Friday, April 27, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
A Fountain of Joy
What is it about a book club? There's something very special about a group of friends gathered around the table discussing a book we've read. Colorful teapots, an apple tart, fruit, dancing votives, faded tulips, and books decorate the table in a delightfully cozy room. We come together, loving each other, caring about the written word and ready for a good time sharing our thoughts. The discussion is profound as we read favorite quotes and cite thought-provoking passages. In a dimly lit room it seems like CS Lewis himself shows up and speaks to us through the pages of his books. At times it 's almost tangible. We laugh and then grow thoughtful as our discussion tangents to thoughts and ideas spurred from words written long ago but relevant for us today. God meets us too as we talk about heaven, forgiveness, and the fountain of joy.
"REAL Men Eat Quiche"
Or so Spouse use to say when I made quiche for a meal. But it's been a long time since I made one. So long I had to phone Lydia Grace twice for instructions. Thanks, LG! And Boniface, now that I have practiced, you may see this next week!
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
getting a handle on My broom
After the grass is cut I reach for a broom. It's just how I was raised. Mow, then sweep. No power blowers for me. No electricity drain, no fuel smells or loud noises to disrupt our quiet cul de sac. Green readers should appreciate this. And not only is it environmentally helpful, it works those arm muscles too. I don't reach for just any broom now, but one my dad used that we stashed in our garage after my parents downsized yet another time before my dad's promotion home.
I love the sound of sweeping (like I love the sound of tires on gravel, sister). I remember the sound of sweeping early mornings in Ghana when people were getting their houses or front doors in order for the day. Now when I sweep I can't help but think of my father and how he loved to sweep (or it seems he did, for he used his broom a lot.) He taught us to sweep the front stoop before guests arrived. "Do you want them tracking dirt into a clean house?" he'd query. So it's almost inborn in me. When the meal is ready for guests, the last thing I do is go out and sweep the porch. And remember my dad. Apron on, of course (was I not born for another time?)
Which reminds me that tomorrow is "National Hang Out your Laundry Day" ... even in the better neighborhoods where it might be against "community guidelines." There could be a whole lot said about hanging clothes outside on a line and what it can do for a person, as well how it saves a ton of energy resource.
Does any of this have anything to do with the tragic events at VT a few days ago? Probably not much, though it does take us back to a simpler time when life was not as complex. We knew our neighbors and spent time with our families. Slowing down enough to do these simple chores allows us time to think––to mull, process, wonder, pause. And one person and then another and then another, doing that, could in time ripple* change for the better in our mixed up world. I really think so.
*I may have just made a new verb. I love it!
I love the sound of sweeping (like I love the sound of tires on gravel, sister). I remember the sound of sweeping early mornings in Ghana when people were getting their houses or front doors in order for the day. Now when I sweep I can't help but think of my father and how he loved to sweep (or it seems he did, for he used his broom a lot.) He taught us to sweep the front stoop before guests arrived. "Do you want them tracking dirt into a clean house?" he'd query. So it's almost inborn in me. When the meal is ready for guests, the last thing I do is go out and sweep the porch. And remember my dad. Apron on, of course (was I not born for another time?)
Which reminds me that tomorrow is "National Hang Out your Laundry Day" ... even in the better neighborhoods where it might be against "community guidelines." There could be a whole lot said about hanging clothes outside on a line and what it can do for a person, as well how it saves a ton of energy resource.
Does any of this have anything to do with the tragic events at VT a few days ago? Probably not much, though it does take us back to a simpler time when life was not as complex. We knew our neighbors and spent time with our families. Slowing down enough to do these simple chores allows us time to think––to mull, process, wonder, pause. And one person and then another and then another, doing that, could in time ripple* change for the better in our mixed up world. I really think so.
*I may have just made a new verb. I love it!
Friday, April 13, 2007
Chore Time
Anyone who knows me well could call me the "Queen of Flight of Ideas." My mind usually is on overload as I dash from one thing to another throughout the day. I confess I have never known boredom. It is amazing, when I get a chance to focus on the "mundanity" of household tasks, such as dishes (I seriously LOVE to wash dishes), lawn mowing, folding laundry, etc., how my mind eventually slows down and better focuses. It's therapeutic. That's when the contemplative thoughts come; that's a good time to pray; that's a time when I can hear God's voice.
I love a quote from Brother Lawrence that was in my devo reading today. "The time of labor does not with me differ from the time of prayer; and, in the noise and confusion of the kitchen where I am at work, while several persons are at the same time calling for different things, I possess God in as great tranquility as if I were upon my knees at the Blessed Sacrament."
I love a quote from Brother Lawrence that was in my devo reading today. "The time of labor does not with me differ from the time of prayer; and, in the noise and confusion of the kitchen where I am at work, while several persons are at the same time calling for different things, I possess God in as great tranquility as if I were upon my knees at the Blessed Sacrament."
Thursday, April 12, 2007
no quilting bee ...
... but an afternoon of card-making can be just as fun. Followed by tea, of course.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
What's In a Pie?
Strawberry pie has a rich history in our family. When it's strawberry season, the pie begs to be made, and usually is. At least once every spring. Going back about 30 years now.
Favorite recipes are like family heirlooms, in a way. I love it when I have a recipe from a friend or from my mother. Making the recipe brings them to mind. Sometimes I remember the meal we had at a friend's house when I asked for the recipe and then made it a favorite of my own.
I always think of Betty when I make strawberry pie. The recipe is in her handwriting. Thinking of Betty then makes me remember the morning I baby-sat her little girl, and later realized it was the exact time number one son was being born. But more than that, strawberry pie takes us right back to northern Ghana.
We had left our southern city and gone up to the "bush" to visit a good friend. While there we piled into the pickup truck and went across the border to shop. In Burkina Faso the markets were plentiful (compared to practically empty stalls in Ghana, at that particular time). I always enjoyed visiting Ghana's neighboring French countries...there were potatoes for one thing. They had become a rare treat for us. They also sold apples...another thing we never saw in Ghana in those days. I remember coming up to a market stall where there were fresh strawberries! A wonder to the eye! We had to have some. So we bought them, put them in the cooler, and never thought about the trip home over bumpy roads and what damage might come to them.
We got back to the mission station. No electricity and an outdoor shower and toilet. No other houses around for many kilometers. It was a "Little House on the Prairie" experience for us. On the way there from B.F. we talked excitedly about making this strawberry pie. Our host thought he had a package of strawberry jello.
Sure enough he did. It was in a sad state of affairs, rather old, brought from the states a few years ago. When I opened the package it was no longer red, and rather a big lump. But we crushed it into granules, found some sugar, margarine, and flour (though the flavor was distorted by weevils). I went to open the strawberries and was dismayed to find the bumps on the road had turned them to mush. Never mind, it would work. And it did. Maybe not to the standard of taste we might expect today, but it was delicious to us and a work of art.
When I saw strawberries at the grocery store this week it seemed the time to make one again. So at our Easter dinner today, as we celebrate the resurrection, we will enjoy the pie ... and the memories.
Favorite recipes are like family heirlooms, in a way. I love it when I have a recipe from a friend or from my mother. Making the recipe brings them to mind. Sometimes I remember the meal we had at a friend's house when I asked for the recipe and then made it a favorite of my own.
I always think of Betty when I make strawberry pie. The recipe is in her handwriting. Thinking of Betty then makes me remember the morning I baby-sat her little girl, and later realized it was the exact time number one son was being born. But more than that, strawberry pie takes us right back to northern Ghana.
We had left our southern city and gone up to the "bush" to visit a good friend. While there we piled into the pickup truck and went across the border to shop. In Burkina Faso the markets were plentiful (compared to practically empty stalls in Ghana, at that particular time). I always enjoyed visiting Ghana's neighboring French countries...there were potatoes for one thing. They had become a rare treat for us. They also sold apples...another thing we never saw in Ghana in those days. I remember coming up to a market stall where there were fresh strawberries! A wonder to the eye! We had to have some. So we bought them, put them in the cooler, and never thought about the trip home over bumpy roads and what damage might come to them.
We got back to the mission station. No electricity and an outdoor shower and toilet. No other houses around for many kilometers. It was a "Little House on the Prairie" experience for us. On the way there from B.F. we talked excitedly about making this strawberry pie. Our host thought he had a package of strawberry jello.
Sure enough he did. It was in a sad state of affairs, rather old, brought from the states a few years ago. When I opened the package it was no longer red, and rather a big lump. But we crushed it into granules, found some sugar, margarine, and flour (though the flavor was distorted by weevils). I went to open the strawberries and was dismayed to find the bumps on the road had turned them to mush. Never mind, it would work. And it did. Maybe not to the standard of taste we might expect today, but it was delicious to us and a work of art.
When I saw strawberries at the grocery store this week it seemed the time to make one again. So at our Easter dinner today, as we celebrate the resurrection, we will enjoy the pie ... and the memories.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Swinging into and out of spring
I'm so glad we made it home in time to catch at least part of the spring color!
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
First Class Sleep
Several months ago I wrote about Spouse's feet flying home from England in first class. Fairly often his body gets upgraded to first class also, such as on our way to Los Angeles enroute to Thailand. But I have never gone first class ... until on our way home from LA. I could hardly believe it! But, alas, no white linen table cloth, or the tinkling of glass and airline bone china. We were on the "redeye" overnight to hometown. All I got was a bottle of water and sleep.
Sleep came quickly and deeply, but only for a short while. Before long I was wide awake in a sleeping upper class cabin filled with folks who could pay so much more for a ticket. I was feeling a little cheated by just a water bottle when I looked out the window to behold the beauty of the night skies. It was a clear night. The stars were so close, dimmed only by an occasional lightening in the distance. It was as if God had set this first class time up just for me: a comfortable chair, a decent size window, water to drink and a view of the heavens. I gazed in utter awe of my Creator and time flew as I watched, wondered, and worshipped.
"When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars, which You have ordained..."
Sleep came quickly and deeply, but only for a short while. Before long I was wide awake in a sleeping upper class cabin filled with folks who could pay so much more for a ticket. I was feeling a little cheated by just a water bottle when I looked out the window to behold the beauty of the night skies. It was a clear night. The stars were so close, dimmed only by an occasional lightening in the distance. It was as if God had set this first class time up just for me: a comfortable chair, a decent size window, water to drink and a view of the heavens. I gazed in utter awe of my Creator and time flew as I watched, wondered, and worshipped.
