If I Had a Hammer

I use a screwdriver every day. It adds the necessary 4-6 inches I need to lift the latches on the irrigator. I look up over the top of my glasses to focus on the hose clamps that keep the latches in place. I get real irritated if the screwdriver is not in its accustomed place on the seat of the step stool.

This is a comfortingly familiar looking screwdriver. It is a medium long regular with a grooved black and green handle. Some company has been making screwdrivers with virtually the same handle for at least two generations. I know this because, aside from the opaque rather than translucent composite material of the handle, my father has screwdrivers of the same pattern in his tool shed to this day. I know my screwdriver is nothing fancy; I would be happier if the blade were tarnished and matte rather than shiny and chrome. But I love my tools and want them in their place, even as they must be tough and perform in less than ideal conditions and storage.

I derive from a family of work benches and tool boxes. My mom's father was a woodworker with an entire wall in his basement devoted to cabinets, cubby holes, and mysterious tools, old but oiled. There were chisels and files and planes that were works of wood worker's art in themselves. I know now that he had a lathe and router and bandsaw because those tools now reside in my father's shop. I was fascinated by the row upon row of baby food jars full of tiny little unknown items; they reminded me of nothing so much as my mother's spice rack and I thought of the contents in the same way....a pinch of that, a bit of this, to make the finished product just right. My grandfather's creations are sturdy, but even more, they feel and look warm. The way he finished the wood makes its beauty more than skin deep: 'Age cannot wither her...' as Shakespeare so aptly says and the maple desk I use every day is ample evidence.


My other grandfather's shop was steeped in the fumes of the small engines he utilized in his orchard and garden. His pith helmet and post office blue shirt and shorts bespoke his job before retirement, but work with his tiller and various push mowers left oil stains and grease stains to such an extent that he changed into these work clothes in the morning and changed out when he headed back to the house for suppertime. Saws and hoes were sharpened before use, but the shed served another purpose: the fishing poles lived in the shed and buckets for worms often stood outside the door of the garage ready to head to the pond. My folks inherited Grandpa's old tiller, but they passed his garden cart on to me. It is nothing fancy: just a home made rounded tub like an old washing machine on wheels and a u shaped tube for a handle. I've replaced the wheels on it twice, but I'm sure those are not the first nor the last it will need. The galvanizing is in pretty good shape on the outside, but I've treated the interior with Rustoleum. That in itself is part of my gene pool. My dad was a stickler about metal....I think I spent most of my childhood stained the rust red hue of Rustoleum, either sticking to myself, looking like I'd been in a BB gunfight, or reeking of the gasoline it took to clean the splatters off. We were an anti oxidation family.

Tools were a big deal back then. My day had his toolbox tools, but that was just the beginning. He had one room in our house devoted to ham radio equipment and his guns. The tools he used for loading shells were fastened to the lip of his quarter sawn oak desk. The mysteries of the radio equipment were beyond us, but I loved to watch him solder and noted with curiosity the myriad of little resistors and other colorful parts with wires poking out like insect legs. The ham shack was a place of lights, dials, beeps, whines, and scratchy voices fading in and out of the ether. Often we would fall asleep to the sounds of Morse code or the verbal shorthand hams use to exchange information.

When we moved to the farm, the tools for the job got a home in the little building behind the carport. Laura and I were apprenticed as carpenter's and mechanic's helpers, a job with a certain amount of pressure. I never wanted to look stupid or forgetful, so I seldom asked twice what I was supposed to be looking for in the tool shed. What quaking of knees and breaking out of sweat when I could not figure out what item or part I was supposed to be bringing back to my father in the alloted amount of time! I don't know what life lesson I learned from the experience, but I did learn the distinctions between screw drivers, bolts, nuts, sockets, wrenches, etc. Elementary as it seems now, this part of my vocabulary would never have developed without the pressure exerted by these tool runs. When you're young, you don't know whether you'll have a life of the mind, work with your hands, or some combination of the two. It doesn't hurt to prepare for each eventuality.

