... in Christ, and with a friend who would paint the hard parts.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
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!
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