"When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars, which You have ordained..."
Great Respect
These ladies did our foot massage. Notice the yellow shirts. The one on the right could speak some English and we talked a good deal about her king. Her eyes glowed as she said, " I love my king. I really love him. He can do anything, really he can." She went on to tell us about the terrible brush fires we heard about on the news, that were consuming northern Thailand. "My king can make it rain to stop the fires. He really can. People come from all over to learn from him. He can take a plane up to the clouds and he make the rain come." Pride filled her eyes. "My king never takes a vacation. He works all the time. He is such a good king."
Spouse said, "My king also never takes a vacation ... "
Spouse said, "My king also never takes a vacation ... "
Long Live the King
Yellow shirts are visible everywhere in Thailand, marking the important year of 2007: the king's 80th birthday and his 60th year of reign. Large photos of him are everywhere, along with the words, "Long Live the King."
To see just how much respect some world leaders are given, paste in your browser: http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=070329122727.dcptduzl&show_article=1
To see just how much respect some world leaders are given, paste in your browser: http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=070329122727.dcptduzl&show_article=1
In the Shadow of Another World
I was frequently drawn to the ocean view from our 17th floor hotel room in Pattaya, Thailand. Modern high rise hotels and apartments dotted the seaside while small fishing boats, jet skis and other vessels rose and fell with the ocean waves.
But if I turned from the sea and looked straight down I saw another world. In the shadow of the huge hotel, next to the resort's sewage treatment, life appeared to be far removed from the relative luxury of resort life. Roaming skinny dogs reminded me of our days in Ghana where street dogs lived on scraps. Cars, small motorbikes and "tuk-tuks" parked alongside small cafes made of tarps or other makeshift roofing on poles, providing shelter as people ate food or drank spirits. My natural curiosity often drew me to the balcony to observe life below.
Then there were several shacks brightened by flowering vines on their cement block walls. A Coke sign was part of the metal covering of one such abode. Laundry hung on lines half covered by creeping lush foliage. Basins sat on the ground after laundry duty, while cook pots simmered over open fires. People came and went, seemingly in slow motion. One house seemed to be drying a group of teddy bears or other stuffed animals over the door. I guessed that inside the walls of those homes life went on much like mine. Cooking, cleaning, sleeping, eating, laughing, and living life in community––maybe without the trappings that we entail in our western world––a simpler, more basic life, but most likely without the wondrous dimension of God in the mix.
But if I turned from the sea and looked straight down I saw another world. In the shadow of the huge hotel, next to the resort's sewage treatment, life appeared to be far removed from the relative luxury of resort life. Roaming skinny dogs reminded me of our days in Ghana where street dogs lived on scraps. Cars, small motorbikes and "tuk-tuks" parked alongside small cafes made of tarps or other makeshift roofing on poles, providing shelter as people ate food or drank spirits. My natural curiosity often drew me to the balcony to observe life below.
Then there were several shacks brightened by flowering vines on their cement block walls. A Coke sign was part of the metal covering of one such abode. Laundry hung on lines half covered by creeping lush foliage. Basins sat on the ground after laundry duty, while cook pots simmered over open fires. People came and went, seemingly in slow motion. One house seemed to be drying a group of teddy bears or other stuffed animals over the door. I guessed that inside the walls of those homes life went on much like mine. Cooking, cleaning, sleeping, eating, laughing, and living life in community––maybe without the trappings that we entail in our western world––a simpler, more basic life, but most likely without the wondrous dimension of God in the mix.
Looking for Gideon
When I opened the hotel bedside table drawer, I looked for the Gideon Bible and found this instead.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Foot Patrol
Let it be known that we didn't ride an elephant in Thailand. If you're ever going to ride one, that's the place to do it. We did spend a fun afternoon visiting friends and exploring some of the markets and very modern shopping malls in the heart of downtown Bangkok. We walked and walked and walked, and towards the end of the day, came upon two massage stores (a common thing there of course). One had no front to the store, was rather dark, decorated with palm trees, and filled with middle aged people on big old recliners getting their feet or heads massaged. The scent of spices wafted out of the area. What a sight!
The other looked more like a beauty shop. I suddenly remembered my "secular" goal when visiting Thailand: to get the massage that I could not afford at home. Women pushed price sheets into our hands begging us to try a foot massage. Why not make a memory we asked each other. We bargained on a price and asked if they would split the hour between the two of us. They were happy to oblige, though their eyes grew big as Spouse pulled off the required long support hose and they struggled to fit his long frame into their chair. Side by side we sat as two young girls did the work massaging our tired feet. We had a great time communicating with them (communication is a better word than "talking," as it was not all with words, though one did speak some English.) They were great fun and I think we got more like 45 minutes ... and for $4.50? Wow did that feel good!
The other looked more like a beauty shop. I suddenly remembered my "secular" goal when visiting Thailand: to get the massage that I could not afford at home. Women pushed price sheets into our hands begging us to try a foot massage. Why not make a memory we asked each other. We bargained on a price and asked if they would split the hour between the two of us. They were happy to oblige, though their eyes grew big as Spouse pulled off the required long support hose and they struggled to fit his long frame into their chair. Side by side we sat as two young girls did the work massaging our tired feet. We had a great time communicating with them (communication is a better word than "talking," as it was not all with words, though one did speak some English.) They were great fun and I think we got more like 45 minutes ... and for $4.50? Wow did that feel good!
An Endless Night
As we got on the plane in our hometown and headed west, the sun was about to set. We chased it across the country but it faded soon after we landed in LA. We had our first taste of Asian hospitality while we waited in the Singapore Sky lounge for our next plane (all the travel spouse does has some benefits such as sky lounges). It was dark, rainy, and foggy as the van carried us back from the temporary lounge, set up somewhere in the middle of the tarmac, to the airport. As we headed to our gate, making our way through a crush of humanity, I wondered for a minute what country we were in. But no, we hadn't left the US yet.
We boarded the aircraft and crammed into our bulkhead seats. Could we endure 18 hours in such tight quarters...three of us like sardines: one Asian gentleman, one spouse, and one me crammed against the window. The flight went on and on and on, as did the night. We slept often. It was continually dark outside––for at least 24 hours of our journey west around the globe. Thankfully what seemed like an endless journey was sweetened by the wonderful hospitality of Singapore Airlines, and the gracious flight attendants caring for us, beautifully garbed in Singaporean traditional dresses; the men in light blue suit jackets.
Thirty-eight hours later (26 hours of actual flying time) we arrived in the land of smiles. And the land of abundant flowers, fruit, tasteful decoration, and wonderful hospitality. But a heartbreaking bleakness steps into it all as you see shrines and spirit houses everywhere. The poorest of homes has a gleaming spirit house in some prominent spot outdoors, adorned with flowers or other offerings.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Leave It Home
I have a very mild fear of flying. When turbulence causes the plane to shake or rattle, I imagine myself on a worn-out bus going over the uneven terrain of a pothole-filled road in Ghana. That seems to help a lot.
But the upcoming trip to Thailand will be the farthest I've ever traveled, and the very longest amount of time on a plane. The fear factor on this trip is spouse's two blood clots this year and this excessive time in the air. The battle over fear is a real one indeed, and this fear needs to be placed on the alter many times a day. How often in recent days, as I go over my packing list, do I declare that I will not include fear in my luggage? I'm determined to leave it home. (How about replacing it with flexibility? That's what I tell young missionary women to pack.)
So with this on my mind, I open a "bon voyage" card today from a friend who often thinks to send one before a trip, assuring me of her prayers. Once I got through enjoying the beautiful tea party on the envelope, I opened it to find her wonderfully creative home made card. "Be fearless"––a message from God for sure! How well this friend knows me. I admire her sensitivity, and how she allows God to live through her into others' lives.
But the upcoming trip to Thailand will be the farthest I've ever traveled, and the very longest amount of time on a plane. The fear factor on this trip is spouse's two blood clots this year and this excessive time in the air. The battle over fear is a real one indeed, and this fear needs to be placed on the alter many times a day. How often in recent days, as I go over my packing list, do I declare that I will not include fear in my luggage? I'm determined to leave it home. (How about replacing it with flexibility? That's what I tell young missionary women to pack.)
So with this on my mind, I open a "bon voyage" card today from a friend who often thinks to send one before a trip, assuring me of her prayers. Once I got through enjoying the beautiful tea party on the envelope, I opened it to find her wonderfully creative home made card. "Be fearless"––a message from God for sure! How well this friend knows me. I admire her sensitivity, and how she allows God to live through her into others' lives.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
All Days Are Not What We'd Like Them To Be*
It's not all that unusual to have a day that isn't what we anticipate it will be. Today was such a day. I had looked forward to leisurely washing clothes and working on preparations for our trip to Thailand. But so much for that idea! We suddenly realized that today was the only day to seal the new floor before we leave. Never having done such a thing before, I was a little antsy about the whole deal. Then some urgent errands arose. I worked on a sample area, left it to dry and headed out in the car.
My children think I'm a terrible driver, though I've never had a speeding ticket (well, one small one 20 years ago), nor a wreck (unless you count a fender bender in--of all places--a carwash, back in the days when there would be a chain of cars in a car wash). Anyway, I drove in less than a godly way, madly dashing to the shops. I found myself snarling at dawdling drivers in front of me. I mentally stopped cold. Where is the grace I need to give to others? And the effect of grace in me?
I ran into a shop just as it opened. The owner helped me find something and then proceeded to tell me how he had changed out all the lightbulbs to florescent (the lights were slowly coming on), and was now saving $100 a month in power bills. Did I need to hear that, I thought to myself. I was in a hurry, but politely listened, congratulating him and smiling. He needed to tell someone, and it had made him feel good, I'm sure.
I headed over to the counter and not-quite slammed down my purchases, rattled off my requested phone number, and pulled out a credit card. I hadn't even looked at the clerk. Could he feel my angst? "How has your day been so far?" he questioned in an annoying upbeat voice. Really...it was only 10:00 a.m. for goodness sake. I looked up and for the first time focused on a very young man working the cash register. "Oh, pretty good." I must have sighed. "Really?" He obviously didn't believe me. So I proceeded to tell him about the floor I was working on, and that I was not happy to be doing it. "Well, I hope you can do it in the joy of the Lord and in praise to Him." Uh... since when did clerks become preachers?