I have a little tool box of my very own. Blake bought me a nice little wooden box for a birthday present a year or two ago. It would never survive a harvest season and the rough treatment it would receive in the front or back of our old pickups. But I have a little set of sockets, a set of wrenches, a tape measure, screwdrivers, and other absolute essentials. I always know where they are, the principal reason for a tool box. I keep the rain gauges there over the winter and a stash of hose washers, as well as the deck screws I use to hang picture frames on my plaster walls. These tools have a good home.

The tools I use the most don't have a box of their own at all. The trowels, garden gloves, hand hoe, pruners and like live in a cheap blue plastic bucket on the back porch, ready at a moment's notice to head out to the yard. The bucket is convenient, small enough to move everywhere but large enough to hold the essentials. If I don't carry the bucket, I have a dreadful absent minded tendency to set my pruners, trowel, or precious hand hoe down somewhere in the yard, mayhap to be hauled to the compost heap or stick pile and lost forever....

....and I hate it when I can't find my tools.

That Old Time Religion

In the little white church I grew up in, we got two pieces of frond pinned into the shape of a cross on Palm Sunday. To a child who observed the Methodist children spilling from their church waving long green fronds, our crosses, browning at the edges with the straight pin threatening to stick you through your springtime frock, it seemed a little chintzy (does anyone but my family use that term to mean 'cheap'?) But our little white Lutheran church was focused on Scripture and I can well understand now the symbolism linking the Palms of the Sunday at the beginning of Holy Week with the Cross of Good Friday. Our hearts were prepared by the liturgical calendar, from the pre Lenten Sundays, through Ash Wednesday and the Wednesday night services of Lent. We attended the Lord's supper service on Maundy Thursday though I don't remember attending the traditional watch services of Good Friday of the bigger church in Jefferson City.

The church was so beautiful on Easter Sunday. Those were still the days of new Easter dresses for little girls (Laura and I got to wear new dresses our grandmother had sewn for the first time on Easter morn), festive hats for grandmothers for sure and corsages for all the ladies. Pastor's vestments and the altar cloths were gleaming white brocade. I'm sure we had cold Easter morns, but I can only remember sunlight warming the pews in the hues of the stained glass borders of the frosted Gothic windows. Our church was old but dignified with white painted altar, pulpit and Baptismal font and stamped tin ceilings. The pews were finished with type of reddish black varnish the consistency of just overcooked taffy. The slightest increase in the temperature made one's coat, dress, or bare skin adhere and leave an imprint. We were strongly adjured not to wiggle during church; I am sure the constant sucking sound of skin and pew separating was distracting to serious worshippers!

After the somber minor keys of Lent, the Easter hymns lifted the spirit even before the congregation started singing. I didn't remember at first, but today my favorite hymn came back to me word for word: 'I Know that My Redeemer Lives'. Church was packed and everyone sang loudly if not tunefully. Our organ boomed from the choir loft above over the heads of the congregation, milking every chord and foot note. It took stamina to sing all those verses when our organist played at such a dignified tempo.

We spent this Palm Sunday service watching Alissa receive her confirmation. I listened with interest as each child's Bible verse was recited aloud. I chose a verse from Isaiah for my confirmation; it was meaningful to me then, but I would have a difficult time choosing just one now! Our confirmation instruction took place in our old Sunday school building for three hours Saturday mornings. I don't remember now whether it was every Saturday or not, but I do recall taking it all very seriously. Our pastor was a young man in his thirties; my father, who served as treasurer of the church and choir director at different times, thought his sermons lacked intellectual vigor. But our church education was old school in a way that had vanished from the public schools at least a generation before. We answered questions posed to us about doctrine and the catechism; we were tested and graded; we were expected to memorize the creeds, the books of the Bible, the Ten Commandments, the sacraments, the differences between Catholic and Protestant, the answers to the doctrinal questions of Luther's small catechism. We recited our memorized answers in front of the class. Like I said, no one teaches that way anymore. But it sticks with you!

