Once upon a time, there was a rather ordinary and average fru (pronounced froo) who wanted very much to flee from fru-dom once and for all; to discover life on the other side of the fence, in that greener land where the GURUS lived.
“Ah, the wonderful gurus!” she sighed. “THEY have their acts together. THEY know the secrets of happiness.” She often stared at the mountains, wet with dew, and convinced herself that leaving was the very thing she should do.
However, the opportunity to go never presented itself. Every morning, more and more impatient she grew – impatient with dusting pews (the benches used as chairs in fru-dom) and milking cows, whose bellows and “mooooos” only infuriated her. She went from much ado (about nothing) to being in a stew (over everything). “When will I EVER try something new?” she sobbed into her pillow at night. “My life is so dull – boo hoo hoo hoo hoo!”
As it was, the fru-dom mayor – who happened to be her father – lectured her till his face was blue. “You can’t leave fru-dom, my dear, you’re part of our gene pool! Nonsense! No running away! And besides, who would work in the kitchen,” (as if that was the most important thing one could do), “And concoct all that good-cinnamony-goo for our prunes?”
Chances for adventure seemed few - nil, in fact. If only she could take her magical cue (if there was such a thing) and vamoose: fall in love with a handsome guru, and live happily ever after as a transplanted, fru-gone-guru!
One cloudy night when the full moon peeked through, she put on her heavy traveling shoes and away she flew. The darkness pressed in, and with it, great fear. Still, she climbed the tall fence and trotted on, determined to shoo (like a fugitive fly) from the land of the fru. “I will be a guru! I can and I will! They can’t stop me! They don’t have a clue!”
To short-cut this story, I’ll tell you the end. Miss Fru found the gurus beyond the wild blue, but they turned all her dreams upside-down-and-askew. They weren’t grand, royal prince-types at all, no-siree. They were stuck-up and haughty – real losers and goons! Without any delay she said her adieus; did a u-turn, and went home to her diet of prunes. She was happy at last to just be who she was: a contented, real-for-sure-and-honest-to-goodness, too-true, fru.
I’m glad she figured this out – aren’t you?
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Going Green
This time of year, we can easily see the trees and grass in Buck Creek are seasonally about 2 weeks ahead of Michigan’s trees and grass. Differences are obvious as we travel back-and-forth each week. The lushness is already upon us, down here. The tree buds are only just beginning to appear, up there.
Seasons. I’ve witnessed a lot of them – seasons of bitter cold and oppressive heat; seasons of fullness and want; seasons of growth and dormancy.
This current season of my life seems somewhat unique. Although I often feel like I’m wandering in needy desert-places, a consistent shekinah glory cloud leads me – and I find provisional oases show up regularly.
It seems to be a season for gathering what has been sown in my life to date and bearing new fruit in the so-called golden years. I personally see these years being more greenish than golden – green with the new spring-green that is popping up everywhere. When I have eyes to see His mercy, God is indeed decorating my inner heart with such green-ness: new, fresh, growing, eager evidence of LIFE.
Seasons. I’ve witnessed a lot of them – seasons of bitter cold and oppressive heat; seasons of fullness and want; seasons of growth and dormancy.
This current season of my life seems somewhat unique. Although I often feel like I’m wandering in needy desert-places, a consistent shekinah glory cloud leads me – and I find provisional oases show up regularly.
It seems to be a season for gathering what has been sown in my life to date and bearing new fruit in the so-called golden years. I personally see these years being more greenish than golden – green with the new spring-green that is popping up everywhere. When I have eyes to see His mercy, God is indeed decorating my inner heart with such green-ness: new, fresh, growing, eager evidence of LIFE.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
A Very Good Day
The loud-mouthed-rooster crowed at 6:30 a.m. this morning to wake the world (actually it was Fritz, very sweetly telling me it was time to get up). The calm lake seemed hushed and almost primeval in the pre-dawn light – a serene welcome to the new day. I unloaded the frig (again), packed up the coolers (again), threw our “stuff” in boxes, loaded the car (again), and we headed south by about 7:15. It rained cats and dogs much of the trip; our windshield wipers protested by banging into each other and bending at ouchy-looking angles. Thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap, thwaaa-chunk-ap, thwap-thwap. Fortunately those wipers were real troopers and loyally performed their task until we got home - despite their crippled arms and suffering.
I sipped freshly extracted carrot juice (which made me happy) and Fritz stopped at Burger King for fast-food-gut-buster-breakfast (which made him happy). He’s convinced BK’s breakfast meals are less greasy than McD’s. Personally, I doubt it. But if it makes him feel better about eating junk (excuse me), then so be it.
We talked a lot, mostly about our BSF curriculum this year, things like obedience and blessing and related thoughts/applications. Good stuff.
Upon arrival in Buck Creek, I donned the blobby, generously-bespeckled paint clothes I used last week while painting, grabbed the paint can (again), the brushes and roller (again), and started stroking away. Ah yes, the familiar zing of carpal tunnel greeted me warmly. (My hands know they’ve been working hard lately.) BUT wonder-of-wonders, the leprous walls with their ugly spots responded nicely to my prime-coat therapy before we left last time, and I was encouraged to finally see the real color spread smoothly across the wall. The almost-finished product is beginning to look quite nice. That’s sooooo encouraging.
It was helpful to have a recreational activity after all of that, namely making HUGE cinnamon rolls for the kids in Freddy’s lab class at Purdue tomorrow. Honestly, I enjoyed the rolling out and rolling up; the slicing, rising, baking, and resultant SMELLS. There’s nothing like working out your inner aggressions with a rolling pin. I think it even beats a punching bag, and certainly is better than slamming cabinet doors or stomping around the house (now WHO would do such things?). I didn’t eat any or even lick frosting from my finger, and felt quite disciplined.
I hereby dub today A Very Good Day.
I sipped freshly extracted carrot juice (which made me happy) and Fritz stopped at Burger King for fast-food-gut-buster-breakfast (which made him happy). He’s convinced BK’s breakfast meals are less greasy than McD’s. Personally, I doubt it. But if it makes him feel better about eating junk (excuse me), then so be it.
We talked a lot, mostly about our BSF curriculum this year, things like obedience and blessing and related thoughts/applications. Good stuff.
Upon arrival in Buck Creek, I donned the blobby, generously-bespeckled paint clothes I used last week while painting, grabbed the paint can (again), the brushes and roller (again), and started stroking away. Ah yes, the familiar zing of carpal tunnel greeted me warmly. (My hands know they’ve been working hard lately.) BUT wonder-of-wonders, the leprous walls with their ugly spots responded nicely to my prime-coat therapy before we left last time, and I was encouraged to finally see the real color spread smoothly across the wall. The almost-finished product is beginning to look quite nice. That’s sooooo encouraging.
It was helpful to have a recreational activity after all of that, namely making HUGE cinnamon rolls for the kids in Freddy’s lab class at Purdue tomorrow. Honestly, I enjoyed the rolling out and rolling up; the slicing, rising, baking, and resultant SMELLS. There’s nothing like working out your inner aggressions with a rolling pin. I think it even beats a punching bag, and certainly is better than slamming cabinet doors or stomping around the house (now WHO would do such things?). I didn’t eat any or even lick frosting from my finger, and felt quite disciplined.
I hereby dub today A Very Good Day.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Conquering Jericho-Walls
When I was young, my mother wrestled with chronic, tormenting depression. It was an ugly thing that twisted her in knots both physically and emotionally – something my youthful mind could not begin to grasp. At times I greatly feared her, as well as my dad (who was consumed by explosive anger). My own anxiety came out in the form terrifying panic attacks that I tried to hide lest I, too, be given electric shock treatments like my mother. I retreated out of self-protection, and sought solace in my own private moments down by the lake (in the summer) or in my bedroom (in the winter).
Mother painfully fulfilled her responsibilities as a homemaker, which left little energy for relationship. I sometimes felt isolated and unsure of myself, as if I somehow didn’t matter. I realize this was not my mother’s fault, but rather circumstances, and yet it was debilitating.
However, one day she asked me to sit in the big navy blue, overstuffed chair in the living room, and then sat down on a footstool next to me. I knew something big was up; she NEVER did this kind of thing. Was I queen for a day? Or in trouble?
She held up a paper. I was probably 6 or 7 years old, and felt very small in the big chair.
“I just got an IQ report from school. It says you can do ANYTHING you put your mind to. Aren’t you happy?” I’m sure her positive announcement was motivated by gratitude and hopefulness. She wanted nothing but the best for me. Still, it was so out-of-context, as if that piece of paper held my one-and-only possible ingredient for success.
My photographic memory recorded the moment for posterity. PERFORM WELL AT ALL COST.
At the time I acknowledged the good news without understanding the IQ part. All I knew was that I had a new identity that expected me to be a high achiever. That was a blessing of sorts, but it landed on an insecure heart that had never heard the spoken words, “I love you.” In fact, since both of my parents were struggling with deep emotional issues during that phase of their lives, my perspectives were skewed. I felt like dead weight that was sinking with them into a miry bog. My only goal was to stay afloat, and I knew not how.
The encouragement to “do anything well” evolved over the years into “do everything perfectly and make everyone happy while you’re doing it.” In some ways, it became a curse. I was able to multi-task and work quickly, thanks to a strong body and creative mind, and learned to expect a lot from myself.
Eventually what was intended to be a blessing translated into compulsive driven-ness. I would not allow myself to go out to dinner with friends in college, but stayed home to study. Instead of cultivating an adequate garden as a newly-married woman, mine was huge – enough to feed several families. Rather than cooking reasonable meals for my family, I strove to be lavish (as the budget allowed). In those days I made sure everything - even the barbecue sauce - was homemade. When we needed extra cash, I cleaned other peoples’ houses and dragged our youngest child around with me. I eventually became a small business owner to assist with the kids’ college expenses, and poured every ounce of myself out freely for grabby (but grateful) patrons who lapped me up like so much honey.
Make no mistake, I do not place fault on anyone (either myself or my parents) for this state of affairs – I’m just reporting facts. I’m also not saying selfishness should come before service to others. It’s just that much of life is a balancing act, and I was a lousy juggler. Self-sacrifice became an idol…a sort of Jericho with walls that needed to be conquered.
After the recent camp kitchen experience, I started digging back into the past. I realize I’m still tempted to live by my early mantra: “Perform beyond reasonable expectations.” That’s who I am – at least according to the Jericho-wall that was erected at a very young age. Without this performance mentality, who would I be?
For at least the last 30 years God has been teaching me that I’m loved just as I am, that I don’t need to earn acceptance or unconditional love or prove myself through performance gymnastics. I’ve heard His message from behind my Jericho-wall, believed the muffled but cherished truth, and have seen the wall gradually begin to crumble.
The real miracle at Miracle Camp (note the play on words) is that God intervened, this time by exposing my weakness and suggesting His strength (my rescue) might look totally different than what I expected. Like a wrecking ball, He bowled over the rest of the Jericho-wall. I COULD NOT PERFORM the job, and yet that didn’t translate into failure. It simply pointed out that I’m quick to look in the wrong place for validation, and that He was using this experience to direct me elsewhere.
I’m finally sick and tired of being a good-girl for the sake of being a good-girl, and doing anything (everything) I put my mind to in order to maintain the good-girl status. Good-girl-ness has been like wandering in the desert for 40 years (or more) - going through the paces of “being good,” while side-stepping the real issue: obedience to God. Instead, I hope to see myself as headed toward my own promised-land-era, and take to heart the counsel given the Israelites as they prepared to enter their promised land: love God (Deut. 11:1), remember His mighty works (11:2), observe His commands (11:8), and be careful to avoid idols (11:16).
Mother painfully fulfilled her responsibilities as a homemaker, which left little energy for relationship. I sometimes felt isolated and unsure of myself, as if I somehow didn’t matter. I realize this was not my mother’s fault, but rather circumstances, and yet it was debilitating.
However, one day she asked me to sit in the big navy blue, overstuffed chair in the living room, and then sat down on a footstool next to me. I knew something big was up; she NEVER did this kind of thing. Was I queen for a day? Or in trouble?
She held up a paper. I was probably 6 or 7 years old, and felt very small in the big chair.
“I just got an IQ report from school. It says you can do ANYTHING you put your mind to. Aren’t you happy?” I’m sure her positive announcement was motivated by gratitude and hopefulness. She wanted nothing but the best for me. Still, it was so out-of-context, as if that piece of paper held my one-and-only possible ingredient for success.
My photographic memory recorded the moment for posterity. PERFORM WELL AT ALL COST.
At the time I acknowledged the good news without understanding the IQ part. All I knew was that I had a new identity that expected me to be a high achiever. That was a blessing of sorts, but it landed on an insecure heart that had never heard the spoken words, “I love you.” In fact, since both of my parents were struggling with deep emotional issues during that phase of their lives, my perspectives were skewed. I felt like dead weight that was sinking with them into a miry bog. My only goal was to stay afloat, and I knew not how.
The encouragement to “do anything well” evolved over the years into “do everything perfectly and make everyone happy while you’re doing it.” In some ways, it became a curse. I was able to multi-task and work quickly, thanks to a strong body and creative mind, and learned to expect a lot from myself.
Eventually what was intended to be a blessing translated into compulsive driven-ness. I would not allow myself to go out to dinner with friends in college, but stayed home to study. Instead of cultivating an adequate garden as a newly-married woman, mine was huge – enough to feed several families. Rather than cooking reasonable meals for my family, I strove to be lavish (as the budget allowed). In those days I made sure everything - even the barbecue sauce - was homemade. When we needed extra cash, I cleaned other peoples’ houses and dragged our youngest child around with me. I eventually became a small business owner to assist with the kids’ college expenses, and poured every ounce of myself out freely for grabby (but grateful) patrons who lapped me up like so much honey.
Make no mistake, I do not place fault on anyone (either myself or my parents) for this state of affairs – I’m just reporting facts. I’m also not saying selfishness should come before service to others. It’s just that much of life is a balancing act, and I was a lousy juggler. Self-sacrifice became an idol…a sort of Jericho with walls that needed to be conquered.