I was already pushing the door open as I heard his words sail across to me, "Have a wonderful rest of the day in the Lord." That certainly put me in my place. I'm sure he felt he was having a ministry with me (and he was.) I breathed in a big breath of air as I took my parcel to the car and began to assess my inner spirit. At the moment it wasn't a pretty picture, but easily rectified.
Later, after the next phase of the floor was sealed, I sat down and read some wisdom from Andree Seu, a favorite editorialist of mine in World Magazine. "At any ... moment that my religious activities become mere doctrine and not communion with Jesus, I have, for that moment at least, stepped out of truly biblical Christian living into some other mode of being––judge, spectator, player at religion. Francis Schaeffer said true spirituality 'is a moment-by-moment, increasing, experiential relationship to Christ.'"
As I processed the ugly parts of the day and worked on my "inner spirit," I was reminded that this life needs to be a moment-by-moment sacrifice of worship and grace, making my religion true and pure ...
*Title adapted from Ghanaian saying, "All days are not the same."
My children think I'm a terrible driver, though I've never had a speeding ticket (well, one small one 20 years ago), nor a wreck (unless you count a fender bender in--of all places--a carwash, back in the days when there would be a chain of cars in a car wash). Anyway, I drove in less than a godly way, madly dashing to the shops. I found myself snarling at dawdling drivers in front of me. I mentally stopped cold. Where is the grace I need to give to others? And the effect of grace in me?
I ran into a shop just as it opened. The owner helped me find something and then proceeded to tell me how he had changed out all the lightbulbs to florescent (the lights were slowly coming on), and was now saving $100 a month in power bills. Did I need to hear that, I thought to myself. I was in a hurry, but politely listened, congratulating him and smiling. He needed to tell someone, and it had made him feel good, I'm sure.
I headed over to the counter and not-quite slammed down my purchases, rattled off my requested phone number, and pulled out a credit card. I hadn't even looked at the clerk. Could he feel my angst? "How has your day been so far?" he questioned in an annoying upbeat voice. Really...it was only 10:00 a.m. for goodness sake. I looked up and for the first time focused on a very young man working the cash register. "Oh, pretty good." I must have sighed. "Really?" He obviously didn't believe me. So I proceeded to tell him about the floor I was working on, and that I was not happy to be doing it. "Well, I hope you can do it in the joy of the Lord and in praise to Him." Uh... since when did clerks become preachers?
I was already pushing the door open as I heard his words sail across to me, "Have a wonderful rest of the day in the Lord." That certainly put me in my place. I'm sure he felt he was having a ministry with me (and he was.) I breathed in a big breath of air as I took my parcel to the car and began to assess my inner spirit. At the moment it wasn't a pretty picture, but easily rectified.
Later, after the next phase of the floor was sealed, I sat down and read some wisdom from Andree Seu, a favorite editorialist of mine in World Magazine. "At any ... moment that my religious activities become mere doctrine and not communion with Jesus, I have, for that moment at least, stepped out of truly biblical Christian living into some other mode of being––judge, spectator, player at religion. Francis Schaeffer said true spirituality 'is a moment-by-moment, increasing, experiential relationship to Christ.'"
As I processed the ugly parts of the day and worked on my "inner spirit," I was reminded that this life needs to be a moment-by-moment sacrifice of worship and grace, making my religion true and pure ...
*Title adapted from Ghanaian saying, "All days are not the same."
Sunday, March 04, 2007
ME ? ?
A bridesmaid? Call it a MATRON ...in the very real sense...a matron of distinction, of age, sage, wrinkles, rolls and sagging everything. Not a junior, but a senior bridesmaid? It's a high honor at any age. What can I say? Stay tuned ...
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
My Cell Phone is Ringing
What better photo to use as I make sure the new blogger system is working, than this one of an adorable blueberry munchkin!
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Oh No! I Feel A Blog Coming!
redpickup
Originally uploaded by podso.
Sitting in traffic on the way to work today I noticed a modest red pickup truck sitting a little farther up than my car, in the left lane next to me. The older man driving the truck looked just like my father from the rear and from the side that I could see. I stared, inching my car up to get a better look. Incredible. Same hair, tan jacket. glasses, dignity. His truck inched ahead of me and I pushed to keep near it. I strained to look at him; he looked so much like Daddy. Tears filled my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. My cousin, whose parents had predeceased my father, had warned me that there would be moments when spontaneous tears would surprise me on this journey of grief.
For a third time my car neared the little red truck. The man put his hand up to his neck and rubbed it, In my growing imagination, it was like my dad's hand. What if he was down on a little visitation from heaven. Could there be such a thing? Though totally out of the realm of possibility (I think ...) it was strangely comforting, We neared the traffic light, and when it turned green, the little truck sped forward and out of my sight. Tears clouded my vision as I went on to enter the expressway. The truck had looked like a humble carpenter's truck. Could my dad be doing his favorite hobby in heaven, that of carpentry?
The experience stuck with me and I shared it with my husband this evening. An infrequent reader of my blog, he blurted out, "Oh no! I feel a blog coming!" I couldn't resist. It was a nice moment in my early morning commute.
Ninety Minute Gift
Gift
Originally uploaded by podso.
I felt like I was unwrapping a package. Construction workers were absent, spouse had headed out for a breakfast meeting, and I had just heard the putter-putter of resident son's now-functioning Sumarai heading out of our cul de sac. I bustled around with morning tasks enjoying the tidiness (after the new kitchen floor last week) and the quietness--yes, the serenity of a Monday morning all to myself ... for 90 minutes. I settled down with my Bible.
Peace pervaded my soul. It seemed an extra sense of peace for one who is usually in high gear thinking hard about the next thing. Times like this aren't all that frequent, sadly, but seem to be such a gift directly from God. He knows we need moments like this in our busy lives. I'm so glad I could be aware of the gift and celebrate the joy of it all.
Over 100 years ago, Henry Van Dyke wrote about a "she" whose identity I can only guess at. "She spoke of the duty of being ready to welcome happiness as well as endure the pain, and of the strength that endurance wins by being grateful for small daily joys, like the evening light, and the smell of roses, and the singing of birds. She spoke of the faith that rests on the Unseen Wisdom and Love like a child on its mother's breast, and the melting away of doubts in the warmth of an effort to do some good in the world."
Sort of a "stop to smell the roses" moment!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
A Missive
window view
Originally uploaded by podso.
Dear Bonifice and Emily,
Thanks for the drop by visit. Just like in Jane Austin's day, only you did not leave a calling card. Neither did you have tea nor some refreshment. Next time we will rectify that. I enjoyed seeing the new writing paper. Beautiful, and to allow me to have the unwrapping of the exquisite package as you watched, was just a memorable way to break up a busy afternoon of messy house rennovations.
The way the letter is an 8 x 11 folded piece of stationery brings back to my mind spouse's first letter to me. He wrote on plain paper folded in half and penned it in his very neat, small handwriting (he now only prints tiny tidy letters [as in alphabet letters, because if I was referring to the missive type of letters, I would have to say not all are tiny, but for sure they are tidy].) Anyway, I was in the hospital with a four-in-one wisdom teeth extraction when the letter somehow arrived at my bedside (how that happened is now a mystery not worth solving.). He made comment about the formation of the letter into a sort of book form. "It brings out the scribe in me, don't you think?" he wrote. I have never forgotten those words for some silly unknown reason, or else it's just one of those incidental things that clutter the cobwebs of the mind. But, say ... they have become prophetic haven't they, for he has become a writer. Speaking of letters, here is the missive word information:
"From Middle English (letter) missive ,(letter) sent (by superior authority) , from Medieval Latin (litterae) miss?vae , feminine pl. of miss?vus ,sent , from Latin missus , past participle of
mittere,to send .]"
So, 40 years ago, Miss Wilson pounding Latin into my head while her arthritic hand struck the desk in a rhythmic motion, I guess paid off, at least for a word today.
Come again, any time whether or not you have "show and tell."
Monday, February 05, 2007
Gravy Reminders
Sisters
Originally uploaded by podso.
Whenever I thicken a sauce or gravy, I reach for a Tupperware mixer container and think of my aunt. It's funny how certain things trigger memories. I am immediately back in her kitchen where she is cooking us newlyweds Sunday dinner and working on the gravy with a similar container.
But more than just remembering gravy, I sense the warmth of her hospitality when I think of her. That's what I remember the most about my mother's sister, the woman I was named for. She was a lady seasoned with grace. Her 20 years living as a doctor's wife in a little Alaskan village were not easy, but she was not one to complain. I didn't visit her there but did after they returned to the "lower 48." Her home was gracious, as was her hospitality. I remember delicious meals, and the comfort of the Prophet's Chamber, with every detail perfect for weary travelers. She wasn't the most talkative of the bunch, but she had a great sense of humor and a ready, listening ear. She was a homemaker in every sense of the word, coming alongside her husband, loving and caring about and for her kids,--even her nieces and nephews--a true “Proverbs 31 woman.”
Now her pain is gone, replaced with perfect health and pure joy in her Savior's presence. In no time at all we will join her, but for now we savor that hope …
"The list of loved ones who have gone every year grows longer,
And everyday that I live on my ties to them grow stronger.
I long for family and friends, to see some lost face.
But I know at my journey's end, they are saving me a place
At a table bright with candlelight and linens edged with lace.
The ones so dear from my time down here, are saving me a place."
~R. & L. Williams
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Big Steps
new pastor
Originally uploaded by podso.
Last night I dreamed about my father. It was one of those vivid dreams that stay with you into daylight. I call my mother every day and this time my dad answered the phone. It was good to hear his voice, but confusing. "Daddy, is that you? Why are you there?" "I'm here because I'm here," he gave one of his typical confusing-for-fun responses in a cheerful voice. "Where's mom?" I questioned again. "Oh, she's here cooking up a storm." I could hear the clink of kitchen noise in the background and a lilt to my mother's voice as I heard her speak to Dad. Everything seemed right again. Of course she was cooking; she loved to cook when she had someone (a particular someone especially) to cook for. Then I woke up. Of course, disappointed that I couldn't finish the dream and understand what was going on.
