Brenda Knight Graham's Blog

Last year Charles and I watched this crepe myrtle from our porch and wondered when it was ever going to bloom. Other crepe myrtles all over town had bloomed out so beautifully–white, burgundy, soft pink. But ours stubbornly held off until August and then was skimpy.

But now this same crepe myrtle in early July is in full bloom, rejoicing over silver drops of rain on a Monday morning. I think it was my yard lady Melissa McIntyre who told me crepe myrtles are not always consistent in their blooming times. They bloom when they get ready! I have an additional theory about this particular crepe myrtle.

Now you may think I’m a silly whimsical little old lady, and I guess I am, especially the old part, not so much the little. But I just think Charles might have said to the Savior, “Sir, do you think you could sprinkle that crepe myrtle with beautiful blossoms a little earlier this year, just give it a boost?”

Charles was always one to try fertilizer on a “peaked” plant, try something different, run over to Graco’s and see what they recommended. This year he’s with the Master, Creator, Maker of all things beautiful and bright. Maybe he put in a good word for our pink crepe myrtle.

But why just that one? He could have asked for blossoms on the other crepe myrtle no more than fifty feet away. It remains barren of blooms. I guess my theory breaks down some.

This I know. The Master Creator did make the fluffy big watermelon-pink blooms. He did send the rain that left sparkling drops on leaves and blossoms. And He is the great Comforter. His faithfulness and compassions are new every morning!

Thank you, God, for the pink crepe myrtle and the raindrops sparkling in the sunshine. Thank you that Charles is seeing and experiencing beauty beyond our imagination.

In 1826 our still new country was excited about celebrating its fiftieth birthday. Messengers carried invitations to Thomas Jefferson and John Adams asking them to speak at celebration events in many places, especially their hometowns of Charlottesville, Virginia and Quincy, Massachusetts. Jefferson was known as “the pen” of the Declaration of Independence and Adams “the voice.” Nothing could be better than having at least one of them at a fiftieth celebration.

But Jefferson, with failing health at 83, and Adams close to death at almost 90, could not expect to travel even short distances. They did, however, both determine they would live to see one final Fourth. The two former presidents, along with 88-year-old Charles Carroll of Maryland, were the last living signers of the Declaration of Independence.

Flags were snapping in a wonderful cool breeze this morning, July 2, 2026, as I sat on a bench in Bainbridge, Georgia’s town square. My friend Jane had an appointment nearby and I told her I’d love to wait for her in the park. Watching the flags and listening to the courthouse clock bong the hour, I thought about our brave ancestors who gave so much for us to enjoy the freedoms we depend on and often take for granted. I thought particularly about John Adams and Thomas Jefferson having recently read David McCullough’s account of their final Fourth in his book John Adams.

John Adams had envisioned the celebration of the union being on July 2 which was the day Congress voted to approve the document. But the actual formal approval was on the Fourth and that day was chosen. Adams also envisioned the celebration in many years to come including solemn devotion to God and gratitude to Him. He envisioned “pomp, parade, shows, games, sports” with firing of guns, ringing bells, and fireworks.

Early in the morning of July 4, 1826, according to McCullough, as the first cannons began to roar, the Reverend George Whitney arrived at Braintree Farm to visit Adams. He reported that “the old man was drawing to his end.” As efforts were made to change his position in the bed, Adams roused and spoke clearly, “It is a great day. It is a good day.”

At Monticello in Charlottesville, Thomas Jefferson had been unconscious since the night of July 2, McCullough wrote. When he did rouse briefly on July 3, he was confused and thought it was already the Fourth. He spoke his last words about 4:00 a.m., July 4, 1826. McCullough writes that he called in the servants “with a strong clear voice,” but that it was unknown which servants or what he said. He died at 1:00 that afternoon.

Adams lay apparently peacefully that day even as cannons grew louder and a thunderstorm struck. Late in the afternoon, the account goes on, Adams stirred and whispered, “Thomas Jefferson survives.” He didn’t realize his old friend and correspondent, political enemy, and great statesman had already died. John Adams died at 6:20, July 4, 1826.

Small towns like Cairo and Bainbridge, Georgia will celebrate the Fourth, as will millions from New York to San Francisco, with fireworks, “illuminations,” parades and concerts. It is not just the 50th; it is the 250th! The Cairo Messenger proclaims it will be a celebration like no other. They will even have go-carts and decorated bicycles in a downtown parade.

My prayer is that we would remember the fifty-six signers of the Declaration of Independence and, like John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, treasure our freedoms. Let us pray diligently for our nation and wave our flags with pride.

May God bless America!

