I saw my doctor this morning and had a splinter of chrome dug out of my hand (ouch) – a remnant invader that buried itself three weeks ago when I was cleaning our ancient upright freezer. He did a good job of digging for gold (or in this case, buried silver), and exposing the nasty splinter.
As I drove home with a numb right hand and a sack of antibiotics plopped on the seat beside me, I listened to Chuck Swindoll on our local Moody radio station. He was delivering a New Years message I needed to hear – on submitting.
Submit your whole self, he said, as if to a high-water flood. Invite the Holy Spirit to pour into every crevasse of old hurt or bitterness; to tenderize and wash away whatever has become hardened. I pictured partial (selective) submitting as opposed to this kind of unstoppable WASH. And I envisioned a patient and faithful God, willing to probe and flush like my doctor, until even the most illusive and rebellious alien thought comes to light.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Ten Things About Our 2009 Belated Christmas
While I’m on the “ten things” kick, I decided to explore another topic entirely: our current (still upcoming) Christmas celebration as an extended family.
For the past several years the old cast-in-concrete traditions governing Christmas Eve and Day have melted down. New ones are emerging, including an extended family “Christmas party” soon after Christmas Day. The mood and food (excuse the poetry) are festive if not loyal to the old tradition of stockings hung from the mantle and turkey with all the trimmings. This year the fun begins TODAY - woo hoo! - and will continue until Saturday. A top-10 of expected happenings are listed below.
1. We no longer have a horse and never have had a sleigh. But since we DO have lots of snow right now, we’ll hook up an old kneeboard and tow rope (meant to be used behind a boat in the summer) to John’s 4-wheeler and take some “sleigh rides” over the river (creek) and through the woods (scraggly junipers in the pasture). Wheeeeee!
2. Riley, Fritz jr’s golden retriever, has already proven himself as a competent reindeer for the youngsters who want to take private sleigh rides on plastic sleds. Just hitch him up and THEY’RE OFF for a not-too-fast ride!
3. Mr. Claus (that would be Fritz) has purchased several new snow tubes to encourage sledding. He’s also identified a potential site for an outdoor winter-campfire (which Mrs. Claus will use to heat hand-pressed spiced cider - a good warm-up station for snowy sleigh-and-sled-people).
4. Mrs. Claus (that would be me) has prepared an indoor scavenger hunt for the grand-kiddos this year. They will follow clues inside the 4 stories of the old farmhouse until each has found a handful of little surprises.
5. Emily is bringing assorted board games in case we fall prey to cabin fever and need indoor diversion. If I dare to play checkers with Caleb (who is now 9 years old), I’ll no doubt lose. He’s a sharp cookie and I’m a has-been; he always creams me.
6. Amy is bringing Christmas-red beet soup (it’s soooo yummy!) to pitch in with the wide array of foods I’ve prepared: miscellaneous homemade soups, breads, dips/spreads, desserts. (Oh, and I have some very special and artistic springerle cookies to offer everyone. They were hand-fashioned by my sister, Mame, who mailed them from far-off Seattle.)
7. An alternative activity, if we need one, might be to visit a nearby indoor theme-park-swimming-pool called “Buccaneer Bay” that offers lots of water slides. Everyone’s bringing swimming suits just in case.
8. New Years Eve means champagne in plastic flutes (our glass ones are in Michigan, of course) and foodfoodfood – including the traditional cold shrimp and braided orange bread that we used to have every Christmas Eve.
9. Gifts will be exchanged Friday morning, as if it were Christmas morning. Dick will be here as well, mirroring the decades of Christmas mornings he shared with us. My bake-a-rama continues and even as I type cinnamon roll dough is rising. These gooey things will be for for the mock-Christmas-on-New-Years-morning breakfast if they survive that long, along with a bake-at-the-last-minute hash brown/egg/sausage casserole.
10. You might well ask, “Where’s Jesus in all of this? Where’s the Christ of Christmas?” In answer to that question, I will close with a recent quote from an anonymous family member: “I wish everyone could react to each other the way people in our family do – but then each one of us has the indwelling Spirit of Christ (which is, in itself, amazing).” With that said, He will be here among us.
For the past several years the old cast-in-concrete traditions governing Christmas Eve and Day have melted down. New ones are emerging, including an extended family “Christmas party” soon after Christmas Day. The mood and food (excuse the poetry) are festive if not loyal to the old tradition of stockings hung from the mantle and turkey with all the trimmings. This year the fun begins TODAY - woo hoo! - and will continue until Saturday. A top-10 of expected happenings are listed below.
1. We no longer have a horse and never have had a sleigh. But since we DO have lots of snow right now, we’ll hook up an old kneeboard and tow rope (meant to be used behind a boat in the summer) to John’s 4-wheeler and take some “sleigh rides” over the river (creek) and through the woods (scraggly junipers in the pasture). Wheeeeee!
2. Riley, Fritz jr’s golden retriever, has already proven himself as a competent reindeer for the youngsters who want to take private sleigh rides on plastic sleds. Just hitch him up and THEY’RE OFF for a not-too-fast ride!
3. Mr. Claus (that would be Fritz) has purchased several new snow tubes to encourage sledding. He’s also identified a potential site for an outdoor winter-campfire (which Mrs. Claus will use to heat hand-pressed spiced cider - a good warm-up station for snowy sleigh-and-sled-people).
4. Mrs. Claus (that would be me) has prepared an indoor scavenger hunt for the grand-kiddos this year. They will follow clues inside the 4 stories of the old farmhouse until each has found a handful of little surprises.
5. Emily is bringing assorted board games in case we fall prey to cabin fever and need indoor diversion. If I dare to play checkers with Caleb (who is now 9 years old), I’ll no doubt lose. He’s a sharp cookie and I’m a has-been; he always creams me.
6. Amy is bringing Christmas-red beet soup (it’s soooo yummy!) to pitch in with the wide array of foods I’ve prepared: miscellaneous homemade soups, breads, dips/spreads, desserts. (Oh, and I have some very special and artistic springerle cookies to offer everyone. They were hand-fashioned by my sister, Mame, who mailed them from far-off Seattle.)
7. An alternative activity, if we need one, might be to visit a nearby indoor theme-park-swimming-pool called “Buccaneer Bay” that offers lots of water slides. Everyone’s bringing swimming suits just in case.
8. New Years Eve means champagne in plastic flutes (our glass ones are in Michigan, of course) and foodfoodfood – including the traditional cold shrimp and braided orange bread that we used to have every Christmas Eve.
9. Gifts will be exchanged Friday morning, as if it were Christmas morning. Dick will be here as well, mirroring the decades of Christmas mornings he shared with us. My bake-a-rama continues and even as I type cinnamon roll dough is rising. These gooey things will be for for the mock-Christmas-on-New-Years-morning breakfast if they survive that long, along with a bake-at-the-last-minute hash brown/egg/sausage casserole.
10. You might well ask, “Where’s Jesus in all of this? Where’s the Christ of Christmas?” In answer to that question, I will close with a recent quote from an anonymous family member: “I wish everyone could react to each other the way people in our family do – but then each one of us has the indwelling Spirit of Christ (which is, in itself, amazing).” With that said, He will be here among us.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Ten Things You Might Not Know About Aging
1. Certain brain cells (in the memory department) retire around the age of 60. Recently I took my recipe file box(es) to Michigan but left several desired recipe cards (from the files) “back home in Indiana” on the kitchen counter. So something definitely went haywire there.
2. Wrinkles are no longer wrinkles once they evolve into loose pleats and swags. In the neck area. And maybe other places, too. Which I won’t bother to mention.
3. In regard to the aforementioned wrinkles, it’s handy to have a husband who sees through the same visual lenses he had when he was 18. He keeps telling me I look like a sweet young thing. I think he’s schmoozing me. Whatever.
4. Birds of a feather flock together. Our flock of friends is a bunch of old (but gracious and sweet) coots/geezers and biddies/broads. Do you think such categorization might be considered slanderous?? Just remember: it takes one to know one.
5. Dry skin in the winter takes on new meaning when fingertips develop Mesa Verde cracks and legs are covered with fish scales. Or alligator leggings. Or something else reptilian. Take your pick.
6. A senior equation: holiday food + indulgence = regret. Another senior equation: grandchildren – responsibility = delight.
7. It is possible to consume two full glasses of Blue Heron (a white wine) on an empty stomach without feeling the least bit blue (i.e. melancholoy) - before, during, or after. This is sheer evidence that with age we become numb.
8. I recently realized if someone would ask me what I wanted to do, or where I wanted to go, or what I wanted to have, I’d be tongue-tied. DUH. I guess that means I’ve done, seen, and had the critical things. Or else I’ve lived in a bubble. Or maybe I only need some new catalogs. (Just kidding.)
9. There is no possible way for old people to keep up with newfangled technology. It changes at warp speed, and old-fart brains are simply missing the techno-synapses the younger folks have through evolutionary progression. So, young whipper-snappers, cut us some slack. We’re not faking our incompetence – it’s the real thing.
10. Old age is pretty slick since you can completely shed the tough stuff of younger years. Like that first year (decade?) of marriage. Or delivering babies. Or redefining for posterity what it means to be THE Super Woman of the century (shudder). Or pretending/controlling/fearing/bludgeoning (all of the above) your way through life like a chameleon drama queen.