I thought of my father several hours later when I was walking the track. I'm a fast walker and always have been. My legs are long and I try to stretch to the max and get my heart rate up. I don't think anyone ever passes me, no matter what their age or shape. Again I thought of how my father taught me to walk fast. Even when my little legs could not match his stride, I would try. Look into a journal entry I wrote soon after he went to heaven:
"Today, enroute to Good Will with some of Dad's clothes, I stopped at the cemetery to look at his grave. His everyday shoes were in the back seat of the car, and as I looked over at the mound of fresh dirt marking his earthly remains, I couldn't help but think he no longer needed those shoes; such rest and peace he now had. He also had peace from my continual saying "Big steps, dad."
"When I "cruise" the halls of the hospital or my neighborhood or a shopping mall, I am always reminded of my father. As a child, a big treat was running the few blocks from our home to church to walk back with Daddy for his lunch break. My little legs stretched to keep up with his long strides, and thus I became a fast walker.
"Dad walked fast until old age and the cruel disease of Alzheimer's began to chip away at him. In recent years, his pace became shuffled and unsteady, with tiny steps. I took him for a walk when
I would visit, and often nagged him to take big steps. When reminded, he would, but then would quickly forget. Workers in the care center chimed in with my "Big steps, Dad." My eyes were always focused on those brown shoes. (Imagine, I was proud that my dad, in spite of his disease, could still tie his own shoes!)
"I drove up to Good Will and gave the shoes to the man; he seemed gentle. Did he know the significance of what I was doing? I found I could not put the car in drive and leave. I watched as he dumped my dad's familiar shirts and pants in the bin. Away they went, absorbed into a pile of clothes, though his old green vintage tennis warm up outfit was hard to disguise. And the shoes, sitting way atop a pile of other shoes, did not sink into the pile at all. They were there for me to see. I finally started to drive away ever so slowly; my head turning to watch those shoes, shining in the sun, soon to be worn by someone else looking for a bargain. I rounded the corner, taking one final, tear-filled look. They were still there, so silent and still, yet so full of memories. What do they wear on their feet in heaven?"
Friday, January 19, 2007
Potting Soil
It had been a long time since the lady had had energy enough to plant flowers. Much had been going on in various aspects of her life and there just had not been time to do such things. Her winter garden, sadly, had been without color. She was hopeful, however, that spring would sprout new enthusiasm for planting, and was heartened by the fact that her husband would be by her side to help with the task.
Home Depot was a busy place. And it was hard to find just the right flowers. The lady was starting to feel overwhelmed and grumbled to her husband that she just couldn't manage sorting through all the plants. Eventually they did find the plants and potting soil and then noted the very long checkout lines. Thinking they would be clever, they went inside to buy the plants; but the lines were just as long. Then they realized the “self-checkout” line was open and a worker beckoned them to come over. The worker helped them ring up their selections. When it came time to pay, the lady fumbled with the machine. A tall man they recognized came up and offered, “Push debit.”
“No, no,” exclaimed the lady, “I have a credit card.”
“This is how you do it,” the tall man said as he pushed his own card into the machine, and took the receipt that popped out. “I'm having a very good day today and I'm going to buy your flowers for you. Happy gardening!”
The Home Depot worker stood by, her mouth wide open. Most certainly she had never seen anything like that happen before. The tall man went on to explain that he thought he was going to need to spend $300 on pool repairs that very morning but, instead, found he only needed a $3 part. God's sense of humor in it all was that the plant bill was $30, so it seemed a sort of tithe on the money that never needed to be spent on the pool repairs that day.
The tall man then said he had to get going and told the man and lady to enjoy their planting. And they did. For the not-so-pleasant task the lady had anticipated had now become quite pleasant. As she knelt in the soil and dug in her plants, she remembered the generous, tall man and thanked God for the lesson about grumbling and generosity. She also hoped the tall man's children knew what kind of a dad they have.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
We Did It Our Way
frank sinatra
Originally uploaded by podso.
We really did. We went and heard a concert by a Frank Sinatra sing-alike. I'm not a Sinatra fan, but when our symphony trio deal was made, we had to choose one pops concert. This was the only one that worked out between our schedule and our cohorts in this adventure. So we went. Spouse and the other couple were happy with Sinatra.
I did not grow up listening to him nor did I ever really pay attention to him. That's why I was shocked at how I "knew" or was very familiar with almost every song in the concert. How much Mr. Sinatra is part of our American culture ... even to me. It was amazing.
The guy really can sing just like the legend. Does he sometimes think he is Sinatra, l wonder? Anyway it was a good evening. The other snippets of old TV theme songs strung together and a "southern comfort" medley played by the orchestra were great fun to listen to, not to mention watching the antics of a lively conductor.
There is a bustling, wakening night life in our growing city. The basketball game had just let out and the bars were busy. Quite a contrast from the days we would walk uptown with our small boys and be almost alone on the streets. It was fun to be a walking part of it for a brief time. Wowsie it was late ..11ish. We're getting old or what?
Friday, December 29, 2006
White Christmas
white christmas
Originally uploaded by podso.
It's a privilege at my age to have young friends. One of my very special friends sent me a picture of her doll house, brought downstairs for the holidays, and decorated for Christmas. It looks like a busy household. And I'm glad it snowed somewhere for Christmas!
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Happy New Year
blue window
Originally uploaded by podso.
We welcome 2007 as we travel to see my brother and his wonderful family and help them celebrate his 50th!
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Subtle Golden Tones
My sister's friend, and my friend by email, adds a comment to the Rose Colored Glasses. I love it!
"After having a cataract removed from my left eye recently, I noted that everything from that eye appeared crisp and fresh and true to tone. However, my right eye, complete with cataract, records something entirely different. Everything has a very subtle golden tone, like late afternoon, when the shadows are long and everything looks lovely. What a shock! I am trading off my burnished tones for clear unsullied vision. Why in the world should I even think twice about that? It is just that everything is a bit lovelier with the untouched right eye. A little hazy, a little enhanced ... Could the golden cast on things also be a gift from God for our older selves to see the world through a golden filter? Or am I just romanticizing again? Guess I will have to go out and buy a pair of your rose colored glasses.
"Oh yes, and I can also now see my wrinkles in all of their glory. That's a bummer!"
"After having a cataract removed from my left eye recently, I noted that everything from that eye appeared crisp and fresh and true to tone. However, my right eye, complete with cataract, records something entirely different. Everything has a very subtle golden tone, like late afternoon, when the shadows are long and everything looks lovely. What a shock! I am trading off my burnished tones for clear unsullied vision. Why in the world should I even think twice about that? It is just that everything is a bit lovelier with the untouched right eye. A little hazy, a little enhanced ... Could the golden cast on things also be a gift from God for our older selves to see the world through a golden filter? Or am I just romanticizing again? Guess I will have to go out and buy a pair of your rose colored glasses.
"Oh yes, and I can also now see my wrinkles in all of their glory. That's a bummer!"
Billboard buddy
We were driving on the upside of uptown with our kids when we passed this billboard and they yelled out their friend's name. Can you imagine passing a billboard and seeing a friend/classmate smiling down on you? It was "a moment."
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Christmas 1933
I love peeking in on the living room from my dad's childhood. Was this before or after Christmas dinner? My grandmother looks tired ... maybe she just finished cleaning up the kitchen. Where are the boys? Outside sledding maybe? I wonder!
Tradition ! !
Tevye shouts "Tradition!" as he sings and points to a fiddler on the roof. I consider his "tradition" as referring to a way of life as it always had been. At this time of year, we think of tradition as what meaningful things we do on holidays, especially, from year to year.
When we sought out our roots at the family reunion last summer, few of us knew what really went on inside the walls of the houses our fathers lived in. Exactly how did they celebrate holidays? What traditions did they practice year after year? More than likely, without being aware, we are following many of the same traditions. Since we practice traditions with our children that we did in our childhood, it's probable that those traditions were part of our parents growing up as well. There have been modifications for sure, but it is likely we are more connected than we realize to the traditions those houses would surely tell us about--if they could.
Last month I read an article about the importance of empty nesters developing new traditions. It's hard to maintain all that you did when your kids were growing up, now that they are beginning their own families and traditions. Chief and I started a new tradition a few years ago of going to the city symphony's annual eclectic Christmas concert. Tucked way up at the economic top of the gorgeous orchestra hall, we may not see every facial expression on the performers way down below, but the acoustics are flawless and the music delightful. What a great way to start up the Christmas holiday. This year as I snuggled against my husband's warm arm, I was particularly aware of the grace in our lives and the gift that we have to be together this Christmas. After a fall of much uncertainty and scary doctor visits, we are thankful for reasonable health and the opportunity to continue to enjoy each other for today, and hopefully tomorrow ... and practice old and new traditions!
When we sought out our roots at the family reunion last summer, few of us knew what really went on inside the walls of the houses our fathers lived in. Exactly how did they celebrate holidays? What traditions did they practice year after year? More than likely, without being aware, we are following many of the same traditions. Since we practice traditions with our children that we did in our childhood, it's probable that those traditions were part of our parents growing up as well. There have been modifications for sure, but it is likely we are more connected than we realize to the traditions those houses would surely tell us about--if they could.
Last month I read an article about the importance of empty nesters developing new traditions. It's hard to maintain all that you did when your kids were growing up, now that they are beginning their own families and traditions. Chief and I started a new tradition a few years ago of going to the city symphony's annual eclectic Christmas concert. Tucked way up at the economic top of the gorgeous orchestra hall, we may not see every facial expression on the performers way down below, but the acoustics are flawless and the music delightful. What a great way to start up the Christmas holiday. This year as I snuggled against my husband's warm arm, I was particularly aware of the grace in our lives and the gift that we have to be together this Christmas. After a fall of much uncertainty and scary doctor visits, we are thankful for reasonable health and the opportunity to continue to enjoy each other for today, and hopefully tomorrow ... and practice old and new traditions!
Just Three
Both of my sons are creative. But the older one has a particular twist to his creativity that brings a smile. I remember years ago we arrived home one afternoon to learn the new gleam to his old red jeep came from a good rub with WD 40. This little Sumarai, cast off to him by a friend, he hopes to fix up for a cheaper ride to work. Meanwhile he painted it black to cover up a multitude of messes. And yes, he used just three cans of black spray paint.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Little Women Revisited
What a treat to have a lovely young lady play beautifully on our "Little Women" piano this afternoon!
