Flashback!

A young friend told me recently that she is amazed at how everything in our house has a story to go with it. That's what I love about "things." Not so much the actual possession of things, but that most of the stuff around my house has history that is meaningful to me. Christmas ornaments on the tree really bring the stories. I love it when my kids come back home to help put the ornaments on the tree. I get the tree all ready, with the wretched job of stringing the lights all taken care of ahead of time. Spouse sits in a chair––waiting for his single role of plopping the worn angel (given to us by the boys' youth pastor) at the top of the tree––while I dig through unorganized boxes ("next year I'll organize them better") and hand out what needs to be hung on the tree. And while we decorate, the stories flow.

Some ornaments were homemade ... such as "vintage 1978" ... or that was the year I crocheted ornaments, or knitted them ... and the puffy quilted ones I made that mostly remain in the box because of their huge size ... or the painted wood ornaments from sometime in the late 80s ... and then the ones that hung on Spouse's childhood tree (those are really vintage) ... different ones gifted from friends ... and maybe most special, the ones we made from clothespins our "yellow" Christmas. Almost each and every one a "flashback" to something special in our lives.

It reminds me of a program I heard on the radio as a kid called The Listening Post. Stories read aloud, but the listening post would actually open each program with his crackly voice, "In my old wooden heart ... are stories." I like to personify our tree as proclaiming, "Tucked inside my green branches ... are many old stories..."

Hark!

These carollers landed at our doorstep and hopped up onto our piano. Their singing is delightful and I just love the one lady all dressed in furs. She doesn't really need all that get-up with our 78 degree record-breaking/heart-breaking (where did winter go?) weather, but she looks great. Still their singing does not compare to the heavenly music we heard this weekend when our church choir, along with our local symphony orchestra, gave us The Songs of the Saviour. Uplifting and worshipful!

BBs at Christmas?

So this is something to tell about how stupid or naive I can be. There is a big increase in huge blow up Christmas decorations in people's yards. I'm not too crazy about them. When some Winnie the Pooh characters appeared at the corner house a couple of years ago I thought, "Well, that's nice for the kiddies." But when I would leave for work early in the morning they would be deflated and crumpled on the lawn. "How sad," I would think, "it's ruined." That evening they would be up in full bloom again, lighting up their part of the world. Then they would be deflated again. I assumed some kids in the neighborhood were going around shooting BBs at the blow up Christmas decorations. I wondered how long these patient home owners would continue to patch their decorations.

Well now that such decorations have migrated to the house right next door to us, and I have heard the sound of the motor that keeps it "alive" I have figured this thing out. Still I smile when I ride by Winnie the Pooh and Tigger up at the corner. Smile at my stupidity. To think I envisioned a gang of BB gun-toting teens running through the neighborhood on Tigger detail. Smile again!

Whose Head?

A wonderful book club gathering last evening at a long table set festively for lovers of the Jane Austen time period. She certainly would have felt right at home with us at the table. But instead of Jane's company, we had a phone call, on speaker phone, with the author of this great little book! How fun is that?

For a half hour we plied Lori, who followed Jane around England before writing the book, with questions, listened to her heart story, and heard about her life since the book was written. We even prayed for her. The book––I recommend it––is a surprise. Each page is like unwrapping a package as the author reveals herself in great honesty, while also telling of Jane Austen's life (sometimes clueing us in to not so well known facts.) I would be reading about Jane and suddenly realize that Lori was telling about her own personal life. The weaving back and forth was subtle but delightful. I have never read a book quite like it.

Book club gatherings are more than just about the book we've all read (sometimes furiously up until the last minute). It's even more about stepping back from life a bit and just being with friends, sharing our lives and thoughts ... sipping tea, chewing on sweets ... you know, much as they may have gathered in Jane's day. An amazing book, and a scrumptious evening. Thanks, Boniface!

The Yellow Convertible in My Life

Joy was six years older than me. As a teenager that felt like a big age difference. When we started hanging out, her parents had just bought her a yellow convertible to celebrate her college graduation. When she would pick me up and we'd drive off together with the top down, I felt pretty cool.