We had a children's choir led by a lovely silver haired woman with an accent named Mrs. Karr. She had a trained soprano voice and much patience. Once a summer she invited all the kids to her home to swim in her swimming pool.....quite a treat! I rode in her Cadillac one time as well..another memorable experience for a girl raised in Dodge Darts and Volkswagens.

Our Baptist Easter hymns are second to none for joy and energy. With no Easter stations on XM playing the tunes weeks ahead of the celebration, we don't hear or sing some of these hymns much as I'd like to. While our Easter services lead from joyful noise to joyful noise, it still seems a shame to restrict "Low in the Grave He Lay" to but one Sunday a year. So many songs, so little time!!!

Years ago our church had Sunrise service Easter morn as early as the sun rose, especially in years when Daylight Savings time had not yet taken effect. We would quietly crawl from bed, donning the minimum of finery, and head for town. No one was completely awake and the skies were still gray. Typically, the air would bear a chill. The church would be dim and those gathered would murmur among themselves bringing to mind the women heading to the tomb that first Easter morn. We were part of the wonder, the first that day to hear the marvelous news in the Scripture that 'He is not here'. Without the fanfare and celebration of the later Easter service, we latter disciples bonded over the centuries with those first visitors who could not yet rejoice because they did not yet understand what had taken place. What a wonderful experience that sunrise service was....prayerful and hopeful.

The baking supplies are gathered for the Easter morning coffeecakes. The eggs will be boiled and dyed, later to be hidden, lost and found....or lost. We will have to work this Easter morning, but not until we meet again in the morning hours to see the empty tomb. 'He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.'

Ask Sherwin Williams

What's your favorite color? Because I spend a lot of time with pre schoolers, I am strongly attuned to color. Since the time he could express a preference, Gabe, for example, has unanimously favored orange. None of us can truly think of a reason not to indulge this favoritism; not only that, but orange is a popular color in little boys' clothing. As a result, Gabe can wear his favorite color from top to bottom and layer upon layer day after day.

The little girls, not surprisingly, prefer apparel on the red side of the spectrum. Whether I purchase dresses, tees, leggings, socks or jammies, I try to keep the balance of pink and purple equal between Lizzie and Abbie. Some times one prefers one and the other the other, but I make no attempt to keep the switches straight. The only problem with pinks and purples is their propensity to show dirt: these girls get right down to their work and play and pastels pay the price.

Millie's house this time exhibits her love of blue, though we all still remember the previous red wallpaper and the earthtones of the 70s in the old family room. Blake and I lived with some really strange color schemes in our first little house. The main room was carpeted with the kind of carpet once prevalent in kitchens and baths. The tiled pattern and brown and yellow palette inspired me to paint the plywood cabinets a bright buttercup yellow: the perfect accompaniment to my harvest gold range. This was the same house with fake rosewood paneling in one of the rooms. And I painted the mud room a particularly brilliant blue that no one would consider anything but obnoxious. I wanted bright.....

I don't know why I struggle with color. My parents have such a knack! The kitchen in their old farm house was dark with a sloping low ceiling like some Irish croft. One expected it to smell of peat. But the crumbling walls of the dining room were paneled in a peculiar but rich hickory grain that sported just the barest hint of blue gray. I've never seen anything like it. Their bedroom set of mismatched Eastlake furniture belied its ranch housing with walls of the deepest jade, a daring choice. Their current bedroom is painted in the richest rose, a hue I have come no closer to than a paint chip. I find colors I love: in the sky of a 19th century print, a square on a fake "Oriental" rug, a glaze on a piece of pottery. But there is a schism between eye and brain when I must make the final decision and say, 'Eureka! that's it! That's a match!'