I remember my own father teasingly swiping shaving cream on my cheek when I was little. I remember the inner glow I felt when he praised me for doing a good job trimming a hedge. He called us all together for reciting memorized scripture and praying the Lord’s Prayer every night. We all knew there were no acceptable excuses for not responding immediately to his call. Though he was very strict, he enjoyed a good game of Blind Man’s Bluff (with ten in the family we had a good time!) and he was a whiz at Anagrams. He packed as many of us as would fit in the Packard once a year for a day in the mountains, leaving at 4:00 a.m. and returning after dark.

My husband, Charles, was a very good father too. From the beginning. He readily changed diapers. When he came home from work having wrestled with pigs and cows all day, he loved the squeal of joy as our toddler, William, jumped into his arms. I could hear them both cackling with laughter as they tussled on the couch while I finished supper. I can see him now making silly faces as our daughter, Julie, at six years old twisted his fine, somewhat scarce, hair into ponytails. He embarrassed our children when they were teenagers by leading us in a blessing even in a crowded restaurant. Firm as a rock and gentle as a puppy all through their growing up years, he was always ready to help fix a bike or bait a hook. Then when we were blessed with grandchildren, he was ready for most anything, riding a roller coaster or shouting at one of their basketball games. I love the picture I snapped at our last beach trip when our granddaughter, Mattie, coaxed Granddaddy into wading in the surf.

My father-in-law was the best a girl could ever ask for. I remember him so fondly for his corny jokes and his gardening expertise. He was greatly loved by all his grandchildren, not because of any showy attempts to charm them, but just for being his own homespun self. No one anywhere grows cantaloupes as delicious and juicy as those he produced.

And then there’s my son, Will, father of three. He was pitcher for his three-year-old William who would shout “big hit” and take off running from the den around through the living room, dining room, and kitchen, arriving back in the den ready to do it all over again. I can hear Will reasoning with second child Thomas when he was a little guy in tears. Will spoke so patiently saying “Use your words, son. Use your words.” When Mattie was born a month early Will reported “That Mattie, she’s a fighter. She’ll be okay.” The three are young adults now, one a recent college graduate with a new job, one a sophomore in college, and one a senior in high school, all with promising careers in front of them. When we are at their table Will says the blessing and I have a wonderful sense that a torch has passed.

But wait. There are two other dads in our family. There’s grandson-in-law Jared and his bunch of his, hers, and theirs. Raising a house full of children with various lists of rules along with your own is not easy. But Jared takes it all in stride with his easy-going smile. He and Amanda are a good team.

Lastly, our grandson, Charles Douglas, this year is an expectant father looking forward to December 16. He and his wife, Allie, are over-the-moon excited, yet sober, too, about the responsibilities ahead. As I watch Charles D solicitously caring for his pregnant wife, I know he will be an excellent father.

Thank You, God, for our wonderful earthly fathers. And thank You, Almighty God, for being our Heavenly Father who loves us even more than any earthly father can.

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The banter of the commentators, the smack of bat against ball, the explosion of excitement when a batter hits a homerun or when an outfielder catches a ball just before it goes over the fence–joys of baseball! I really enjoy watching the Braves, at least when they are winning, which they are often this year. But I can remember when I thought a baseball game was the most boring event on earth.

At the age of eleven I was privileged to spend a summer in West Virginia with my big sister Pat, her husband David, and baby Lorna. I was their built-in babysitter while they moved from an apartment to their first house on Walnut Grove Drive, Charleston. I loved babysitting Lorna. Even as a baby, she was a very interesting little person and I was so happy to be helping my beloved big sister. But my big sister had more plans for me than babysitting. She wanted me to experience things I never had before, like a professional baseball game.

Looking back on it now and knowing how much my brother-in-law enjoyed baseball whereas Pat, at that time, was not such a big fan, I think just maybe she insisted on my using David’s second ticket so she wouldn’t have to. Anyway, though I protested, I went with David to the game.

At the beginning it was kind of fun. I’d never seen such a crowd before so just watching people was very entertaining. David bought me a big orange drink and popcorn and that in itself was really fun. He instructed me generally about the rules of the game and assumed, I guess, that I could understand from then on what was happening. I could not.

Why was everyone clapping and hollering when no score showed up on the board? Why couldn’t any player ever make it to first base before the ball did? I was sure I could. I was a really fast runner on the Georgia hill where I lived. Why did the pitcher make so many faces and keep adjusting his hat before throwing the ball? Did he have poison ivy or something? I looked at David and he appeared perfectly calm, not agitated in the least with slow runners or itchy pitchers.