Joy came from a family of 12 kids, all strong leaders. A good proportion of them were scattered throughout our metropolitan area, working with youth groups at various churches. During the summer these youth groups would come together on Tuesday nights for a big bash at a barn out in the country. The hour bus ride there was itself a ton of fun, to be sure, but when we arrived, there were even more good times. Over 1000 kids spilled off buses and gathered to play wild games, watch funny skits, sing our hearts out to the rafters of the big ol' barn, and then listen to a "hold-your-attention" talk about faith in God. Many came to a personal relationship with God during those warm summer nights, and for myself, it was a time of intense spiritual growth.

I could never really understand Joy's interest in me. I was a "preacher's kid" (PK) and had had a pretty ideal, "Leave it to Beaver" kind of upbringing. I didn't have any big challenges in life that I needed her counsel about. Yet she, as one of my church youth leaders, chose to spend time with me. We would study the Bible together, and at other times Joy would just take me along for whatever she was doing, talking as we went. Sometimes we'd go to special shops, or to her parents' lake house to canoe ... we would just "do life" together. I guess you could say she had a "ministry of hanging out" with me. Back then it was known as "discipling;" today it is likely to be called "mentoring."

During those years (and it continued into college for I attended the college that Joy taught at), I grew a good deal in my walk with Christ. But I also learned, by her example, to disciple others. I was taught that everyone should mentor someone younger in the faith, and at the same time, be encouraged or mentored by someone older than them. And so I went about my life in this way, naively assuming others knew the concept and were doing the same thing. After all, Christ gave us the example.

When I am doing this actively, I find it stretches me and I grow more as a result. I think this is how God intends it to be. Stretch ... and you grow. And I also realize how much a gift this was in my life, for I know now that not many have had such a privilege as they came along in their faith. And not so many grasp or practice the concept. How God richly blessed me.

I don't see many yellow convertibles any more, but I don't need a glimpse of such a vehicle to take me back to those years of being discipled. I remember them often and will always be incredibly grateful to Joy, a young woman who cared enough to "hang out" with me and bring me along in the faith.

not a winter wonderland

Today it's gray and cold ... "feels" like snow is in the air. Of course it's not, but sometimes in the south, even the "feels like" is good enough. But, with our ongoing draught we could really use either rain or some white stuff!

more

Another quote from our pastor's sermon: "Our incessant busyness works against our maturing in Christ." Further: give yourself a gift and stop! Think! Evaluate! It will take all your life to become what you are to be. God is not going to shout over your noise. Be quiet so you can hear Him.

Take Time

In speaking of Paul's preparation for his main ministry in the book of Acts, our pastor told of how Paul went aside twice for long lengths of time (once 11 years), to be quiet and to listen to God. He reminded us of our need to do the same ... to say no to some of the pulls on our time ... and make time to read, reflect, rest ... and listen to what God is saying. Even, and especially, at this season of the year. We ended the service by singing an old hymn, exhorting each other as we turned to face the center aisle to sing. It was a moving time.

"Take time to be holy, speak oft with thy Lord. Abide in Him always and feed on His Word. Make friends of God's children, help those who are weak, forgetting in nothing, His blessing to seek.

"Take time to be holy, the world rushes on. Spend time in secret with Jesus alone. By looking to Jesus, like Him thou shalt be. Thy friends in thy conduct––His likeness shall see.

"Take time to be holy, let Him by thy guide. And run not before Him, whatever be tide. In joy or in sorrow still follow thy Lord. And, looking to Jesus, still trust in His word.

"Take time to be holy, be calm in thy soul, each thought and each motive beneath His control. Thus led by His spirit to fountains of love, thou soon shalt be fitted for service above."

Five Cousins

I'm in the middle, always the middle of both family sides of girl cousins our age. Which way do I gravitate? Older or younger?

Cracked Up

"You crack me up" used to be a frequent expression (maybe it still is) and it had a slight nuance to it that I think insinuated a slightly quirky action on the part of the person who "cracked" you "up." I think expressions are fascinating, especially the history of where they came from. I remember living in Ghana when we had to have local expressions explained to us. Expressions for similar things to ours, but differently worded. But that's not the point of this post. "Cracked" as in cracked hands is my point.