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
78 Years Young
My grandmother was always full of life and lots of fun. I never thought of her as old, as she had a youthful spirit about her. May I be so at that age!
The Attic Gang
No words are needed to caption this reunion of Wheaton College friends. The guys all lived together in an attic of sorts. All made an impact in this world––superb mothers (of 9, 7, 4 and 3 kids), two preachers, businessmen and entrepreneurs. Seven are having a great celebration in heaven this Christmas, while three are here missing them.
Little Women
This is how I envision the piano may have looked as the March women gathered around to sing at Christmas time. At least that's what I thought after I finished messing around with this greenery.
Frosty, Not the Snow Man
A young man with cerebral palsy awkwardly made his way to our car when we were at the Wendy's Drive-up and offered us a coupon book for a dollar. The entire dollar would go to Dave's Adoption Foundation. And for our dollar we got ten coupons for 6 oz frosties...that is, totally free, no hitches or glitches. Not a bad deal, and a great cause. (Almost makes you feel guilty using the coupons.) Furthermore, Wendy's now has vanilla frosties. So we indulged. The now battered coupon book tossed around at the bottom of my purse is a sort of secret comfort...there if we need a quick fix. Only six ounces--that's practically a diet frosty.
We were visiting our son and his wife overnight and I gave them a couple of coupons ... how generous of me! But that's not the frosty that this post is about. The frost bit is something we discovered this weekend and laughed and laughed about. Two times my Christmas cookies were brought up in conversation. (The Tradition of particular Christmas cookies is an important part of the Christmas season. I had been planning to skip a large portion of this Tradition until these conversations occurred.) "Chief" husband began talking enthusiastically about my "frozen butterscotch mounds." "They are so cool and crisp as they come out of the freezer." Full stop. They are not meant to be frozen desserts. They are meant to be kept in a cookie tin on top of the frig. We suddenly realized what he was talking about. I make the cookies and then they are stashed away deep in the freezer, hidden, or so I think––until some magical day (whenever that is) when suddenly all the Christmas cookies come out of hiding and are "free game." Obviously Chief had done a lot of scavenging about in the deep dark corners of the freezer to remember those cookies as "frozen." Big smile here.
But later Son and wife asked if I would be sure to make my delicious frozen fudge for when they come home at Christmas. Frozen fudge? I don't recall it. Oh yes, same deal as above. It's all about hiding the cookies or fudge in the freezer!
My poor family fondly remembers mainly frozen Christmas cookies? What a hoot!
Monday, November 20, 2006
Rose Colored Glasses
The first time I remember experiencing rose colored glasses was looking out on the formal garden at Windsor Castle. I must have picked up some cheap sunglasses somewhere in London and put them on when we walked out on the balcony to view the garden. I still remember its exquisite beauty. But when I took the glasses off, I was appalled at the difference. For the garden was still lovely, but had lost its vivid luster and gleam.
The other day, driving along while admiring the beauty of the fall colors, I pulled an old pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment. The leaves on the trees instantly turned to a brilliant gold and orange and red. The beauty was almost breathtaking, but not so when I pulled the glasses down my nose and looked above them. I was reminded of rose colored glasses and the phrase "looking at the world through rose colored glasses."
So I decided to do some research. Google of course. Every mention of the phrase, of which there aren't many, has sort of negative connotations. For instance, parents tend to view their children through rose colored glasses, and they should wake up and realize their kids aren't all that great. I found references to it being viewed as "a cheerful optimistic" view of the world; and some "unfortunate people never take their glasses off." The phrase goes back at least 150 years when "it is first recorded in 'Tom Brown at Oxford': 'Oxford was a sort of Utopia to the Captain. He continued to behold towers, and quadrangles, and chapels through rose-colored glasses.'" (From the "Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins" by Robert Hendrickson.)
Maybe rose colored glasses show us a bit of what heaven will be like. Maybe if we always "wear rose colored glasses," we may not pay attention to our fallen world, or see things that need to be cared for or dealt with. Nonetheless, a little more optimism might not hurt any of us. And I'm thinking that with a world-view that a relationship with God provides, the world should be viewed with rose-colored glasses. For, as my five-year-old niece recently told me, "All that God made is very good." No matter what difficulties occur in life, we know all is allowed by God and touched by His hand.
I'll keep those rose colored glasses in the glove compartment. When I enjoy the view of life they give me, I'll be reminded that all that God made is very good.
The other day, driving along while admiring the beauty of the fall colors, I pulled an old pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment. The leaves on the trees instantly turned to a brilliant gold and orange and red. The beauty was almost breathtaking, but not so when I pulled the glasses down my nose and looked above them. I was reminded of rose colored glasses and the phrase "looking at the world through rose colored glasses."
So I decided to do some research. Google of course. Every mention of the phrase, of which there aren't many, has sort of negative connotations. For instance, parents tend to view their children through rose colored glasses, and they should wake up and realize their kids aren't all that great. I found references to it being viewed as "a cheerful optimistic" view of the world; and some "unfortunate people never take their glasses off." The phrase goes back at least 150 years when "it is first recorded in 'Tom Brown at Oxford': 'Oxford was a sort of Utopia to the Captain. He continued to behold towers, and quadrangles, and chapels through rose-colored glasses.'" (From the "Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins" by Robert Hendrickson.)
Maybe rose colored glasses show us a bit of what heaven will be like. Maybe if we always "wear rose colored glasses," we may not pay attention to our fallen world, or see things that need to be cared for or dealt with. Nonetheless, a little more optimism might not hurt any of us. And I'm thinking that with a world-view that a relationship with God provides, the world should be viewed with rose-colored glasses. For, as my five-year-old niece recently told me, "All that God made is very good." No matter what difficulties occur in life, we know all is allowed by God and touched by His hand.
I'll keep those rose colored glasses in the glove compartment. When I enjoy the view of life they give me, I'll be reminded that all that God made is very good.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
The most dangerous road in the world
Finally I have proof of the dangerous road we traveled more than a decade ago, from the high city of LaPaz down to the Amazon jungle. Our little family of four plus two other men in a VW bug loaded with barb wire on the roof. My husband had a bruised knee from this trip. No guard rails, etc. It was an amazing ride and we're thankful to be alive to tell the story!
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Personal Relationships
I welcome fall this year like never before. Maybe it's because of challenging times recently with illness and the need for refreshment and looking to better times. Or it might be the wonderful change of temperature––a crispness to the air that renews energy after the heat of summer. Whatever the reason is, I stop and take note of beautiful colors and a new season for new beginnings. Our drive up to Pennsylvania Amish country a few weeks ago marvelously attacked our senses...autumn colors, rich farmland ready for harvest rest, pumpkins galore, and homes tastefully decorated for the season.
The poison has left my body with lingering side effects to the treatment and some delicate skin in need of repair. The wonders of prednisone amaze me as I experienced some good (wide-eyed clarity of thinking, forgotten pain from arthritis, and energy to do many projects long-neglected) and bad (think "balloon") side effects. The chief's health has been one scare after another recently, and even more so this week––a week that seems like a year long, as every nook and cranny of his heart is poked and prodded. We experience God-instilled peace as we wait for answers. We are thankful all is well so far, with one corner yet to walk around.
Today is a big leaf day. Sagging gutters, full driveway, cluttered grasses––leaves everywhere. They are falling rapidly, but a mere tip of the iceberg to come. As I mow and bag and blow and dump, I know it will start all over again in a couple of days as the multicolored leaves dance down to my doorstep. I look up, up, up––way up to the tops of the trees and down again, and think how before it's over and any possible snow flies (yeah right), I will have a personal relationship with each and every leaf in those trees.
And you thought this might be a blog entry on something spiritual possibly. All of life relates in some way to spiritual things. We see that from our gratitude for a new (lease on) life the chief* feels he's been given, to the simple glories of changing seasons––personal relationships with fallen leaves included.
*my husband's college knickname
The poison has left my body with lingering side effects to the treatment and some delicate skin in need of repair. The wonders of prednisone amaze me as I experienced some good (wide-eyed clarity of thinking, forgotten pain from arthritis, and energy to do many projects long-neglected) and bad (think "balloon") side effects. The chief's health has been one scare after another recently, and even more so this week––a week that seems like a year long, as every nook and cranny of his heart is poked and prodded. We experience God-instilled peace as we wait for answers. We are thankful all is well so far, with one corner yet to walk around.
Today is a big leaf day. Sagging gutters, full driveway, cluttered grasses––leaves everywhere. They are falling rapidly, but a mere tip of the iceberg to come. As I mow and bag and blow and dump, I know it will start all over again in a couple of days as the multicolored leaves dance down to my doorstep. I look up, up, up––way up to the tops of the trees and down again, and think how before it's over and any possible snow flies (yeah right), I will have a personal relationship with each and every leaf in those trees.
And you thought this might be a blog entry on something spiritual possibly. All of life relates in some way to spiritual things. We see that from our gratitude for a new (lease on) life the chief* feels he's been given, to the simple glories of changing seasons––personal relationships with fallen leaves included.
*my husband's college knickname
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
I Won––But Even More, Be Aware!
" I never win anything." I hear lots of people say that, and it certainly is true for me––or was. Today some nurses came to where I work with pink bags and lots of information about breast cancer (October is the pink month.) It's interesting that there is new technology (only one place in town offers it now) that is so much more accurate at picking up tumors. We were reminded about all the risks and good things to do to prevent breast cancer. There were candy kisses of varying chocolate choices, and mini donuts to entice us to listen to their five minute inservice. The fatty sweets were a humorous mixed signal. And we wrote our names on scraps of paper for a drawing.
Not long after the nurses were back with a pink package for ME. I actually won something. I think it was that fact more than what the package contained that added a small inner smile to the day. My name actually came forth out of a drawing bag. What did I find when I tore the pink tissue away? A tiny pink ribbon pin, and a pair of sox with pink writing that said, "Awareness." That's what this month is all about. Be aware, be knowledgeable about this killer disease.