This is all a long introduction to a great toy courtesy of Sherwin-Williams. Ann and Matt are going to have their house painted this spring and have decided to honor tradition by choosing to make their old house a Victorian Painted Lady. They have books; they've surfed the 'net, then they discovered a tool for exterior color schemes that is positively addicting. What style house have you? You can pick it! Colonial, ranch, Victorian, Craftsman, even French Country or Spanish Colonial. Voila! A pristine white house appears on your monitor with a full mosaic of color to choose from. Pick one hue and a pair of computer chosen coordinating colors joins it. Click and drag and you can create a scheme from mild to wild. It is the perfect tool for a color dunce like me and gives a family endless choices for democracy in action. Aaron created a 'haunted house' of black and brown and another of two bright oranges. Blake's idea of a paint scheme is as rigidly traditional as a maitre'de: black roof, white house. Because it is fun, and I'm not the one with the burden of a decision, I have sent the Schlueter family more choices than they probably want; they will be forced to pick their paint or be inundated with more ideas than they can handle.

Or....choose a different scheme for each wall!

I'm so helpful! That's why they'll "ask Sherwin Williams....

Why You Do the Things You Do

I'm home just a half hour before dark, but its the best half hour of the day, now that the wind has diminished and the streets of Tarkio are busy with moms and babies in strollers and little children wearing their brand new flip flops. The grass has greened but remains in that limbo state between spring and mowing. There's not really any time to embark on a major project, so I take down one of the garden flags. It happens to be the fall flag....I boycotted celebrating winter after last year, but now the spring flag with butterflies and hyacinths gently lifts a corner on the settling evening breeze. It is so dry that the garden debris I lift into the back of the pickup is light and fluffy; I'll knit in some willow branches to keep the whole mess in one piece until I get out to the farm. This isn't real work; it is an opportunity to exhale and step lightly and stroll slowly watching the pearly evening light fade away from the sycamore heights.

Work happened for enough hours today. Work isn't really the burden; worry is. While I lie awake at night worrying about bugs, a chronic and not irrational concern, bigger troubles await, unbeknownst. The current mantra; "it is what it is" is nothing if not insufficient and "its always something" can hardly be described as more positive or specific. Ah, yes, it is only flowers; how serious can one be? How on earth can one get wrapped up in psychic angst about things as ephemeral and giddy as the lilies of the field? Can a person whose work a day routine could be described as pick em up, set em down, move em here, roll em there and finally, don't let em die, really be taken seriously when feet grow fungus, necks get burnt, shoulders ache and insomnia lurks? To quote Jerry Jeff, 'why do they rope for their money?'

I have purposefully chosen pictures of the kids when they were younger to accentuate the wonder I feel about their existence at all. Captured in an eyeblink of the shutter, they are still instantly recognizable and immediately charming. Ann appeared late this afternoon with Aaron and Josh in tow, ready to pick up Lizzie. Lizzie and Abbie and Gabe were at "work" with Lee and me down in the dirt shed. Abbie and Lizzie had taken their turns putting trays on the conveyor. Gabe, topped with John Deere green, took charge of the wheel stock, manning the skid steer, the golf cart and the immovable 4 wheeler in succession. Aaron and Gabe stacked two by two cardboard Ball plant boxes. Lizzie filled a dozen pots with rocks.

And Josh smiled, blissfully, with slobber dripping from his fist. He is little, but he knows he has me as long as he smiles.

It may be I work for less than the proverbial peanuts (though a well timed Snickers ice cream bar is good incentive); it may be I "rope" for the past smiles of children now grown and the present rewards of grins as toothless as Josh and Aaron's and as irrepressible as giggles of the soon to be four year olds.

'If I have faith to move mountains, and have not love, I am nothing.'

Memo to self: there are days I feel like nothing, I accomplish little, or perhaps I actively make things worse. But.....look above. I do have love.

You Say You Want a Revolution?

The farmers came to the college town first class, in a limo with lots of leg room and complimentary bottles of water. Winter still reigned in the foothills but a watery sun warmed the stone buildings and the tinkling of a fountain belied the chill in the morning air.

