The Glory of Morning Glories

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Was it Mark Twain who supposedly said he was happy if he looked in the obituary each morning and didn’t see his name? I’m not sure. I must not have Googled on the correct words, and  I probably got the exact quote wrong.

I don’t read newspapers–foxnews.com normally tells me what I need to know about the sad state of the world–and I wouldn’t read the obituary column even if I read newspapers. I’m not that morbid. Even though I’d rather know for sure that I’ll die in my sleep when the time comes, I’m not afraid of death itself. Jesus’ death and resurrection removed that concern.

Now to the topic of morning glories.

When I go outside every morning, I may or may not see sunshine. But- during the summertime – I can count on seeing fresh morning glories blooming everywhere and the ugly remains of the previous day’s blossoms dying off. The picture on the far right is of me standing in front of our next-door-neighbor’s crape myrtle. One of our morning glory vines hand has grown up from the fence into the tree branches. Probably a good three-to-five feet higher than my 5’6″. (Click on the thumbnail for  a larger picture.) The other pictures are of morning glories whose vines are still on the fence.

The ability of morning glories to reseed (maybe not the proper botanical term)  from year to year, even though they’re not perennials, fascinates me. Also the subtle differences among the blooms.

Morning glories make me think about life and death. Over the course of mankind’s existence, everyone has eventually died and babies have been born to take their place. That’s one way to look at morning glories symbolically.

But I prefer another viewpoint. Each bloom has an appointed lifespan, just as each of us does. None of us knows what ours will be.

But for Christians, secure in their belief in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, the bloom dying on the vine might symbolize earthly death. The dead blossoms will never become alive and beautiful again.

I’d like to picture our entry into Heaven as being like a dead blossom being reborn as an immensely more beautiful morning glory than it had been here on earth. Something that doesn’t happen with real morning glories.

What do you think? Please leave a comment.

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I’ll be back again on Sunday. If you’d like to receive my posts by email, just go to “Follow Blog via Email” at the upper right.

“On Aging Gracelessly” isn’t my only blog. I post lyrics of the Christian songs I’ve written over the last fifty years on “As I Come Singing”–check it out HERE. Free lead sheets (tune, words, and chords) are available for many of them. View the list HERE.

Best regards,
Roger

If You Lived Here…

yucca     pyracantha     Mockingbird      PearlyGates

If you drive around Richmond for a while, you’ll probably see one or more signs that say, “If you lived here, you’d be home.” While that might attract some people, I’d be more interested in where I started and how I reached wherever I’d gotten to. No matter how nice stopping might be, I could end up quite a distance from other places I’d like to be.

I love home, and I love being home. At this stage of our lives, my wife and I are thankful to have a nice mobile home that’s paid for rather than a fancy “real” house that has a seemingly never-ending mortgage.

Practically everyone in our community waves when we’re out walking, and most of the neighborhood kids have learned that our dog’s name is Happy—and that she is a wigglesome bunch of happiness who’d probably lick an intruder to death.

Not that we need to worry about intruders. People here keep watch on everything that’s going on. On those rare occasions when a stranger ignores the “No trespassing, no soliciting” sign, a resident will call the sheriff’s office and let them send somebody out to determine who the trespasser is and what he or she is up to.

If I answer the door to someone I don’t know and he or she clearly doesn’t belong here, I get out my cell phone for a close-up picture. “So the police will know who to arrest,” I tell the stranger.

Living in this kind of neighborhood is a pleasure. Even though we have to pay land rent, Kathleen and I still have enough of a sense of ownership to plant trees and bushes—the Pyracantha is almost as tall as the house—and fence in the yard before we bought our dog.

Kathleen works just four or five miles up the road and our grocery store, bank, and favorite restaurants—almost everything we need on a regular basis—lie within a two-mile radius.

Our church is the only exception, and it’s just a pleasant ten-minute drive in the country.

Doctor and dentist are many files further away, but we don’t need them often enough to object to the drive.

Yes, there’s no place like home.

Hmm. But what about that Gospel song that says, “This world is not my home”?

The older I get, the more comfort I take in those words.

I look at the moral and economic decay of this nation, and I don’t feel at home here anymore. Not like before, anyhow.

While people who believe in the value of human life and in the importance of working hard for what they want may still be in the majority, we’ve remained silent too long and allowed the career politicians to take control—and to go a long way towards destroying what used to be the finest nation on earth.

I thank God I have Heaven to look forward to. With every day older I get, the closer I am to my true Home.

If you have comments or observations—if you disagree with anything I’ve said—please feel free to share.

I’ll see you again on Wednesday.

Best regards,
Roger