After the recent camp kitchen experience, I started digging back into the past. I realize I’m still tempted to live by my early mantra: “Perform beyond reasonable expectations.” That’s who I am – at least according to the Jericho-wall that was erected at a very young age. Without this performance mentality, who would I be?
For at least the last 30 years God has been teaching me that I’m loved just as I am, that I don’t need to earn acceptance or unconditional love or prove myself through performance gymnastics. I’ve heard His message from behind my Jericho-wall, believed the muffled but cherished truth, and have seen the wall gradually begin to crumble.
The real miracle at Miracle Camp (note the play on words) is that God intervened, this time by exposing my weakness and suggesting His strength (my rescue) might look totally different than what I expected. Like a wrecking ball, He bowled over the rest of the Jericho-wall. I COULD NOT PERFORM the job, and yet that didn’t translate into failure. It simply pointed out that I’m quick to look in the wrong place for validation, and that He was using this experience to direct me elsewhere.
I’m finally sick and tired of being a good-girl for the sake of being a good-girl, and doing anything (everything) I put my mind to in order to maintain the good-girl status. Good-girl-ness has been like wandering in the desert for 40 years (or more) - going through the paces of “being good,” while side-stepping the real issue: obedience to God. Instead, I hope to see myself as headed toward my own promised-land-era, and take to heart the counsel given the Israelites as they prepared to enter their promised land: love God (Deut. 11:1), remember His mighty works (11:2), observe His commands (11:8), and be careful to avoid idols (11:16).
Sunday, April 26, 2009
After-Blitz Recovery
In the aftermath of my recent tsunami-like blitz through the camp kitchen (and subsequent exhaustion symptoms bordering on collapse - no kidding), I continue to process the experience. Funny…within a week I went from dreamer-gone-practical (futuristic awesome would-be-camp-cook who couldn’t make it happen) to practical-gone-dreamer (well-seasoned homemaker who sees more to the picture than mundane tasks). Follow that flip-flop?
The internal teeter-totter is tipping as a result. I see things from the higher perch that perhaps I haven’t seen at all before, or at least were somewhat camouflaged. Priorities have shuffled. Contentment seems more real. I value what I AM, what I HAVE/KNOW/BELIEVE.
Here are some other little proverb-like thoughts that keep ping-ponging around in my head.
There truly is a time for all seasons. The trick is to embrace/enjoy/live the current one.
I am needy, and yet my identity and worth are defined by my weaknesses only as they are transformed into spiritual strengths.
Nothing stays the same - ever. Things can change without even a moment’s notice, including my own heart and soul.
God uses circumstances to guide/lead and teach me about myself, others, and Himself. This isn’t new news, and yet I’m in another dimension (almost) as I observe how He steers me AWAY FROM as well as TOWARD, and rarely leaves me in one spot for long.
My husband and family are loyal to the core. I don’t deserve such steadfast love.
Committed Christ-followers flock together. Where you find one you often find a genuine, sacrificial, abiding community defined by metamorphosis and growth.
Age is something to glory in, for it brings the possibility of wisdom.
Humility often shows up in the midst of limitation – but I only when I admit I’m limited, refuse to wear pretentious masks, and recognize my Source.
Intentionally stewarding my physical body is not just a good/preferred/healthy option among other options – it is a matter of obedience to God. My body is His tool; my job is to keep it sharp/clean/strong/able and then yield it to Him.
The little ditties I spouted off to my kids not only sound noble (although they do!), they’re TRUE. “There is no comparison without injury.” “Relationships are more important than issues.” “Attitudes are more important than facts.”
Interaction comes in all shapes and sizes. I hope to not use others for my own advantage OR be caught/trapped/manipulated by another person’s (potentially unintentional) expectations or possessiveness. I do want to serve others eagerly/willingly and receive what they offer me with open arms, even if their offerings don’t match my own desires.
Suffering leads me to Gethsemene, the cross, the pool of Bethesda - to more renewing and life-altering places than those pursued during recreational enjoyment.
Inner healing is tangible. It cannot be measured, but you know when the sting goes away.
The internal teeter-totter is tipping as a result. I see things from the higher perch that perhaps I haven’t seen at all before, or at least were somewhat camouflaged. Priorities have shuffled. Contentment seems more real. I value what I AM, what I HAVE/KNOW/BELIEVE.
Here are some other little proverb-like thoughts that keep ping-ponging around in my head.
There truly is a time for all seasons. The trick is to embrace/enjoy/live the current one.
I am needy, and yet my identity and worth are defined by my weaknesses only as they are transformed into spiritual strengths.
Nothing stays the same - ever. Things can change without even a moment’s notice, including my own heart and soul.
God uses circumstances to guide/lead and teach me about myself, others, and Himself. This isn’t new news, and yet I’m in another dimension (almost) as I observe how He steers me AWAY FROM as well as TOWARD, and rarely leaves me in one spot for long.
My husband and family are loyal to the core. I don’t deserve such steadfast love.
Committed Christ-followers flock together. Where you find one you often find a genuine, sacrificial, abiding community defined by metamorphosis and growth.
Age is something to glory in, for it brings the possibility of wisdom.
Humility often shows up in the midst of limitation – but I only when I admit I’m limited, refuse to wear pretentious masks, and recognize my Source.
Intentionally stewarding my physical body is not just a good/preferred/healthy option among other options – it is a matter of obedience to God. My body is His tool; my job is to keep it sharp/clean/strong/able and then yield it to Him.
The little ditties I spouted off to my kids not only sound noble (although they do!), they’re TRUE. “There is no comparison without injury.” “Relationships are more important than issues.” “Attitudes are more important than facts.”
Interaction comes in all shapes and sizes. I hope to not use others for my own advantage OR be caught/trapped/manipulated by another person’s (potentially unintentional) expectations or possessiveness. I do want to serve others eagerly/willingly and receive what they offer me with open arms, even if their offerings don’t match my own desires.
Suffering leads me to Gethsemene, the cross, the pool of Bethesda - to more renewing and life-altering places than those pursued during recreational enjoyment.
Inner healing is tangible. It cannot be measured, but you know when the sting goes away.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Learning the Hard(est) Way
So, after just 2 days in the Miracle Camp kitchen, I realize I’m not the person for the job after all - despite my push-it-through mentality and dreams of returning to an occupation similar to that of my 40’s. There are too many things working against me: noise levels (tinnitus irritation that practically incapacitates my auditory function), my own lack of strength/stamina/mental acuity (no small thing), and the circumstances of our lives (back-and-forth-ness and remodeling goals in Buck Creek). I’m saddened on some levels, as I know they were fairly desperate for “mature” help and were willing to flex to meet my needs. I would have loved to be part of this incredible ministry. And yet I figured it was better to exit right away rather than have them spend all this time training me and then bail out later.
I’m suddenly so grateful to be married to a man who loves me and provides for me. I also realize this was not a wasted experience, and will guide me forward toward other goals.
I’m suddenly so grateful to be married to a man who loves me and provides for me. I also realize this was not a wasted experience, and will guide me forward toward other goals.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Old is Old is Old
So, I was wrong. Old is old, no matter how you cut it. After just 6 hours in the kitchen at Miracle Camp, I ended up with exhaustion symptoms (weakness, rapid heart, nausea). The noise levels on top of tinnitus (fans, refrigerator hums, banging pans, voices) pushed me way-way into stress mode, which isn’t surprising, and I had to strain like crazy the whole time just to hear instructions. I smiled my way through it, was chipper and upbeat, and worked like a beaver, but in reality wonder if it can get better. More opportunity to find out tomorrow - ! The people there are servants at heart and the whole atmosphere is so inspiring. They are doing a great work, and it would be a privilege to be part of the program.
Grace, Lord, more grace.
Grace, Lord, more grace.
Bubbles
I confess that this must be one of my fuzzy-brained, creative moments (a fair warning if you’re the linear, rational type). I’m thinking about bubbles…the soapy ones little kids blow from a wand…the snappy bubbly-ness of champagne bubbles on New Years Eve…the soft-frothy-smelly ones defining a bubble bath. Then there’s Lawrence Welk’s bubbling orchestra…bubble-heads (let your imagination take you where it will)…AND of course the biggie, the proverbial optimistic bubble that bursts at the first hint of doubt.
Here’s one more. I sometimes criticize myself (and others) for “living in a bubble” – meaning living narrowly, defined by self-limitation. There’s truth in my self-accusation, actually. I often don’t know or appreciate what is going on elsewhere in the world, or even in my own neighborhood. And that’s probably an indication of self-centeredness.
Hmmmm. I wonder if there’s such a thing as a grace bubble.
What if I didn’t have the benefit of being surrounded/enveloped/protected by God’s grace? What if, instead, I became my own rock-hardened version of a bubble, banging through life and bouncing off various circumstances/people/obstacles like a crazed marble in a pin-ball machine, running frantically on adrenaline overdose only to find a dark hole at the end of the game? That sounds pretty desperate.
As it is, I envision His grace-bubble containing me. (In fuzz-brain mode, I can imagine my eyes being very big as I peer from the inside of this round orb with circus-mirror-like distortion). It floats me in a higher dimension above the din of all those raucous pin-ball machines.
I think there’s a trick to staying in this bubble. If you don’t want it to burst, DON’T DOUBT IT! Don’t think so hard about everything, as if there’s a way to figure it all out. Just believe.
I’m telling myself this as I head to work (we’re back in Michigan) for the first time in a decade. Trust God. Stay in His bubble.
Here’s one more. I sometimes criticize myself (and others) for “living in a bubble” – meaning living narrowly, defined by self-limitation. There’s truth in my self-accusation, actually. I often don’t know or appreciate what is going on elsewhere in the world, or even in my own neighborhood. And that’s probably an indication of self-centeredness.
Hmmmm. I wonder if there’s such a thing as a grace bubble.
What if I didn’t have the benefit of being surrounded/enveloped/protected by God’s grace? What if, instead, I became my own rock-hardened version of a bubble, banging through life and bouncing off various circumstances/people/obstacles like a crazed marble in a pin-ball machine, running frantically on adrenaline overdose only to find a dark hole at the end of the game? That sounds pretty desperate.
As it is, I envision His grace-bubble containing me. (In fuzz-brain mode, I can imagine my eyes being very big as I peer from the inside of this round orb with circus-mirror-like distortion). It floats me in a higher dimension above the din of all those raucous pin-ball machines.
I think there’s a trick to staying in this bubble. If you don’t want it to burst, DON’T DOUBT IT! Don’t think so hard about everything, as if there’s a way to figure it all out. Just believe.
I’m telling myself this as I head to work (we’re back in Michigan) for the first time in a decade. Trust God. Stay in His bubble.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Revolving Door (and eating humble pie again)
This may seem a strange comment…but….in recent years I’ve given myself permission to be OLD. In my opinion, it’s a fairly big deal to recognize, accept, and finally confess the evidence: gray hair, achy joints, gunnysack skin (lovely), easy weight gain, and (shall I dare say it?) fading memory. However, when businesses hand out senior citizen discounts - a nice perk - THAT turns the tide a bit. I’ve decided I’m okay with being OLD if it means saving money.
Despite my oldness, yesterday when I talked on the phone with Larry, the director at Miracle Camp, he seemed genuinely excited to have me on board. He even mentioned other ways I might be “valuable” as a staffer (other than in the kitchen), which, of course, swelled my cute little frosty-gray-hair-covered senior citizen head a teeny bit. It’s nice to be appreciated, even at sixty.
Here’s the humbling part. I remember grumbling to myself when I owned Baker’s Peak that I was the stupidest business owner on the planet to employ a SIXTY-year-old night baker. This old gal (who could do a mean impromptu ballerina dance with a certain elephant flair) came in around midnight and spent around 4-5 hours baking, which took a bit of the load off the rest of us in the early morning. She voluntarily prayed over all her rolls, and would announce, “This is the only bakery in Lafayette with anointed rolls, PRAISE THE LAWD, thanks to ME. Yessir. Those people will be eating more than rolls – praise God Almighty. Those rolls are better than jelly-filled donuts…they’re Spirit-filled…hallelujah!”
Most of the time she worked alone, but when I was there with her in the middle of the night, I learned to live by her rules. She was the Senior Citizen, and I dared not put the dishrag in the wrong place or move her vanilla bottle an inch to either side. Out of respect (and honestly some fear), I tried to observe her parameters knowing I could be steam-rollered in an instant if I didn’t comply. The elephant-ballerina-dance was something to avoid at all cost.
I sometimes worried that she could fall and break a hip in the middle of the night (in the kitchen OR a snowy/icy parking lot) and lay there until someone discovered her in the morning. I also knew she could work as slow as a turtle and eat up my profits while there by herself (she was rather large) and no one would know. HOW could I ever expect to get my money’s worth out of such an OLD person? I paid her well anyway, considered it a charity case, and hoped for jewels in my heavenly crown.
Tsk tsk. Now the shoe is on the other foot. The revolving door has turned, and I’m glad someone’s willing to extend charity to me as I approach sixty. In reality, I pray God provides mega-measures of mercy for my hearing issues, and strength that defies any stiff or atrophying muscles, since I embark on my sojourn as an employee of Miracle Camp TOMORROW. TA-DA! I’m out to re-define OLD forever! Just watch me.
Despite my oldness, yesterday when I talked on the phone with Larry, the director at Miracle Camp, he seemed genuinely excited to have me on board. He even mentioned other ways I might be “valuable” as a staffer (other than in the kitchen), which, of course, swelled my cute little frosty-gray-hair-covered senior citizen head a teeny bit. It’s nice to be appreciated, even at sixty.