The streets were empty; no student to speak of. But evidence of a young energetic population was obvious: a coffee/sandwich shop on the lower level nestled cheek by jowl with a bar advertising happy hour. A running shoe clinic stood across the plaza; a "smoke shop" featured products other than tobacco. Taverns, a downtown book store, arts and crafts and various haggard dirty unshaven hangers on with backpacks or instrument cases defined the downtown as undeniably youthful, mid to upper class, adventurous, and curious, all those characteristics not usually associated with farmers.

The fourth floor office suite throbbed with creativity. A boulder that had necessitated a special exemption resided as spiritual center of the organization. Under a back lit dome, it implied strong ties to Mother Earth for the various food products arrayed on the glass shelves surrounding it. Whether a Kraft energy potion or "Annie's Honey Bunnies" ( no icky additives or pesky preservatives), the foods on the shelves were part and parcel of the creative portfolio of the brain trust on the fourth floor.

We dropped our bags in an office, no, more like a library of cookbooks and knicknacks. Floor to ceiling decals, even Velveeta! Wind chimes of silver spoons, wall art of wine and vine, two hanging planters of herbs, once live, now dried. I took a picture of the month's worth of activities and the raised fist with the (pitch)fork leading the way to the Food Revolution. We farmers know what we know about revolutions. We are heirs to the Green Revolution; we feel threatened by the Slow Food movement. Forgive me if I formed my own opinion of any program including the movies King Corn and Food, Inc. and projected the reception the Missouri corn farmers might get at a brunch get together.

Inklings hardened into suspicions when the breakfast spread included organic this and natural that, gluten free, additive free, pasteurized (good old Meadow Gold), and beautifully out of season berries, blue and red. The coffee was fresh and hot; we were supplied brown paper moleskin lookalikes with plain brown wrapper ink pens to take names and make notes. Chairs filled with the young, the thoughtful, the casual, the curious, the creative minds of the the agency.

The boss was distinguishable only by a few grey hairs. Despite the apparently one sided listing of presenters and programs, he reiterated the aim of a fair and balanced hearing of all sides of the food spectrum. Many of the folks working at the firm had experience with farms, farmers, and some type of agriculture; at lunch later on, he declared us paranoid when we said we felt the accumulated good will of generations of consumers for farmers had dried up just like the thyme in the hanging pot. And, as it turned out, the roomful of creative types did exhibit humor, empathy, and a healthy curiosity about what it meant to be a farmer, a corn farmer, a big farmer and a family farmer. They listened attentively to the notion that organic was not necessarily natural, that natural was not always safer, that modern methods of farming were kinder and gentler to the environment and that we big industrial strength farmers lived in little bitty places and worked hardest of all to protect our land because we loved it. Their questions were thoughtful and sensible even while they showed telltale signs of the fear of the scientific we farmers have grown to dread. Interestingly enough, these young movers and shakers were not terrified by the structure of agriculture, nor was there a single question regarding animal welfare, both subjects we farmers view with fear and loathing. No, the biggest bogeyman in the Tea Room was the unknown, misunderstood, stepchild of Monsanto, the GMO. Yep, that scary GMO and its insidious presence in just about everything was blamed for autism, obesity, asthma, and other dark and dreadful unknown future maladies. GMOs were unleashed upon an unsuspecting public with goodness only knows what terrifying results. Untested and hyper fertile, GMOs, in the mind of the folks at that meeting, would take over the gene pool of the world, rather like the zombies lurking just under the skin of normal appearing humans.

So, what did a roomful of creative advertising folks want to ask of a genuine farmer? What kind of farming? Did we use GMOs? How much time did he spend on the farm? What would he do differently in a perfect world? The farmer explained in detail the balance sheet of nitrogen and the facts of life of inputs and outputs. Why was he a farmer? What about our family? These are the types of questions we love to answer, the kind that allow us to emphasize the bonds of family and community as we demonstrate the generational memory so rare in this mobile and transient era. Yes, we farmers pride ourselves on our dual personalities: ying for early adoption of labor saving, technological and scientific advances, yang for tradition, family ties and loyalty, roots to community, church, school, even when it is not any obvious advantage to do so.