This is the time of year when I welcome the cold weather. I like it to be consistent, day in and day out so I know what to wear ahead, rather than listening each morning for the temperature prediction. But the downside of the weather is the chapped and cracked hands. They come almost instantly. Believe me, I have tried all kinds of creams, ointments, white-glove sleeping, liquid Band-Aids, gloves for dishes, and still the pain continues. Where I work, each crib is considered a "room" so we must foam our hands with alcohol foam before and after we touch a baby, and as we go in and out of a mother's room. Disastrous to the hands.

I use my hands all the time, and value them tremendously. The arthritis that has set into my thumbs (from overuse undoubtedly) is disconcerting at best. Add to that the constant cracking, especially in my thumbs, makes using them painful.

So my nighttime routine is lotion, antibiotic cream, and often Band-Aids (that only will stay on at night). I'm always open to new ideas for my cracked up hands.

Good Will Among Old and New Couch Owners

I don't feel at all offended that someone asked if our new couch came from Good Will. It's extremely cottagy and cozy. I even like that the transfer of our old loveseat across the street to its new home, and the arrival of the "bride" both occurred after dark. Kind of gave it an air of intrigue. The uptown girl who owned the couch got very sentimental as it went out the door. Ten years is a long time to sit on a couch. I understand. So I emailed her a photo of her couch in it's new home. "You made my day," she wrote back. That's all on the "bride," but I thought it was kind of a sweet little story. I'm glad I sent her the photo. Above: the bride's old home and new home.

Old Trucks and White Slipcovers

The old truck rattled down the road as we headed uptown towards the city. "No power steering," Spouse declared of the dated pick-up we had borrowed. The wheel was very hard to manage. I came back with, "Didn't you used to drive a school bus?" "Yes, but I think this truck originally had power steering which is now gone. That's a whole different game than just a truck originating with no power steering!" (yes, we are old enough to remember those.)

My lap was so piled high with tarps and old bedspreads and shower curtains that I could barely see the road ahead of us. We were on our way to pick up our new gently-used couch. Someone had taken mighty nice care of the couch I had always dreamed of owning, but never even considered for the cost. Good ol' Craig's list.

Then the thought occurred to me ... here we are at our advanced age still borrowing trucks to pick up old furniture. Has a shiny furniture truck ever stopped with a delivery at our house? I don't think so--the only new furniture we bought was years ago--a couch and chair--which I'm sure we picked up to save delivery charges.

But this is the way I prefer it, really. It's like buying a used car--let the depreciation set in and then go for it. I looked over at Spouse, trying hard to manage the steering, and realized how much fun it's been all these years. There's a thrill in looking and then finding old treasures. Pieces with history who still have enough life in them to make more history in our house. Conversation pieces. Not to mention how much fun it was to see inside the fetching arts and crafts-style bungelow––where our couch resided––nestled under the city skyscrapers (where the young professionals now want to live.)

So I guess that's us. That's who we are and who we will always be. And I'm very content with that.

Cold, cold rain, lots of it. "It's a British sort of day," we say. Time to fire up the kettle and make some hot tea.

Not Your Everyday Green Bean Casserole

When I put a spoonful of Youngest Son's greenbean casserole on my plate, the lima beans mixed in with the green beans were a surprise. "Oh, something new," I suggested. Apparently the full story is that when he went to make the casserole, they were lacking in green beans, so he creatively substituted the limas. We were around the Thanksgiving table of Youngest's Son's wife's family. We decided this might be remembered as the "lima bean" Thanksgiving. Little did we know what more was coming.

A beautiful ceramic centerpiece was opened towards the end of the meal to reveal small envelopes tucked inside, filled with the tithe of a money gift given to our host family. As we each took and opened an envelope, we found an amount of money to share with someone in need. There would undoubtedly be a story for each of us to tell as we put our money to work. "The Gift that Gives Back." Now this would be a Thanksgiving to remember!