Not long after the nurses were back with a pink package for ME. I actually won something. I think it was that fact more than what the package contained that added a small inner smile to the day. My name actually came forth out of a drawing bag. What did I find when I tore the pink tissue away? A tiny pink ribbon pin, and a pair of sox with pink writing that said, "Awareness." That's what this month is all about. Be aware, be knowledgeable about this killer disease.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Walmart, By Prayer
Our Walmart is huge, and I'm never too excited to visit it. But family is coming this weekend so I'll be cooking for 15 and needed to go. There's just too many bargains to not take advantage. I worked hard on my list, practically had it memorized. This time I wrote out each meal's ingredients with an individual shopping list and then transferred that to a "master" list. Wow, I was ready to go. Four pm is not the best time to be at a busy Walmart, but off I went, praying on my way.
Why pray before shopping, one may ask. It's a matter of panic attacks, which I've been known to have at Walmart. About halfway through a major shopping I can suddenly feel stifled, attacked by the crowded aisles and a feeling that I can't get another thing and I have to get out of there fast. May sound strange to others, but that's me. So I garnished or girded this trip with prayer, before, during and afterwards, a breath of thanksgiving. This time I found the aisles manageable. I remembered almost the whole list without looking and rarely had to circle back for something. But even when I got to the main ingredient aisles that always get busy (oh boy, I forgot today was a holiday so it was even more crowded), I found myself maneuvering the crowds with my heavy cart, smiling at people, even making a few comments like you do when you find yourself looking for the same food item with another person. Two Mormon looking young men (dead giveaway short sleeve white shirts and ties) came through smiling and excusing themselves in every direction. That was pleasant and people responded pleasantly to them.
By the time I reached the check out counters my back hardly hurt and I was feeling pretty on top of things. I looked at the lines and chose what looked like a nice checker. She was Latino and I hadn't seen her before. I made some friendly comments about the lower grade bags that all the checkers have been complaining about and when she didn't respond much, I wondered how her English was. Then I realized she was new, and this was the icing on the whole cake of the shopping experience. It was her first day checking alone. As I questioned her I found her English fine, but she was very nervous and unsure of herself. So I had my chance to affirm her and I did so with great gusto. I told her what a wonderful job she did and I that I would be back to her counter next time. I left her smiling. I even smiled a good bye to the door guard who didn't want to see my slip for some reason. What a worthwhile trip, even if there hadn't been groceries.
I think it may have been my best trip ever to Walmart.
Why pray before shopping, one may ask. It's a matter of panic attacks, which I've been known to have at Walmart. About halfway through a major shopping I can suddenly feel stifled, attacked by the crowded aisles and a feeling that I can't get another thing and I have to get out of there fast. May sound strange to others, but that's me. So I garnished or girded this trip with prayer, before, during and afterwards, a breath of thanksgiving. This time I found the aisles manageable. I remembered almost the whole list without looking and rarely had to circle back for something. But even when I got to the main ingredient aisles that always get busy (oh boy, I forgot today was a holiday so it was even more crowded), I found myself maneuvering the crowds with my heavy cart, smiling at people, even making a few comments like you do when you find yourself looking for the same food item with another person. Two Mormon looking young men (dead giveaway short sleeve white shirts and ties) came through smiling and excusing themselves in every direction. That was pleasant and people responded pleasantly to them.
By the time I reached the check out counters my back hardly hurt and I was feeling pretty on top of things. I looked at the lines and chose what looked like a nice checker. She was Latino and I hadn't seen her before. I made some friendly comments about the lower grade bags that all the checkers have been complaining about and when she didn't respond much, I wondered how her English was. Then I realized she was new, and this was the icing on the whole cake of the shopping experience. It was her first day checking alone. As I questioned her I found her English fine, but she was very nervous and unsure of herself. So I had my chance to affirm her and I did so with great gusto. I told her what a wonderful job she did and I that I would be back to her counter next time. I left her smiling. I even smiled a good bye to the door guard who didn't want to see my slip for some reason. What a worthwhile trip, even if there hadn't been groceries.
I think it may have been my best trip ever to Walmart.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The Awful Wonders of Poison
It was such a beautiful day! A warm sunny day with fall in the air. Spouse was safely home from the hospital and even feeling like puttering just a bit outside. I did the lawn and dumped the clippings in the back woods, checking oh so very carefully for the poison ivy that attacked me so vigorously a year ago. All done, I didn't want to go in. The day was too nice, besides there was weeding and cleaning out of vines and bushes that had gone too long neglected. I got busy. Pretty sweaty too. Wow I got a lot done. A great sense of accomplishment.
Several days later, driving home from work, I noticed two bumps on my leg that itched. Must have gotten bitten by something. Then two more "bites" on my chest. (You would think I would have remembered a year ago, turning the house upside down cleaning, convinced there were bugs infesting something.) Well, duh, I finally get what it is. But still leave it, thinking this can't be as bad a case as last time. No scratching this time, but still it spreads daily and weeps and looks like leprosy or something. This is true POISON inside me. I am amazed at it's power. Finally treated, the poison is still taking its sweet old time to leave my body. And I get to suffer side effects of the treatment as well. What we are thinking in this household is, "When will life get back to normal?"
Several days later, driving home from work, I noticed two bumps on my leg that itched. Must have gotten bitten by something. Then two more "bites" on my chest. (You would think I would have remembered a year ago, turning the house upside down cleaning, convinced there were bugs infesting something.) Well, duh, I finally get what it is. But still leave it, thinking this can't be as bad a case as last time. No scratching this time, but still it spreads daily and weeps and looks like leprosy or something. This is true POISON inside me. I am amazed at it's power. Finally treated, the poison is still taking its sweet old time to leave my body. And I get to suffer side effects of the treatment as well. What we are thinking in this household is, "When will life get back to normal?"
Monday, September 25, 2006
A Conversation
Wife: (stupid question) Do you think there could be some kind of curse on you or your family? (After a fourth near-death experience.)
Husband: No.
Wife: Sins of the father being visited on the offspring?
Husband: No.
Wife: Why this incredible list of maladies you've had the last 35 years, especially this one?
Husband: So God can be glorified.
Wife: I can think of other ways.
Husband: You're not in charge.
After another serious bout for my husband with life threatening P.E.s (many clots in both lungs) this week, we are home from the hospital. The effect of it all starts to hit me. As I vacuum, I feel sad and wonder if I should start questioning "why." I stop vacuuming and thus begins another conversation:
Wife: Why? And why you?
Husband: Don't even waste your emotions thinking that way. Just stop right now.
Wife: But....
Husband: I'm kind of curious and excited about what God is going to do with this, and because of this. And I know He'll get glory in how we respond to it.
So now the nitty gritty starts. The big test. By faith and many praying, we've gotten through the main crisis. But how will I continue to respond as I process it all? How will I manage watching my beloved struggle with frequent blood tests, trips to the doctor, always fearful of eating too much spinach, always watching for bleeding, remembering to keep his legs moving, to take his afternoon Coumadin.... In faith? And to His glory? Or, with fear of a next time. Begging him home from travel in the deadly skies or the long drives (both bad for clots). A friend writes, "Don't give in to fear and stay home under a blanket for the rest of your life."
It's a daily determined uphill walk, garnering strength for faith, through the One who not only enables faith, but also receives it and is glorified through it. It's all about Christ being central in our lives. It's all about a willingness to sacrifice too, but that's a conversation for another day.
Husband: No.
Wife: Sins of the father being visited on the offspring?
Husband: No.
Wife: Why this incredible list of maladies you've had the last 35 years, especially this one?
Husband: So God can be glorified.
Wife: I can think of other ways.
Husband: You're not in charge.
After another serious bout for my husband with life threatening P.E.s (many clots in both lungs) this week, we are home from the hospital. The effect of it all starts to hit me. As I vacuum, I feel sad and wonder if I should start questioning "why." I stop vacuuming and thus begins another conversation:
Wife: Why? And why you?
Husband: Don't even waste your emotions thinking that way. Just stop right now.
Wife: But....
Husband: I'm kind of curious and excited about what God is going to do with this, and because of this. And I know He'll get glory in how we respond to it.
So now the nitty gritty starts. The big test. By faith and many praying, we've gotten through the main crisis. But how will I continue to respond as I process it all? How will I manage watching my beloved struggle with frequent blood tests, trips to the doctor, always fearful of eating too much spinach, always watching for bleeding, remembering to keep his legs moving, to take his afternoon Coumadin.... In faith? And to His glory? Or, with fear of a next time. Begging him home from travel in the deadly skies or the long drives (both bad for clots). A friend writes, "Don't give in to fear and stay home under a blanket for the rest of your life."
It's a daily determined uphill walk, garnering strength for faith, through the One who not only enables faith, but also receives it and is glorified through it. It's all about Christ being central in our lives. It's all about a willingness to sacrifice too, but that's a conversation for another day.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
What You Can Fit on a Train
The tall, bearded 40-something man with a large knapsack on his back walks into the train station pushing a bicycle loaded down with a bedroll and assorted bags attached at the handlebars, in sidebaskets, and behind the seat. Following closely comes his wife riding a handicapped electric cart. I think they fit about as much tucked in and around her cart as one could fit in a small car! It practically is the size of a small car! Collapsed tent, bedroll, lawnchairs, knapsacks, umbrella, a giant cooler....it is an amazing sight to see. Apparently they are on some sort of camping expedition, but now it's time to ride the rails. They head for the platform to catch the next train to Brighton.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Pricey Skirts and Penguin PJs
I guess there are some women in town today who are excited that the new Neiman Marcus has opened its doors. The news of 1900 dollar skirts is buzzing around. This morning while driving home I listened to a local talk show host phone his wife toward the end of his show. "Honey, I want to apologize that I've never bought you a $1900 skirt."
"That's okay, dear, there's a lot better things to do with $1900 than spend it on a skirt."
"But," he continues, "I've never been able to buy you $800 boots."
"That's still okay. Even if I had married a rich man I would not buy $800 boots. It's not my style. It's not how I was raised. There are more important things in life."
"Honey, where did you buy those penguin pajamas you wear?" His patient wife names the store, saying they were two for $20. "And the frog ones?"
"The same store; each piece is $10 and you can intermix them. Penguins with frogs if you like." As the strains of a Johnny Cash song begin, he wraps up his show saying, "You don't know how many men envy me––going home to a wife with penguin pajamas."