You might ask, is there a summary statement? I’ll let George Burns (is my age showing?) have the honors. “When I was young I was called a rugged individualist. When I was in my fifties I was considered eccentric. Here I am doing and saying the same things I did then and I’m labeled senile.”
2. Wrinkles are no longer wrinkles once they evolve into loose pleats and swags. In the neck area. And maybe other places, too. Which I won’t bother to mention.
3. In regard to the aforementioned wrinkles, it’s handy to have a husband who sees through the same visual lenses he had when he was 18. He keeps telling me I look like a sweet young thing. I think he’s schmoozing me. Whatever.
4. Birds of a feather flock together. Our flock of friends is a bunch of old (but gracious and sweet) coots/geezers and biddies/broads. Do you think such categorization might be considered slanderous?? Just remember: it takes one to know one.
5. Dry skin in the winter takes on new meaning when fingertips develop Mesa Verde cracks and legs are covered with fish scales. Or alligator leggings. Or something else reptilian. Take your pick.
6. A senior equation: holiday food + indulgence = regret. Another senior equation: grandchildren – responsibility = delight.
7. It is possible to consume two full glasses of Blue Heron (a white wine) on an empty stomach without feeling the least bit blue (i.e. melancholoy) - before, during, or after. This is sheer evidence that with age we become numb.
8. I recently realized if someone would ask me what I wanted to do, or where I wanted to go, or what I wanted to have, I’d be tongue-tied. DUH. I guess that means I’ve done, seen, and had the critical things. Or else I’ve lived in a bubble. Or maybe I only need some new catalogs. (Just kidding.)
9. There is no possible way for old people to keep up with newfangled technology. It changes at warp speed, and old-fart brains are simply missing the techno-synapses the younger folks have through evolutionary progression. So, young whipper-snappers, cut us some slack. We’re not faking our incompetence – it’s the real thing.
10. Old age is pretty slick since you can completely shed the tough stuff of younger years. Like that first year (decade?) of marriage. Or delivering babies. Or redefining for posterity what it means to be THE Super Woman of the century (shudder). Or pretending/controlling/fearing/bludgeoning (all of the above) your way through life like a chameleon drama queen.
You might ask, is there a summary statement? I’ll let George Burns (is my age showing?) have the honors. “When I was young I was called a rugged individualist. When I was in my fifties I was considered eccentric. Here I am doing and saying the same things I did then and I’m labeled senile.”
Monday, December 28, 2009
Country-Gone-Posh
Here are pictures of the Christmas tree pictured in the 12-21 blog, only this time it’s wearing different apparel (decorations) in a different location (house and state).
This time instead of the Rustic Metro Tree I dubbed it the Country-Gone-Posh Tree. The outdoorsy, sports-theme ornaments have been packed away in Michigan. Here at the Indiana farmhouse the tree’s branches are loaded with red and gold glass beads and balls, and it is topped with a fluffy gilded-and-red bow rather than a stiff, if reverent, angel.
I suppose it’s an honor for the same cheap-o (Big Lots $20) artificial tree to portray two different images in two different locations all within two weeks. Maybe it feels like a model - showing off fashionable sporting attire and then getting dressed for Cinderella’s ball, even though in reality it is a member of the lowest caste of plastic with an artificial identity.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Boxes and Spaghetti
Here’s an analogy: male brains are made of boxes, while female brains are made of spaghetti. I’ve heard this more than once from PEOPLE WHO KNOW, meaning psychologists and such. As a lay-person peon, I also believe it to be true.
Men think about one thing at a time, period. They don’t tolerate small print or extras. “Just give me the headline.” On the other hand, women can have a whole menu of stuff running in their heads simultaneously, sort of like ticker tape. “Talk to me; TALK to me! Why can’t you just TALK TO ME?” Granted, this is only a generality and there’s plenty of room for individuality within the prototypes.
Earlier this afternoon I had a chance to practice the box vs. spaghetti thing. I began setting up the Christmas tree (again), this time in Buck Creek, in anticipation of our kids’/grandkids’ post-Christmas visit later in the week. (If you’ve been reading this blog recently I DID say earlier we were going to cut a live juniper growing in the pasture to use as our Indiana Christmas tree, but we brought the artificial one from Michigan instead.) I asked Fritz to retrieve just ONE BOX from the outbuilding where we store seasonal things – the ONE BOX with the old Christmas tree ornaments inside. Surely that task was well within his grasp. One box. O-N-E. A very male job.
He walked through the back door – an aging Santa’s elf well-dusted with fresh snow - carrying a big box.
Me: Thanks! That’s it! The very one I wanted!
Nicely done. Mission accomplished. I’m happy, and OH GOOD, I haven’t confounded him with too many details. He’s successful, and so is happy as well. He removes his boots and coat, and then opens another whole box-topic.
Fritz: I’m taking the tree box to the basement.
Me: Ok – good idea! (pause) Where will you put it? Just so I know when the time comes to take the tree down?
Fritz: (silence) I’ll put it in the basement somewhere.
Me: I KNOW! (I’m slightly annoyed and want more information.) WHERE in the basement?
Fritz: In that room with the computer.
I think he’s referring to his office of 30 years – the room with the computer table, printer, computer paper, desk, etc. - but he’s thinking about an overflow room where he has temporarily set up his laptop. Of course neither of us realizes this discrepancy at the time. He disappears to the basement and returns with a question.
Fritz: Do you want that thing that goes under the Christmas tree?
I think he’s trying to be sweet and make sure I’ve thought to cover all my bases. In fact, I’m stupid enough to assume he’s thinking as I WOULD THINK. Surely he’s diverting back to the previous task and the remaining boxes of Christmas stuff still in the outbuilding?
Me: (I try to second-guess his headline.) If you’re talking about the tree skirt, I already told you – I just wanted you to get the ORNAMENT box. You don’t need to bring in all the rest. The tree skirt your mother made doesn’t work with this little artificial tree – remember? When we took down the tree in Michigan I packed the little square of colorful fabric in the tree box – the one we use instead of the tree skirt. (My eyes glare through slits.) REMEMBER?
Fritz: That piece of fabric – do you want it?
Me: Of course I want it! But we just used it in Michigan; it’s not with the other old Christmas stuff here in Buck Creek. It’s in the living room with the tree.
Fritz: (His box-mentality is focused on just one thing.) I took the tree box to the basement. That thing that goes under the tree is now in the basement.
Me: (My spaghetti-mentality is going all over the place.) WHAT? Don’t you remember that whole conversation in Michigan? (I stand with hands on hips for emphasis here.) Remember how I said we could NOT use the old tree skirt with THIS TREE and how the square of fabric is a better option? You even agreed at the time that it works really well and looks nice. (A growl accents my voice when I get to the word NICE – sort of like Nnnn-grrrrr-ICE.) WHY didn’t you just leave it by the tree in the living room since you knew we’d be using it again?
Fritz: It’s in the box in the basement.
Me: (I stomp downstairs to the basement.) Humph! (I look around the basement office room and yell up the stairs.) Well, WHERE’S THE TREE BOX?
Fritz: It’s in the room with my computer. I SAID it would be in the room with my computer, didn’t I? I did say JUST THAT - DIDN’T I?
Fortunately we were laughing at ourselves all the way. But here’s an interesting bit of commentary. I feel like sometimes when Fritz opens one of his brain-boxes, there’s just one lonely, brittle piece of spaghetti in there. Granted, it’s not cluttered. But the poor little bugger. How depressing.
Male law says: ONE THOUGHT AT A TIME.
Sometimes my thoughts run all over the place like a bunch of spaghetti boiling in a big pot on the stove, all tangled and squirmy. They run everywhere simultaneously. I don’t even HAVE a box that would hold so much drippy, gummy pasta. One doesn’t even EXIST.
Female law says: SOMEBODY’S GOT TO KEEP TRACK OF ALL THESE DETAILS OR OUR LIVES WILL SURELY BECOME SHEER MAYHEM AND WE WILL DROWN IN THE GLACIAL ABYSS OF MISMANAGEMENT.
So the challenge continues. I try to cram multiple pieces of spaghetti into each of his many boxes, and he tries to tame my waving spaghetti when there are no boxes to contain it.
I think I should teach him the fine art of being a spaghetti connoisseur….how to drain el dente spaghetti in a colander, liberally splash on some olive oil and massage it in by hand, and then compliment it with a kiss of fragrant sun-dried-tomato-sauce laced with garlic and oregano and topped with the finest fresh-grated parmesan. Ah, CREATIVITY! And then add a few sautéed fresh mushrooms (perfection!), or some olives, or some kielbasa sausage. Diversity…aroma…texture. M-wah! Eccellente!
He probably would like to teach me to knock off the extras….in fact, I know for a fact he’s not a spicy tomato sauce man. He’d probably like to convince me that he really, truly prefers pasta PLAIN, or maybe the good old boxed, no fuss, plain Jane, predictable (gasp) Kraft mac-n-cheese. Yep, I bet that’s what he’d say. Y-E-A-H MAN. Bring on that ten-minute-manly-macaroni from the box! Bring on that foil-envelope of artificial cheese sauce from the box!