Here’s the humbling part. I remember grumbling to myself when I owned Baker’s Peak that I was the stupidest business owner on the planet to employ a SIXTY-year-old night baker. This old gal (who could do a mean impromptu ballerina dance with a certain elephant flair) came in around midnight and spent around 4-5 hours baking, which took a bit of the load off the rest of us in the early morning. She voluntarily prayed over all her rolls, and would announce, “This is the only bakery in Lafayette with anointed rolls, PRAISE THE LAWD, thanks to ME. Yessir. Those people will be eating more than rolls – praise God Almighty. Those rolls are better than jelly-filled donuts…they’re Spirit-filled…hallelujah!”
Most of the time she worked alone, but when I was there with her in the middle of the night, I learned to live by her rules. She was the Senior Citizen, and I dared not put the dishrag in the wrong place or move her vanilla bottle an inch to either side. Out of respect (and honestly some fear), I tried to observe her parameters knowing I could be steam-rollered in an instant if I didn’t comply. The elephant-ballerina-dance was something to avoid at all cost.
I sometimes worried that she could fall and break a hip in the middle of the night (in the kitchen OR a snowy/icy parking lot) and lay there until someone discovered her in the morning. I also knew she could work as slow as a turtle and eat up my profits while there by herself (she was rather large) and no one would know. HOW could I ever expect to get my money’s worth out of such an OLD person? I paid her well anyway, considered it a charity case, and hoped for jewels in my heavenly crown.
Tsk tsk. Now the shoe is on the other foot. The revolving door has turned, and I’m glad someone’s willing to extend charity to me as I approach sixty. In reality, I pray God provides mega-measures of mercy for my hearing issues, and strength that defies any stiff or atrophying muscles, since I embark on my sojourn as an employee of Miracle Camp TOMORROW. TA-DA! I’m out to re-define OLD forever! Just watch me.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Scabby Walls
The walls are out to get me.
I’ve patched and sanded and patched and sanded, and the walls in the Buck Creek living room are still rough. I think part of the problem (if not all) is a matter of lingering wallpaper paste. When painted, the rough spots show up as unsightly, dark blotches….sort of like scabs, actually. Last night I wanted to take BIG CRAYONS, and in a fit of almost-rage, just scribble-scribble-scribble my heart out until those spots were covered with wax (red would be quite nice, or maybe purple, but definitely something passionate). But of course I talked myself out of such an outrageous display knowing it would be childish and counter-productive. Not to mention vengeful. Also, I didn’t want poor Fritz to be tempted to send me to a mental ward, or ban me from further wall-work. However, this morning I had to wonder. “But really…ahhhh…why shouldn’t he?!?” Both of those two options sound like a lovely reprieve right now.
My other, more grown-up choice is to sand some more, but the sander-person in me (you know, the cute little painter-guy with the white billed cap) is either on strike or has quit the job completely. He’s just plain GONE. Maybe another choice could be to don the I-don’t-really-care-about-how-this-turns-out hat (that old straw one with the bullet holes left from the time it was a target for the guys during their shoot-out on “rural heritage day”). Or, I could paint the whole mess as-is, and pretend I don’t care. But unfortunately (this is the real bummer) I DO care. Thus far my remodel mind-set has been nothing less than meticulous. I’ve put forth my very best effort, and am doing the work carefully, as if for the Lord. How can I suddenly turn a corner and settle for scabby walls? Shudder. It hurts to imagine such a thing.
On another note, today Fritz sees the cardiologist in Indy for the first time since his good news last October. We’re leaving shortly, and I’m hoping the conversation goes beyond professional/clinical into the realm of Real and Detailed and Transparent. Just for my sake, if not theirs. Maybe the leprous walls will shape up some while we’re gone. Or maybe they’ll collaborate during that time (heh, heh, heh, evil walls that they are) and figure out a way to “wall me in.” (Credits go to Robert Frost for the walling-in image.) I think that’s already happened.
I’ve patched and sanded and patched and sanded, and the walls in the Buck Creek living room are still rough. I think part of the problem (if not all) is a matter of lingering wallpaper paste. When painted, the rough spots show up as unsightly, dark blotches….sort of like scabs, actually. Last night I wanted to take BIG CRAYONS, and in a fit of almost-rage, just scribble-scribble-scribble my heart out until those spots were covered with wax (red would be quite nice, or maybe purple, but definitely something passionate). But of course I talked myself out of such an outrageous display knowing it would be childish and counter-productive. Not to mention vengeful. Also, I didn’t want poor Fritz to be tempted to send me to a mental ward, or ban me from further wall-work. However, this morning I had to wonder. “But really…ahhhh…why shouldn’t he?!?” Both of those two options sound like a lovely reprieve right now.
My other, more grown-up choice is to sand some more, but the sander-person in me (you know, the cute little painter-guy with the white billed cap) is either on strike or has quit the job completely. He’s just plain GONE. Maybe another choice could be to don the I-don’t-really-care-about-how-this-turns-out hat (that old straw one with the bullet holes left from the time it was a target for the guys during their shoot-out on “rural heritage day”). Or, I could paint the whole mess as-is, and pretend I don’t care. But unfortunately (this is the real bummer) I DO care. Thus far my remodel mind-set has been nothing less than meticulous. I’ve put forth my very best effort, and am doing the work carefully, as if for the Lord. How can I suddenly turn a corner and settle for scabby walls? Shudder. It hurts to imagine such a thing.
On another note, today Fritz sees the cardiologist in Indy for the first time since his good news last October. We’re leaving shortly, and I’m hoping the conversation goes beyond professional/clinical into the realm of Real and Detailed and Transparent. Just for my sake, if not theirs. Maybe the leprous walls will shape up some while we’re gone. Or maybe they’ll collaborate during that time (heh, heh, heh, evil walls that they are) and figure out a way to “wall me in.” (Credits go to Robert Frost for the walling-in image.) I think that’s already happened.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
WHO ME? Back in the Foodservice Business?
Yes, it seems to be happening. After 10 years (almost to the month), I’m heading back to the deep stainless steel sinks and Hobart mixers, and will be helping to feed the masses (actually bigger masses than before). Yeah. Really.
I sold my bakery in June of 1999, and under private oath promised myself never again to return to anything similar. Well, this actually ISN’T similar, except that FOOD is involved. Oh, and PEOPLE. And (true confessions, here) ever since selling my business I’ve felt a twinge every time I went into a store with a bakery case. This little voice said, “You could do that…you could contribute a lot here.”
Besides that, I simply have a knack for food prep. It comes to me easily, and I can make snap judgments about quantities and seasonings and have them turn out reasonably okay. Most of the time my best meals are throw-together affairs when I sling a little-of-this-and-that…and presto, something edible emerges as if by accident, except it actually tastes okay. Of course we’ll see what happens when I’m confronted with hundreds of people and overlapping groups with different menus. Yikes.
So here’s the scoop. As of next week I’m going to try working in a Christian camp/retreat center kitchen part-time. The kitchen chef, Dave, prepares food from scratch (yay!) with lots of variety, depending on the crowd. Miracle Camp is only 9 miles from our lake house, and is an exciting place (I’ve been there a few times for various events) with lots of activity going on year-round. The dining hall looks out over Bankston Lake which is BEAUTIFUL. Dave has a very awesome kitchen facility and equipment, including a mammouth spaghetti cooker like none I’ve ever seen and a way-cool yeast-dough-roller-outer for making cinnamon rolls and pizza crusts (he bought it on ebay no less!). Everything is well-organized and clean. I’m excited about supporting the ministry going on at camp, rubbing elbows with college student helpers in the summer, and generally providing a much-needed service in an area where I can be proficient and helpful. If I’m going to invest myself somewhere in a major way, I’d rather be making muffins in this setting than the corner café or some supermarket bakery.
So now I get to continue painting/remodeling the Indiana house while working in Michigan. Huh? Yeah, that’s right. It has something to do with adopting a split personality, I suppose. But hey, at least I’ll be getting a paycheck for one of the two – that’s a nice perk right now with so much money going out and not so much coming in. And, with the economy as it is and my resume looking a little droopy from lack of marketable experience, this looks even better.
Of course there’s always a possibility that it won’t work out. I realize that. Perhaps my biggest concern is the ability to tolerate noise with my tinnitus. But Dave seems to be willing to flex with me. He knows I can’t commit to full-time (although he’d like that in the summers) and is taking a risk on my availability knowing we’re not even living here permanently. It feels “right” to me, and I think to him as well, so we’ll get together and make some chicken salad for the next conference group next week and go from there.
I sold my bakery in June of 1999, and under private oath promised myself never again to return to anything similar. Well, this actually ISN’T similar, except that FOOD is involved. Oh, and PEOPLE. And (true confessions, here) ever since selling my business I’ve felt a twinge every time I went into a store with a bakery case. This little voice said, “You could do that…you could contribute a lot here.”
Besides that, I simply have a knack for food prep. It comes to me easily, and I can make snap judgments about quantities and seasonings and have them turn out reasonably okay. Most of the time my best meals are throw-together affairs when I sling a little-of-this-and-that…and presto, something edible emerges as if by accident, except it actually tastes okay. Of course we’ll see what happens when I’m confronted with hundreds of people and overlapping groups with different menus. Yikes.
So here’s the scoop. As of next week I’m going to try working in a Christian camp/retreat center kitchen part-time. The kitchen chef, Dave, prepares food from scratch (yay!) with lots of variety, depending on the crowd. Miracle Camp is only 9 miles from our lake house, and is an exciting place (I’ve been there a few times for various events) with lots of activity going on year-round. The dining hall looks out over Bankston Lake which is BEAUTIFUL. Dave has a very awesome kitchen facility and equipment, including a mammouth spaghetti cooker like none I’ve ever seen and a way-cool yeast-dough-roller-outer for making cinnamon rolls and pizza crusts (he bought it on ebay no less!). Everything is well-organized and clean. I’m excited about supporting the ministry going on at camp, rubbing elbows with college student helpers in the summer, and generally providing a much-needed service in an area where I can be proficient and helpful. If I’m going to invest myself somewhere in a major way, I’d rather be making muffins in this setting than the corner café or some supermarket bakery.
So now I get to continue painting/remodeling the Indiana house while working in Michigan. Huh? Yeah, that’s right. It has something to do with adopting a split personality, I suppose. But hey, at least I’ll be getting a paycheck for one of the two – that’s a nice perk right now with so much money going out and not so much coming in. And, with the economy as it is and my resume looking a little droopy from lack of marketable experience, this looks even better.
Of course there’s always a possibility that it won’t work out. I realize that. Perhaps my biggest concern is the ability to tolerate noise with my tinnitus. But Dave seems to be willing to flex with me. He knows I can’t commit to full-time (although he’d like that in the summers) and is taking a risk on my availability knowing we’re not even living here permanently. It feels “right” to me, and I think to him as well, so we’ll get together and make some chicken salad for the next conference group next week and go from there.
Monday, April 20, 2009
WANT-ADS!
WANTED: SPIRITUAL BOOT CAMP DIRECTOR
Spiritual drill sergeant with a personality resembling M*A*S*H’s Major Margaret “Hot Lips” Houlihan. Must hold onward-Christian-soldier-types to the line with no-nonsense accountability in matters of Christian discipline.
WANTED: RAW FOOD CHEF
Raw cook well versed in fruit-and-vegetable juicing as well as all aspects of raw food preparation. Must be willing to take over shopping, preparation, and clean-up. Should be familiar with at least some major raw food lifestyle resources (such as Rev. George Malkmus as Hallelujah Acres, Dr. Lorraine Day, Paul Nison, Angela Stokes, the Talifero family, or others). Will share personal recipe file with plentiful meal-planning ideas.
WANTED: HOUSEKEEPER/LAUNDRESS
Meticulous housekeeper willing to maintain home, deck, hot tub, etc. as well as wash and iron clothes. Must also handle clean-up at lake house after visiting guests depart, and clean-up at Buck Creek house after paint jobs and other remodeling.
WANTED: EXPERIENCED MASSEUSE
Professional masseuse versed in reflexology and all methods of therapeutic massage. Must be available night or day (or middle of night) on all weekdays and weekends.
WANTED: COUNSELOR/FRIEND
Committed heart-level companion. Must be willing to intimately share the full scope of human life with all of its ups and downs from a perspective of grace and healing.
_____________________________________
Instructions: Please post all resumes here. Salaries negotiable; bartering (shared encouragement) preferred. Spiritual maturity/zeal appreciated. Applications will be reviewed and notification made promptly upon selection. Remuneration may compound significantly if single applicant assumes multiple positions.
Spiritual drill sergeant with a personality resembling M*A*S*H’s Major Margaret “Hot Lips” Houlihan. Must hold onward-Christian-soldier-types to the line with no-nonsense accountability in matters of Christian discipline.
WANTED: RAW FOOD CHEF
Raw cook well versed in fruit-and-vegetable juicing as well as all aspects of raw food preparation. Must be willing to take over shopping, preparation, and clean-up. Should be familiar with at least some major raw food lifestyle resources (such as Rev. George Malkmus as Hallelujah Acres, Dr. Lorraine Day, Paul Nison, Angela Stokes, the Talifero family, or others). Will share personal recipe file with plentiful meal-planning ideas.
WANTED: HOUSEKEEPER/LAUNDRESS
Meticulous housekeeper willing to maintain home, deck, hot tub, etc. as well as wash and iron clothes. Must also handle clean-up at lake house after visiting guests depart, and clean-up at Buck Creek house after paint jobs and other remodeling.
WANTED: EXPERIENCED MASSEUSE
Professional masseuse versed in reflexology and all methods of therapeutic massage. Must be available night or day (or middle of night) on all weekdays and weekends.
WANTED: COUNSELOR/FRIEND
Committed heart-level companion. Must be willing to intimately share the full scope of human life with all of its ups and downs from a perspective of grace and healing.
_____________________________________
Instructions: Please post all resumes here. Salaries negotiable; bartering (shared encouragement) preferred. Spiritual maturity/zeal appreciated. Applications will be reviewed and notification made promptly upon selection. Remuneration may compound significantly if single applicant assumes multiple positions.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Cinderella and The Lion
“I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserables has been bouncing around in my head following Susan Boyle’s inspiring performance a week ago - particularly the stanza about the tigers:
But the tigers come at night,
With their voices soft as thunder,
As they tear your hope apart,
And they turn your dream to shame.