I finally got so sleepy I had to catch myself from falling off the bleacher. I don’t think David noticed. The final score was 2-0 in favor of “our” team. David told Pat when we got home that it was a really great game. When she asked how her little sister had enjoyed it, I heard him say, “Oh, she was fine.”

It was years later when my little son William started playing baseball that I learned to enjoy the game. Even a slow game can be interesting if you know the ins and outs–pun intended–and when you’re holding your breath for your batter to get a hit. I always loved it when my tow-headed fellow was the catcher, especially when he caught a foul ball.

And now I can yell for the Braves unabashedly even right by myself and send what I hope is a knowledgeable text to my sport-loving son.

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What are they saying as they honk their way over to the pond beyond us? Did they squabble about whose turn it is to lead? Do the geese have any idea what a message of freedom their flight implies? Do they have plans for the day—meeting other gaggles, fishing for minnows, browsing in the lakeside grass?

When I heard them coming, I looked up to watch them fly over. What a beautiful sight—all of them in a straight row, necks outstretched, legs straight behind bodies. This was not a migratory formation. These geese have decided to stay in our area instead of traveling hundreds of miles. It made me feel good just to see them taking their morning flight right over our lawn sounding as joyful as kids on holiday.

What do they see when they look down on us? Helpless humans who worry about everything? Who make mountains of mole hills? Who glue our eyes to screens and fill our ears with buds? Who whirl about in ceaseless tivvies trying to solve problems and making more? Or maybe they happily ignore mankind and steadily tend to their own business of enjoying to the fullest each and every day.

They came and went in less than thirty seconds. Late in the afternoon they will head back, as apparently jubilant about the return trip as they were going out in the morning. I wonder where they will spend the night. Nestled in the grass, clustered around a tree? What motivates them to move as a gaggle back and forth?

I don’t have answers to my many questions. But I am cheered and encouraged by those geese trailing across the sky. They choose a leader and follow implicitly. They are bold and expectant, protecting each other, and loving their freedom. They are focused on their goal and determined to get there.

As birds flying, so will the Lord of hosts defend Jerusalem; defending also he will deliver it; and passing over he will preserve it. Isaiah 31:5

I was eating a boiled egg and a cup of applesauce for lunch when I first saw his little pointy ears above the bottom framework of the breakfast nook window. We haven’t had many squirrels for several months but here was one trying to get in the bird feeder. I was in no mood for fussing at him. This could be good lunchtime entertainment, I thought.

The bird feeder is suspended from a wire attached to a corner of the carport on one end and to a nail just beyond the breakfast room window on the other. Charles said when he put it up that only the most courageous squirrel would ever taste seeds from that feeder. The sharp-faced, long-tailed critter would have to take a flying leap of at least six feet and land on a swinging surface. Was this squirrel that courageous? I didn’t think so but I got my phone camera ready just in case.

We have seen squirrels try the feat before, and seen them finally give up. A few times we have come home to find the feeder tipped at a crazy angle. Did a bluejay jar it taking flight? Or did a squirrel actually succeed?

This squirrel crept back and forth along the window sill eying that feeder as birds flew freely in and out. He climbed up the side of the window, tensed his little gray body for the leap, then scooted back down to try the other side of the window. I thought he’d given up but in a minute discovered he was over in the carport window hunting there for the perfect launch pad. Soon he was back at my window paying no attention to my phone poised and ready. Next I saw his black rodent eyes assessing the distance from the edge of the carport roof. He couldn’t hear me saying “Poor little squirrel, you must be mighty hungry!”

He was back at my window when his persistence finally paid off. His leap did not land him in an azalea bush. He set the feeder swinging wildly as he landed neatly right in the middle of it. By then I was cheering for him and clicking pictures. I knew he wouldn’t be there long, better take pictures fast. My first ones were all fluffy tail, blurry scenes, ill-focused and filled with too much azalea or sky. As I realized the squirrel fully intended to eat his fill of sunflower seeds, I began to take my time. He left only when his belly was so full he could only drop awkwardly to the ground and make a slow get-away.

I looked gleefully at my pictures. Yes, persistence paid off for the squirrel and for me. Now to put more seeds in the feeder for the birds and hope that squirrel doesn’t tell all his friends about the swinging bird feeder and how to reach it.

The whole squirrel adventure reminds me of Jesus’s story about the man who went to his neighbor in the night asking for a loaf of bread for his surprise company. The neighbor said no but the man continued knocking until finally the neighbor gave in. I need to apply the squirrel persistence to my prayer life.

I was surprised and delighted a few weeks ago to fine a lone limb of bright red leaves on our otherwise green-leaved Japanese maple. It was strategically located on the tree right beside my daily walk as if Someone wanted to be sure I noticed it. I knew it meant something very special.