See, it’s all in the box.
Men think about one thing at a time, period. They don’t tolerate small print or extras. “Just give me the headline.” On the other hand, women can have a whole menu of stuff running in their heads simultaneously, sort of like ticker tape. “Talk to me; TALK to me! Why can’t you just TALK TO ME?” Granted, this is only a generality and there’s plenty of room for individuality within the prototypes.
Earlier this afternoon I had a chance to practice the box vs. spaghetti thing. I began setting up the Christmas tree (again), this time in Buck Creek, in anticipation of our kids’/grandkids’ post-Christmas visit later in the week. (If you’ve been reading this blog recently I DID say earlier we were going to cut a live juniper growing in the pasture to use as our Indiana Christmas tree, but we brought the artificial one from Michigan instead.) I asked Fritz to retrieve just ONE BOX from the outbuilding where we store seasonal things – the ONE BOX with the old Christmas tree ornaments inside. Surely that task was well within his grasp. One box. O-N-E. A very male job.
He walked through the back door – an aging Santa’s elf well-dusted with fresh snow - carrying a big box.
Me: Thanks! That’s it! The very one I wanted!
Nicely done. Mission accomplished. I’m happy, and OH GOOD, I haven’t confounded him with too many details. He’s successful, and so is happy as well. He removes his boots and coat, and then opens another whole box-topic.
Fritz: I’m taking the tree box to the basement.
Me: Ok – good idea! (pause) Where will you put it? Just so I know when the time comes to take the tree down?
Fritz: (silence) I’ll put it in the basement somewhere.
Me: I KNOW! (I’m slightly annoyed and want more information.) WHERE in the basement?
Fritz: In that room with the computer.
I think he’s referring to his office of 30 years – the room with the computer table, printer, computer paper, desk, etc. - but he’s thinking about an overflow room where he has temporarily set up his laptop. Of course neither of us realizes this discrepancy at the time. He disappears to the basement and returns with a question.
Fritz: Do you want that thing that goes under the Christmas tree?
I think he’s trying to be sweet and make sure I’ve thought to cover all my bases. In fact, I’m stupid enough to assume he’s thinking as I WOULD THINK. Surely he’s diverting back to the previous task and the remaining boxes of Christmas stuff still in the outbuilding?
Me: (I try to second-guess his headline.) If you’re talking about the tree skirt, I already told you – I just wanted you to get the ORNAMENT box. You don’t need to bring in all the rest. The tree skirt your mother made doesn’t work with this little artificial tree – remember? When we took down the tree in Michigan I packed the little square of colorful fabric in the tree box – the one we use instead of the tree skirt. (My eyes glare through slits.) REMEMBER?
Fritz: That piece of fabric – do you want it?
Me: Of course I want it! But we just used it in Michigan; it’s not with the other old Christmas stuff here in Buck Creek. It’s in the living room with the tree.
Fritz: (His box-mentality is focused on just one thing.) I took the tree box to the basement. That thing that goes under the tree is now in the basement.
Me: (My spaghetti-mentality is going all over the place.) WHAT? Don’t you remember that whole conversation in Michigan? (I stand with hands on hips for emphasis here.) Remember how I said we could NOT use the old tree skirt with THIS TREE and how the square of fabric is a better option? You even agreed at the time that it works really well and looks nice. (A growl accents my voice when I get to the word NICE – sort of like Nnnn-grrrrr-ICE.) WHY didn’t you just leave it by the tree in the living room since you knew we’d be using it again?
Fritz: It’s in the box in the basement.
Me: (I stomp downstairs to the basement.) Humph! (I look around the basement office room and yell up the stairs.) Well, WHERE’S THE TREE BOX?
Fritz: It’s in the room with my computer. I SAID it would be in the room with my computer, didn’t I? I did say JUST THAT - DIDN’T I?
Fortunately we were laughing at ourselves all the way. But here’s an interesting bit of commentary. I feel like sometimes when Fritz opens one of his brain-boxes, there’s just one lonely, brittle piece of spaghetti in there. Granted, it’s not cluttered. But the poor little bugger. How depressing.
Male law says: ONE THOUGHT AT A TIME.
Sometimes my thoughts run all over the place like a bunch of spaghetti boiling in a big pot on the stove, all tangled and squirmy. They run everywhere simultaneously. I don’t even HAVE a box that would hold so much drippy, gummy pasta. One doesn’t even EXIST.
Female law says: SOMEBODY’S GOT TO KEEP TRACK OF ALL THESE DETAILS OR OUR LIVES WILL SURELY BECOME SHEER MAYHEM AND WE WILL DROWN IN THE GLACIAL ABYSS OF MISMANAGEMENT.
So the challenge continues. I try to cram multiple pieces of spaghetti into each of his many boxes, and he tries to tame my waving spaghetti when there are no boxes to contain it.
I think I should teach him the fine art of being a spaghetti connoisseur….how to drain el dente spaghetti in a colander, liberally splash on some olive oil and massage it in by hand, and then compliment it with a kiss of fragrant sun-dried-tomato-sauce laced with garlic and oregano and topped with the finest fresh-grated parmesan. Ah, CREATIVITY! And then add a few sautéed fresh mushrooms (perfection!), or some olives, or some kielbasa sausage. Diversity…aroma…texture. M-wah! Eccellente!
He probably would like to teach me to knock off the extras….in fact, I know for a fact he’s not a spicy tomato sauce man. He’d probably like to convince me that he really, truly prefers pasta PLAIN, or maybe the good old boxed, no fuss, plain Jane, predictable (gasp) Kraft mac-n-cheese. Yep, I bet that’s what he’d say. Y-E-A-H MAN. Bring on that ten-minute-manly-macaroni from the box! Bring on that foil-envelope of artificial cheese sauce from the box!
See, it’s all in the box.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Gold Nuggets
To be completely honest (and what is a blog FOR if not to be authentic), I’m working through a little bit of blah-dom at the moment: physical heaviness/malaise heightened by numb emotions. However, I believe times like this aren’t accidental or without purpose, and so am looking eyeball-to-eyeball with the intent of learning and profiting from the lessons-in-progress.
The ocean teaches us about the ebb and flow of high and receding tides, and scripture is full of human experiences mirroring these kinds of extremes. The challenge comes in centering/focusing on what is true in the midst of the tide; clinging to hope anchored in promises that will never fail.
Today (it is only 6:00 a.m., which is VERY EARLY for me) my heart is absorbing reminders like the ones I’ve posted below that were taken from the Amplified Bible. I decided to include them here in the off-chance some other low-tide soul in my readership might also be encouraged by one or more (or all of) these gold nuggets.
You are my hiding place and my shield; I hope in Your word. Psalm 119: 114
Be strong and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for and hope for and expect the Lord! Psalm 31: 24
And now, Lord, what do I wait for and expect? My hope and expectation are in You. Psalm 39: 7
The Lord is my portion or share, says my living being (my inner self); therefore will I hope in Him and wait expectantly for Him. Lamentations 3: 24
But if we hope for what is still unseen by us, we wait for it with patience and composure. Romans 8: 25
For whatever was thus written in former days was written for our instruction, that by [our steadfast and patient] endurance and the encouragement [drawn] from the Scriptures we might hold fast to and cherish hope. Romans 15: 4
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire is fulfilled, it is a tree of life. Proverbs 13: 12
Why are you cast down, O my inner self? And why should you moan over me and be disquieted within me? Hope in God and wait expectantly for Him, for I shall yet praise Him, Who is the help of my [sad] countenance, and my God. Psalm 43: 5
But I will hope continually, and will praise You yet more and more. Psalm 71: 14
By having the eyes of your heart flooded with light, so that you can know and understand the hope to which He has called you, and how rich is His glorious inheritance in the saints (His set-apart ones). Ephesians 1: 18
But Christ (the Messiah) was faithful over His [own Father's] house as a Son [and Master of it]. And it is we who are [now members] of this house, if we hold fast and firm to the end our joyful and exultant confidence and sense of triumph in our hope [in Christ]. Hebrews 3: 6
Having [the same] hope in God which these themselves hold and look for, that there is to be a resurrection both of the righteous and the unrighteous (the just and the unjust). Acts 24: 15
To whom God was pleased to make known how great for the Gentiles are the riches of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ within and among you, the Hope of [realizing the] glory. Colossians 1: 27
May the God of your hope so fill you with all joy and peace in believing [through the experience of your faith] that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound and be overflowing (bubbling over) with hope. Romans 15: 13
Happy (blessed, fortunate, enviable) is he who has the God of [special revelation to] Jacob for his help, whose hope is in the Lord his God. Psalm 146: 5
So let us seize and hold fast and retain without wavering the hope we cherish and confess and our acknowledgement of it, for He Who promised is reliable (sure) and faithful to His word. Hebrews 10: 23
[Now] we have this [hope] as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul [it cannot slip and it cannot break down under whoever steps out upon it--a hope] that reaches farther and enters into [the very certainty of the Presence] within the veil. Hebrews 6: 19
I will thank You and confide in You forever, because You have done it [delivered me and kept me safe]. I will wait on, hope in and expect in Your name, for it is good, in the presence of Your saints (Your kind and pious ones). Psalm 52: 9
So that we who first hoped in Christ [who first put our confidence in Him have been destined and appointed to] live for the praise of His glory! Ephesians 1: 12
[There is] one body and one Spirit--just as there is also one hope [that belongs] to the calling you received Ephesians 4: 4
Yes, let none who trust and wait hopefully and look for You be put to shame or be disappointed; let them be ashamed who forsake the right or deal treacherously without cause. Psalm 25: 3
Wait and hope for and expect the Lord; be brave and of good courage and let your heart be stout and enduring. Yes, wait for and hope for and expect the Lord. Psalm 27: 14
But we belong to the day; therefore, let us be sober and put on the breastplate (corslet) of faith and love and for a helmet the hope of salvation. 1 Thessalonians 5: 8
Awaiting and looking for the [fulfillment, the realization of our] blessed hope, even the glorious appearing of our great God and Savior Christ Jesus (the Messiah, the Anointed One). Titus 2: 13
But we do [strongly and earnestly] desire for each of you to show the same diligence and sincerity [all the way through] in realizing and enjoying the full assurance and development of [your] hope until the end. Hebrews 6: 11
Praised (honored, blessed) be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ (the Messiah)! By His boundless mercy we have been born again to an ever-living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead. 1 Peter 1: 3
So brace up your minds; be sober (circumspect, morally alert); set your hope wholly and unchangeably on the grace (divine favor) that is coming to you when Jesus Christ (the Messiah) is revealed. 1 Peter 1: 13
You will guard him and keep him in perfect and constant peace whose mind [both its inclination and its character] is stayed on You, because he commits himself to You, leans on You, and hopes confidently in You. Isaiah 26: 3
But as for me, I will look to the Lord and confident in Him I will keep watch; I will wait with hope and expectancy for the God of my salvation; my God will hear me. Micah 7: 7
It is good that one should hope in and wait quietly for the salvation (the safety and ease) of the Lord. Lamentations 3: 26
May the God of your hope so fill you with all joy and peace in believing [through the experience of your faith] that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound and be overflowing (bubbling over) with hope. Romans 15: 13
The ocean teaches us about the ebb and flow of high and receding tides, and scripture is full of human experiences mirroring these kinds of extremes. The challenge comes in centering/focusing on what is true in the midst of the tide; clinging to hope anchored in promises that will never fail.
