Today at Iten's Acres: Sports February 27, 2014

The sight on my .22 has taken all the sport out of pest control at the Acres. Ahhhh well, I'm too old and arthritic for sports anyway.

Today at Iten's Acres: A Memorial February 22, 2014

A year ago today, Mom went Home. In her memory I'm going to re-post her eulogy. The question for me and for you is the same. When your brief moments in time end--and they will end, what legacy will you and I leave behind? What will those who know and love you remember about you? What will they say were the loves of our life?

Mom is Home. Absent from the body, present with her Savior, clothed in His righteousness. Sin and death have been defeated once more.
Mom loved her Savior most of all. She daily saturated herself in His Word--the Spirit filled her. Her favorite passages: all the Psalms, Isaiah 40. Isaiah 53, John 3, Romans 8, the book of Hebrews. Those passages that exalted her loving God and Savior. I have no doubt that she knew the Scriptures better than many a pastor. But she didn't read for information--rather for transformation. She loved her little chats with Him.
She loved to tell others about Him, too. Family, neighbors, whoever God assigned to the seat next to her on the airplane--everybody she talked to. She had a special love for the Jewish people. "Think of how much the Lord has given to us through His people, Al. The world would be a place of hopeless desperation without them. As Jesus said, "Salvation IS of the Jews.' " I've heart that sermon many a time.
And, oh, how she loved children. In whatever neighborhood God planted her, she soon had a Good News club, and the house was filled with children. Nothing fancy. Out would come the old flannel graph, and the kids would soon be enthralled with Bible studies and the love of Jesus. Many a child from a Christ-less home took Jesus home with him.
She had the gift of personal evangelism. Her method? She would just conversationally tell people how much Christ meant to her, and what He had done for her, and tell them how much He would love to do the same for them. Any tears God will have to wipe from her eyes will be tears for those who despised her Savior's gracious love.
Actually, she was always a lover. Loved her Mom and Dad. Loved her sister--my Aunt Chloe and her husband Uncle Bill. Loved all the "Ziff kids": Mary, Eddie, Martha, Nora. They were her kids too. And she loved their families. Deeply in love with Pop! And his family. Loved us kids no matter what we did. Loved the ones we married no matter what they did. Loved the grandkids (what a role she and Pop and my sister Chloe played in the lives of my boys after Susan left us). Loved the grand-children's children. Loved her pastors. Loved her friends. Loved her Hospice folks--adopted them too. The love of God was spread abroad in her heart, and she couldn't keep it in.
She loved music. She would sing the old songs of her youth. Loved classical music. She greatly loved the old hymns. Loved "The Messiah." Her recent favorite CD was one by George Beverly Shea singing her favorite hymns. I think I've heard that thing a couple of hundred times in the last few years--not that I mind. "He's almost as old as I am, Al." Her favorite on the CD was "The Little Brown Church in the Vale." Reminded her of her beloved days at Chatham Bible Church in Wellston, Missouri.
She loved Christmas. Had to have a tree. Had to have a manger scene. Had to play the carols. Had to read the Christmas Story on Christmas Eve by the light of the candles burning on her ancient artificial tree. She loved the old ornaments on that tree from her childhood days. And she loved to watch the grandchildren and great grandchildren snuff out the candles as they burned down. She loved giving year around. If you admired something in her house, she would do her best to convince you to take it home with you. I've been ordered a million times to make a pot of tea for the Hospice girls. And find some sweets for them to eat, even though, supposedly, she had "lost" her sweet tooth. Right.
She loved her past. The stories she could tell from her earliest days to the antics of her great grandchildren. Stories with a "lesson" at times. Stories to fill the room with laughter. She loved to laugh. Could trade "barbs" with the best of them, pointing her finger at them. Ornery. But never hurtful. "Apples of gold."
She loved God's creation. Knew all the flowers. Knew all the birds. These last few years at the Acres she loved to sit on the front patio in her swivel church--so she could see everything in every direction--a pink floppy hat on her head, shades on, one of the Outlaw Gang sitting at her feet, the hummingbirds checking out her hat, her container garden at her feet. She loved to watch the changing skies. Loved a rampaging thunder storm. Loved a soft, spring rain. Loved a hot summer's day. Lately, since she's been back "up North," loved a gentle snow painting the Acres white. She and the Homesteader became fast friends. Nosy Rosy she called her. For Mom, everyday was a "this is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it" kind of day.
Was she perfect? Heaven forbid! She had as many flaws as the rest of us. Only Heaven can fully eradicate the self in us. But she knew the Savior, her Savior. Knew she was forgiven, justified, redeemed, reconciled. And so, she saw herself through His loving eyes, "hidden in Christ." His "beloved." Her flaws have been "cured" now. The One she "loved, having not seen," has finished His work in her. She has seen Him now, face-to-face. And Pop again. And Aunt Chloe and Uncle Bill. And all her old Chatham friends. I'm sure she has the children singing choruses. I'm sure the Old Chatham bunch is bursting with song.
The Bible tells us that when we get to Heaven our Lord has a new name for us. No offense, Lord, but Mom doesn't need a new one. Her name is perfect: Grace.

