all, don’t we still look forward to spring bursting into bloom and the renewal of Easter? And occasionally we stop to chat with a neighbor or listen to the sound of children’s voices carried on the wind. We smile as memories of our own childhood flood in. A tall proud oak, its leaves rustling in the breeze or an American flag billowing above can still stir feelings of nostalgia and patriotism in our hearts.

Want to slow down time? Make an enchanted discovery? All it takes is a visit to a historic district near you, a visit to a lake or maybe just stepping into your own backyard. Pause and listen to the birds singing. Search for a flower, even a dandelion or wild flower. Listen to your trees rustle as they sway in the breeze. If you close your eyes and let your imagination go free, you’ll soon make an enchanted discovery of your own, a place where time slows down and happy times from your past come alive.    

Linda Sawyer writes novels, short stories, picture essays, travel stories and devotions. She is an avid flower lover and amateur photography. Visit her blog at www.amillionyarns.com for more fun and inspirational stories.

Beware Virtue Signaling- A Photo Essay

  What is going on in the United States? Am I the only one concerned about the mandates coming down from our government? You must get a vaccine or be barred from restaurants, bars, theaters, grocery stores, gyms - basically everything, Without a vaccine you can’t play sports in many places. some doctors are refusing to see patients who won’t get the vaccine,. Even some people waiting on an organ transplant are being removed from the list because of their noncompliance. It doesn’t matter the reasons. Many places of employment, including hospitals and schools are dictating the employees must take the jab or lose their job. Really? At a time when we desperately need nurses and teachers?

You must wear a mask inside at all times. This includes everyone two years and up. It does not matter that the efficacy of masks has not been proven. And really, if you’d think it through, you’d understand that the Covid virus is so tiny it can sail through a mask as easily as a speck of dust can blow through a wide open window. And what are we doing to our children forcing them into masks several hours a day? Low blood oxygen? Reduced social interaction? Inability to learn well?

You must get a booster shot eight months after your vaccines are completed. Okay, another mandate passed down to us from our dictator, I mean president, on August 18. What mandate is coming next and how long are we going to accept them without question?

And do you know the worse part of it? Our government is using VIRTUE SIGNALING to pit us against one another and to bring us under their control while the elite do as they please, not wearing masks, nor social-distancing. Think Martha’s Vineyard and the huge birthday party recently. Think Nancy Pelosi at a fundraiser this past weekend. Their actions say, the rules are for thee not me.

Virtue signaling has caused us to lose our civility. We’ve become opposed to one another. We’ve forgotten to love each other deeply. Be honest. In your heart of hearts have you thought, I’ve had the vaccine and I wear my mask faithfully. That makes me a good person, in fact better than those no vaxers and those who won’t wear a mask or who won’t wear it properly.

I am happy for all of you who have completed your vaccines. I assume it was the best decision for you. I don’t mind seeing pictures of your  documentation. I don’t even mind remarks about how the vaccine can save lives and info about where and how to get it. But, when did we stop having a choice about our own health? What happened to my body, my choice? That’s all I’ve heard since 1973.

Getting the vaccine isn’t the best decision for everyone. Some have natural immunity which is always stronger and lasts longer than a vaccine. Some have immune issues, seizure disorders or other things that might make this vaccine contraindicated. Others have been advised by their doctor not to take the vaccine until there is more research on it’s effect on the immune system. Then there are those who want to wait and see. This is the category James and I fell into. We aren’t opposed to vaccines. In fact, we strongly believe in them and after waiting to see for six months, we got our first shot just a few days ago.

What finally made us comfortable enough? Well, it certainly wasn’t mandates by the government or virtue signaling by others. It was the fact that our four siblings and one of our sons, close blood relatives, completed the vaccines and did fine. They encouraged, not hounded us, to get it as soon as we felt comfortable.

Friends I want to caution you about government mandates for vaccines and masks and booster shots, anything related to your health. Because what comes next? Forced sterilization like we employed at one time in this country? Forbidden treatment for those too old or too weak to guarantee a good outcome? Inhuman treatments for the mentally ill? This is a serious issue. Think it through. Don’t be afraid to speak out. Otherwise, we’ll lose freedoms and the next one just might be the right to bear arms and effectively protect ourselves.

Please leave a comment on Facebook and let me know your thoughts and feelings about this.

Linda Sawyer

Flash Fiction Friday - The Most Precious Thing

Grace pulled the rented Jeep into the Yellowstone Lower Falls parking area, turned off the ignition and said to her groom. “Ready?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

This day had been a long time coming, so long Grace had begun to think it might never happen. The newlyweds were separated first by Connor’s deployment to Afghanistan. And then another two months while he recovered at Walter Reed Medical Center from injuries sustained during an IED explosion. At last they’d started their life together, honeymooning at Yellowstone National Park. Connor reached for her arm and they strolled the short path to the falls, the roar of the water enticing them forward.