No doubt I have forgotten some vital observation from our day in the college town. But it was encouraging to meet with a group that was truly inquisitive, without hosting an inquisition. So often the sides in the food/agriculture/organic debate are calcified, chips on all shoulders just the tip of the iceberg of willful misunderstanding and disagreement. Are farmers overly defensive? Do we assume the worst in every well meaning inquiry? Are our actions open to misinterpretation while we pile up the factoids for trench warfare? Are we like the leaders of one agribusiness, polling anyone for a way to become loved, just like Sally Fields? Speaking as one farmer venturing into presupposed hostile territory, sometimes, yogurt or not, breakfast can be common ground.

Good Neighbors

In my little town I grew up believing

God keeps his eye on us all

And he used to lean upon me

As I pledged allegiance to the wall

Lord I recall my little town

Many's the time I've been mistaken,and many times confused

And I've often felt forsaken, and certainly misused.

But it's all right, it's all right, I'm just weary to my bones

Still, you don't expect to be bright and Bon Vivant .................

Bon Vivant is the farthest thing from my mind these days. But Paul Simon reaches out from a generation back with cogent lyrics to accompany these dark spring days. "Nothing but the dead and dying back in my little town", joins the headline of a deep and continuing decline in the population of our little corner of Missouri. Our lovely gracious past as personified by some of our leading ladies is laid to rest and mourned by all.

But...God keeps His eye on us all. What can we offer; what ineffable essence persists in our latter days that makes our place special? We still harbor a remnant of America past here, one held near and dear in our mythology past and future; we have good neighbors.

On a simple street in our little town, there stand two old houses. One has been home for an older couple for many years; one has been home for a young family for just a few. The young family's home is spacious, but they are energetic and the little children often spill out of the interior, laughing, biking, swinging, digging. The yards meld seamlessly and the little children are as welcome on their neighbor's driveway, or porch, or home, as they are in their very own. There are "chores" to do and ice cream with which to celebrate their completion. There are exchanges of birthday presents for the little children and the lovely example of the parents for the youngsters of the gifts of time and labor as the young parents rake, mow, and scoop the common snow. What a special relationship between these two families, unrelated but by the ancient ties of common ground and regard. How precious the extra, unexpected, bonus love of old for young and young for old? What a blessing the bond has been for both families, one made more likely by the open minded proximity and generosity of our little town.

Neighorhoods can be miles apart. Out on the country roads, families miles apart grew up like they were just across a fence. Couples played cards; kids ran wild; cattle were mutually put back in whenever they wandered onto the pavement. Gifts were exchanged at Christmas and cake was consumed on birthdays. Everyone's kids were celebrated at weddings and graduations and everyone mourned at funerals. Time passed, and the second generations grew up, married, left town, or settled nearby. Misfortune was no stranger; certainly family rallied around, but so did the good neighbors. Whether days were sunny or dark, unsung, but never unnoticed, the unrelated family, the loving neighbors as close as family, were there. Bereavement is not only the lot of the blood relative. Our Lord recognized this and immortalized the special relationship in the tale of the Good Samaritan. "Which of these men was a neighbor to the man who fell among robbers?"

"the one who had mercy on him".

"Go and do likewise".

We are short on explosive growth. We could use a few new houses and a few less decrepit ones.

But our little town is rich with mercy, with generosity, and with good neighbors.

Only Heaven Knows

"Is this heaven?"

"No, its Iowa."

