With all of the wonderful rain we've been getting, our garden has been growing beautifully. We're harvesting basil, cilantro, peas and strawberries, and the blueberries and zucchini are in full bloom.

The garden is like my little sanctuary. So still and quiet, with so much going on at the same time. I love it. I love the sound and smell of the water as it sprays and soaks into the garden soil. I love watching the plants burst through the ground, slowly uncurl and grow. It's my place for being still, and my place for seeing God's beautiful handiwork.

So I'm sure you can imagine my absolute fury to discover an invasion of my precious place.

*image courtesy of google

In case you've never made their acquaintance, this is a squash bug. 

I know they have a more scientific name, but the name's not really important. 

Their existence is the issue. When I discovered them on Sunday morning I realized I now know what is meant by the term "righteous indignation". These bugs are the object of my pure and unwavering hatred. Their mission is to suck the life out of my zucchini, killing it from the inside out until I'm left with nothing but a shriveled up mess!

They made a brief appearance towards the end of last summer, but the zucchini plants were so near done with producing that it wasn't too big of a concern.

But this year with only my first blooms appearing, before I've harvested a single piece of zucchini, they had the nerve to show up.

And not just one or two. I disposed of twenty that first morning. TWENTY!

Not good.

The internet is full of useful information about them.

I particularly enjoyed this article that stated, "Squash bugs are a garden insect pest that seem to drive many people right to the brink of insanity." 

Insanity is definitely the word that has run through my mind as I've crawled around my zucchini bed, head tilted upside down as I attempt to find them under leaves. It's almost become this compulsive need, to find them and kill them.

One of the above links kindly suggested carrying a bucket of soapy water, grabbing the bugs and dropping them in so they drown. I guess that's a nice way to do it.

I don't bother with a bucket though.

I just pull on my handy garden gloves, grab them with thumb and index finger and crush them as severely as possible. NO chance of them coming back from that, and honestly I think there is some level of therapy in this method of disposal.

I'm not a tough girl. I can't stand bugs. The mention of snakes sends me running to hide. If a grasshopper jumps against my leg I will probably scream. But these bugs have somehow managed to channel a pathway straight to that tiny ounce of deeply hidden rage with me.

Please don't judge me.

So anyway, this week we are off for a grand summer adventure in the land of cows. I've left a nice little mist to keep my garden invaders company.

How's your garden growing?

Just like clockwork, in the midst of the Fourth of July celebrating, the summer rains have rolled in.

My nine year old asked me yesterday "Why do we keep having sun in the morning and rain in the afternoon every day???"

Later on in the day, while at the library she saw a sign for classes on "monsoon preparation" and asked what "monsoon" is. I reminded her of her earlier observation of it.

If you ask me any day from October through May, I will tell you I am not a fan of the gray days. I would be perfectly happy with all sun, all of the time. During fall, winter and spring, rain means one thing: colder. And for a girl who is not a fan of cold, colder is beyond undesirable. 

BUT, in the summer, it's different.

In the summer, the rain rarely takes up residence for days on end with no sun in sight. I get my morning wake up call from the precious sun, then right after lunch, after just enough sun and breeze to dry my laundry, the clouds roll in. 

The sun that perpetually bronzes the back of my neck as I toil and sweat in the garden every morning is suddenly blocked out by big, dark, heavy clouds.

The air that has been hot and sticky and has forced me to retreat inside where my precious air conditioning keeps me from a heat stroke all of the sudden begins to cool. 

Cool. Not colder. During these summer months, what is a burden and hindrance the rest of the year becomes a welcome reprieve.

The rain comes, And it refreshes in a way that no modern invention can. The cool and fresh in the air after these summer rains is incomparable.

I sit under the cover of the patio and watch the rain fall, soaking up the dry ground, settling all the dust. We get excited for our garden. I could water all day and night and never see the kind of life that these rains bring to everything that's growing.

I never want to be inside, or busy doing things when the rain comes. It feels like such a gift, I have this need to be still. Seeing it and savoring it and being so thankful.

My mind drifts to childhood memories. Laying on the couch with the doors and windows open. Watching Little House on the Prairie and enjoying that sweet smell as it filled the house.