Today (it is only 6:00 a.m., which is VERY EARLY for me) my heart is absorbing reminders like the ones I’ve posted below that were taken from the Amplified Bible. I decided to include them here in the off-chance some other low-tide soul in my readership might also be encouraged by one or more (or all of) these gold nuggets.
You are my hiding place and my shield; I hope in Your word. Psalm 119: 114
Be strong and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for and hope for and expect the Lord! Psalm 31: 24
And now, Lord, what do I wait for and expect? My hope and expectation are in You. Psalm 39: 7
The Lord is my portion or share, says my living being (my inner self); therefore will I hope in Him and wait expectantly for Him. Lamentations 3: 24
But if we hope for what is still unseen by us, we wait for it with patience and composure. Romans 8: 25
For whatever was thus written in former days was written for our instruction, that by [our steadfast and patient] endurance and the encouragement [drawn] from the Scriptures we might hold fast to and cherish hope. Romans 15: 4
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire is fulfilled, it is a tree of life. Proverbs 13: 12
Why are you cast down, O my inner self? And why should you moan over me and be disquieted within me? Hope in God and wait expectantly for Him, for I shall yet praise Him, Who is the help of my [sad] countenance, and my God. Psalm 43: 5
But I will hope continually, and will praise You yet more and more. Psalm 71: 14
By having the eyes of your heart flooded with light, so that you can know and understand the hope to which He has called you, and how rich is His glorious inheritance in the saints (His set-apart ones). Ephesians 1: 18
But Christ (the Messiah) was faithful over His [own Father's] house as a Son [and Master of it]. And it is we who are [now members] of this house, if we hold fast and firm to the end our joyful and exultant confidence and sense of triumph in our hope [in Christ]. Hebrews 3: 6
Having [the same] hope in God which these themselves hold and look for, that there is to be a resurrection both of the righteous and the unrighteous (the just and the unjust). Acts 24: 15
To whom God was pleased to make known how great for the Gentiles are the riches of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ within and among you, the Hope of [realizing the] glory. Colossians 1: 27
May the God of your hope so fill you with all joy and peace in believing [through the experience of your faith] that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound and be overflowing (bubbling over) with hope. Romans 15: 13
Happy (blessed, fortunate, enviable) is he who has the God of [special revelation to] Jacob for his help, whose hope is in the Lord his God. Psalm 146: 5
So let us seize and hold fast and retain without wavering the hope we cherish and confess and our acknowledgement of it, for He Who promised is reliable (sure) and faithful to His word. Hebrews 10: 23
[Now] we have this [hope] as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul [it cannot slip and it cannot break down under whoever steps out upon it--a hope] that reaches farther and enters into [the very certainty of the Presence] within the veil. Hebrews 6: 19
I will thank You and confide in You forever, because You have done it [delivered me and kept me safe]. I will wait on, hope in and expect in Your name, for it is good, in the presence of Your saints (Your kind and pious ones). Psalm 52: 9
So that we who first hoped in Christ [who first put our confidence in Him have been destined and appointed to] live for the praise of His glory! Ephesians 1: 12
[There is] one body and one Spirit--just as there is also one hope [that belongs] to the calling you received Ephesians 4: 4
Yes, let none who trust and wait hopefully and look for You be put to shame or be disappointed; let them be ashamed who forsake the right or deal treacherously without cause. Psalm 25: 3
Wait and hope for and expect the Lord; be brave and of good courage and let your heart be stout and enduring. Yes, wait for and hope for and expect the Lord. Psalm 27: 14
But we belong to the day; therefore, let us be sober and put on the breastplate (corslet) of faith and love and for a helmet the hope of salvation. 1 Thessalonians 5: 8
Awaiting and looking for the [fulfillment, the realization of our] blessed hope, even the glorious appearing of our great God and Savior Christ Jesus (the Messiah, the Anointed One). Titus 2: 13
But we do [strongly and earnestly] desire for each of you to show the same diligence and sincerity [all the way through] in realizing and enjoying the full assurance and development of [your] hope until the end. Hebrews 6: 11
Praised (honored, blessed) be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ (the Messiah)! By His boundless mercy we have been born again to an ever-living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead. 1 Peter 1: 3
So brace up your minds; be sober (circumspect, morally alert); set your hope wholly and unchangeably on the grace (divine favor) that is coming to you when Jesus Christ (the Messiah) is revealed. 1 Peter 1: 13
You will guard him and keep him in perfect and constant peace whose mind [both its inclination and its character] is stayed on You, because he commits himself to You, leans on You, and hopes confidently in You. Isaiah 26: 3
But as for me, I will look to the Lord and confident in Him I will keep watch; I will wait with hope and expectancy for the God of my salvation; my God will hear me. Micah 7: 7
It is good that one should hope in and wait quietly for the salvation (the safety and ease) of the Lord. Lamentations 3: 26
May the God of your hope so fill you with all joy and peace in believing [through the experience of your faith] that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound and be overflowing (bubbling over) with hope. Romans 15: 13
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas Concert
Ah yes - Christmas afternoon with Grampa. Sounds like the title of a CD, doesn’t it?
Fritz decided he’d entertain himself (and me) here in Michigan on this otherwise quiet Christmas afternoon. So he sat at the piano and played all the really hard-to-play Christmas songs he almost-never-ever chooses because they’re too much WORK.
It was a marathon. One by one he clicked them off, from Dino’s arrangement of “Angels We Have Heard on High” to the entire musical score from the movie “Snowman” and everything in-between. There were some smooth spots and some bumbles. Overall, speaking as one with hearing issues, it was an auditory….um….delight.
I’m including a picture for a little visual evidence. I think this was taken while he was plowing through something with 4 or 5 flats.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Crystal Ball
Last evening while instrumental Christmas music played in the background and warm candlelight flickered here and there around the living room, I looked into my long-stemmed glass of clear white wine (a rarity for me) as if the bowl were a crystal ball. Perhaps the moment full of Christmas-y sights and smells (one of the candles was scented with pine) called up a combination of recent circumstances/conversations. Maybe the wine invited introspection. In any case, I felt an unusual awareness of the brevity, preciousness, and sanctity of life.
As depicted in Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” in my mind’s eye I saw my past (with its unique challenges and blessings), present (with a growing awareness of God’s orchestration of those ongoing challenges and blessings), and future (with greater assurance of His Lordship in my life). It was overwhelming. All the while I continued to stare into, and beyond, my wine.
This morning the snow, with its converse crisp-bright-lazer-white, sits quietly outside the window. The dreaminess of wine has faded, but the vision of magnified hope has not. I’m deeply grateful for so much: my current health at age 60, my beautiful family, and even my struggles. The hard things I’ve faced in the past, and the current tension of living between two lifestyles, are NOTHING compared to Job’s trials - and yet in like manner they continue to deepen my hope in a faithful God. I love BSF, my two church homes in Indiana and Michigan, and my loyal husband and an array of Christian friends who walk the narrow path of faith (with its enlarging capacities) with me.