Charles and I, as newlyweds, were invited to be chaperones at a Baptist Student Union weekend retreat. It turned out to be a very memorable trip, not because of our chaperoning skills, or lack of, but because we learned a very sweet meaning of the red leaf.

I think it was one of the student leaders who told the group her interpretation of a red leaf. A red leaf, she explained, could be symbolic of the love of God, the blood of Jesus shed for us so that we could be reconciled to Him. But, she went on to say, a red leaf can also signify your love for one another. If someone lays a red leaf beside your plate, it means they love you.

Over the years, six decades, Charles and I at times would surreptitiously lay a red leaf on each other’s desk, beside the other’s chair, or just quietly slip it into the other’s hand on a walk. It was a fun way to say “I love you,” a special tiny ceremony that only we might understand.

So when I saw that limb of bright red leaves I could only think that Charles had requested God make it to comfort my lonely heart. It would be just like him to add such an extravagant touch, not just a red leaf but a whole branch of out-of-season red leaves. It was bright and beautiful for about a week, a startling flag of color in a maple tree clothed otherwise4 in its usual spring green with a few subtle burgundy tones. I took multiple pictures at different times of day trying to capture the exciting phenomenon.

You can try to explain it all away, explain to me why that particular limb was so bright. But you will not ruin it for me. I know what I saw and I know why it was there because I know for a surety that our God is compassionate and faithful. And I know what a red leaf means.

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning: great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23

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The sky today is busy with crows. They are very black and very noisy, flying apostrophes squawking at each other and the world. There is nothing shy or reserved about a crow, not in my experience. To tell the truth, crows have often amused me with their gawkiness and their merry outlook. Although they sound as if they’re mocking us, still it is a friendly kind of mocking like the teasing between good friends.

I realize a gathering of crows is called a murder. And I know they’ve been considered a bad omen when they flock together. But I think that is an unfair judgment of these fellows. They don’t need my defense as, dressed in feathers black as judges’ robes, they truly don’t care. But, even so, I’d like to say a few words in support of these good-natured jokesters.

I’ve heard crows cawing at very happy times, not with a gloomy ‘Nevermore’ as in Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven.” No, the words I hear crows croaking are like the chuckles of a funny uncle, or the teasing twitters of a teenage brother.

A crow’s call of “uh-oh, uh-oh” always reminds me of wonderful Saturdays when Charles took the children and me fishing. Charles and William loaded up the fishing poles, including my own special telescoping pole Charles had given me for my birthday. If there had been a recent rain sometimes the boys went to the barnyard to dig up worms. Sometimes I thought they had more fun doing that than actually fishing. Otherwise, we stopped by the bait store to purchase night crawlers, crickets, or something. Arriving at the pond, to which we’d been invited by one of Charles’ clients, we set up “camp.” Charles always brought two folding chairs but seldom sat down, staying occupied with baiting hooks and, on good days, pulling fish off lines. I, on the other hand, settled in to enjoy just being by a pond listening to crows in the pine trees calling “uh-oh, uh-oh” as if they knew I wasn’t a very good fisherman. Maybe some of those crows were fish crows, recognized more by their very nasal voice than by their appearance.

I’ve heard crows all but laughing at gardeners planting corn. Were they saying “Caw, caw” or “Haw, haw”? I knew as a little girl that Mamma really didn’t like them very much, though what she said was “Silly old crows, go on away.” Years later, helping Daddy Graham pick beans I heard crows with a south Georgia accent yelling “Jack Alack, come back, come back.”

Sometimes when I’m parked in the school line-up to pick up grandchildren I see a swirl of crows in the sky. I don’t know whether they’re playing or doing some kind of serious ritual. But I choose to think they’re just sporting through their day.

A murder of crows sounds like a pretty harsh appellation. But then they are the clean-up crew after tragedies on the road, along with buzzards and other scavengers. I think we should be thankful for their hard dirty work performed in such a cheerful bumbling way.

Facing life every day without my sweetheart of sixty years (sixty-one counting our year of courting) has been the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced. But there have been many blessings midst the darkness of these days since December 26. Family and friends have been so wonderfully supportive. I have a lovely caregiver named Esha who comes twice a week and is so helpful and kind. My church family has hugged me, prayed for me, called, visited, sent cards and “been there” for me. Most importantly, God has held me night after night and day after day. When I am helpless, He lifts me up. When I am totally weak, He comes to my rescue. He comforts me in a myriad of ways, particularly with blooms and birds in the yard Charles loved and cared for so diligently.

As his birthday approaches I’m noticing so many things about that yard–trees, flowers, bird feeders and other points of interest we enjoyed together.

