The last two days have been phenominally beautiful--75, sunny, cool breezes. The windows are open and breezes waft across our bodies before sleep. I 've had time to deadhead flowers, pluck weeds, prune, and generaly clean up the beds. It looks much neater. The vines are all starting to do their thing--vining on the fence and whatever else they can grab onto.

I missed a photo op today . There was a beautiful monarch butterfly on the speedwell and bee balm. By the time I returned, it had had it's fill of nectar and happily flew away. There are many perfect moments, but sometime only the eye gets to see them. That's why God gave us words. I'll settle for my favorite flower-the lobelia

In a few days Owen Michael is going to be baptized. It just happens to be on Father's Day. He is 8 weeks old and growing big and strong. Some of the family and friends are going to sing "Jesus Loves Me" and "Oh, how He loves you and me". Grandpa Paul is offering a prayer for Owen.

Today I sat at the piano, after watering the garden, and practiced the song, very familiar, but with a new accompiament. It was very lovely and I pictured us all standing around Owen on Sunday morning, promising to care for him and instruct him and love him into the Kingdom. Towards the end I had tears freely flowing. It is such a special privilege to be part of the Body of Christ, and this little one will be as welcomed as his dad, grandpas, and great-grandpas have been.

So sleep, little Owen and dream of all the host of God's people who care for you already.

One of the most precious parts of my life on Countryside Drive was time spent in my garden. Digging, weeding, planting, watering--changing the colors, repeating the colors--finding what flourished, what shriveled and died, what small seedling in the middle of a flower bed would turn into a delicious tomato plant. Each new season brought beauty and wonder and heartache and hope. My trumpet vine grew for years with lush vigor, but never bloomed until the year I moved--then I had to leave it.

Sometimes I would find new mysterious plantings in vacant spaces. Then I knew that the elderly and eccentric Nita had been dividing her perennials. She couldn't bear to throw away a good plant. Thus my Japanese iris are still with me, surviving the move to the open spaces of Batavia. Sun and wind are abundant and for two weeks in late May-early June, my iris are glorious. They thrive next to my fence, in my garden, as I do.