I doubt everyone hangs on to the values he or she was raised with, for whatever reason. But I think this guy is pleased as could be that his wife did. (As, my husband declares, is he). I think the radio guy really is proud to be going home to those penguin pajamas, two for $20.
"That's okay, dear, there's a lot better things to do with $1900 than spend it on a skirt."
"But," he continues, "I've never been able to buy you $800 boots."
"That's still okay. Even if I had married a rich man I would not buy $800 boots. It's not my style. It's not how I was raised. There are more important things in life."
"Honey, where did you buy those penguin pajamas you wear?" His patient wife names the store, saying they were two for $20. "And the frog ones?"
"The same store; each piece is $10 and you can intermix them. Penguins with frogs if you like." As the strains of a Johnny Cash song begin, he wraps up his show saying, "You don't know how many men envy me––going home to a wife with penguin pajamas."
I doubt everyone hangs on to the values he or she was raised with, for whatever reason. But I think this guy is pleased as could be that his wife did. (As, my husband declares, is he). I think the radio guy really is proud to be going home to those penguin pajamas, two for $20.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Come for Tea
A silly "thrill of a lifetime" for me was being served a true Dorset tea by an English woman in her 250 year old house in the little town of Wareham, surrounded by Saxon walls (though half the size of what they had originally been). This is living in real history. The old house is in incredible shape, with inside shutters and an amazing English garden in the back. This is one of those houses whose door opens right up on the winding village street, each house attached to the next.
We entered through the tiny car park at the back gate. The "coffee" table was laid with the tea things. Napkins, small sterling silver butter knives, small blue and white plates, cups and saucers, and the cream and sugar. After we had given our greetings, we sat down and out came the tea pot, a plate of buttered scones, a plate of buttered raisin toast and a Dorset apple loaf cake. And of course, raspberry jam and divine clotted cream that was the "cream of the crop." The very finest top of the cream. It looked like yellow butter. The proper way, though much debated, is to put the jam on first and then a touch of the cream. Milk in the teacup first of course. Mmmmmm. Around and around the lovely goodies were passed. "You must have some more." It seemed the thing to take more than one, and have seconds at that. (This type of nonsense must only be allowed because the Brits walk so much!) I was so touched. I just sat and thoroughly enjoyed the moment, taking it all in, not believing I was where I was.
Interesting conversation with the tea preceded a tour of the house. Then we walked down the road to the 11th century parish church...where there was a flower festival wrapping up. We saw a cast iron baptismal font that was carefully hidden when Lord Cromwell turned anything made of iron into canon balls. The church had been burned once, rebuilt, and at one time fell down. But the very front chapel in one corner is original. It is now a prayer room. As I stared at the small chairs gathered for their current mid week prayer service, I could not help but sense history in a tangible way. Here believers had gathered throughout history and prayed for things like the Black Plague, the French Revolution, the War of 1812--you get the picture. This is the site where Edward's, the brief King of England, body had initially laid (in the 900s) after being murdered by his stepmother's aide, in order that her younger son become king. Later his body was sent to Dorchester.
We also heard the story of a mother whose son had died in France in the war, his body never found. In despair the mother herself years later went to the battlefield where he had fallen. She ate some food while she sat remembering his life, later burying the rubbish in the ground. As she dug she struck something--and found it was something of her son's belongings. An excavation soon took place and in no time her son's body had been found and brought back to Wareham to be buried. True story! There was a flower memorial in the church to this young soldier.
OK, this is the final bit about our trip to England!
We entered through the tiny car park at the back gate. The "coffee" table was laid with the tea things. Napkins, small sterling silver butter knives, small blue and white plates, cups and saucers, and the cream and sugar. After we had given our greetings, we sat down and out came the tea pot, a plate of buttered scones, a plate of buttered raisin toast and a Dorset apple loaf cake. And of course, raspberry jam and divine clotted cream that was the "cream of the crop." The very finest top of the cream. It looked like yellow butter. The proper way, though much debated, is to put the jam on first and then a touch of the cream. Milk in the teacup first of course. Mmmmmm. Around and around the lovely goodies were passed. "You must have some more." It seemed the thing to take more than one, and have seconds at that. (This type of nonsense must only be allowed because the Brits walk so much!) I was so touched. I just sat and thoroughly enjoyed the moment, taking it all in, not believing I was where I was.
Interesting conversation with the tea preceded a tour of the house. Then we walked down the road to the 11th century parish church...where there was a flower festival wrapping up. We saw a cast iron baptismal font that was carefully hidden when Lord Cromwell turned anything made of iron into canon balls. The church had been burned once, rebuilt, and at one time fell down. But the very front chapel in one corner is original. It is now a prayer room. As I stared at the small chairs gathered for their current mid week prayer service, I could not help but sense history in a tangible way. Here believers had gathered throughout history and prayed for things like the Black Plague, the French Revolution, the War of 1812--you get the picture. This is the site where Edward's, the brief King of England, body had initially laid (in the 900s) after being murdered by his stepmother's aide, in order that her younger son become king. Later his body was sent to Dorchester.
We also heard the story of a mother whose son had died in France in the war, his body never found. In despair the mother herself years later went to the battlefield where he had fallen. She ate some food while she sat remembering his life, later burying the rubbish in the ground. As she dug she struck something--and found it was something of her son's belongings. An excavation soon took place and in no time her son's body had been found and brought back to Wareham to be buried. True story! There was a flower memorial in the church to this young soldier.
OK, this is the final bit about our trip to England!
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
First Class Feet
There's a mesh curtain that flight attendants are very careful to keep closed during flights, even though it's a pain to unfasten it as they move about the plane. It separates the first or envoy class from the common folk. You can see through it, but I guess it's a barrier/reminder NOT to use the envoy bathrooms. That's against the rules. But, apparently, tourist feet by themselves are okay to go through the "great divide."
When we waited in the "preferred flyer" US Air lounge in Gatwick this week, the young woman behind the desk worked her craft to get us into Row 8, the "bulkhead"(with my very tall husband's medical history he has some "clot clout"). She claimed she got us the "very best seat." (Was God reserving it for us? Where were the babies that needed it for their cots?). The deal was, with four seats across, the row end seats in the bulkhead have nothing but space in front of them. Ah, stretching room! Right under the curtain and into first class went my tall husband's feet. No complaints from any sensitive envoy noses either. His feet rode first class the whole way across the Atlantic! Does God have a sense of humor or what?
When we waited in the "preferred flyer" US Air lounge in Gatwick this week, the young woman behind the desk worked her craft to get us into Row 8, the "bulkhead"(with my very tall husband's medical history he has some "clot clout"). She claimed she got us the "very best seat." (Was God reserving it for us? Where were the babies that needed it for their cots?). The deal was, with four seats across, the row end seats in the bulkhead have nothing but space in front of them. Ah, stretching room! Right under the curtain and into first class went my tall husband's feet. No complaints from any sensitive envoy noses either. His feet rode first class the whole way across the Atlantic! Does God have a sense of humor or what?
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Holey Clogs
Months ago when we booked our flight to the United Kingdom, only God knew that we would be flying on the day the London Heathrow terrorist plot broke loose, and therefore all airports and travel were a mass of confusion. Throughout our departure day we fielded calls and e-mails from concerned friends, family and neighbors. Would we still go?
We concluded this would actually be a very safe day to travel. And by the time we arrived at the airport later in the day, it was a pretty quiet place. Over half of those booked on our flight had canceled. Were we smart, or were they the smart ones?
The actual boarding process was what brought us back to the reality and gravity of the situation. We were ushered into a small, stifling room where 12 men (police, FBI and federal marshals) lined the entrance and stared at us as we moved slowly towards a table manned by about eight security people. They searched every part of our carry on luggage as if looking for a priceless treasure. No liquids allowed of course––not even chapstick!
It did make us feel rather safe and throughout the flight we made a sort of game of guessing who was our in-flight sky marshal. We were sure there was one.
Our first introduction to Lizzie and Oliver's mum was when we found her straddling a bank of seats, trying to squeeze two good-size booster seats and carry-ons into the overhead compartment. More of her strawberry-blonde, frizzy hair escaped than was held in by a big barrette as she flashed us a smile of thanks as we assisted her. She was obviously one of those persons who was very at home with herself, full of personality, and "didn't know a stranger." That personality spilled into her two tousled blonde-haired children––Lizzie, five, seated on her mum's far side, practicing her reading from an old Lady bird reader; and Oliver, seven, who sat across the aisle from us, intent on engaging us in conversation. All three were wearing those trendy plastic, bright colored clogs covered with holes. They were headed for a wedding. Dad, presumably American, was coming a week later.
Oliver was cunning, witty, and, with a twinkle in his eyes, made us laugh. While our big old airbus waited over an hour on the tarmac for a storm to pass, we discussed all kinds of things and told stories and jokes. While still a kid, Oliver was definitely at home with adults, and not shy at all. We won't soon forget him. "So, do you have another joke?" He kept plying for more, even though he didn't "get" all of them.
Once we got in the air, we flew right through the same storm we'd sat through on the ground. There was much banging, creaking and rattling in the cabin. Oliver's mum, a Brit, leaned over to us. "Have you flown US Air before?"
"Yes, many times."
"Do you generally get there in one piece?"
"Yes," came our reassurance, though at that moment we had some question. We did arrive safely. And thankfully. Now to face the return trip. This time we may only be allowed to carry on a clear zip lock bag. And no chapstick of course.
We concluded this would actually be a very safe day to travel. And by the time we arrived at the airport later in the day, it was a pretty quiet place. Over half of those booked on our flight had canceled. Were we smart, or were they the smart ones?
The actual boarding process was what brought us back to the reality and gravity of the situation. We were ushered into a small, stifling room where 12 men (police, FBI and federal marshals) lined the entrance and stared at us as we moved slowly towards a table manned by about eight security people. They searched every part of our carry on luggage as if looking for a priceless treasure. No liquids allowed of course––not even chapstick!
It did make us feel rather safe and throughout the flight we made a sort of game of guessing who was our in-flight sky marshal. We were sure there was one.