As they rounded a curve, the falls came into view. Massive yellow rock walls formed a spectacular entry way for the water as it crashed over the cliff and settled into the deep Yellowstone River. “Feel the cool breeze off the water? I could stay here all day,” Grace said.

Connor nodded. They stood in silence as they waited their turn for a picture, the sweet smell of the purified water refreshing their senses. A girl behind them said to the man beside her, “Dad, the sign says the falls drop 308 feet. Imagine plunging that far in a wooden barrel!.“ Grace turned and gave the girl a wide-eyed look and they both giggled.

Soon it was their turn to sit on the huge rock and position themselves for pictures. Grace took a few selfies and then accepted an offer from the girl’s dad to click pictures of them, the falls in the background.  

They rose from the rock and meandered to a wooden rail fence and stood chatting, their senses filled with the magnificence of the waterfall, the coolness of the air and the smell of fresh pines around them. At last Grace said, “What do you care most about in the world? And no obvious answers - God, me, your parents.”

Connor slid an arm around her waist. “Too tough a question. I mean I could say the earth, the homeless, those with addictions. And there’s always world peace.”

Grace’s eyes twinkled. The wind blew a wisp of her black hair, tickling her cheek. ”Try,” she said.

He turned to face the falls and stood thinking, ran a hand through wavy brown hair and said, “Okay, On this day, this moment, I would say I care most about my vision.”

Grace flinched and stuttered, “But… I’m, I’m sorry, I thought you’d say your life after what happened in Afghan…”

“It’s okay, Babe.” He searched her face with his fingertips and wiped away the tears. “Of course I’m thankful God spared my life. But because I’m blind now, I’m thankful for the images I have in my mind. I can see, put together how things look because of the years I was sighted. And my other senses are gearing up more every day. I know the sight of water crashing over a cliff. And that this falls is higher than Niagara Falls and from the sound of it I can discern it’s not nearly as wide. And through your lovely green eyes you’ve painted a picture for me – the water tumbling to the river below, the landscape around us.  

Grace tapped a finger to the tip of his nose. “And you’ve helped me see this place from a new perspective. I’ve paid attention to the sweet fragrance of the woods, birds chirping, the feel of fresh air on my skin.”

Connor laughed. “Yes, this is a magical place. ‘Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in Him.’ ”

“Your verse, Psalm 34:8,” she said and hugged him close.

“That’s right. It’s what I cling to as I adjust to the loss of my sight.” He tilted her chin upward and felt the contour of her lips, turned up in a smile. He brushed his lips across hers and held her a moment.

Slowly, they made their way back to the Jeep, feeling the incline with each step, hearing the pines sway in the breeze. “Ready to go see, uh - experience the upper falls?” Grace said, as she directed Connor to his side of the vehicle.

“I hear they’re mighty as they rip through the canyons. Let’s go for it!” Connor said.

Grace stepped around the vehicle, taking her time getting in. As she looked into the azure sky, a few puffy clouds drifting past, she prayed, Heavenly Father, give me the gift of seeing the world and it’s people through Your eyes. That truly is the most precious gift.”

“Where is human nature so weak as in the bookstore?” - Henry Ward Beecher

Know what Bugs Me? Dysfunctional Paper Towel Dispensers

Know what Bugs Me? Dysfunctional Paper Towel Dispensers

Going to a public bathroom is challenging, but trying to do it at 30,000 feet above ground in a space just right for a five year old demands extra skill and perseverance. And I guess expecting the staff to make the facility as pleasant as possible is ludicrous. On a flight a while back, as I reached for a paper towel to dry my hands, I noticed they were wedged in the dispenser so tightly none would come out. The edges were mangled like someone had set a wildcat on them.

I picked at the tattered fringes where others had clawed before, determined I’d be the one to get that first paper towel loose. As I worked, I thought of all the various forms of towels I’d used from childhood up. Remember the cloth ones? You’d pull both sides to bring down a clean area and the previously used portion would cycle back into the dispenser. I always suspected the roll of fabric never got changed because remember how thin and stained they looked. Eventually, public bathrooms got paper towels. The first ones cranked out as you turned the handle, followed by the familiar stainless steel dispenser with towels C-folded into it ready to be pulled out. Modern day facilities use electronically dispensed towels which is nice when they work.  

In the airplane bathroom though, they had the old-fashioned stainless steel type, and my efforts produced nothing but bits of paper the size of a fingernail. An image came to mind, the maintenance person snickering as he wedged the towels in so tightly the dispenser would never be functional.