Today at Iten's Acres: Minutia February 16, 2014

I have been reflecting lately on the minutia of spring. Irrational, I know. There is no sign of spring at the Acres. The place is deep in snow, frozen, new flakes every day. The trees are bare and stark. The wild area is compacted by the snow. Even the Lenten roses are buried under the snow cover. It has been a winter--frigid and snowy. And despite the fact that we may get a day or two this week in the forties--winter, I'm sure, is far from over. They say--and whom am I to doubt those illimitable authorities "they," that if you didn't mind freezing to death, you could walk across the Great Lakes. Yes, it has been a winter.
Yet, the minutia of spring are dominating my thoughts. Hope, I guess, is what they (a different they perhaps) call it. It is those small beginnings that bring me the greatest joys of spring's beginning. It begins with that first cold day in March when there is an almost imperceptible warm breeze in the air. It is accentuated by a lonely robin's song as he searches the crab apples for a last morsel that has escaped the foraging cedar waxwings. A soft, almost imperceptible, serenaded, warm breeze.
And soon, life resurrects. Small buds on the trees, buds on the Lenten roses, open pools on the frozen pond. Spring is coming. Slowly, insignificantly, invincibly. And ahhhh, suddenly the Acres are awash in spring beauties. First day, a few pink and white lovelies. Next day, hundreds. So tiny, so gorgeous, so ubiquitous. Nothing could have been better named. Spring beauties indeed! And then the violets! Purples, almost blues, whites, lilac with purple spots, even a few yellows. They become a carpet all over the Acres. So many of the delicate beauties that you are in danger of taking them for granted instead of reveling in the wonder. Miraculous minutia of springtime. And then? Laughing at any snow that may be trying to resist the coming warmth--the crocus. I love to "stumble" onto a new crocus on a morning walk. Deep yellow, dark purples, subtle lilacs, ornamental oranges--the crocus, mightiest of the minutia of spring. I especially love to find them in the wild area. Surrounded by the towering stubble of last year's wildness, the still leafless thorny wild roses, they reveal their brilliance unintimidated by the last vestiges of winter's temporary death. "We are alive!" They seem to boast. "Have been alive all winter, just waiting for a zephyr of warm winds to calls us forth to colorize the earth, to bring to your steps a pause--a silent pause of awe and wonder at the minutia of God's gift of springtime." There is always a resurrection of hope after the winter's ice and cold. Keep your eyes open. The minutia of spring are coming. Get your dancing shoes and hats and tambourines out of storage. It will be celebration time soon--joy in the mornings.

Today at Iten's Acres: Haikus February 5, 2014

Snow day at home at the Acres:

In the crab apple
A red robin sits feasting
Snow day ornament

Birds twitter in trees
Old man in red hat shovels
Seed thrown, morning feast

Blue jays chickadees
Titmouse song sparrow snow bird
Brilliant cardinal

Walking the wild paths
After a snowfall is an
Exquisite journey

Flurries in a wind
The lovely minutia
Of winter's glory

Today at Iten's Acres: National Robin Day February 1, 2014

Groundhogs should be shot not celebrated. Sweet little cuddly Phil is a destructive rodent. Eliminate him and I'll celebrate all spring and all summer. As Uncle William would say, "Life's but a walking shadow."

My sister in South Carolina happened to mention that she has suddenly seen flocks of robins around her place. Unusual even for her Southern experience. Strangely, I have in the last few days seen flocks of robins around here--at the Acres and all around the school. Could it be that the weather is not controlled by El Nino, jet streams, high and low pressure, but actually controlled by robins? Maybe instead of touting that stupid rodent, we should have Robin Day? They are much more beautiful, not destructive, can belt out a glorious song--I mean--just a suggestion, totally unbiased I assure you.

Today at Iten's Acres: Human Visitors February 1, 2014

Had a lovely visit with some "old" friends yesterday--John and Angie Callahan, teachers at a missionary school in Brazil. I am always amazed at those friendships that are immune to the onslaughts of time. You know, those friends that no matter how long it has been since you've last seen them, it's as if you just had lunch together yesterday. I introduced them to the wonders of duck. (Unite all you lovers of dark meat!)