This evening Fritz and I hope to attend a Christmas Eve church service with friends and then return to their house for dessert and conversation, weather permitting. I’ll pitch in miniature pumpkin cheesecakes and fresh fruit for the social hour, which will be fun. However, mostly I bet I’ll continue to be focused on the awesome mystery of God come to earth as the perfect sacrificial lamb; the One who infused receptive human hearts with His Spirit upon His return to the Father.
I don’t need or want a crystal ball. I’m a child of the One who rules eternity and all that ever has been, is, or will be.
As depicted in Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” in my mind’s eye I saw my past (with its unique challenges and blessings), present (with a growing awareness of God’s orchestration of those ongoing challenges and blessings), and future (with greater assurance of His Lordship in my life). It was overwhelming. All the while I continued to stare into, and beyond, my wine.
This morning the snow, with its converse crisp-bright-lazer-white, sits quietly outside the window. The dreaminess of wine has faded, but the vision of magnified hope has not. I’m deeply grateful for so much: my current health at age 60, my beautiful family, and even my struggles. The hard things I’ve faced in the past, and the current tension of living between two lifestyles, are NOTHING compared to Job’s trials - and yet in like manner they continue to deepen my hope in a faithful God. I love BSF, my two church homes in Indiana and Michigan, and my loyal husband and an array of Christian friends who walk the narrow path of faith (with its enlarging capacities) with me.
This evening Fritz and I hope to attend a Christmas Eve church service with friends and then return to their house for dessert and conversation, weather permitting. I’ll pitch in miniature pumpkin cheesecakes and fresh fruit for the social hour, which will be fun. However, mostly I bet I’ll continue to be focused on the awesome mystery of God come to earth as the perfect sacrificial lamb; the One who infused receptive human hearts with His Spirit upon His return to the Father.
I don’t need or want a crystal ball. I’m a child of the One who rules eternity and all that ever has been, is, or will be.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The Chicken and the Egg
The proverbial question asks, “Which came first - the chicken or the egg?” Similarly, what comes first - faith to live beyond difficulty, or courage to step out in faith in the first place? Hope in the power of God, or the trust to receive it? Grace or action?
All I know is that God always comes first. (We so often ask the wrong questions – who cares about the genealogy of chickens, anyway?) He leads us through, and then beyond, both despair and denial. He teaches us how to wait when it is time to wait, suffer when it is time to suffer, persevere when it is time to persevere, and rejoice when it is time to rejoice.
Advent has been different for me this year. On the first Sunday I identified an “egg” of possibility. I planned to incubate it, faithfully turn it, and give it every opportunity to mature. By the end of the Advent season it would hatch into a lovely little fuzzy chick: a new beginning. The egg represented a fresh chance to conquer a bad habit, and the eventual chick represented a new habit that would take its place.
In reality it was a contrived scheme encased in holy-looking wrapping.
The egg sat nice and cozy as expected for about 9 days. I was obedient to a fault and lavished the appropriate care and attention. In my mind’s eye, it was doing its thing, growing and developing internally. There was little risk involved, and I actually believed this embryo would hatch on Christmas day. I was pregnant with expectation and feeling prematurely victorious.
But then without warning, on day 10 the thin-skinned egg cracked all at once (maybe it had a little too much external pressure?). A squawking, insistent, arrogant, full-sized rooster-of-a-bird erupted, one at the top of the pecking order that was even bigger than my original bad habit!! I’ve battled that stupid loud-mouthed, crowing thing for the last several weeks, trying (to use the analogy, if you’re still with me) to stuff him back inside the egg. Of course that hasn’t worked.
In the midst of the scramble I’ve been consumed and inspired by God’s mercy and compassion, and reminded that I literally live from His grace to His grace. Grace is risky business in that it requires me to relinquish control – and yet this kind of risk (despite its mystery and adrenaline-producing qualities) is hardly dangerous.
I can’t claim ownership of either chickens OR eggs. Grace frames everything; it comes before, remains during, and follows behind. Because of grace, I live. The chickens and eggs of life are not mine to control as much as I think. My focus is better trained on the Lord of life, and Him alone, which is what Advent is really all about.
All I know is that God always comes first. (We so often ask the wrong questions – who cares about the genealogy of chickens, anyway?) He leads us through, and then beyond, both despair and denial. He teaches us how to wait when it is time to wait, suffer when it is time to suffer, persevere when it is time to persevere, and rejoice when it is time to rejoice.
Advent has been different for me this year. On the first Sunday I identified an “egg” of possibility. I planned to incubate it, faithfully turn it, and give it every opportunity to mature. By the end of the Advent season it would hatch into a lovely little fuzzy chick: a new beginning. The egg represented a fresh chance to conquer a bad habit, and the eventual chick represented a new habit that would take its place.
In reality it was a contrived scheme encased in holy-looking wrapping.
The egg sat nice and cozy as expected for about 9 days. I was obedient to a fault and lavished the appropriate care and attention. In my mind’s eye, it was doing its thing, growing and developing internally. There was little risk involved, and I actually believed this embryo would hatch on Christmas day. I was pregnant with expectation and feeling prematurely victorious.
But then without warning, on day 10 the thin-skinned egg cracked all at once (maybe it had a little too much external pressure?). A squawking, insistent, arrogant, full-sized rooster-of-a-bird erupted, one at the top of the pecking order that was even bigger than my original bad habit!! I’ve battled that stupid loud-mouthed, crowing thing for the last several weeks, trying (to use the analogy, if you’re still with me) to stuff him back inside the egg. Of course that hasn’t worked.
In the midst of the scramble I’ve been consumed and inspired by God’s mercy and compassion, and reminded that I literally live from His grace to His grace. Grace is risky business in that it requires me to relinquish control – and yet this kind of risk (despite its mystery and adrenaline-producing qualities) is hardly dangerous.
I can’t claim ownership of either chickens OR eggs. Grace frames everything; it comes before, remains during, and follows behind. Because of grace, I live. The chickens and eggs of life are not mine to control as much as I think. My focus is better trained on the Lord of life, and Him alone, which is what Advent is really all about.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
December Swimming Pool - Brrrrr!
A group of wild swans and a few ducks have congregated in a limited spot on the lake to jointly keep the ice open as long as possible. Their little resort area seems quite sufficient. They contentedly sit on the edge of the ice and preen themselves around the “pool” or else nap with their heads tucked under their wings. Sometimes they idly paddle with leisurely strokes through the icy water, and/or tip their tails to the sky and look for a snack underwater. It all looks pretty relaxed to me, as if they’re truly enjoying their frozen Christmas.
However, I personally have to wonder why they linger here once the weather turns cold. I guess they’re not so different than Dorothy and Toto who figured out the mantra for all of us: there’s no place like home.
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Rustic Metro Tree
As you might expect, two lifestyles (with two houses, two church homes, two sets of friends in two different states) requires TWO CHRISTMAS TREES. Today I’m posting some pictures of what I call the rustic metropolitan tree (an oxymoron) here at the lake – a medium-sized artificial decked out with mostly sportsman and outdoor-theme ornaments. Note the close-up shots of my favorite clear blown-glass ornaments that lend a touch of class amidst the ice skates and snow skis and Santa fishermen! Next week a post will feature the real-deal tree back at Buck Creek – a hardly-perfect Charlie Brown juniper cut from our pasture that will be decked out with gold and red glass balls. Ah, the joys of multi-personality trees to cover the diversity of our split lives.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Emmanuel! (literally God with us!)
We talk about Christmas-TIME as a season or particular time of year beginning around Thanksgiving and continuing until the New Year. However, today I was reminded that Jesus (Emmanuel, God with us) is not bound by constraints of chronological time. His earthly birth was not His beginning; His earthly death was not His end.
This is paradoxically simple and profound. Selah.
This is paradoxically simple and profound. Selah.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
I've read this a number of times and am not sure if I've quoted it here before. I just ran across it again, this time "accidentally," and was struck by the thought that we're "called" in kairos to become something beyond what we can know in chronological time. From Walking on Water, by Madeleine L’Engle:
Kairos. Real time. God’s time.
That time which breaks through chronos with a shock of joy, that time we do not recognize while we are experiencing it, but only afterwards, because kairos has nothing to do with chronological time. In kairos we are completely unselfconscious, and yet paradoxically far more real than we can ever be when we’re constantly checking our watches for chronological time.
The saint in contemplation, lost to self in the mind of God is in kairos. The artist at work is in kairos. The child at play, totally thrown outside herself in the game, be it building a sand castle or making a daisy chain, is in kairos. In kairos we become what we are called to be as human beings, co-creators with God, touching on the wonder of creation.
This calling should not be limited to artists, or saints, but it is a fearful calling. It is both Mana and taboo. It can destroy as well as bring into being.
In Our Town, after Emily has died in childbirth, Thornton Wilder has her ask the Stage Manager if she can return home to relive just one day. Reluctantly he allows her to do so. And she is torn by the beauty of the ordinary, and by our lack of awareness of it. She cries out to her mother, “Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me… it goes so fast we don’t have time to look at one another.”