There’s a lot packed into those few lines, and I’ve ended up thinking about scriptural references to the ominous first cousins of tigers: lions.
Judah is a Messianic “lion’s cub” (Ge. 49:8-10) that develops into the Lion: the tribe of Judah, the Root of David (Re. 5:5).
Samuel tore a lion apart with his bare hands when the Spirit of the Lord came upon him (Judges 14:6).
Daniel was spared death in the lions’ den when God sent an angel to bind the mouths of the lions (Daniel 6:22).
God’s abundance is greater than any threat from hungry lions (Ps. 34:9-10).
The devil presents himself as a prowling lion looking for easy prey, but God’s grace is sufficient to overcome (I Pe. 5: 8-10).
Clearly, lions are symbols of power – creatures of incredible strength surpassed only by the might of the supreme Lion, God Himself.
In stark contrast, I might be seen as (an older version of) Cinderella.
Like the tigers of Susan Boyle’s dreams, lions of discouragement have growled their disapproval and provoked feelings of inadequacy in me for years. But through of her recent example, and the ongoing Christian witness of personal friends, I’ve been encouraged to dust off my buried dreams.
I exist to serve The Lion – the Aslan (both thunderstorm and kitten) of C.S. Lewis.
After all, this Lion is both the Dream-Giver and the Miracle-Worker, and can defeat any lions standing in the way of the realization of His dreams in me. I have renewed hope that it’s not too late, even at age ripe old age of 60. I see more clearly the necessity of passionately trusting this Dream-Giver, and then taking a single Cinderella-step-of-faith knowing the glass slipper will surely fit.
Note: AFTER writing this blog (but before publishing it) I happened onto the following web site (originating in Manila, no less). Amen!
http://mb.com.ph/articles/202917/stunning-surprises-life
But the tigers come at night,
With their voices soft as thunder,
As they tear your hope apart,
And they turn your dream to shame.
There’s a lot packed into those few lines, and I’ve ended up thinking about scriptural references to the ominous first cousins of tigers: lions.
Judah is a Messianic “lion’s cub” (Ge. 49:8-10) that develops into the Lion: the tribe of Judah, the Root of David (Re. 5:5).
Samuel tore a lion apart with his bare hands when the Spirit of the Lord came upon him (Judges 14:6).
Daniel was spared death in the lions’ den when God sent an angel to bind the mouths of the lions (Daniel 6:22).
God’s abundance is greater than any threat from hungry lions (Ps. 34:9-10).
The devil presents himself as a prowling lion looking for easy prey, but God’s grace is sufficient to overcome (I Pe. 5: 8-10).
Clearly, lions are symbols of power – creatures of incredible strength surpassed only by the might of the supreme Lion, God Himself.
In stark contrast, I might be seen as (an older version of) Cinderella.
Like the tigers of Susan Boyle’s dreams, lions of discouragement have growled their disapproval and provoked feelings of inadequacy in me for years. But through of her recent example, and the ongoing Christian witness of personal friends, I’ve been encouraged to dust off my buried dreams.
I exist to serve The Lion – the Aslan (both thunderstorm and kitten) of C.S. Lewis.
After all, this Lion is both the Dream-Giver and the Miracle-Worker, and can defeat any lions standing in the way of the realization of His dreams in me. I have renewed hope that it’s not too late, even at age ripe old age of 60. I see more clearly the necessity of passionately trusting this Dream-Giver, and then taking a single Cinderella-step-of-faith knowing the glass slipper will surely fit.
Note: AFTER writing this blog (but before publishing it) I happened onto the following web site (originating in Manila, no less). Amen!
http://mb.com.ph/articles/202917/stunning-surprises-life
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Water Show
We sat on the deck and watched two muskrats perform water aerobics in the lake tonight as the sun sank below the horizon and spread a peach-orange glow over the lake. They dove and swam in circles like water-ballet acrobats for the longest time, seemingly lost in play. I had to wonder where the choreography came from, what was going on inside their little heads, and if this was some sort of mating ritual or just idle frolic.
Earlier, when pounding the pavement during my 2-mile walk, I ran into one of these little critters. I saw him first, sitting on the side of the road pawing at a pile of dirt, but then he saw me and stiffened for an instant before slithering away into the inlet creek.
I like living in a place where animals can still successfully survive in their natural habitat in the wild. I feel like I belong, too.
Earlier, when pounding the pavement during my 2-mile walk, I ran into one of these little critters. I saw him first, sitting on the side of the road pawing at a pile of dirt, but then he saw me and stiffened for an instant before slithering away into the inlet creek.
I like living in a place where animals can still successfully survive in their natural habitat in the wild. I feel like I belong, too.
A Fishy Tale
Soooooo….we’re back in Michigan as of yesterday evening. I barely know where I am sometimes when I wake up in the morning – until I blink hard and have a good look at the room. So I figure I should make note of my whereabouts here. Just to pin that down. So there’s no mistake. It is GOOD to know where one IS on the face of the planet.
But also, on a more philosophical note, I lay in bed last night and remembered a long-ago memory - and made some fresh applications.
Twenty-some years ago an alternative/holistic/Christian medical doctor looked over the top of the glasses perched on the end of her nose, gave me the I’m-the-doctor-and-I-mean-it-look, and told me, “There is blessing in obedience (to God).” I believed her implicitly at the time. However, back then “blessing” meant only the absence of profound disability or want, and “obedience” meant being a good girl according to my own interior dictates. As time passed, the words “blessing” and “obedience” continued to evolve and expand into much more life-altering-and-supernaturally-defining concepts.
Being the sort that gloms onto analogies and metaphors, even if they don’t exactly match circumstances, I’ll say that I currently remind myself of a fish in this matter of blessing and obedience – a feisty one hooked permanently on God’s heavy-weight line. Sometimes He lets out the line when I need to run and exhaust myself with my own efforts, and other times He reels me in and monitors the distance. Occasionally I flail at the surface of the water in an attempt to shake the barbed bait – but in reality I feel a sense of comfort in knowing I can trust the tension.
See the give-and-take? The upper hand? The grace? The sovereignty?
In this manner God caught me, reeled me in, and yet respects my stubborn human will. I still splurge like a glutton at times (on the juiciest minnows and crawdads?), give place to my emotions first (isn’t that my birthright?), and protect the false security created by my own control (even though I realize He knows best).
All the while He just wants to land me in His boat, once and for all. But how would I breathe? What would the future bring for a fish out of water?
FAITH.
It’s shocking to step back into an observer’s perspective and see how much I’m controlled by appetites (all kinds) and emotions (all kinds). As I look out over the lake with its sparkly surface covering the dark depths, I long to release those things and simply focus on the person and mystery of Christ – and with one magnificent leap, jump higher than I ever have before, and land the boat where I can never again exert my own will and swim off on some cockeyed, directionless trail.
But also, on a more philosophical note, I lay in bed last night and remembered a long-ago memory - and made some fresh applications.
Twenty-some years ago an alternative/holistic/Christian medical doctor looked over the top of the glasses perched on the end of her nose, gave me the I’m-the-doctor-and-I-mean-it-look, and told me, “There is blessing in obedience (to God).” I believed her implicitly at the time. However, back then “blessing” meant only the absence of profound disability or want, and “obedience” meant being a good girl according to my own interior dictates. As time passed, the words “blessing” and “obedience” continued to evolve and expand into much more life-altering-and-supernaturally-defining concepts.
Being the sort that gloms onto analogies and metaphors, even if they don’t exactly match circumstances, I’ll say that I currently remind myself of a fish in this matter of blessing and obedience – a feisty one hooked permanently on God’s heavy-weight line. Sometimes He lets out the line when I need to run and exhaust myself with my own efforts, and other times He reels me in and monitors the distance. Occasionally I flail at the surface of the water in an attempt to shake the barbed bait – but in reality I feel a sense of comfort in knowing I can trust the tension.
See the give-and-take? The upper hand? The grace? The sovereignty?
In this manner God caught me, reeled me in, and yet respects my stubborn human will. I still splurge like a glutton at times (on the juiciest minnows and crawdads?), give place to my emotions first (isn’t that my birthright?), and protect the false security created by my own control (even though I realize He knows best).
All the while He just wants to land me in His boat, once and for all. But how would I breathe? What would the future bring for a fish out of water?
FAITH.
It’s shocking to step back into an observer’s perspective and see how much I’m controlled by appetites (all kinds) and emotions (all kinds). As I look out over the lake with its sparkly surface covering the dark depths, I long to release those things and simply focus on the person and mystery of Christ – and with one magnificent leap, jump higher than I ever have before, and land the boat where I can never again exert my own will and swim off on some cockeyed, directionless trail.
Friday, April 17, 2009
One More Shot...
This pose shows the pitch of the roof a little better. See what I mean? There's no other word for that roof than SCARY!!!
Up One Side...Down the Other
The roof repair project is currently in progress and seems to be going well so far - no mishaps or unexpected problems and it is a BEAUTIFUL sunny day - PRAISE GOD!
Night Wars
Last night was long; the hours dripped like cold, deathly-dark molasses. I felt beaten down holistically: body, soul, spirit. Obstacles, fears, pain, worry, distress pressed from every side. My humanness stood firm until I melted in God’s faithful arms and found some release and sleep as the sun rose.
I’m guessing the following poem was written somewhere around 3:00 a.m. Even then, it was therapeutic knowing I was not alone and that the travail would pass.
Today our younger son and his friend will repair our (extremely dangerous) barn roof. For perspective, I will share that two professional roofing companies jacked up the price big time because THEY didn’t want to have to climb up on that slippery, steep, tall, hazardous metal roof. So instead, we send our loved one up there, and his young buddy. I have no peace about it.
The God who rescued me last night will send His guardian angels. Forever Priest, Lord Jesus: come.
___________________________
Night Wars
Shadows march around the walls,
Slinky creatures known for madness.
Anguish answers with a moan,
Panic overwhelms with sadness.
Losses prowl around like bats,
Ready to pursue their feastings.
Night of predators prevails,
Shadows take on shapes of beast wings.
Feeble prey can feel the pain,
Cowers in a corner crying.
Sirens blast their wailing screams,
There is only time for sighing.
Forever Priest,
Lord Jesus:
COME!
Wrestled to the floor I lay,
Outnumbered but protected there.
God takes all my panicked fears,
And battles them - their every dare.
Rescue hails when dawn is nigh,
After grief has done its reaping.
New hope will come for certain,
It’s no longer time for weeping.
Someday all my earthly night,
Will give way to glory’s glowing.
Final rest will come at last,
Shadows fade in love’s all-knowing.
I’m guessing the following poem was written somewhere around 3:00 a.m. Even then, it was therapeutic knowing I was not alone and that the travail would pass.
Today our younger son and his friend will repair our (extremely dangerous) barn roof. For perspective, I will share that two professional roofing companies jacked up the price big time because THEY didn’t want to have to climb up on that slippery, steep, tall, hazardous metal roof. So instead, we send our loved one up there, and his young buddy. I have no peace about it.
The God who rescued me last night will send His guardian angels. Forever Priest, Lord Jesus: come.
___________________________
Night Wars
Shadows march around the walls,
Slinky creatures known for madness.
Anguish answers with a moan,
Panic overwhelms with sadness.
Losses prowl around like bats,
Ready to pursue their feastings.
Night of predators prevails,
Shadows take on shapes of beast wings.
Feeble prey can feel the pain,
Cowers in a corner crying.
Sirens blast their wailing screams,
There is only time for sighing.
Forever Priest,
Lord Jesus:
COME!
Wrestled to the floor I lay,
Outnumbered but protected there.
God takes all my panicked fears,
And battles them - their every dare.
Rescue hails when dawn is nigh,
After grief has done its reaping.
New hope will come for certain,
It’s no longer time for weeping.
Someday all my earthly night,
Will give way to glory’s glowing.
Final rest will come at last,
Shadows fade in love’s all-knowing.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Countering the Counterfeit
Several ago the name Susan Boyle meant nothing to me. Now after repeatedly listening to Susan’s recent performance of “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserables on a British talent show last Saturday, I’ve been struck/ stirred/inspired/encouraged/challenged. THIS is what giftedness and inspiration looks like. I’m addicted to her naïve honesty and childlikeness made perfect through innate and powerful expression, and keep returning to YouTube for more – more of whatever is so pure and unrestrained that comes from her heart in song.
Could it be that God has likewise implanted some equally unique talent/gift in each and every one of us? The very thought gives me chills.
Susan has lived a quiet and humble life. As she approaches her 48th birthday, her incredible singing voice just now has been exposed to the world…and the world can’t help but both applaud and weep in response.
It seems to me she is sweeping the globe with understated/unspoken virtues emanating from deep within her soul – some sort of feisty tenderness that takes shape when she sings to transform those who listen. Her dynamics pull the listener to a high place above the din of ordinary rote staleness. There is something passionate about this simple, plain woman from some small village in Scotland – this person who suffered oxygen deprivation at birth and struggled with learning disabilities as a result – this person who was so often ridiculed by her peers and serves in her local community by helping those less fortunate.
“The last shall be first.” So it is with Susan Boyle as she counters the counterfeit and teaches us all how to be real.
Could it be that God has likewise implanted some equally unique talent/gift in each and every one of us? The very thought gives me chills.
Susan has lived a quiet and humble life. As she approaches her 48th birthday, her incredible singing voice just now has been exposed to the world…and the world can’t help but both applaud and weep in response.
It seems to me she is sweeping the globe with understated/unspoken virtues emanating from deep within her soul – some sort of feisty tenderness that takes shape when she sings to transform those who listen. Her dynamics pull the listener to a high place above the din of ordinary rote staleness. There is something passionate about this simple, plain woman from some small village in Scotland – this person who suffered oxygen deprivation at birth and struggled with learning disabilities as a result – this person who was so often ridiculed by her peers and serves in her local community by helping those less fortunate.
