On the day the moon eclipsed the sun, I happened to be with Jared in Arkansas, where spring had brought the dandelions a little sooner and where the bees were busy at their hives. I also happened to be near totality, where, in the big, southern sky, the sun dwindled to nothing more than a … Continue reading The Ninth Hour
A True Story from Home April is young, and I’m in my garden as often as I can be. Today, I have company. My nephew, Bennett, is kneeling in the zucchini patch beside a Red Ryder wheelbarrow. He asked if he could help, so he’s weeding the clover that crept up in early March, tossing … Continue reading A Garden in Babylon
I watched one afternoon in October to see my neighbor’s chainsaw whir and whine and whistle clean through the trunk of his tree, and I felt the wrongness of it, as he stood on a ladder to dismantle it limb-by-limb. “I was putting off knowing it. All that day there had been a crashing in … Continue reading Upon the Death of a Bradford Pear
In The Country of the Pointed Firs, Sarah Orne Jewett wrote of a woman named Mrs. Almira Todd, who lived in a clapboard house on the coast of Maine---a gardener and a landlady and "an ardent lover of herbs, both wild and tame." They grew out from her gray-shingled walls and up her steep gables, … Continue reading Scent on a Spring Breeze
There is a basic qualification to be a volunteer Storm Spotter for the National Weather Service, and it is blessedly simple: Look up. Were anything more technical asked of me, I would not have taken the class; but as it is, I already spend a lot of time watching the sky. It turns out that … Continue reading Look Up
Sitting across the coffee shop table from her, I cannot see the Spirit of God in her---just as I cannot see the wind that’s whipping up off the cold Missouri river this morning. I do not know where these January gales come from, or where they’ll lie down tonight. They’re sharp, cutting right through my … Continue reading Where the North Wind Blows
A True Story from Home To me, Mrs. Olave Thurston was the lady in my grandpa’s stories---as if she was another Ma Ingalls or Miss Rumphius. When we ate chicken for dinner, Papa would tell how Mrs. Thurston raised, butchered, and boiled her own. When spring came and I cut fresh flowers for the table, … Continue reading Gravestone Flowers
On Waiting, Hunting, & Courtship “Come back and see us,” she said. “We’ll be here.” And as we turned in our coats to go, she caught me once more: “And enjoy yourselves. Have fun.” This was just after she’d said she was bored of bingo, and couldn’t they offer more activities for the long, dark … Continue reading Late In Time
Autumn came, at first, like a man too fierce to get old, huffing and fuming like his leaf blower, hurrying hot wind, unsettled as a hurricane in the trees until, one afternoon, the last leaf fell, was raked, put away, and he settled into something long, cold, and sweeter.
I've learned he is not like the moon, thumb-printed by shadow one night, then full and yellow as a harvest, then gone altogether on the thirteenth of November. He himself cannot be tempted or tilted or touched by the shadows cast by something bigger, because he himself is that Sun, and we are the thing … Continue reading Equinox
bethanyjlincks.com 