And she goes back to the graveyard and the quiet company of the others lying there, and she asks the Stage Manager “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?” And he sighs and says, “No. The saints and poets, maybe. They do some.”
Kairos. Real time. God’s time.
That time which breaks through chronos with a shock of joy, that time we do not recognize while we are experiencing it, but only afterwards, because kairos has nothing to do with chronological time. In kairos we are completely unselfconscious, and yet paradoxically far more real than we can ever be when we’re constantly checking our watches for chronological time.
The saint in contemplation, lost to self in the mind of God is in kairos. The artist at work is in kairos. The child at play, totally thrown outside herself in the game, be it building a sand castle or making a daisy chain, is in kairos. In kairos we become what we are called to be as human beings, co-creators with God, touching on the wonder of creation.
This calling should not be limited to artists, or saints, but it is a fearful calling. It is both Mana and taboo. It can destroy as well as bring into being.
In Our Town, after Emily has died in childbirth, Thornton Wilder has her ask the Stage Manager if she can return home to relive just one day. Reluctantly he allows her to do so. And she is torn by the beauty of the ordinary, and by our lack of awareness of it. She cries out to her mother, “Mama, just look at me one minute as though you really saw me… it goes so fast we don’t have time to look at one another.”
And she goes back to the graveyard and the quiet company of the others lying there, and she asks the Stage Manager “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?” And he sighs and says, “No. The saints and poets, maybe. They do some.”
Friday, December 18, 2009
Memoirs and Customized Cake
Yesterday evening we arrived at the Michigan house ready for an atypical pre-Christmas week with very little on the calendar. This morning I was greeted by therapeutic, frozen stillness so thick you could almost cut it with a knife. A thin layer of ice covered the placid lake, and mounds of leftover crusty snow banked the house. Winter is definitely more winterish here than in Lafayette, Indiana.
As I type this blog entry (10:30 a.m.) views from outside seem cold and Christmasy while the inside of our little house is toasty and full of aromatic rich/buttery/fruity smells. An experiment currently bakes in the oven – an attempt to reproduce a treat cited by my friend Helga in her memoirs of post-WW II Germany.
On special occasions the pastor and various friends from church showed up for all-night prayer vigils in the abandoned barracks where Helga lived as a child. Tante (Aunt) Emma sometimes made a yeasted cake to honor these guests, something topped with a thick egg custard, fruit (in my case stripes of cinnamony apples, cherries, and a mixture of peaches/blackberries), and a crumbly streusel topping. After finding a recipe for a yeasted German cake online, I added custard I made in my double boiler, fruit, and the streusel I use on my Dutch apple pie as a mock-up of Tante Emma’s creation. Hopefully it will turn out to be a first cousin to Tante Emma’s cake, and will be an unexpected Christmas surprise for Helga and her husband, Dieter.
Later today I’ll get together with Helga to present the fresh-off-the-press copies of her memoirs we’ve been working on since this time last year. It feels like a momentous occasion – one marking a personal goal for Helga (to see her history in print) and for me (to be inspired to use whatever writing skills I’ve been given to serve others).
(P.S. At 11:15 the cake is out of the oven, and looks and smells heavenly!)
As I type this blog entry (10:30 a.m.) views from outside seem cold and Christmasy while the inside of our little house is toasty and full of aromatic rich/buttery/fruity smells. An experiment currently bakes in the oven – an attempt to reproduce a treat cited by my friend Helga in her memoirs of post-WW II Germany.
On special occasions the pastor and various friends from church showed up for all-night prayer vigils in the abandoned barracks where Helga lived as a child. Tante (Aunt) Emma sometimes made a yeasted cake to honor these guests, something topped with a thick egg custard, fruit (in my case stripes of cinnamony apples, cherries, and a mixture of peaches/blackberries), and a crumbly streusel topping. After finding a recipe for a yeasted German cake online, I added custard I made in my double boiler, fruit, and the streusel I use on my Dutch apple pie as a mock-up of Tante Emma’s creation. Hopefully it will turn out to be a first cousin to Tante Emma’s cake, and will be an unexpected Christmas surprise for Helga and her husband, Dieter.
Later today I’ll get together with Helga to present the fresh-off-the-press copies of her memoirs we’ve been working on since this time last year. It feels like a momentous occasion – one marking a personal goal for Helga (to see her history in print) and for me (to be inspired to use whatever writing skills I’ve been given to serve others).
(P.S. At 11:15 the cake is out of the oven, and looks and smells heavenly!)
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Shining Lights; Beacons of Hope
Every once in a while gut-level encouragement infuses everydayness in a way that rumbles my internal landscape. That’s what happened yesterday.
We attended our grandsons’ Christmas program (our daughter Emily’s boys) and I found myself choked with emotion several times. The mood was joyful, sincere (no shred of artificiality), and genuinely transcendent. From a performance point of view the musical anthems were professional in quality and orchestration. Not a single child bowed to stage fright or embarrassment. Even the teenaged boys read their parts with forthrightness and sung their hearts out.
I found myself encouraged, as if I’d witnessed a thin slice of culture in this very small “classical” Christian private school that represents an almost-extinct approach to life. For once I felt a jolt of optimism about the emerging generation full of young people that seem so often self-consumed and deceived.
The confident, realistic children at the Summit Academy thrive under a rigorous school curriculum. My grandsons LOVE school, which is evidence in itself that things are happening as they should. In third grade Caleb is already learning Latin and has read and enjoyed many of the Newberry Award-winning classic books (5th grade reading level, including the Hardy Boys series) by himself. In kindergarten Jordan is doing first and second grade work.
These students collectively flourish under the care of teachers who respect them as bright lights full of potential (rather than “just kids” with pitifully underdeveloped minds). The children build strong foundations that can support so much more than the simple facts and figures emphasized in the usual public classroom. I’m amazed by their abilities to think and reason; to see themselves and each other as eternal souls being prepared by history for coming tomorrows. In this climate, something “clicks” and scholastics develop quickly and cohesively. But even more than this, they come home; they find themselves.
For more about classical education, here’s just one web site that would be worth your time:
http://www.welltrainedmind.com/classical-education/
I’ll copy/paste the last two paragraphs of the above article here for those not inclined to read the entire thing:
“Rigorous study develops virtue in the student. Aristotle defined virtue as the ability to act in accordance to what one knows to be right. The virtuous man (or woman) can force himself to do what he knows to be right, even when it runs against his inclinations. The classical education continually asks a student to work against his baser inclinations (laziness, or the desire to watch another half hour of TV) in order to reach a goal — mastery of a subject.
“Systematic study also allows the student to join what Mortimer Adler calls the ‘Great Conversation’ — the ongoing conversation of great minds down through the ages. Much modern education is so eclectic that the student has little opportunity to make connections between past events and the flood of current information. “The beauty of the classical curriculum,” writes classical schoolmaster David Hicks, “is that it dwells on one problem, one author, or one epoch long enough to allow even the youngest student a chance to exercise his mind in a scholarly way: to make connections and to trace developments, lines of reasoning, patterns of action, recurring symbolisms, plots, and motifs.”
We attended our grandsons’ Christmas program (our daughter Emily’s boys) and I found myself choked with emotion several times. The mood was joyful, sincere (no shred of artificiality), and genuinely transcendent. From a performance point of view the musical anthems were professional in quality and orchestration. Not a single child bowed to stage fright or embarrassment. Even the teenaged boys read their parts with forthrightness and sung their hearts out.
I found myself encouraged, as if I’d witnessed a thin slice of culture in this very small “classical” Christian private school that represents an almost-extinct approach to life. For once I felt a jolt of optimism about the emerging generation full of young people that seem so often self-consumed and deceived.
The confident, realistic children at the Summit Academy thrive under a rigorous school curriculum. My grandsons LOVE school, which is evidence in itself that things are happening as they should. In third grade Caleb is already learning Latin and has read and enjoyed many of the Newberry Award-winning classic books (5th grade reading level, including the Hardy Boys series) by himself. In kindergarten Jordan is doing first and second grade work.
These students collectively flourish under the care of teachers who respect them as bright lights full of potential (rather than “just kids” with pitifully underdeveloped minds). The children build strong foundations that can support so much more than the simple facts and figures emphasized in the usual public classroom. I’m amazed by their abilities to think and reason; to see themselves and each other as eternal souls being prepared by history for coming tomorrows. In this climate, something “clicks” and scholastics develop quickly and cohesively. But even more than this, they come home; they find themselves.
For more about classical education, here’s just one web site that would be worth your time:
http://www.welltrainedmind.com/classical-education/
I’ll copy/paste the last two paragraphs of the above article here for those not inclined to read the entire thing:
“Rigorous study develops virtue in the student. Aristotle defined virtue as the ability to act in accordance to what one knows to be right. The virtuous man (or woman) can force himself to do what he knows to be right, even when it runs against his inclinations. The classical education continually asks a student to work against his baser inclinations (laziness, or the desire to watch another half hour of TV) in order to reach a goal — mastery of a subject.
