A moonbeam wakes me at 5:20 this morning. “Ponder my faithfulness,” my Lord whispers.
I stretch my back, admire the contrast of the bright light on our new, dark wood floor, and spy the vacuum cleaner. Today, the last day in April, I dust the house our God provided.
“Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November, all the rest have thirty-one. February has twenty-eight, but leap year coming one in four, February then has one day more,” I recite.
My husband offered little patience while I struggled to memorize the number of days in each month using this mnemonic device. Thankfully, I’m a February baby and can never forget the odd ball 28.
“Dad taught us the verse as kids on our way up north,” Mel said. “Every summer he’d say, ‘Do you remember?’ Then we’d say yes and say it.”
“Well, my dad didn’t teach the rhyme to my sisters and me on our way south every summer,” I replied.
I consider my husband’s devotion to his National Geographic Atlas, hours mesmerized with boundaries, coastlines, and oceans while adventures from the world over wait upon my bookshelves.
We’re all faithful to different interests.
I listen for more ponderous things, reluctant to let April go. I wonder if her meager rainfall will bring abundant May flowers.
“Consider good news,” nudges my Counselor.
Yes. My health, home, and husband, although he claims I hate geography.
The scent from his French press wafts upstairs to my pillow. Mel is a morning and coffee person.
Although I wake early, I’m inclined to absorb the morning slowly with a cup of herbal tea.
The sunrise strikes the blooming redbud tree waving magenta branches outside my window. The clock says 7:15 when my feet touch the floor to descend the stairs for my camera.
“The sunrise is burning up the redbud again,” I say to my mate.
He knows my priorities and nods.
I carry my camera upstairs, open the bedroom window, shoot several photos of Mother Redbud, and gather my stack of books for morning devotions.
The wind licks and licks raindrops while I journal, read and pray.
To conclude my meditations, I open to the good news in Hebrews 13 and pause on verse 5. “Let your conversation be without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”
I vacuum the bedroom floor and marvel that meteorologists know the exact time the sun arose this morning and will set at 8:33 tonight.
And I figure the age of our redbud from twenty to twenty-three years old. Six of her offspring grow in the valley where lavender once bloomed.
With the life-expectancy of 50-75 years, the trees will long outlive me. Encouraging prospect, indeed.
Dear Reader, this time each year I email photos of Mother Redbud’s edible blossoms to my daughters. And whoever could use something worthy, beautiful, and faithful to ponder.
I listen to April bellow another farewell. We submit to 31 days in May.
Contact Iris at firstname.lastname@example.org.