I was talking to my publisher recently and she related to me how her Grandpa’s garden still holds her close. Then she went on to share with me about her grandpa, retelling a story of the two of them in his garden.

I’m strolling through my garden, checking on what is coming back after a pleasant week of nourishing spring rain. I’m terrible about remembering the proper names of my perennials just by looking. I bend down, pluck a leaf between my thumbnail and pointer finger, crush it in my palms, rubbing its tenderness back and forth to squeeze out its particular oils, and breath in its tangy, unique essence. My nose recognizes its identity better than my eyes do.

I was having one of those good heart-to-heart conversations the other day with one of my sons: you know the kind! I dropped what I was doing, retreated to the back porch swing, and basked in the sound of his voice.

I’m a morning person. I’ve always been a morning person. If I wake up after the sun has already risen, I feel cheated out of a gift. My mind is sharp in the pre-dawn hours and fades gradually as the day unfolds.

I am again confused about scripture. Sometimes, Jesus said the word and people would rise up from the dead like his friend, Lazarus. Other times, Jesus insisted the person should “stretch out his hand” or “rise up” before being healed.