“Systematic study also allows the student to join what Mortimer Adler calls the ‘Great Conversation’ — the ongoing conversation of great minds down through the ages. Much modern education is so eclectic that the student has little opportunity to make connections between past events and the flood of current information. “The beauty of the classical curriculum,” writes classical schoolmaster David Hicks, “is that it dwells on one problem, one author, or one epoch long enough to allow even the youngest student a chance to exercise his mind in a scholarly way: to make connections and to trace developments, lines of reasoning, patterns of action, recurring symbolisms, plots, and motifs.”
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Composing and Editing ANN'S BOOK
Composing and Editing ANN’S BOOK
Five years ago this month my then 66-year-old sister Ann was heavily sedated with morphine, laying on her deathbed. Colon cancer had spread to her liver and lungs, and an aggressive dose of chemo hurried along the process of overall degeneration in no time flat.
When not at the hospital with Ann or hurriedly finishing Christmas preparations at home, I sorted through personal possessions in her house – and discovered, among other things, volumes of written journals and memoirs. Back in intensive care my voice shook with emotion as I leaned over and spoke directly into her ear. “Ann, I’ll write your book for you.” She’d talked for years about authoring a book that would possibly help learning disabled children and their families, but I felt I’d found the potential for something bigger. Although totally unresponsive in other ways that day, tears rolled from the corners of her eyes down her cheeks. She heard me. She knew.
Within months after her death I happened to speak with a psychologist in a social setting, and ended up telling her a little about Ann’s lifelong struggles. This woman felt Ann most likely dealt with undiagnosed Asperger’s syndrome, a higher level of autism that had only been recognized for the previous decade. I practically ran to the bookstore to buy a huge volume on Asperger’s, and read it from cover-to-cover only to verify that woman’s hunch as undeniably correct. I also read through Ann’s volumes of very articulate writings and tried to categorize them chronologically since most had not been dated.
As the years passed, I waited for the right time to work on her book – not knowing, really, what that might mean. Perhaps there needed to be some distance between Ann’s life and the emergence of her written legacy. I coincidentally joined a writer’s guild the June following her death in January and began practicing composition in earnest for the first time in years.
Recently I visited with an optimistic/encouraging/helpful clinical psychologist at Purdue. He referred me to another resource at Riley Children’s Hospital in Indianapolis – a specialist in Asperger’s. It looks like the appointed time might be drawing nigh as pieces begin to fall into place. Just today I re-read some segments Ann wrote in the mid-1970’s, and had eyes to see (probably for the first time) the heart behind those words. Perhaps I’ve grown into shoes that allow me to better understand the elements of hope – unswerving faith in God, trusting confidence in His sovereignty (even in the midst of suffering), assurance that His promises are absolutely true - and therefore at least some measure of her message. Also, my writing skills have been honed, and I feel more able to tackle the job linguistically.
I hope to write her book as a legacy for our family. Optimistically, I hope to publish it. Maybe if God blesses this effort it could touch other families groping in the dark. Our parents didn’t know how to help Ann, or what kind of help she needed. Neither did she.
The format may be like an epistolary, not in the sense of letters but in the back-and-forth interplay of my perceptions as they weave among Ann’s writings. I hope my organization and narration will enhance her words so that together we provide parameters and guidance for families who struggle to understand how to fit square pegs into round holes. Mostly I hope the core message becomes clear: how to love and support those square pegs so they flourish even if they never fit culture’s round holes. Amen and amen.
Five years ago this month my then 66-year-old sister Ann was heavily sedated with morphine, laying on her deathbed. Colon cancer had spread to her liver and lungs, and an aggressive dose of chemo hurried along the process of overall degeneration in no time flat.
When not at the hospital with Ann or hurriedly finishing Christmas preparations at home, I sorted through personal possessions in her house – and discovered, among other things, volumes of written journals and memoirs. Back in intensive care my voice shook with emotion as I leaned over and spoke directly into her ear. “Ann, I’ll write your book for you.” She’d talked for years about authoring a book that would possibly help learning disabled children and their families, but I felt I’d found the potential for something bigger. Although totally unresponsive in other ways that day, tears rolled from the corners of her eyes down her cheeks. She heard me. She knew.
Within months after her death I happened to speak with a psychologist in a social setting, and ended up telling her a little about Ann’s lifelong struggles. This woman felt Ann most likely dealt with undiagnosed Asperger’s syndrome, a higher level of autism that had only been recognized for the previous decade. I practically ran to the bookstore to buy a huge volume on Asperger’s, and read it from cover-to-cover only to verify that woman’s hunch as undeniably correct. I also read through Ann’s volumes of very articulate writings and tried to categorize them chronologically since most had not been dated.
As the years passed, I waited for the right time to work on her book – not knowing, really, what that might mean. Perhaps there needed to be some distance between Ann’s life and the emergence of her written legacy. I coincidentally joined a writer’s guild the June following her death in January and began practicing composition in earnest for the first time in years.
Recently I visited with an optimistic/encouraging/helpful clinical psychologist at Purdue. He referred me to another resource at Riley Children’s Hospital in Indianapolis – a specialist in Asperger’s. It looks like the appointed time might be drawing nigh as pieces begin to fall into place. Just today I re-read some segments Ann wrote in the mid-1970’s, and had eyes to see (probably for the first time) the heart behind those words. Perhaps I’ve grown into shoes that allow me to better understand the elements of hope – unswerving faith in God, trusting confidence in His sovereignty (even in the midst of suffering), assurance that His promises are absolutely true - and therefore at least some measure of her message. Also, my writing skills have been honed, and I feel more able to tackle the job linguistically.
I hope to write her book as a legacy for our family. Optimistically, I hope to publish it. Maybe if God blesses this effort it could touch other families groping in the dark. Our parents didn’t know how to help Ann, or what kind of help she needed. Neither did she.
The format may be like an epistolary, not in the sense of letters but in the back-and-forth interplay of my perceptions as they weave among Ann’s writings. I hope my organization and narration will enhance her words so that together we provide parameters and guidance for families who struggle to understand how to fit square pegs into round holes. Mostly I hope the core message becomes clear: how to love and support those square pegs so they flourish even if they never fit culture’s round holes. Amen and amen.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Ladybug, Ladybug, Fly Away Home (or just leave)
Here’s one of those deep and abiding questions that keeps burning a hole in my weary brain as I search for the answer. Are you ready for the challenge of the day? This is a biggie.
What do ladybugs (actually Asian lady beetles) eat in the middle of the winter – inside the HOUSE? How do these Spartan crusaders LIVE??
We still have some hardy orange creepy-crawlers skiddling around here and there… little hard-shelled, prehistoric buggies that evidently can live on not much more than thin air.
They don’t seem to congregate around the sink or potty…don’t they need to drink? And they stay up high on the walls rather than combing the floor for crumbs…don’t they need to eat?
I have a feeling if there was a nuclear holocaust everything on earth might die except the alligators and ladybugs. I occasionally decide to do battle and snarf up these ladybugs with my vacuum sweeper. But they seem totally oblivious to the tornado-effect as they’re sucked up through the dark funnel-cloud of air to be buried in dirt and rubble, as if it’s an everyday thing. (Maybe their ancestors originated in Kansas.)
After the sweeper is turned off they live quite comfortably in its collection bag full of offending dirt until eventually, when the time is right, they come marching backwards through the hose to re-enter the house. Such tenacity!
I may have said this before (I think so, back weeks ago when they were swarming), but I’ve learned the hard way to empty the contents of the bag after each use into a plastic Ziploc bag. They crawl around inside the bag for a little while but eventually suffocate that way, which provides me more than a little sadistic glee. Then I get to bury the plastic coffin full of crusty carcasses with other trash to be picked up for the landfill. Maybe in some future generation a scientist will discover my bags of bugs (plastic lasts forever, you know) and examine the contents. “AH! Prehistoric beetles! That, I’m sure, could shed a defining light on our current times.
What do ladybugs (actually Asian lady beetles) eat in the middle of the winter – inside the HOUSE? How do these Spartan crusaders LIVE??
We still have some hardy orange creepy-crawlers skiddling around here and there… little hard-shelled, prehistoric buggies that evidently can live on not much more than thin air.
They don’t seem to congregate around the sink or potty…don’t they need to drink? And they stay up high on the walls rather than combing the floor for crumbs…don’t they need to eat?
I have a feeling if there was a nuclear holocaust everything on earth might die except the alligators and ladybugs. I occasionally decide to do battle and snarf up these ladybugs with my vacuum sweeper. But they seem totally oblivious to the tornado-effect as they’re sucked up through the dark funnel-cloud of air to be buried in dirt and rubble, as if it’s an everyday thing. (Maybe their ancestors originated in Kansas.)
After the sweeper is turned off they live quite comfortably in its collection bag full of offending dirt until eventually, when the time is right, they come marching backwards through the hose to re-enter the house. Such tenacity!
I may have said this before (I think so, back weeks ago when they were swarming), but I’ve learned the hard way to empty the contents of the bag after each use into a plastic Ziploc bag. They crawl around inside the bag for a little while but eventually suffocate that way, which provides me more than a little sadistic glee. Then I get to bury the plastic coffin full of crusty carcasses with other trash to be picked up for the landfill. Maybe in some future generation a scientist will discover my bags of bugs (plastic lasts forever, you know) and examine the contents. “AH! Prehistoric beetles! That, I’m sure, could shed a defining light on our current times.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Sail On, Sailor
As ships at sea rolling toward a faraway destination, we’re also mysteriously anchored to God’s promises and ultimately to each other in a network of tethers: generosity, sacrifice, service, and love.