A squirrel hangs upside down on a long slender branch of the mulberry tree eating tender first berries. How can he possibly turn himself around on that thin branch and head back to safety? But without a hitch he does, then nimbly goes to another limb to seek its fruit. I smile at the squirrel’s eagerness and agility and remember how Charles and I used to laugh at the squirrels and birds turning the tree into a lively feast “table.”

The blueberry bushes have already set their fruit in bountiful bunches. Looks like a bumper crop. Last August our grandson William Jr. came to visit and to help us. He and his Granddaddy pruned the bushes. William did the cutting to Granddaddy’s specific instructions from his wheelchair. It was a sweet and amusing sight to me, the young man full of energy jumping back and forth between bushes and wheelchair to be absolutely sure he understood where Granddaddy wanted him to cut. And now the bushes are bearing fruit.

Charles gave me for my last birthday a Birdfy bird feeder with camera that sends images to my phone. We were both disappointed in the fall that the birds ignored it. We decided they thought it was too nice and shiny and didn’t trust it. But now the chickadees, titmice, Carolina wrens, and cardinals are showing up, loving the little porch. And I get to see them cracking seeds up close on my phone.

I found a pot of amaryllis today with beautiful swelling buds and I smiled. Charles planted the bulbs last year and set the pot there at a corner of the porch. Over there is the hanging basket of geraniums he was so proud of. A neighbor gave the plant to him because he invited her to church. He said that was a first, receiving flowers for inviting someone to church! There, across the yard, is the rain gauge he checked so eagerly after a shower. Opening my seldom-used front door one day, I was thrilled to discover that the row of miniature azaleas Charles had planted along the porch were now in full bloom.

When our son Will was here the other day he raked straw off the shed roof, pulled vines, and trimmed here and there. I was reminded of what he’d said about his dad at his funeral. His dad taught him, he said, a strong work ethic, and that a beautiful yard requires daily attention.

Charles took pleasure in partnering with God to make our corner beautiful so those who passed would find their spirits lifted. It can’t be the same without his tender touch. Also, the great springtime burst of colors–azaleas, Japanese magnolias, and spirea–is past and the next surge with daylilies and lantana hasn’t begun. But, on this his birthday, I hope some folks receive a bit of joy as they pass our corner.

Happy birthday, Charles!

I learned a new word this Easter. Being hospitalized the week before Easter gave me a lot of time to think! The new word? A Greek word, tetelestai, meaning “It is finished.” John, the only disciple present at the cross when Jesus spoke this word, is the only one to record it in the Bible. He was there. He heard Jesus cry out this triumphant statement before He drew His last breath.

It was a triumphant cry, not a cry of defeat. But, as Michael Youssef, internationally respected Bible teacher of 50 years, declared in a pre-Easter television sermon, many considered that cry an admission of defeat on Jesus’ part. The Pharisees, who demanded Jesus die because He had blasphemed God by claiming to be His Son, were certain that they had “finished” this sacrilege. The devil must have been smiling to himself knowing God’s attempt to save the world was a failure, finished. Even the disciples, heartsick and crushed, thought that this Jesus whom they’d followed for three years, loved and trusted and believed in, was, after all, finished.

Michael Youssef made note of occasions in Jesus’ walk on earth when “His time had not come,” when IT wasn’t finished yet. Jesus claimed to be the Son of God at the synagogue in His hometown of Nazareth. Religious leaders were irate and would have pushed Him off a cliff but Jesus simply walked away. At a wedding Mary told her son the wine had run out and He told her His time had not yet come (but He made wine anyway!). Jesus’ half-brothers, who did not yet believe He was the Son of God, urged Jesus to go to Judea and perform miracles openly. Jesus told them He wasn’t ready for that. His time had not come.

But when His time had come and Jesus went to the cross, when He made that triumphant cry, “It is finished! Tetelestai!” what did it mean? It meant He had finished the work God had sent Him to do. It meant He had fulfilled every demand of Holy God, He had made the supreme sacrifice so that the whole world of lost sinners could be saved, made righteous by His blood, if they asked to be. It meant there was nothing left undone.

When Jesus rose from the grave He bore the scars of what He had done for the world, for you and me. He rose triumphant on the third day, just as He had said He would. Whether Pharisees, hard hearted Roman soldiers, and skeptics believe or not, the truth is, Jesus, the Messiah, finished the job He’d come to do.

All those who truly believe and trust in the power of Jesus will be saved. He finished His job and we are saved from slavery to sin. We are saved for eternity beginning whenever we ask the King of Kings to be our Master.

Hallelujah! Tetelestai! Paid in full.

Happy Easter–a few days late!