Later, Spouse beat Youngest Son in a game of ping-pong. Competitive streaks being what they are in the male species, a second game ensued. As Spouse forgot his age and sprung for a far ball, his body kept going into the wall, hitting his forehead on the light switch. End result: almost-a-dentist son stitching up father, closely observed by dentist father-in-law holding a strong light. A nice even row of six stitches––he did a good job. Now there will be several stories for history to tell about this Thanksgiving, and much, much to be thankful for!

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving
Originally uploaded by podso

The Lord is God; 'tis he alone
Doth life, and breath, and being give;
We are his work, and not our own,
The sheep that on his pastures live.

Enter his gates with songs of joy,
With praises to his courts repair;
And make it your divine employ
To pay your thanks and honors there.

from Psalm 100, by Isaac Watts (1674-1748) in THE PSALMS OF DAVID, written in 1719.

It's the Little Things

I take joy in the little things of life. One of the most exciting things that has happened to me this year is that I got a light put in a long closet under our stairs. It serves as sort of a pantry, and catch-all, and all that in the dark for the almost ten years we have lived in this house. Imagine––great storage, endless possibilities, but only visible with a flashlight or one of those florescent tube lights where the batteries are either falling out or wearing out. Very frustrating.

When an electrician was doing some other work at our house, I asked him to put a mere lightbulb in the closet--with the old-fashioned pull-string. As simple as can be, but the delight it brings me everytime I enter that closet is ... well, amusing, I guess. Now I can really organize, and get to things easily ... just with a pull of the string. I don't think I'll live long enough to stop appreciating the wonder of light in that dark place.

That could be a sermon illustration right there, couldn't it ... how the Light of the world illumines our lives and makes something of them. But right now I'm not preaching, just appreciating one of the little things in my life.

Tea With Milk and ...

I was privileged to be a part of a tea for young neighborhood girls put together by my friend Barbarona. The table was an array of goodies, adorned by ornaments of the fall season. Ten or so girls sat around sipping tea, some of whom were from homes where they face challenges that young girls should not have to face so early in life. So it was a joy to share in a tea party with them, indulging in some of the finer things of life.

Barbarona shared the gospel story with them, and also about the death of her dear friend, Rosie, who used to help with similar teas. Some of the girls remembered her. Then we used rubber stamps, glue, and markers to make Thanksgiving cards for someone special in their lives. It was a whole bunch of fun for all of us.

Today it is a year ago that Rosie went to be with her Lord. My guess is she's had a few tea parties in heaven by now, that is, if she cares about them anymore. I'm thinking that they pale in comparison to being in God's presence, don't you?

can it be?

I'm not great at backing out of parking spaces. It hurts my neck to look around and it seems something is always blocking my view. So I back out cautiously. The other day at the grocery store I looked around and saw nothing in my view and backed out.

"STOP!" A man's voice called out, not too loudly, not too hysterically, but firmly. Where had he come from? And what should appear in my rear view but another car backing out right into mine. The older man waited while I pulled in, let the other lady back out, and then backed out. Like he was supervising or something. Then I didn't see him again, and began to procede out of the parking area. I saw him again near the exit, standing by his car, as if making sure this silly woman could actually drive. So he undoubtedly saved me from at least a "fender bender." I always like to think of these experiences as possibly encounters with angels. After all, it seemed he "came out of nowhere!"

Do It For Me

In recent years I have started decorating for Christmas pretty early. I get it all out in the spare room and do a little at a time. But it seems harder and harder for me to lug out all the stuff and decorate, especially since I am on my own now to do it (though I still try to reign in some of the young folk to trim the tree). And while our house used to be filled to the brim with relatives, Christmas is getting quieter and quieter as babies have come, expanding families, and making it hard to travel and all fit under one roof. So this year it will be just us, an occasional pop in from my mother living nearby, and some in's and out's from our children. Maybe a small party or two as well, since we love to practice hospitality.

So, wondering if I had it in me to drag it all out and decorate this year, I suggested to spouse that I pare it down even more than I already have in recent years. Spouse does not have a lot of great memories of childhood Christmases, so Christmas with our family in our cozy house means a lot to him.

He cut my chatter short. "Just do it for me, only me," he said quietly.

Will do my love, with pleasure.