“The last shall be first.” So it is with Susan Boyle as she counters the counterfeit and teaches us all how to be real.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Mmmmmm....BROCCOLI SALAD!
I just finished a really good dinner, and it was one of my weird concoctions, no less.
After cooking all afternoon for various OTHER people who will be eating my food for the next couple of days, I ended up with:
Chicken and rice casserole
Green beans
Yeast rolls
Split pea soup with smoked turkey
Broccoli salad
Cut fresh fruit
The only thing in that whole repertoire that fit the raw-food mandate was the fruit and broccoli salad…so that’s what I had. The other stuff sat on the counter until it cooled and then went into the frig for later.
But I decided for posterity I needed to record what was in this (waaaay maaaarvelous) broccoli salad. So ready or not, here you go. Everything is very finely chopped…I think that’s part of the success:
Solids:
Broccoli
Red onion
Pine nuts (lots)
Pecans
Raisins
Dressing:
Olive oil
Raspberry vinegar
Honey
Celery seed
Salt/pepper
Dash of tarragon
Dash of onion powder
Go ahead, try it! What’s that, you say? You want proportions? Ohhhhh. Well, I’m sorry. I’m a grab-and-throw cook, for those of you who don’t already know. Things just sort of happen, and I can’t duplicate the same thing EXACTLY twice. So, I can’t help you there.
After cooking all afternoon for various OTHER people who will be eating my food for the next couple of days, I ended up with:
Chicken and rice casserole
Green beans
Yeast rolls
Split pea soup with smoked turkey
Broccoli salad
Cut fresh fruit
The only thing in that whole repertoire that fit the raw-food mandate was the fruit and broccoli salad…so that’s what I had. The other stuff sat on the counter until it cooled and then went into the frig for later.
But I decided for posterity I needed to record what was in this (waaaay maaaarvelous) broccoli salad. So ready or not, here you go. Everything is very finely chopped…I think that’s part of the success:
Solids:
Broccoli
Red onion
Pine nuts (lots)
Pecans
Raisins
Dressing:
Olive oil
Raspberry vinegar
Honey
Celery seed
Salt/pepper
Dash of tarragon
Dash of onion powder
Go ahead, try it! What’s that, you say? You want proportions? Ohhhhh. Well, I’m sorry. I’m a grab-and-throw cook, for those of you who don’t already know. Things just sort of happen, and I can’t duplicate the same thing EXACTLY twice. So, I can’t help you there.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
New News
The always-migrating gypsies (that would be us) have been on the road again today, and are currently back in Buck Creek. I finished stripping wallpaper in the living room this afternoon. As proof, a floppy ice bag is draped over my sore knees that are, at the moment, protesting and on strike against the step-ladder.
The new news is that the local volunteer fire department would like to consider buying our top four-acre field – the only parcel in our 25-acres that has potential commercial value when the new four-lane highway is constructed in back of our property. That in itself isn’t horrible, but by law they could buy it dirt cheap if they wanted/needed to since they’re a public service organization – and losing that parcel could potentially devalue the rest of our property. THAT seems fairly crummy…maybe even horrible. Or at the very least, discouraging. We’ll find out more at a private meeting on Thursday night.
It seems challenging to keep a focus on interior (heart) things when so many exterior (circumstantial) things clamor and claw for attention. I long for a reprieve of silence, and yet even that is obscure thanks to tinnitus.
The new news is that the local volunteer fire department would like to consider buying our top four-acre field – the only parcel in our 25-acres that has potential commercial value when the new four-lane highway is constructed in back of our property. That in itself isn’t horrible, but by law they could buy it dirt cheap if they wanted/needed to since they’re a public service organization – and losing that parcel could potentially devalue the rest of our property. THAT seems fairly crummy…maybe even horrible. Or at the very least, discouraging. We’ll find out more at a private meeting on Thursday night.
It seems challenging to keep a focus on interior (heart) things when so many exterior (circumstantial) things clamor and claw for attention. I long for a reprieve of silence, and yet even that is obscure thanks to tinnitus.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Moment-by-Moment Salvation
For many years I bought into the following definition of grace: unmerited favor. Only recently have I perceived grace as so much more dynamic and multi-faceted and PLURAL. Grace is faith, hope, love, trust, humility, mercy…I’m not sure where to stop. Truly, the greatest of these is love, as the apostle Paul said – the umbrella of charity that gathers and weaves all the other graces together.
The question lingering in the Easter after-glow is simply this. How do these graces permeate my life and define salvation? It is a matter of receiving, moment-by-moment.
In science lingo the term “receptor” refers to any molecule that interacts with (holds onto) some other molecule. In a similar context, I see my self as needing/wanting to receive graces from God in a moment-by-moment interacting-and-holding-onto.
I don't understand the intricacies of photosynthesis. I only know the ivy plant growing atop my hutch has innate receptors in its leaves that take in sunshine and enable life. It wouldn't survive long in the closet. So why, then, should the human heart be subject to protective, closet-like spiritual hide-outs? We need to be in His presence, receiving.
Perhaps when we get hung up with a once-and-for-all view of eternity as something after this life (a common interpretation of Easter victory), this interacting-and-holding-onto might be helpful perspective - one covering the spectrum of time and beyond time.
The question lingering in the Easter after-glow is simply this. How do these graces permeate my life and define salvation? It is a matter of receiving, moment-by-moment.
In science lingo the term “receptor” refers to any molecule that interacts with (holds onto) some other molecule. In a similar context, I see my self as needing/wanting to receive graces from God in a moment-by-moment interacting-and-holding-onto.
I don't understand the intricacies of photosynthesis. I only know the ivy plant growing atop my hutch has innate receptors in its leaves that take in sunshine and enable life. It wouldn't survive long in the closet. So why, then, should the human heart be subject to protective, closet-like spiritual hide-outs? We need to be in His presence, receiving.
Perhaps when we get hung up with a once-and-for-all view of eternity as something after this life (a common interpretation of Easter victory), this interacting-and-holding-onto might be helpful perspective - one covering the spectrum of time and beyond time.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Alive
This has been an intense Easter week for me. I’m at a loss to condense or explain the scope of these past few days, despite my addiction to words - for they have paradoxically anchored and freed me; broken and healed me. This week I’ve seen transformation with (wider) eyes open to internalize redemption: the crushing weight of suffering juxtaposed with the reach-out-and-touch-reality of matching measures of mercy.
All week I’ve been very aware of the need to experience and meditate upon Jesus’ passion. This has enabled me to see many things, including my own need for (and participation in) ongoing salvation.
Yesterday on my afternoon walk, I asked God to show me what daily victory looks like. “Step away (from sin/temptation/rebellion)…and RECEIVE my abundant graces.”
After attending church this morning (here in Michigan) I came home and listened to the audio of our pastor’s message back in Lafayette. Easter, and its empty tomb, demands a response. I cannot remain the same person but must let God have His way in my life. Is this not true repentance?
A week ago, on the afternoon of Palm Sunday, I sat down to write my weekly FaithWriter contest entry. The current assignment was “up and down” – an open-ended topic that could be developed in potentially many different ways. I chose to address the chronic “downers” of life in the context of the resurrecting “upper” of readily available grace. I’ll copy and paste it here, so you can see for yourself. It seems no accident that this perspective of suffering and redemption, given to me a week ago, included a vision for not only my own inner restoration, but for ministry to others.
He is risen! His grace IS sufficient! The stone covering His grave was miraculously rolled away, just as my stone/obstacle/pain can be a harbinger of freedom rather than a death sentence.
I am ALIVE.
____________________________________________________
Cascading Despair; Artesian Grace
Thunderous emotions descend with Niagara-force, crashing on inner boulders worn smooth by years of ongoing assault. The very foundation of my soul shudders. Such forceful pounding promises to crush the human spirit. I feel suffocated.
The constant onslaught of panic wears me down like a gushing, insidious form of internal Chinese water torture. Anxiety gains the upper hand; hope evaporates in a misty haze of doubt and fear. Down, down I sink into depths of hopelessness, alone and overcome by circumstances far beyond anyone’s control.
I’m blinded by both physical and emotional pain, numbed by this unstoppable river of feelings as they tumble in deep descent. Surely my life - with so much weariness - has become merely a matter of survival. I will wait to die while stalked by inadequacy.
And yet … God wills that my brokenness be resurrected by virtue of His very presence. In a split second defying earthly explanation, kairos (God-time) intersects with chronos (earth-time). I fall to my knees and cry out to Him in a state of utter abandonment. “MERCY!” The steep, limestone-gray canyon walls of my soul echo my plea: mercy … mercy … mercy!
I raise my head and shout at the top of my lungs: “HOSANNA – SAVE ME!” Again, the echoes peal: hosanna – save me … save me … save me!
The walls offer no tangible answer, no inner peace.
My entire body falls facedown. The weight of despair crushes me until I’m literally pressed, diminished, flattened. I slither in something like oozy mud, weeping. I can no longer endure. Like an injured snake confined to its belly and frozen in place, I try to writhe in my agony, but am unable to leave this miry spot of self-absorbed defeat.
Time is torturous; minutes drag - or seem to even stop. How long must I wait to die? How long must I grovel in despair? I cry tributary tears that mingle with the Lord’s at the foot of His cross – kairos, again.
My breathing becomes raspy and labored. Will God forsake me to my pain?
A slow trickle of hope emerges from the unified streams of tears to shimmer like a subtle-mirage-turned-real. Renewed, I follow it to discover an artesian well gushing up in a previously hidden, deep-deep-dark-soul-spot. The water, bubbling with the promise of eternal life, looks mineral-laden: red and bloody. Is this my own blood? Living water? Baptismal water? Sacrificial tabernacle washing water, stained by the blood of a perfect lamb?
Is this what they call the cleansing flood?
I gaze into something resembling the pool of Bethesda where the tears and artesian water have collected and clarified. Adrenaline courses, and my heart races. I glance furtively, wondering if I might dare to stay here indefinitely. Surely this place is the wellspring of my life: MY HEART. I blink hard to gather my wits and find that yes indeed, it’s true, and Jesus is here with me. He asks me one simple question: “Do you want to be healed?”
The artesian waters continue to flow up, up, up from deeper cavernous substructures that exist well below the superficiality of my rational mind – ones created even before the beginning of time. The surface of the resulting pool ripples as if from the touch of angels’ wings. Can He refresh my heart, restore life, and replace dread? Will He choose to do this for me – TO me?
“Hosanna?” I whisper meekly, while kneeling at His feet. And then, more boldly, I turn my face upward and our eyes meet. “Save me, Lord Jesus?”
He gestures with one arm, inviting me to immerse myself in deep places, to be baptized once again in His grace. I slip quietly into the pool of living water, hold my breath, and descend below the surface: willful relinquishment. At just the right moment hope rescues me, and I find myself at the surface again - panting, gasping, starved for a breath of Real Life.
As I climb back onto dry land and peer into His face, everything seems different. Once I was blind, but now I see clearly with heightened sensory and spiritual perception. I’ve risen from the bowels of Noah’s ark into Light. I am the woman at the well; the blind man with mud rinsed from his eyes; the lame man healed at the pool.
He leads me to a high spot above the canyon and washes my feet. I am called to descend to others below, and do likewise.
All week I’ve been very aware of the need to experience and meditate upon Jesus’ passion. This has enabled me to see many things, including my own need for (and participation in) ongoing salvation.
Yesterday on my afternoon walk, I asked God to show me what daily victory looks like. “Step away (from sin/temptation/rebellion)…and RECEIVE my abundant graces.”
After attending church this morning (here in Michigan) I came home and listened to the audio of our pastor’s message back in Lafayette. Easter, and its empty tomb, demands a response. I cannot remain the same person but must let God have His way in my life. Is this not true repentance?
A week ago, on the afternoon of Palm Sunday, I sat down to write my weekly FaithWriter contest entry. The current assignment was “up and down” – an open-ended topic that could be developed in potentially many different ways. I chose to address the chronic “downers” of life in the context of the resurrecting “upper” of readily available grace. I’ll copy and paste it here, so you can see for yourself. It seems no accident that this perspective of suffering and redemption, given to me a week ago, included a vision for not only my own inner restoration, but for ministry to others.
He is risen! His grace IS sufficient! The stone covering His grave was miraculously rolled away, just as my stone/obstacle/pain can be a harbinger of freedom rather than a death sentence.
I am ALIVE.
____________________________________________________
Cascading Despair; Artesian Grace
Thunderous emotions descend with Niagara-force, crashing on inner boulders worn smooth by years of ongoing assault. The very foundation of my soul shudders. Such forceful pounding promises to crush the human spirit. I feel suffocated.
The constant onslaught of panic wears me down like a gushing, insidious form of internal Chinese water torture. Anxiety gains the upper hand; hope evaporates in a misty haze of doubt and fear. Down, down I sink into depths of hopelessness, alone and overcome by circumstances far beyond anyone’s control.
I’m blinded by both physical and emotional pain, numbed by this unstoppable river of feelings as they tumble in deep descent. Surely my life - with so much weariness - has become merely a matter of survival. I will wait to die while stalked by inadequacy.
And yet … God wills that my brokenness be resurrected by virtue of His very presence. In a split second defying earthly explanation, kairos (God-time) intersects with chronos (earth-time). I fall to my knees and cry out to Him in a state of utter abandonment. “MERCY!” The steep, limestone-gray canyon walls of my soul echo my plea: mercy … mercy … mercy!
I raise my head and shout at the top of my lungs: “HOSANNA – SAVE ME!” Again, the echoes peal: hosanna – save me … save me … save me!
The walls offer no tangible answer, no inner peace.
My entire body falls facedown. The weight of despair crushes me until I’m literally pressed, diminished, flattened. I slither in something like oozy mud, weeping. I can no longer endure. Like an injured snake confined to its belly and frozen in place, I try to writhe in my agony, but am unable to leave this miry spot of self-absorbed defeat.
Time is torturous; minutes drag - or seem to even stop. How long must I wait to die? How long must I grovel in despair? I cry tributary tears that mingle with the Lord’s at the foot of His cross – kairos, again.