This poignant sound bite from Field of Dreams is not merely touching visually: the serious young/old face of Shoeless Joe stepping out from history into the uber green of summer and posing this question to Ray, a fan suddenly possessed by past and vision, speaks to the inner longing of us all to know what is beyond the edge of our field of vision. It touches another chord as well. While we wait here on earth, and while we know intellectually and spiritually that heaven lies beyond, yet we have doubts: at our times of greatest happiness or quietest pleasure, we wonder how heaven can possibly be more beautiful than God's earth? If you are Ray Kinsella, or Shoeless Joe Jackson, or perhaps any one of a silent multitude of baseball fans, a day at the ball park may be about all one can wish for in happiness. Is it blasphemous to wish for verdant ball fields surrounded by fans with all the cheerful anticipation of spring training?

Mary Chapin Carpenter has a song about heaven too. "Nothing shatters, nothing breaks, nothing hurts and nothing aches" in her heaven. "No one's lost and no one's missing, no more parting, just hugs and kissing": a fervently desired outcome. But beyond that, "Grandma's there and Grandpa too, in a condo with to die for views" and "your childhood dog in Dad's old chair": homely, homey touches that we ordinary mortals can comprehend. What more comfort can we ask but that we keep our memories and good times and shed the parting, the aches, the hurts. I like the idea that my Granny and Grandpa, who loved the out of doors and travel, are spending their heavenly days looking out the windows at beauty beyond that of our lovely earth.

Years ago, in another season of loss, I came upon a song by Nanci Griffith. A young couple settles in the part of Texas, "the only spot on earth bluebonnets grow, and once a year they come and go, at this old house here by the road." He works the oil fields and she spends the summers alone, but their bond is deep and the refrain states, 'when she dies, she says she'll catch some blackbird's wings and then fly away to heaven, come some sweet bluebonnet spring.' They grow old together, tend their garden, and "set the sun", each year enjoying the all too brief bloom of the Texas bluebonnets, with the final stanza declaring, "when they die, they say they'll catch some blackbird's wings and they will fly awaytogether , come some sweet bluebonnet spring." That image has always brought a tear to my eye as I picture the husband and wife aging in body but remaining as fresh in spirit and faithful in heart as the bluebonnets that come back year after year to their old house by the road. No loneliness, no left behind, no loss, just an ascension together in the sweet season of the year on, not the wings of eagles, just the springtime's blackbirds.

This week the voice of Audra McDonald sang in my head. Here are words of query, of wonder, of hope, of comfort.

Is it warm against your face? Do you feel a kind a' grace inside the breeze? Will there be trees? Is there light? Does it hover on the ground? Does it shine from all around, or jes' from you? Is it endless and empty, an' you wanter on your own? Slowly forgit about the folks that you have known? Or does risin' bread fill up the air from open kitchens every where? Familiar faces far as you can see, like a family? Do we live? Is it like a little town? Do we get to look back down at who we love? Are we above? Are we ev'rywhere? Are we anywhere at all? Do we hear a trumpet call us an' we're by your side? Will I want, Will I wish for all the things I should have done, Longing to finish what I only just begun? Or has a shinin' truth been waitin' there for all the questions ev'ry where? In a word a' wond'rin' suddenly you know; An' you will always know... Will my mama be there waitin' for me, Smilin' like the way she does, an' holdin' out her arms, and she calls my name? She will hold me just the same... Only heaven nows how glory goes, what each of us was meant to be. In the starlight, that is what we are. I can see so far

In deep humility, admitting my complete inadequacy and lack of imagination, I love the idea of the fragrance of baked goods rising from the open windows of friendly kitchens. In the same way that I hope we will have the hearty work of gardening and live in complete certainty that music will fill the air. We know we see "only darkly as a mirror, but then will see face to face," but our loving Father knows our pain and gives us comfort. I smile when I think of those waiting for us, smiling, holding out their arms and calling our names.

But, as the song title reminds, "only Heaven knows how glory goes." The great mystery is beyond and we can but wait. Tom T. Hall had a few words about the heaven too, when he pondered the fate of Clayton DeLaney:

"it could be that the good Lord likes a little picking, too."

" A little picking" surely falls into the category of "every good thing and every perfect gift". Our loved ones know: we can but keep our eye on the prize and ponder.