Assessing the situation, I wondered whether to simply wipe my hands on my pants or keep working. Just then I noticed a stack of wadded up tissues in the trash can. Aha! Better than nothing, I figured, as I grabbed several and patted my hands, trying to ignore the bits of paper disintegrating and sticking between my fingers. I threw the tissues away and rubbed my hands together, attempting to dislodge the bits, while looking at the perfectly full paper towel dispenser and wishing I could wrap my hands around the neck of the person who filled it so tightly.

As I exited, I said to the woman waiting, “Paper towel dispenser is out of order.” She looked at me quizzically and stepped inside. A few minutes later I heard a crashing sound coming from the bathroom. The woman stepped out, a smile on her face, and maneuvered around the curious flight attendants. Perhaps they suspected an explosive device had been detonated. I knew better. The woman carried a huge wad of paper towels in her hand and nodded to me as she passed. “Got it fixed,” she said.

Over my shoulder, two female attendants scurried to pick up a heap of paper towels that drifted into the walkway. I chuckled, looked at my fellow passenger, and gave her a thumbs up.

Written by Linda Sawyer

June 14, 2021

Do I embellish my What Bugs Me pieces?

You bet I do. Take them with a grain of salt.

Americans, Be Like the Pansies - a photo essay

“How does, a pansy, for example, select the ingredients from soil to get the right colors for the flower? Now there’s a great miracle. I think there’s a supreme power behind all of this. I see it in nature.”  - Clyde Tombaugh.

Pansies are a type of violet that come in many varieties and rich colors and adorn my garden in fall, winter and early spring. They are brave, wouldn’t think of giving up as easily as summer flowers which perform brilliantly in warm weather but grow spindly and produce fewer and smaller flowers as the end of summer draws near. Pansies survive the winters of many states and go on to bloom beautifully well into spring, showing off the prettiest at the end of their growing cycle.

In February, with the determination of soldiers defending their post during a battle, my pansies fought to survive being buried beneath four inches of ice with a layer of snow covering that.

So when I say be like the pansies, Americans, I’m thinking of hanging in there through the tough seasons. We’ve all been through a lot during the last year: drastic changes in our lives related to Covid, seeing unrest in our country, our border unsecured and our country changing rapidly in ways we worry aren’t healthy. It isn’t always losing a job, a health crisis, marital problems or wayward children that sends crippling fear through our bodies and causes us to grow weary and lose our courage. Sometimes, it’s what’s going on in our country: wokeness, cancel culture and indoctrinating our school children. These things are like dark shadows sweeping across our beloved land. They worry us and threaten to break our spirits. Combined with smaller issues such as gas shortages, the grocer being out of your favorite products and seemingly endless mask wearing can eventually make us want to shake our heads and give up. Sometimes, like the pansies lying beneath the snow and ice, we feel buried by our frustration, fears and the swift changes in our country and our lifestyles. We become fatigued. With wilted spirits, we lose hope.

Not so fast, Americans! Remember the pansies lying crumpled beneath the ice and snow? When temperatures warmed, although a bit weathered, they rebounded and became glorious, the most beautiful they’d been all season.

In April as I began planting the spring flowers, I regretfully had to remove the pansies. I noticed what I believed was new sprouts growing beneath the foliage of the large ones. Not certain that’s what they were, I decided to dig up one and plant it in a small pot. It grew and now it’s blooming.

Even more remarkable, the pansies I pulled out and tossed aside clung to the bits of dirt around their roots and bloomed happily until they were mowed over.

Americans, like pansies, come in many colors and varieties. Like these delightful flowers, we can be excited to bloom with enthusiasm in spite of setbacks if we remain vigilant, hold on to our principles and pull together.

So, if you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed with life in America right now, pray about it. Ask God for His greatest blessings on this country and to use you to help bring it about for we know the Lord delights in making us shine for His glory. He can revive the American spirit just like He reproduced the little pansy that now grows in my kitchen. I believe in America. I believe in her citizens. And I believe each of us has the potential to live vibrant and glorious lives, to make our own and other’s existence better and to make this country the great nation it is meant to be. How about you? What do you believe in?

Written by Linda Sawyer

May 20,2021

Don't Judge Me Until...

I will turn seventy this year so I must be elderly, incapacitated and feeble of mind. Some Septuagenarians consider themselves elderly. Certainly some are in poor health physically and or mentally. But I’m active, walking 3.5 miles a day. My mind, although not as sharp as a young person’s, is clear enough for me to make sound decisions, keep up with a website and manage our home.