Our first introduction to Lizzie and Oliver's mum was when we found her straddling a bank of seats, trying to squeeze two good-size booster seats and carry-ons into the overhead compartment. More of her strawberry-blonde, frizzy hair escaped than was held in by a big barrette as she flashed us a smile of thanks as we assisted her. She was obviously one of those persons who was very at home with herself, full of personality, and "didn't know a stranger." That personality spilled into her two tousled blonde-haired children––Lizzie, five, seated on her mum's far side, practicing her reading from an old Lady bird reader; and Oliver, seven, who sat across the aisle from us, intent on engaging us in conversation. All three were wearing those trendy plastic, bright colored clogs covered with holes. They were headed for a wedding. Dad, presumably American, was coming a week later.
Oliver was cunning, witty, and, with a twinkle in his eyes, made us laugh. While our big old airbus waited over an hour on the tarmac for a storm to pass, we discussed all kinds of things and told stories and jokes. While still a kid, Oliver was definitely at home with adults, and not shy at all. We won't soon forget him. "So, do you have another joke?" He kept plying for more, even though he didn't "get" all of them.
Once we got in the air, we flew right through the same storm we'd sat through on the ground. There was much banging, creaking and rattling in the cabin. Oliver's mum, a Brit, leaned over to us. "Have you flown US Air before?"
"Yes, many times."
"Do you generally get there in one piece?"
"Yes," came our reassurance, though at that moment we had some question. We did arrive safely. And thankfully. Now to face the return trip. This time we may only be allowed to carry on a clear zip lock bag. And no chapstick of course.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Letters from Cyberspace
I am thinking about this online journal stuff––blogs and all. It’s kind of nice to keep a record online that can be accessed any time one has internet hookup and time on their hands. There are creative uses for it. I know a lady who has cancer and writes every day. People can check in on her progress and what she’s learning about God and life whenever they want, but don’t have a daily e-mail update filling their in-box. Another young man with cancer posts updates on a friend’s website. And it’s always good to read what individuals are thinking and struggling with––particularly those who are vulnerably honest.
But will all this be still floating in cyberspace a hundred years from now? Members of our family are reading old letters between our grandparents and parents right now, written with penmanship that perhaps helps to express the personality of those writing. It’s something very special, like reaching out and touching their lives. Stepping inside the door of their souls. In a very real way the letters are an emblem of who we are as children and grandchildren––a window into our heritage.
What will future generations have left of their history? Will e-mail letters be around? They won’t show a tear smudge or words crossed out for better ones. It’s something to think about. I suppose I won’t be around 100 years from now, so why fret? Will the blogs or e-mails be shifted to heaven? Will we even care about the past then? Somehow I think history will always be around. And very much something to remember, celebrate, and, of course, learn lessons from. I guess I better get my pen out and start a letter.
But will all this be still floating in cyberspace a hundred years from now? Members of our family are reading old letters between our grandparents and parents right now, written with penmanship that perhaps helps to express the personality of those writing. It’s something very special, like reaching out and touching their lives. Stepping inside the door of their souls. In a very real way the letters are an emblem of who we are as children and grandchildren––a window into our heritage.
What will future generations have left of their history? Will e-mail letters be around? They won’t show a tear smudge or words crossed out for better ones. It’s something to think about. I suppose I won’t be around 100 years from now, so why fret? Will the blogs or e-mails be shifted to heaven? Will we even care about the past then? Somehow I think history will always be around. And very much something to remember, celebrate, and, of course, learn lessons from. I guess I better get my pen out and start a letter.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Rocking Chair Grace
We roll down the windows and let a fresh breeze spill in as our car chugs up the winding roads into the mountains. The crisp clear air begs for us to breathe deeply as if to cleanse away the city pollution from our lungs. It’s time for lunch but we have yet to find a nook alongside the road to eat our sandwiches. I breathe a prayer, “Lord, help us to find a really special spot for our lunch.” After all, we had opted to go the cheap route, and not look for a cute little teashop along the road. Don’t we deserve a picnic to remember?
In less than a minute a road sign announces a rest/visitor center just up ahead. Wow, a quick answer. As we drive into a pristine park-like setting, we notice that all the shady picnic tables are of course occupied. We ride around the mountain-style building, boasting a porch on all sides. There on the back porch are two rocking chairs, quietly waiting for us, as if we’d booked ahead with reservations! We park nearby and sit down to rock our way through a simple lunch. Much too simple for the beauty we look out on. We are completely alone with a sea of day lilies, backed by a lawn as green as grass can be. One majestic mountain after another rises in the distance like waves billowing on the sea. A soft breeze blows as we rock and munch sandwiches and carrot sticks. And I ponder the quick answer to my silent prayer. Several people interrupt the quiet as they come out of a nearby door and with an “I-wish-I-had-thought-to-eat-lunch-here” inflection to their voices, congratulate us on our creative use of the rockers.
I wonder about this dining spot prepared for us. If I hadn’t prayed, would we still have seen the road sign and found the rockers? Was it a “God-thing” or just a coincidence? As I thank Him profusely from my heart, I assume it is of God, but why?
The answer comes from history. From experience I know God ordains my days, and has as long as I’ve known Him. Recorded history tells the rest of the story. Everything in life––even “coincidences”––works because of Him. And if that wasn’t true, and there was such a thing as “just happened,” I would still delight to give Him the glory for it. For us this day––amazing rocking chair grace!
"Seek to cultivate a buoyant, joyous sense of the crowded kindness of God in your daily life." A. Maclaren
In less than a minute a road sign announces a rest/visitor center just up ahead. Wow, a quick answer. As we drive into a pristine park-like setting, we notice that all the shady picnic tables are of course occupied. We ride around the mountain-style building, boasting a porch on all sides. There on the back porch are two rocking chairs, quietly waiting for us, as if we’d booked ahead with reservations! We park nearby and sit down to rock our way through a simple lunch. Much too simple for the beauty we look out on. We are completely alone with a sea of day lilies, backed by a lawn as green as grass can be. One majestic mountain after another rises in the distance like waves billowing on the sea. A soft breeze blows as we rock and munch sandwiches and carrot sticks. And I ponder the quick answer to my silent prayer. Several people interrupt the quiet as they come out of a nearby door and with an “I-wish-I-had-thought-to-eat-lunch-here” inflection to their voices, congratulate us on our creative use of the rockers.
I wonder about this dining spot prepared for us. If I hadn’t prayed, would we still have seen the road sign and found the rockers? Was it a “God-thing” or just a coincidence? As I thank Him profusely from my heart, I assume it is of God, but why?
The answer comes from history. From experience I know God ordains my days, and has as long as I’ve known Him. Recorded history tells the rest of the story. Everything in life––even “coincidences”––works because of Him. And if that wasn’t true, and there was such a thing as “just happened,” I would still delight to give Him the glory for it. For us this day––amazing rocking chair grace!
"Seek to cultivate a buoyant, joyous sense of the crowded kindness of God in your daily life." A. Maclaren
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Roomies
Two friends get together for lunch today. College roommates 64 years ago. They both seem "young for their age," are recent widows, and have kept in touch through the years. A good project––keeping a friendship going so many years. Something of great value. What a fun visit they will have today!
Monday, June 26, 2006
To Grandmother’s House We Go
Forty-five years is a long time not to know each other. But there we were, strangely familiar to each other, connected by strong genes and a family history, once again in our grandparents' house. It seemed much the same, now 38 years since our grandmother's death and 38 years since another family began calling the house "home." Their family had grown up here, new children called it "grandmother's house," yet with much unchanged we were able to slip back in time. Our aunt once again filled the house with beautiful sounds of her piano playing. We sang "Great is Thy Faithfulness"––indeed a theme of our family.
A new generation of children tumbled outside on the lawn, teenagers talked on the porch, my twin cousins stood in the paneled library where for hours we had read our grandmother's books. Down in the basement we remembered ping-pong games and a special birthday party.
We took turns taking our pictures at the kitchen sink where we remembered our grandmother best. Large ferns graced the dining room windows where Grandmother's ferns had also flourished. I looked at my mother standing in a dining room virtually unchanged by the years. I knew she was back at family dinners––Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays––strongly missing many at the table whose places would now be empty.
For a brief 90 minutes the house had become ours again, graciously enabled by the second and current owners of the home our grandfather so beautifully built. We were given the gift of going back in time and reliving childhood memories because they too understood family and the importance of a home filled with memories. All around were cousins, aunts and an uncle---just as it had been so many years ago. What an amazing experience. We told secrets, explored our favorite hiding places, shared stories, and loved on each other, spurred on by memories tucked in every nook and cranny.
But then it was time to go. The grand piano was really a spinet, the library cuckoo clock was silent and no chimes sounded from a grandfather clock in the front hall. Slowly we came back to the present, wiped back tears, and said good-bye, ending a two-day cousin family reunion, each of us profoundly affected. It is time to get back to the present, but we will not forget the gift we had been given that hot June day.
A new generation of children tumbled outside on the lawn, teenagers talked on the porch, my twin cousins stood in the paneled library where for hours we had read our grandmother's books. Down in the basement we remembered ping-pong games and a special birthday party.
We took turns taking our pictures at the kitchen sink where we remembered our grandmother best. Large ferns graced the dining room windows where Grandmother's ferns had also flourished. I looked at my mother standing in a dining room virtually unchanged by the years. I knew she was back at family dinners––Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays––strongly missing many at the table whose places would now be empty.
For a brief 90 minutes the house had become ours again, graciously enabled by the second and current owners of the home our grandfather so beautifully built. We were given the gift of going back in time and reliving childhood memories because they too understood family and the importance of a home filled with memories. All around were cousins, aunts and an uncle---just as it had been so many years ago. What an amazing experience. We told secrets, explored our favorite hiding places, shared stories, and loved on each other, spurred on by memories tucked in every nook and cranny.
But then it was time to go. The grand piano was really a spinet, the library cuckoo clock was silent and no chimes sounded from a grandfather clock in the front hall. Slowly we came back to the present, wiped back tears, and said good-bye, ending a two-day cousin family reunion, each of us profoundly affected. It is time to get back to the present, but we will not forget the gift we had been given that hot June day.
Friday, June 09, 2006
The Incredible Human Body
The human body is amazing in the way it heals, rebuilds, and rejuvenates, among other things. Re. last spokes post: no more knee pain, no more walking needed, and no more napping!
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