My breathing becomes raspy and labored. Will God forsake me to my pain?
A slow trickle of hope emerges from the unified streams of tears to shimmer like a subtle-mirage-turned-real. Renewed, I follow it to discover an artesian well gushing up in a previously hidden, deep-deep-dark-soul-spot. The water, bubbling with the promise of eternal life, looks mineral-laden: red and bloody. Is this my own blood? Living water? Baptismal water? Sacrificial tabernacle washing water, stained by the blood of a perfect lamb?
Is this what they call the cleansing flood?
I gaze into something resembling the pool of Bethesda where the tears and artesian water have collected and clarified. Adrenaline courses, and my heart races. I glance furtively, wondering if I might dare to stay here indefinitely. Surely this place is the wellspring of my life: MY HEART. I blink hard to gather my wits and find that yes indeed, it’s true, and Jesus is here with me. He asks me one simple question: “Do you want to be healed?”
The artesian waters continue to flow up, up, up from deeper cavernous substructures that exist well below the superficiality of my rational mind – ones created even before the beginning of time. The surface of the resulting pool ripples as if from the touch of angels’ wings. Can He refresh my heart, restore life, and replace dread? Will He choose to do this for me – TO me?
“Hosanna?” I whisper meekly, while kneeling at His feet. And then, more boldly, I turn my face upward and our eyes meet. “Save me, Lord Jesus?”
He gestures with one arm, inviting me to immerse myself in deep places, to be baptized once again in His grace. I slip quietly into the pool of living water, hold my breath, and descend below the surface: willful relinquishment. At just the right moment hope rescues me, and I find myself at the surface again - panting, gasping, starved for a breath of Real Life.
As I climb back onto dry land and peer into His face, everything seems different. Once I was blind, but now I see clearly with heightened sensory and spiritual perception. I’ve risen from the bowels of Noah’s ark into Light. I am the woman at the well; the blind man with mud rinsed from his eyes; the lame man healed at the pool.
He leads me to a high spot above the canyon and washes my feet. I am called to descend to others below, and do likewise.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Emmanuel and Hosanna
We’re back in Michigan where the blue lake mirrors an open sky. A couple of solitary loons en route to their northern home have joined the usual wild swans. The water in front of the house is calm, but with square waffle-prints from the convergence of breezes sweeping from the shoreline and brisk wind out further from shore. I am grateful for the calm setting.
Tomorrow is Easter. Some things seem really big as I head into the resurrection experience - like my tinnitus - and I keep dwelling on the immersion of my own heart deeper into His. This involves meditating on His passion, and His great love borne in sacrifice that frees me from myself and delivers ever-greater graces.
There have been several small encouragements so far today (it’s now 2:00 p.m.) – little hopeful things (resurrections?) that seem big.
1. We were able to replace the oil seal (a $10 part) on my Champion Juicer rather than confront the purchase of a new unit (a $400 appliance). After about 6 weeks without a functional juicer, I made BOTH green lemonade and carrot juice! I’m hopeful to jump-start some better eating habits as I’ve fallen way short recently (in an attempt to seek solace that only delivers more grief).
2. Fritz cleaned out the interior of the car and found a calculator that had been missing for months. A happy reunion!
3. After probing with a broken hot-dog stick, and mega-digging a huge hole, Fritz discovered a dry well behind the (failed) septic tank that no one knew was there – not even our neighbor who witnessed the original installation when this house was built in 1961. This means we may be able to limp along septic-wise until the new sewer line is finished – potentially as early as November of this year. The septic guy will be out Monday morning to help assess possibilities, and perhaps drill into this dry well (with its huge concrete lid) to drain it.
4. When we returned to this house yesterday, a message was waiting on the answering machine from Miracle Camp (a local Christian summer camp and retreat center) asking if I might be interested in part-time work in the kitchen. Although this is not AT ALL my dream job, and I wouldn’t be able to respond to a position right now (due to the work-in-progress on the Indiana house), it is still encouraging to think I might land some sort of doable work in the future and help out with finances. As long as I don’t have to HEAR…
5. The current quarterly topics at FaithWriters are thought-provoking as usual and continue to keep me on my (writer) toes. Last week the topic was “up and down” and this week is “hot and cold.” In both cases I’m left thinking about the extremes of human experience - living in the flesh vs. living by the spirit - and the shades in-between as we (or at least I) confront lukewarm-ness.
These are all relatively small things in the scope of eternity, and yet they all fit together to say this: God cares about the details of earthly life. Emmanuel – He is with us - and Hosanna - He is saving us.
Tomorrow is Easter. Some things seem really big as I head into the resurrection experience - like my tinnitus - and I keep dwelling on the immersion of my own heart deeper into His. This involves meditating on His passion, and His great love borne in sacrifice that frees me from myself and delivers ever-greater graces.
There have been several small encouragements so far today (it’s now 2:00 p.m.) – little hopeful things (resurrections?) that seem big.
1. We were able to replace the oil seal (a $10 part) on my Champion Juicer rather than confront the purchase of a new unit (a $400 appliance). After about 6 weeks without a functional juicer, I made BOTH green lemonade and carrot juice! I’m hopeful to jump-start some better eating habits as I’ve fallen way short recently (in an attempt to seek solace that only delivers more grief).
2. Fritz cleaned out the interior of the car and found a calculator that had been missing for months. A happy reunion!
3. After probing with a broken hot-dog stick, and mega-digging a huge hole, Fritz discovered a dry well behind the (failed) septic tank that no one knew was there – not even our neighbor who witnessed the original installation when this house was built in 1961. This means we may be able to limp along septic-wise until the new sewer line is finished – potentially as early as November of this year. The septic guy will be out Monday morning to help assess possibilities, and perhaps drill into this dry well (with its huge concrete lid) to drain it.
4. When we returned to this house yesterday, a message was waiting on the answering machine from Miracle Camp (a local Christian summer camp and retreat center) asking if I might be interested in part-time work in the kitchen. Although this is not AT ALL my dream job, and I wouldn’t be able to respond to a position right now (due to the work-in-progress on the Indiana house), it is still encouraging to think I might land some sort of doable work in the future and help out with finances. As long as I don’t have to HEAR…
5. The current quarterly topics at FaithWriters are thought-provoking as usual and continue to keep me on my (writer) toes. Last week the topic was “up and down” and this week is “hot and cold.” In both cases I’m left thinking about the extremes of human experience - living in the flesh vs. living by the spirit - and the shades in-between as we (or at least I) confront lukewarm-ness.
These are all relatively small things in the scope of eternity, and yet they all fit together to say this: God cares about the details of earthly life. Emmanuel – He is with us - and Hosanna - He is saving us.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Devotion
After last night’s Maundy Thursday service (an intense experience) I’m thinking about the word “devotion” and how easy it is to loosely sling it around in conversation like some sort of college student backpack – obvious and necessary, and yet no one is sure what (and how much) goes inside.
What does it mean, really-and-truly, to be devoted to God? (selah) Devoted to others? (selah) And what are “daily devotions” anyway, other than some rote ritual that makes sure the bases are covered? How does devotion compare to sacrifice? Commitment? Zeal? Worship? How does devotion between two people take shape based on individual personalities/temperaments – and even end up being misinterpreted as a threat?
Sadly, so often devotion’s antonym (apathy, neglect, negligence) upholds the American idol: independence. Devotion doesn’t stand a chance in the midst of autonomy.
Devotion requires walls to come down – especially inner skyscraper-walls surrounding and constricting human hearts. It dispels both pretense and embarrassment and is a matter of giving all and receiving all, but in the context of unconditional love.
What does it mean, really-and-truly, to be devoted to God? (selah) Devoted to others? (selah) And what are “daily devotions” anyway, other than some rote ritual that makes sure the bases are covered? How does devotion compare to sacrifice? Commitment? Zeal? Worship? How does devotion between two people take shape based on individual personalities/temperaments – and even end up being misinterpreted as a threat?
Sadly, so often devotion’s antonym (apathy, neglect, negligence) upholds the American idol: independence. Devotion doesn’t stand a chance in the midst of autonomy.
Devotion requires walls to come down – especially inner skyscraper-walls surrounding and constricting human hearts. It dispels both pretense and embarrassment and is a matter of giving all and receiving all, but in the context of unconditional love.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Let the Daisies Fall Where They May
Hmmmm. Here I am with my friendly (if geriatric) laptop, surrounded by blank walls, remembering the stories those walls could tell if only they could talk. Three of our four kids have called this “their” room at one time or another. Emily’s the only one who consistently stayed in the same room (another bedroom) and so never had a sojourn here.
During one phase this used to be the two boys’ room…back when it was a very noisy, semi-disgusting but full-of-life place. The room was very beat-up in those days, with walls well-punctured with dart holes and cave-man carvings on the back of the door. Hand-me-down sound equipment stood like a skyscraper in one corner. Two walls were covered in red-and-blue racecar wallpaper (my idea, not theirs) and a large box with ratty, torn corners fit under the bottom bunk. This box was literally overflowing with wires, screws, rusty bolts, and other must-have treasures, and could be pulled in-and-out conveniently from beneath the bed for easy access. Every time I swept the room the vacuum rattled with tiny screws (Fritz jr.’s) or lego pieces (John’s) that hid out in the camouflage-ness of the braided rug. The room was usually dirty, with clothes strewn everywhere, and the closet floor boasted big globs of dry mud (and maybe cow manure) from tennis shoes that were well-coated on every side. Ah yes, a true manly room.
Later, when her older siblings had already moved out of the house, Katie took over this room. The racecar paper came down and we painted the walls a cheery pale yellow. She chose an almost-avocado-green comforter for the antique Jenny Lind bed – the one with the knobby head-and-footboards, in case you don’t know. I re-dressed a dressing table from my own teen years with a new flowery top and skirt, and Katie filled the top with pretty perfume bottles, combs, mirrors and such…until a lit (girly) oil lamp dripped and the skirt caught fire causing us to scream and run in circles in true female fashion (her cool-calm-collected younger bro handled the crisis with a fire extinguisher). A big bookshelf stood in one corner of the room with an artsy rock, bird nest, and dry flowers on top and plenty of books and PICTURES of cheesy-grinning girlfriends (and a few boyfriends) sprinkled here and there. Those were the days Kate worked at All Fired Up, the paint-your-own-pottery place. And now, although there’s nothing much in the room except a bed and empty dresser, a tiny remnant of Katie’s All Fired Up days remains: a hand-painted ceramic light switch cover.
The background of this tiny cover is pale green, stricken with a hint of light - sunlight, in my opinion. Eight daisy-type-look-alikes of various sizes and shapes with decidedly black centers (black-eyed-susans but with white petals) dance in different angles as if they’ve been picked and then suddenly thrown into the air to cascade to earth according to whim – or destiny. Some stems point up, some down, and some don’t seem to have stems.
It’s a very Katie-ish piece of art.
For now, this room has become my computer hide-away – a retreat from the noise of the television that consumes the entire downstairs in the evenings. I like it up here; I like looking at, and well beyond, Katie’s daisies and getting all fuzzy-brained when I’m trying to compose a FaithWriter entry or dream up a blog topic. For being such a small thing, the light switch cover says something about expression, creativity, and go-for-it-ness. If I were to name it or give it a title, I might choose, “Whatever.”
“Whatever” is a pretty good motto, after all. It leaves the door open for possibility and inspiration. I need to respond with “whatever” more often – when things don’t go as expected, which is more often than not these days. So thanks, Katie, for the daisies dancing on the light switch cover. Thanks for leaving behind a “whatever” icon and encouraging me to throw my daily daisies with wild abandon, and let God decide how they’ll fall.
You know the old saying: let the chips (I mean daisies) fall where they may.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
March of the Ladybugs
(Note: sing to the tune of “The Ants Go Marching,” only sing “ladybugs” really fast, as if it is a one syllable word!)
The ladybugs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,
They crawl all over walls and floors, hurrah, hurrah!
The fastest ones skiddle to corners tall;
Others swarm windows till down they fall,
And they all go marching down…and then up…to make me…go insane.
Boom, boom, boom, boom…boom, boom, boom…
The ladybugs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,
They stink when squished like rotting trash, hurrah, hurrah!
The numbers grow till they’re everywhere,
These buggies take charge and I have to stare,
And they all go marching here…and then there…and end up…in my bed.
Boom, boom, boom, boom…boom, boom, boom…
The ladybugs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,
They’ve conquered this old house for sure, hurrah, hurrah!
New buyers won’t have a single clue,
They’ll rant and rave at this challenge new,
And will all go marching out…to the yard…to find space…from the bugs.
Boom, boom, boom, boom….boom, boom, boom…
The ladybugs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,
I can’t escape them, no siree, hurrah, hurrah!
A corpse lies here on my keyboard key,
I just smashed him with a sense of glee,
But they all go marching still…on the screen…on my lap…in my hair.
Boom, boom, boom, boom…boom, boom, boom…
The ladybugs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,
There is no choice, they will endure, hurrah, hurrah!
We’ll co-exist, then on one fine day,
I’ll leave them here and then drive away!
And they’ll all go marching on…I’ll be gone…they’ll be here…never fear.
Boom, boom, boom, boom….boom, boom, boom, BOOM!
The ladybugs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,
They crawl all over walls and floors, hurrah, hurrah!
The fastest ones skiddle to corners tall;
Others swarm windows till down they fall,
And they all go marching down…and then up…to make me…go insane.
Boom, boom, boom, boom…boom, boom, boom…
The ladybugs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,
They stink when squished like rotting trash, hurrah, hurrah!
The numbers grow till they’re everywhere,
These buggies take charge and I have to stare,
And they all go marching here…and then there…and end up…in my bed.
Boom, boom, boom, boom…boom, boom, boom…
The ladybugs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,
They’ve conquered this old house for sure, hurrah, hurrah!
New buyers won’t have a single clue,
They’ll rant and rave at this challenge new,
And will all go marching out…to the yard…to find space…from the bugs.