I am a female so I must love romance novels. Pink must be my favorite color and I must need to be looked after by a man. I like pink, but aqua is my favorite color. Romance novels - don’t care for them. My husband and I care for each other in ways spouses do, but I’m capable of making plans and bringing them to fruition.

I am Caucasian so I must be a racist and a white supremist. Uh oh. Were you on board until this one? Have you bought into the notion that this country is fundamentally racist Or are you, like me getting tired of all the finger pointing and name calling?

So I ask you, don’t judge me until … you’ve talked to the renters in our units, many who are disadvantaged, some with special needs, mental or physical. James and I work to keep the rent below market value and the properties safe and well-maintained.

Don’t judge me until … you consider the patients I’ve cared for in my nursing career, many from underserved communities. I’ve stood at bedsides passing the time of day with lonely patients. I’ve prayed over people who have little hope. I’ve cleaned and treated decubitus so large you could place a hand inside. I’ve bathed the bodies of patients who couldn’t lift a finger to help themselves and spoon fed those who lay helpless. I’ve administered life-saving medications.

Don’t judge me until  … you’ve listened to the men enjoying a meal at Room in the Inn, a program James and I headed up at our church for many years. Men of every age and ethnicity arrived hungry and cold. They were greeted with a friendly smile, a hot meal, encouragement to interact, a shower and bed in a safe environment. And breakfast the next morning with a sack lunch to go.  

Don’t judge me until … you’ve seen the sparkle in the eyes of the children attending Project Transformation, a program to improve children’s reading, social and other skills with the help of volunteers. I’ve worked one on one with many boys and girls and encouraged each to open a book and read. I’ve listened, helped them sound out unfamiliar words and praised their efforts.   

Don’t judge me until … you understand that I attended Tennessee State University, a black college, at a time when few whites walked the campus. I worked alongside African-American students in labs, compared notes with them in classes and attended the same graduation ceremony. And all without conflict.

 I tell you these things not to brag, for many have contributed more than I. But rather to ask, why, without knowing anything about me except the color of my skin, do some people lump me into a category of being a racist and maybe even a white supremacist? Hatred comes from the heart. We aren’t born with it because we’re a certain color. I don’t want to be classified as a racist or a victim. And I don’t think you do either. Because I love God, I love His creations.

Am I the only one concerned about this disconnect between the races? This rhetoric that separates and divides us and limits what we strive to achieve? If you believe I am then ignore this essay. But if you’re feeling it too and don’t like it, speak up. Because no matter our race, ethnicity, gender, appearance, station in life, faith or age, we are all created equal. The Bible proclaims it and our Constitution affirms it. So, let’s start living like we believe it.  

Written by Linda Sawyer

April 29, 2021

Know What Bugs Me? Aging

Know what Bugs me? Aging. 

Have you ever looked in the mirror and saw someone else looking back at you, an older, tired version? I have and that bugs me. It also brings about thoughts of setting aside an entire year for the myriad treatments and surgeries I’d need to look twenty-something again.  

In my fantasies, I focus on my face first, my upper and lower lids, the bags under my eyes, the skin that’s sagging around my lower face, and my double chin. I’d need collagen injections for the wrinkles around my mouth and Botox for the wrinkles between my eyes, and while I’m at it, why not get the implants to restore the apples of my cheeks, and one for my chin to make it a little more prominent.

But with a younger-looking face, I’d need to do something about areas of cellulite and the skin flapping under my arms? Long gone are the days of wearing tank tops that show off smooth, well-toned arms. These days I head straight for the long sleeve tops in the store or maybe three-quarter length in summer. But who knows what they could do if given a year.

I guess after that I’d be ready for my tummy tuck. A flat belly and trimmer waist would be nice, say a waistline no greater than twenty-four inches. Of course with a tiny waist I’d need a breast lift, varicose vein surgery and liposuction for my thighs. 

Next would be my hands, the prominent veins and brown spots. And what about my wrinkly toes? Would glycolic peals help? Okay, I’m on board.

After a year of cosmetic surgery and treatments, my mouth might stretch wider across my face. And my eyebrows, nearly to my hairline by then, would be raised in a perpetual surprised look. But the skin will be tight, shiny tight, no more wrinkles or drooping skin.  

I guess the only problem with looking twenty-something again is that I’d look younger than every one of my children. I’d have to insist they stop calling me Mama and use a modern name, maybe Jessica or Ashley. The grandkids? Not too sure what to do about them. They really like calling me Grandmama and they might slip up in public.                                                     

Maybe I’ll rethink this year-long body renewal because to be honest, I probably need to work on spiritual renewal more. Oh well, there was a time when I had flawless skin, a tiny waist and everything was where it should be. Where’s that photo album?

Share with me what bugs you about the aging process.

                                                                        Linda Sawyer