I woke up with a smile on my face today. I must have been dreaming in Arabic, because I was singing in Arabic in my unmusical head the old hymn, “How Great Thou Art.” As I’m sitting here still basking in the gentle reminder of who I am, I consider the circumstances under which the hymn’s author wrote these lyrics, especially while we are experiencing sudden summer storms ourselves.

Someone once told me that having a child was like having your own heart walk around outside your body. When my children hurt, my heart absorbs that pain and I cry out in prayerful anguish.

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.