Boom, boom, boom, boom….boom, boom, boom…
The ladybugs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,
I can’t escape them, no siree, hurrah, hurrah!
A corpse lies here on my keyboard key,
I just smashed him with a sense of glee,
But they all go marching still…on the screen…on my lap…in my hair.
Boom, boom, boom, boom…boom, boom, boom…
The ladybugs go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,
There is no choice, they will endure, hurrah, hurrah!
We’ll co-exist, then on one fine day,
I’ll leave them here and then drive away!
And they’ll all go marching on…I’ll be gone…they’ll be here…never fear.
Boom, boom, boom, boom….boom, boom, boom, BOOM!
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Shielded by God's Power
Last night I lay in bed wide awake for hours after drinking coffee too late in the day (I’ve always been sensitive to caffeine) and thought about an ongoing topic: protection.
Safety; security; protection. These are human needs, and yet it seems the female gender has a unique perspective since women, more than men, long to be sheltered (hearts/souls as well as bodies).
It’s the guys who terrorize each other with swords as little kids. They may use aluminum garbage can lids as shields (that’s outdated, but you get the drift), but victory is worth any potential wounds. They dish it out and they take it; they must overcome.
Then these little warriors grow up and take to the football field where they willfully slime each other, all in the name of recreation. Again, they wear pads and helmets – and yet how many adult men do I know who are dealing with lifelong “sports injuries?” Quite a few.
This testosterone-driven conquering spirit is tamed in adult men only enough to be civilized, and they are still often possessive, decisive, and/or competitive by nature. At least this has been my experience.
You just don’t often find girls following this same pattern. Girls are the ones in need of the conquering hero (the knight in shining armor on his white horse). They would rather sit in their high towers and wave their filmy scarves from a safe place.
I’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately, as if threatened or attacked by enormous opponents and obstacles in the heat of battles of indecision, need, physical exertion and general inadequacy – and have told myself to take one day at a time and allow God’s strength to be made perfect in my weakness.
With that in mind, I finally wafted off to sleep last night in the wee hours of the morning when I dreamed about running away and ending up in a seemingly safe, protected place where tenderness and compassion ruled – except it really wasn’t safe at all because my very person ended up being tested and violated.
A couple of nights ago we went to see the movie Slumdog Millionaire with one of our sons at the recommendation of our other son. I don’t go to movies anymore because of my crummy hearing, but I got the techno-headset that was available (which helped a little) and willed myself not to get tense or frustrated over what I missed (which was significant since there were lots of foreign accents). The plot was graphic, powerful and emotionally gripping, and I’m glad I went. It spoke clearly to the topic of danger, insecurity, and flagrant vulnerability in the face of overwhelming circumstances – and the fact that life comes down to choices.
So, while I sometimes feel like throwing in the towel and/or retreating, I realize there is no running away from life (circumstances, people, whatever)…and I must face the choices before me squarely and seek God’s direction. Ultimately it isn’t about the actual circumstances at all, but the sure knowledge that He is with me in the midst of them.
I Pe. 1:3-7 – “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil, or fade – kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come to you that your faith – of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire – may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory, and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.”
Safety; security; protection. These are human needs, and yet it seems the female gender has a unique perspective since women, more than men, long to be sheltered (hearts/souls as well as bodies).
It’s the guys who terrorize each other with swords as little kids. They may use aluminum garbage can lids as shields (that’s outdated, but you get the drift), but victory is worth any potential wounds. They dish it out and they take it; they must overcome.
Then these little warriors grow up and take to the football field where they willfully slime each other, all in the name of recreation. Again, they wear pads and helmets – and yet how many adult men do I know who are dealing with lifelong “sports injuries?” Quite a few.
This testosterone-driven conquering spirit is tamed in adult men only enough to be civilized, and they are still often possessive, decisive, and/or competitive by nature. At least this has been my experience.
You just don’t often find girls following this same pattern. Girls are the ones in need of the conquering hero (the knight in shining armor on his white horse). They would rather sit in their high towers and wave their filmy scarves from a safe place.
I’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately, as if threatened or attacked by enormous opponents and obstacles in the heat of battles of indecision, need, physical exertion and general inadequacy – and have told myself to take one day at a time and allow God’s strength to be made perfect in my weakness.
With that in mind, I finally wafted off to sleep last night in the wee hours of the morning when I dreamed about running away and ending up in a seemingly safe, protected place where tenderness and compassion ruled – except it really wasn’t safe at all because my very person ended up being tested and violated.
A couple of nights ago we went to see the movie Slumdog Millionaire with one of our sons at the recommendation of our other son. I don’t go to movies anymore because of my crummy hearing, but I got the techno-headset that was available (which helped a little) and willed myself not to get tense or frustrated over what I missed (which was significant since there were lots of foreign accents). The plot was graphic, powerful and emotionally gripping, and I’m glad I went. It spoke clearly to the topic of danger, insecurity, and flagrant vulnerability in the face of overwhelming circumstances – and the fact that life comes down to choices.
So, while I sometimes feel like throwing in the towel and/or retreating, I realize there is no running away from life (circumstances, people, whatever)…and I must face the choices before me squarely and seek God’s direction. Ultimately it isn’t about the actual circumstances at all, but the sure knowledge that He is with me in the midst of them.
I Pe. 1:3-7 – “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil, or fade – kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come to you that your faith – of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire – may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory, and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.”
Monday, April 6, 2009
Guarding the Well-Spring
While caught up in so many obvious decisions/activities/emotions these days, I also am feeling the need to keep my focus on intangible/supernatural/spiritual realities more than physical/ordinary/earthly ones. This is not a simple discipline…and requires heart-level transformation at the hand of God Himself.
A happy heart makes the face cheerful, but heartache crushes the spirit.
The discerning heart seeks knowledge, but the mouth of a fool feeds on folly.
All the days of the oppressed are wretched, but the cheerful heart has a continual feast.
-Proverbs 15:13-15
How many times do I neglect the human heart (both my own and others’) and live out of the obvious ozone-layer-strata of the superficial or intellectually logical? The heart-life requires descent into the depths and ascent to the heights; going beyond the obvious; intimately embracing relationship with God and others.
It seems the heart is often neglected or ignored altogether, as if it is some incidental player in the human experience. Perhaps this is because we can’t quantify or qualify the heart; we can’t measure how we’re doing. Perhaps we don’t want to “go there” or we’re afraid of something we can’t overtly control.
This afternoon I met for four hours over coffee with a friend at Barnes and Noble. It was refreshing to explore vulnerability; transparency; authenticity; longings; hope; patience; suffering; healing; priorities; motives. We talked about discovering and realizing opportunity by stepping out in faith, as well as loneliness, intimacy, and everything in-between. Times like this are good heart-food, I think – perhaps a true Thanksgiving feast. When we live independent/superficial/isolated lives (the American way?) we can literally starve our hearts to death. Rather than nurturing our hearts, we too often condemn them.
A person with an emaciated heart is truly a sad thing, even worse (in my opinion) than a physically starved body. I believe we NEED each other to experience heart-fullness since God works in and through each of our hearts to touch the hearts of others. I wonder if guarding the well-spring not only has to do with protection from evil influences, but intentionally inviting and cultivating edifying input? I think so.
Above all else, guard your heart,
For it is the well-spring of life. –Proverbs 4:23
A happy heart makes the face cheerful, but heartache crushes the spirit.
The discerning heart seeks knowledge, but the mouth of a fool feeds on folly.
All the days of the oppressed are wretched, but the cheerful heart has a continual feast.
-Proverbs 15:13-15
How many times do I neglect the human heart (both my own and others’) and live out of the obvious ozone-layer-strata of the superficial or intellectually logical? The heart-life requires descent into the depths and ascent to the heights; going beyond the obvious; intimately embracing relationship with God and others.
It seems the heart is often neglected or ignored altogether, as if it is some incidental player in the human experience. Perhaps this is because we can’t quantify or qualify the heart; we can’t measure how we’re doing. Perhaps we don’t want to “go there” or we’re afraid of something we can’t overtly control.
This afternoon I met for four hours over coffee with a friend at Barnes and Noble. It was refreshing to explore vulnerability; transparency; authenticity; longings; hope; patience; suffering; healing; priorities; motives. We talked about discovering and realizing opportunity by stepping out in faith, as well as loneliness, intimacy, and everything in-between. Times like this are good heart-food, I think – perhaps a true Thanksgiving feast. When we live independent/superficial/isolated lives (the American way?) we can literally starve our hearts to death. Rather than nurturing our hearts, we too often condemn them.
A person with an emaciated heart is truly a sad thing, even worse (in my opinion) than a physically starved body. I believe we NEED each other to experience heart-fullness since God works in and through each of our hearts to touch the hearts of others. I wonder if guarding the well-spring not only has to do with protection from evil influences, but intentionally inviting and cultivating edifying input? I think so.
Above all else, guard your heart,
For it is the well-spring of life. –Proverbs 4:23
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Ten MORE AWESOME Tips for Wallpaper-Strippers
1. Expect your old carpal tunnel issues to flare up in a big way.
2. Hire a professional masseuse to live with you during the duration of the project.
3. Keep plenty of junk food on hand for those low moments (jelly beans work well).
4. Repeat this mantra: “Therapy…therapy…this is THERAPY.”
5. Take sleeping pills at night.
6. Expect God to be sufficient.
7. Believe His strength is made perfect in your weakness.
8. Consider it a privilege to work for Him.
9. Know He is faithful to His own.
10. Pray for mercy.
2. Hire a professional masseuse to live with you during the duration of the project.
3. Keep plenty of junk food on hand for those low moments (jelly beans work well).
4. Repeat this mantra: “Therapy…therapy…this is THERAPY.”
5. Take sleeping pills at night.
6. Expect God to be sufficient.
7. Believe His strength is made perfect in your weakness.
8. Consider it a privilege to work for Him.
9. Know He is faithful to His own.
10. Pray for mercy.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Ten Tips for Wallpaper-Strippers
1. Do NOT believe your mother-in-law when she says, “Don’t trust pre-pasted wallpaper.” She may insist you liberally brush on additional paste, but 3 decades later you’ll rue the day. The resulting hybridized goo will only turn to something close to concrete on your walls.
2. Realize wallpaper and walls are all about togetherness, just like peas and carrots, and take their marriage vows seriously. If there is to be a divorce, you will be the one in charge of negotiating the proceedings and settlement, and legislating the eventual terms. Much clutching, clawing, scraping and tear-like rivers of water could be involved.
3. Some paper refuses to let go, especially if concrete-glued (see #1 above). It may hold on to its beloved sheet rock till-death-do-us-part. Casualties could involve the sheet rock (which could tear, gouge, and have to be re-surfaced), the paper (which could come off in teeny, skinny, almost-insulting 1/16”pieces), and your own sanity (which could be questionable anyway if you were the one who decided to hang wallpaper in the first place).
4. Soak, soak, soak! Wet the paper, then wet it again, and again. Wait (while wetting down the next area). Then peel back a corner, pull slowly but deliberately, and hold your breath. If you’re lucky, something wider than 1/16” will come off. To avoid hyperventilation, breathe deeply between cycles.
5. Never assume you can wash leftover glue from a wall once the paper is down. Hardware stores sell enormous sponges for this job (I can hardly hold these monsters and end up cutting them in half), but a scraper (putty knife) is also necessary. Wet the wall, scrape (no gouging, please), and then wipe with a wet sponge. Remember to tell your mother-in-law (discreetly) what you’ve learned about extra paste, namely that it morphs into a sort-of-super-glue that even johnny-on-the-spot-hardware-store -guys (comparable to 911 paramedics) don’t know how to un-bond.
6. It is emotionally healthy to let yourself feel some nostalgia about the specific wallpaper print that has been a backdrop for the drama of your life, especially if YOU picked out the paper originally and/or if YOU hung it. (Aw, those peacocks-among-the-flowers really are cutsey-wootsey little birdies, and their mistrustful, beady eyes are only a sign that they were denied sensitivity training before they took on their job.)
7. Clean up: don’t expect your vacuum sweeper to do the floor’s dirty work. Those 1/16” pieces of wallpaper could definitely clog up the works…especially if they’re glucky with wet glue. Commit to finger-picking scraps, with the knowledge that periodically you will feel as if you’re dealing with strips of fly paper. These will most likely be needing therapy in the aftermath of their recent separation and adopt your hands in lieu of the wall. Just remember about togetherness (#2 above) and death-do-us-part (# 3 above) and resolve to be patient as the surrogate partner.
8. The verb used to describe wallpaper removal is “strip.” But to “strip” wallpaper (the connotation here is that you get every last bit off) you have to double-check your walls for those sheer underwear (lingerie?) layers that insist on clinging for dear life. Don’t let them fool you with their see-through-ness that may have even evaded the scraper (see #5 above).
9. Wallpaper-strippers are often lonely personalities by nature, so don’t be afraid to solicit help – from anyone naïve enough to say “yes.”
10. Resolve to never-ever-again-ever hang wallpaper. Ever.
2. Realize wallpaper and walls are all about togetherness, just like peas and carrots, and take their marriage vows seriously. If there is to be a divorce, you will be the one in charge of negotiating the proceedings and settlement, and legislating the eventual terms. Much clutching, clawing, scraping and tear-like rivers of water could be involved.
3. Some paper refuses to let go, especially if concrete-glued (see #1 above). It may hold on to its beloved sheet rock till-death-do-us-part. Casualties could involve the sheet rock (which could tear, gouge, and have to be re-surfaced), the paper (which could come off in teeny, skinny, almost-insulting 1/16”pieces), and your own sanity (which could be questionable anyway if you were the one who decided to hang wallpaper in the first place).
4. Soak, soak, soak! Wet the paper, then wet it again, and again. Wait (while wetting down the next area). Then peel back a corner, pull slowly but deliberately, and hold your breath. If you’re lucky, something wider than 1/16” will come off. To avoid hyperventilation, breathe deeply between cycles.