I start thinking of the people that settled here more than a century ago. How hot it must have been. And I'm reminded of Sarah Witting, stepping out into rain after months and months of drought. The breath and life that the rain can bring. 

I am drawn to pray for the family of dear friends, herding cows and on alert for fires while they pray for rain.

Still, I sit.

Here, in my life, where I am right now, I can be witness to God's grace, quite literally poured down. And I don't want to miss it.

My mornings have found a (much needed) consistent routine lately.

Wake up. Time in my room actually waking up to the point that I am ready to interact with people. Get dressed. Head into the kitchen. Start breakfast. Start a load of laundry. Breakfast and Bible with the girls. Then head outside to hang the laundry.

This rhythm in my morning has been so nice. By the time I am actually starting in on the “work” of the day, one of the most essential chores on my list is already checked off. I’ve found that if I do a single load of laundry every morning, this keeps the laundry in a perfectly comfortable caught up state at all times.

I love my clothesline. I love the peacefulness of those few minutes hanging out the laundry every day. The chance to soak up fresh air and the sun’s rays as I have the cool, clean touch and smell of just washed clothes in my hands. It’s a precious little intermission of time to breathe in my day.

A normal and frequent interjection in these moments of mine is a little girl voice….calling through the window screen or poking a head out the back door. Asking for this or that. Or tattling on one of the other little girls in the house.

I often wonder what the people that live around us think if they can hear our little dialogues. Can they hear the little girl voices, or do they just hear my voice? Have they decided I’m the crazy lady who talks to herself?

One morning last week as I was blissfully pinning clothes to the line, I heard a request from a small little voice.

Only this time it wasn’t one of my girls.

Carried on the breeze came the calls from the little boy next door to his mother.

I glanced the direction of their yard. Just above the top of our solid wood fence, I could see the top of a clothesline, much like my own.  And I could see the hands of a woman, much like my own, pinning clothes to the line, just like me.

I know her. We’ve had brief moments of conversation. We exchanged casual hellos for months. I really met her the day she showed up at my front door, in pajamas and a bathrobe, messy hair and eyes flooded with tears as she held her small new baby out to me and said “She won’t breathe. Please help me!”

The baby (thank you Jesus) ended up being fine….just a too little infant struggling with the effects of a nasty cold.

But this woman has had a marked out little spot in my heart ever since.

Unfortunately, life is so busy and when I’m free she’s not and vice versa.

And as I stood outside listening to the voices of her and her little one carry back and forth in the same kind of conversation that I have had a hundred times myself from the clothesline in my backyard, I was just kind of sad.

Here we are. Right next to each other. Side by side as we do our laundry and raise our babies.  In the same season of life. Why aren’t we sharing it?

Is it just time? Or just laziness? Or just that we’re not quite cut out to be that kind of friends.

I really don’t know the answer. As I contemplated I was reminded of something I read once. A story pointing to the advent of the privacy fence as the time when neighbors stopped being friends. And I found myself wondering if that was the answer. Or at least a part of it.

Mostly I found myself wishing that big tall dark fence that I wanted so badly was just not there. I found myself lost in a dream of two mothers living side by side, who meet at the clothesline every morning and share a bit of their day, a bit of their hearts.

And I found myself reminded that getting what I want isn’t always the best thing. Because sometimes it might mean I’m missing out on something better.

I'm joining in on Simple Mom's Project: Simplify. I used to be the queen of clean, but somewhere in the mix of children and homeschooling, my ability to maintain certain (and many) areas of the house disappeared.

This week's assignment was to organize your wardrobe. My closet of course, is one of my most neglected spots. And clothes are a very hard thing for me to get rid of….I always think what if I end up needing this?

BUT, I have also been learning the last couple of years, that the more clothes we own, the more laundry we have the potential to create. That's all the motivation I need to let go.

Here's my before and after shots….

Before:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::After

(My closet is impossible to capture in one shot!)

Before::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::After

Before

After

And of course, there's the discard pile.

That's one load of laundry I'll never have to do.

So, don't you want to join in? It's not too late. You can link up here.