5. Never assume you can wash leftover glue from a wall once the paper is down. Hardware stores sell enormous sponges for this job (I can hardly hold these monsters and end up cutting them in half), but a scraper (putty knife) is also necessary. Wet the wall, scrape (no gouging, please), and then wipe with a wet sponge. Remember to tell your mother-in-law (discreetly) what you’ve learned about extra paste, namely that it morphs into a sort-of-super-glue that even johnny-on-the-spot-hardware-store -guys (comparable to 911 paramedics) don’t know how to un-bond.
6. It is emotionally healthy to let yourself feel some nostalgia about the specific wallpaper print that has been a backdrop for the drama of your life, especially if YOU picked out the paper originally and/or if YOU hung it. (Aw, those peacocks-among-the-flowers really are cutsey-wootsey little birdies, and their mistrustful, beady eyes are only a sign that they were denied sensitivity training before they took on their job.)
7. Clean up: don’t expect your vacuum sweeper to do the floor’s dirty work. Those 1/16” pieces of wallpaper could definitely clog up the works…especially if they’re glucky with wet glue. Commit to finger-picking scraps, with the knowledge that periodically you will feel as if you’re dealing with strips of fly paper. These will most likely be needing therapy in the aftermath of their recent separation and adopt your hands in lieu of the wall. Just remember about togetherness (#2 above) and death-do-us-part (# 3 above) and resolve to be patient as the surrogate partner.
8. The verb used to describe wallpaper removal is “strip.” But to “strip” wallpaper (the connotation here is that you get every last bit off) you have to double-check your walls for those sheer underwear (lingerie?) layers that insist on clinging for dear life. Don’t let them fool you with their see-through-ness that may have even evaded the scraper (see #5 above).
9. Wallpaper-strippers are often lonely personalities by nature, so don’t be afraid to solicit help – from anyone naïve enough to say “yes.”
10. Resolve to never-ever-again-ever hang wallpaper. Ever.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Free to Be
Tonight as I recover from a busy and fun day of babysitting/entertaining two precious grandsons, ages 5 and 8, I also wrestle with the thought that our culture is becoming defined by restlessness created (at least in part) by both overt and subtle sensory overload.
Where/how/when do kids these days experience quiet, stillness, and abandonment – simplicity, creativity, and inner peace? Are these things buried beneath heaps of plastic toys, so-called “happy” meals that invite indulgence and illness, blaring arcade games (which seem a precursor to gambling), costly “organized” recreational pursuits and, to sum it all up, ARTIFICIALITY? Do kids anywhere climb apple trees and listen to the leaves sing? Is the spirit of Huckleberry Finn obsolete? Are there any outposts of Eden?
I’ve never liked for older generations to play the “when I was a child” card - as if to insinuate life is always better in the old days - and yet I find myself thinking about the hours/days/weeks/months I spent with no companions or toys other than wildflowers, rocks, shells, dragonflies, minnows, snails, red-winged blackbirds, turtles and frogs. What heart-level foundations were laid in that close-to-the-earth-environment ? What foundations are being laid in children today amidst so much stimulating, contrived, and sensory-indulging technology? I wonder.
I realize potential pros and cons confront children of every age. However, this evening I long for all of my grandkids, who are thankfully growing up with God-fearing parental guidance and many growth-inducing opportunities and advantages, to also discover heart-level quiet and rest; to be FREE.
Where/how/when do kids these days experience quiet, stillness, and abandonment – simplicity, creativity, and inner peace? Are these things buried beneath heaps of plastic toys, so-called “happy” meals that invite indulgence and illness, blaring arcade games (which seem a precursor to gambling), costly “organized” recreational pursuits and, to sum it all up, ARTIFICIALITY? Do kids anywhere climb apple trees and listen to the leaves sing? Is the spirit of Huckleberry Finn obsolete? Are there any outposts of Eden?
I’ve never liked for older generations to play the “when I was a child” card - as if to insinuate life is always better in the old days - and yet I find myself thinking about the hours/days/weeks/months I spent with no companions or toys other than wildflowers, rocks, shells, dragonflies, minnows, snails, red-winged blackbirds, turtles and frogs. What heart-level foundations were laid in that close-to-the-earth-environment ? What foundations are being laid in children today amidst so much stimulating, contrived, and sensory-indulging technology? I wonder.
I realize potential pros and cons confront children of every age. However, this evening I long for all of my grandkids, who are thankfully growing up with God-fearing parental guidance and many growth-inducing opportunities and advantages, to also discover heart-level quiet and rest; to be FREE.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Garden Flashbacks
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a vegetable garden.
This time of year I miss poring over the oversized, colorful pages of the Gurney catalog, and hoeing long rows on sunny-but-not-too-hot spring days. I miss kneeling in the soft dirt, sprinkling the teeny-tiniest seeds through my fingers, and watching fragile, grass-like seedlings of lettuce, spinach and radish miraculously peek out of the dirt on still-frosty mornings: the first crops of the season.
Years ago I worked hard at gardening, as if the family might starve if I didn’t throw myself into cultivating our own food. Fritz roto-tilled the ground with the old Gravely, and then the rest was pretty much up to me. By Easter-time the garden plot was in the process of death-to-life-metamorphosis, and the season lasted through September or, depending on the weather, early October. I was a compulsive gardener, bonding with the earth as well as the plants emerging from it.
I watched over my vegetables like a mother hen, watering them on dry days and battling tenacious, unwanted grasses and other weeds. Tomatoes, corn, peppers, broccoli, green beans, peas, carrots, lettuce, spinach and beets flourished in long – if weedy - rows. Cucumbers and squash grew in their own shady hideouts beneath huge leaves, the fruit of vines that climbed beyond the confines of the garden as if on a quest to discover freedom beyond the fence. Towering sunflowers bordered three sides of the plot while a few marigolds prettied the other (more accessible) side.
It’s probably been over 15 years since I’ve had a garden. But today I’m recalling and celebrating specific garden-related memories, and what it was like to savor “sweet one-hundred” baby tomatoes while still hot-from-the-sun; soak broccoli heads in a salt-water-filled sink to lure out hidden bugs; retrieve “shellie-beans” (the mature seeds from overripe green beans); husk and de-silk warm ears of corn; listen to the rattle of quart jars full of Big Boy tomatoes in the canner. I’d like to go back, if just for one season, and pick snow peas from vines climbing the fence with eager tendrils; pull the red-striped-green-leaves of oversized beets mounding out of the ground; watch the pumpkins grow to become jack-o-lantern material.
Then why don’t I plant another garden? I’m not sure I’d be up to the physical work at this age AND our two plots no longer exist. The larger one is currently studded with 4-5’ tall volunteer walnut and maple trees, and it floods regularly now that Buck Creek has been made into a more swiftly-moving ditch before it reaches our property. The smaller one has new septic drainage fingers from our house running beneath it, and is once again part of the pasture. Also, we’ve been spending most of the summer months at the lake house in Michigan where there is no room for a garden, and too much shade. So…those are my excuses.
But I’m realizing old garden-moments are worth remembering, those times that once offered solace, purpose and promise even in the midst of long hours of back-breaking labor. They remind me of the cyclic nature of life, of the Easter season and life beyond the grave, of the necessity of growth before harvest, and that being submitted to the elements on your knees under an open sky is a good place to be. They take me beyond everyday cooking and laundry, plastic credit cards, technological gizmos and addictions to email - back to sweat and dirt under my fingernails and a sense of my own identity as molded clay. They link me to what is basic and practical and Real, and leave me kneeling internally before the God who brings life and fruitfulness from my own dormancy
This time of year I miss poring over the oversized, colorful pages of the Gurney catalog, and hoeing long rows on sunny-but-not-too-hot spring days. I miss kneeling in the soft dirt, sprinkling the teeny-tiniest seeds through my fingers, and watching fragile, grass-like seedlings of lettuce, spinach and radish miraculously peek out of the dirt on still-frosty mornings: the first crops of the season.
Years ago I worked hard at gardening, as if the family might starve if I didn’t throw myself into cultivating our own food. Fritz roto-tilled the ground with the old Gravely, and then the rest was pretty much up to me. By Easter-time the garden plot was in the process of death-to-life-metamorphosis, and the season lasted through September or, depending on the weather, early October. I was a compulsive gardener, bonding with the earth as well as the plants emerging from it.
I watched over my vegetables like a mother hen, watering them on dry days and battling tenacious, unwanted grasses and other weeds. Tomatoes, corn, peppers, broccoli, green beans, peas, carrots, lettuce, spinach and beets flourished in long – if weedy - rows. Cucumbers and squash grew in their own shady hideouts beneath huge leaves, the fruit of vines that climbed beyond the confines of the garden as if on a quest to discover freedom beyond the fence. Towering sunflowers bordered three sides of the plot while a few marigolds prettied the other (more accessible) side.
It’s probably been over 15 years since I’ve had a garden. But today I’m recalling and celebrating specific garden-related memories, and what it was like to savor “sweet one-hundred” baby tomatoes while still hot-from-the-sun; soak broccoli heads in a salt-water-filled sink to lure out hidden bugs; retrieve “shellie-beans” (the mature seeds from overripe green beans); husk and de-silk warm ears of corn; listen to the rattle of quart jars full of Big Boy tomatoes in the canner. I’d like to go back, if just for one season, and pick snow peas from vines climbing the fence with eager tendrils; pull the red-striped-green-leaves of oversized beets mounding out of the ground; watch the pumpkins grow to become jack-o-lantern material.
Then why don’t I plant another garden? I’m not sure I’d be up to the physical work at this age AND our two plots no longer exist. The larger one is currently studded with 4-5’ tall volunteer walnut and maple trees, and it floods regularly now that Buck Creek has been made into a more swiftly-moving ditch before it reaches our property. The smaller one has new septic drainage fingers from our house running beneath it, and is once again part of the pasture. Also, we’ve been spending most of the summer months at the lake house in Michigan where there is no room for a garden, and too much shade. So…those are my excuses.
But I’m realizing old garden-moments are worth remembering, those times that once offered solace, purpose and promise even in the midst of long hours of back-breaking labor. They remind me of the cyclic nature of life, of the Easter season and life beyond the grave, of the necessity of growth before harvest, and that being submitted to the elements on your knees under an open sky is a good place to be. They take me beyond everyday cooking and laundry, plastic credit cards, technological gizmos and addictions to email - back to sweat and dirt under my fingernails and a sense of my own identity as molded clay. They link me to what is basic and practical and Real, and leave me kneeling internally before the God who brings life and fruitfulness from my own dormancy
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
The Real Deal
So guess what? This morning a huge group of volunteers showed up around 9:00 to help me strip wallpaper and paint, and worked like beavers all day. For lunch we ordered pizza from our famous hole-in-the-wall (literally) restaurant, Buck Creek Pizza, and they kept going until late afternoon. The whole downstairs is done except for new carpet! It’s like that extreme make-over TV show!
Believe me? Well, do you? Hmmmmm. I’m pretty much a straight-shooter, right? Trustworthy? Yays are yays, and nays are nays?
MUHAHAHAHAHAHA! APRIL FOOL! That was all a LIE. (I can’t believe I’m doing this.)
Here’s what REALLY happened today. I…
1. …woke up in the wee hours due to Fritz’s snoring and went to another bed to escape the vicious hog snorts.
2. …went to the bank and initially felt very frumpy next to an immaculately-dressed and coiffed woman-in-black with Za-Za-Gabore-type make-up. She was very sweet and facilitated my co-signing for a home equity loan to do the spruce-up on this place. I left feeling glad to be me, even in my sloppy sneakers and sweatshirt; I could never be that smooth.
3. …talked to 3 different carpet store representatives and had 3 completely different experiences: one was talky-talky-hard-sell, another interested-and-helpful, and a third shifty-eyed-and-indifferent (I think he wanted to be on the golf course or anyplace other than THERE).
4. …did some grocery shopping and noticed the store seemed well-stocked but unusually empty as far as customers – coincidence or economy? Sorta creepy.
5. …worked on the dining room paint some more. (For my sentiments on painting, read yesterday’s blog.)
6. …make homemade potato soup for my poor starving Fritz-men (father and son) for their lunchboxes tomorrow.
7. …finally started listening to Sound Therapy at 8:30 – which means I’ll have violins-on-the-brain until 11:30 tonight!
Believe me? Yup. That’s the real deal all right. Not that any of that is worth recording, but I thought I’d better set the record straight after the April Foolery…MUHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Believe me? Well, do you? Hmmmmm. I’m pretty much a straight-shooter, right? Trustworthy? Yays are yays, and nays are nays?
MUHAHAHAHAHAHA! APRIL FOOL! That was all a LIE. (I can’t believe I’m doing this.)
Here’s what REALLY happened today. I…
1. …woke up in the wee hours due to Fritz’s snoring and went to another bed to escape the vicious hog snorts.
2. …went to the bank and initially felt very frumpy next to an immaculately-dressed and coiffed woman-in-black with Za-Za-Gabore-type make-up. She was very sweet and facilitated my co-signing for a home equity loan to do the spruce-up on this place. I left feeling glad to be me, even in my sloppy sneakers and sweatshirt; I could never be that smooth.
3. …talked to 3 different carpet store representatives and had 3 completely different experiences: one was talky-talky-hard-sell, another interested-and-helpful, and a third shifty-eyed-and-indifferent (I think he wanted to be on the golf course or anyplace other than THERE).
4. …did some grocery shopping and noticed the store seemed well-stocked but unusually empty as far as customers – coincidence or economy? Sorta creepy.
5. …worked on the dining room paint some more. (For my sentiments on painting, read yesterday’s blog.)
6. …make homemade potato soup for my poor starving Fritz-men (father and son) for their lunchboxes tomorrow.
7. …finally started listening to Sound Therapy at 8:30 – which means I’ll have violins-on-the-brain until 11:30 tonight!
Believe me? Yup. That’s the real deal all right. Not that any of that is worth recording, but I thought I’d better set the record straight after the April Foolery…MUHAHAHAHAHAHA!
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