On clear days when His Spirit’s straight winds sweep us onward, we climb the masts of adventure together. Ahoy there, matey! AHOY!
When storms arise, however, we’re white-faced and seasick. We hold on for dear life to that trustworthy anchor rope (hope) while sailor-friends (kindred spirits) come alongside with encouragement. They know, as we do, that suffering is never wasted in God’s economy; that tribulation engenders offspring like patience and experience, and ultimately greater measures of hope.
We who comprise the body of Christ collectively represent our Lord to other loner sea craft as they pace restlessly from port to port to port. Could they be looking for some place to belong? Could that place be internal (heart-level) rather than external? What can we (those tethered together in faith) offer, and how? What do those loner “mateys” recognize in us? Do they see unique ships freely sailing the high seas of fulfillment, trusting the Holy Spirit’s breath to steer them as they should go and the Lord’s anchor to hold them steady? Do they see Titanics pretending to be invincible, or downsized little rowboats paddling around in the protected coves that play it safe and don’t really trust the Captain at all?
I think this analogy touches on the root of hypocrisy. If we truly ARE His own, if we accept His radical generosity and give all of ourselves in return, we will end up trusting Him for grace to live beyond our own abilities and even our dreams. We’ll become new creatures who take risks, endure hardships, and achieve feats we would never have thought possible. If not, our pretense will show in the way we masquerade as wise and powerful - or else the way we cower to our own smallness.
On clear days when His Spirit’s straight winds sweep us onward, we climb the masts of adventure together. Ahoy there, matey! AHOY!
When storms arise, however, we’re white-faced and seasick. We hold on for dear life to that trustworthy anchor rope (hope) while sailor-friends (kindred spirits) come alongside with encouragement. They know, as we do, that suffering is never wasted in God’s economy; that tribulation engenders offspring like patience and experience, and ultimately greater measures of hope.
We who comprise the body of Christ collectively represent our Lord to other loner sea craft as they pace restlessly from port to port to port. Could they be looking for some place to belong? Could that place be internal (heart-level) rather than external? What can we (those tethered together in faith) offer, and how? What do those loner “mateys” recognize in us? Do they see unique ships freely sailing the high seas of fulfillment, trusting the Holy Spirit’s breath to steer them as they should go and the Lord’s anchor to hold them steady? Do they see Titanics pretending to be invincible, or downsized little rowboats paddling around in the protected coves that play it safe and don’t really trust the Captain at all?
I think this analogy touches on the root of hypocrisy. If we truly ARE His own, if we accept His radical generosity and give all of ourselves in return, we will end up trusting Him for grace to live beyond our own abilities and even our dreams. We’ll become new creatures who take risks, endure hardships, and achieve feats we would never have thought possible. If not, our pretense will show in the way we masquerade as wise and powerful - or else the way we cower to our own smallness.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Bumble-Heads
It was one of those fights-to-the-finish known only to married couples where both sides pull out the stops. We butted heads as verbiage flew fast and furiously. Stiff body language and incredulous glares hit below the belt. An “I’m right, and you’re out-to-lunch” mindset kept ammunition flying. “Blah-blah-BLAH,” I crowed. “Wah-wah-WAH,” he replied. But BLAH! But…WAH WAH! No-NO! Oh yeaaaahhhh?
I sighed; he insisted. I demanded; he shrugged. I pouted; he made decisions he knew I didn’t like. I sneered; he retreated in passive helplessness. It was a tug of war. Give an inch and he’ll take a mile. He backed off and I advanced to take a stand.
Now I ask you this: how many married couples fight over PUNCTUATION?? We have to be in some tiny minority group, I think, but that’s what was going on. We were fighting over little electronic black dots on the computer screen.
You see, he was gracious enough to help me edit the memoirs I’ve been working on for a friend, and I was glad for another pair of eyes to take a look before the finished product went to press. Many of his suggestions were worthy of consideration, and I willingly and humbly bowed over and over before the throne of Professor-dom.
However, sometimes I wanted dashes where he wanted commas. I preferred longer, flowing thoughts where he liked short clips. He wanted division into two sentences where I wanted semi-colons. He was on a mission to wipe out anything “unnecessary” while I was on a mission to fluff out and create something artistic with words.
Eventually we resolved our opinions, and I believe the document became stronger for all of our sniper-shots at each other. Plus, we actually had a good time. No, a downright fun-and-games-time. It was all mock warfare, anyway – right? Pow-pow and bang-bang. Punch. Ka-whop. Shoot ‘em up with pop-guns. Wild Bill Hickock and all that.
The truce at the end of our work session meant white flags on both sides, not just one. At that point we both sighed with relief that it was OVER. Then we took the 63-page document to Kinko’s on a teeny-tiny thumb drive (how does that work, anyhow?) to be printed into 25 bound copies that will be finished tomorrow. Next week it will also be burned to 50 CD’s. Then it will land in the hands of unsuspecting readers who have NO IDEA how many dots and commas and dashes were slammed here and there all over those pages like so many hockey pucks by two arrogant, I-like-to-be-right bumble-heads: The Professor and The Would-Be Author.
I sighed; he insisted. I demanded; he shrugged. I pouted; he made decisions he knew I didn’t like. I sneered; he retreated in passive helplessness. It was a tug of war. Give an inch and he’ll take a mile. He backed off and I advanced to take a stand.
Now I ask you this: how many married couples fight over PUNCTUATION?? We have to be in some tiny minority group, I think, but that’s what was going on. We were fighting over little electronic black dots on the computer screen.
You see, he was gracious enough to help me edit the memoirs I’ve been working on for a friend, and I was glad for another pair of eyes to take a look before the finished product went to press. Many of his suggestions were worthy of consideration, and I willingly and humbly bowed over and over before the throne of Professor-dom.
However, sometimes I wanted dashes where he wanted commas. I preferred longer, flowing thoughts where he liked short clips. He wanted division into two sentences where I wanted semi-colons. He was on a mission to wipe out anything “unnecessary” while I was on a mission to fluff out and create something artistic with words.
Eventually we resolved our opinions, and I believe the document became stronger for all of our sniper-shots at each other. Plus, we actually had a good time. No, a downright fun-and-games-time. It was all mock warfare, anyway – right? Pow-pow and bang-bang. Punch. Ka-whop. Shoot ‘em up with pop-guns. Wild Bill Hickock and all that.
The truce at the end of our work session meant white flags on both sides, not just one. At that point we both sighed with relief that it was OVER. Then we took the 63-page document to Kinko’s on a teeny-tiny thumb drive (how does that work, anyhow?) to be printed into 25 bound copies that will be finished tomorrow. Next week it will also be burned to 50 CD’s. Then it will land in the hands of unsuspecting readers who have NO IDEA how many dots and commas and dashes were slammed here and there all over those pages like so many hockey pucks by two arrogant, I-like-to-be-right bumble-heads: The Professor and The Would-Be Author.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Student-for-a-DAY (part II)
Believe it or not, yesterday’s abbreviated title was a legitimate snafoo, not an intentional fill-in-the-blank test for the creative/astute in my readership. A long time ago I lost the “edit” function on this blog, and alas, have not been able to reinstate it. So when a snafoo-doozie shows up, like leaving off part of the title, it just stays that way.
Anyway, yesterday I was a sponge-soaking student-for-a-day. I learned a lot from my prestigious professor-husband about how to keep a class on its toes from beginning to end, make it fun while not wasting time, involve individuals in the learning process, and inspire enthusiasm for the particular subject matter at hand (dry bones stuff like cost accounting in the construction industry) and intellectual achievement in general.
It was a great experience for me, and hopefully for him as well since afterward I got to praise him up one side and down the other. No wonder he’s gotten all those awards over the last three decades. He’s just plain GOOD, and I was proud to be introduced to all those scruffy, brutish-looking construction guys as his wife….the one he’s used as the butt of his jokes all semester.
By the way, those jokes have been around a long time now. I usually hear about them at senior banquets, when the kids finally meet me in the flesh for the first time. I continue to try hard to NOT live up to the (ridiculous) image they’ve set: a grossly overweight Cruella-de-ville man-handler with cleavage (behind the knees rather than the chesty-type). And yet I suppose it’s a back-handed honor just to know I’ve been joke fodder that will go down in the annals of unwritten Purdue University history.
Anyway, yesterday I was a sponge-soaking student-for-a-day. I learned a lot from my prestigious professor-husband about how to keep a class on its toes from beginning to end, make it fun while not wasting time, involve individuals in the learning process, and inspire enthusiasm for the particular subject matter at hand (dry bones stuff like cost accounting in the construction industry) and intellectual achievement in general.
It was a great experience for me, and hopefully for him as well since afterward I got to praise him up one side and down the other. No wonder he’s gotten all those awards over the last three decades. He’s just plain GOOD, and I was proud to be introduced to all those scruffy, brutish-looking construction guys as his wife….the one he’s used as the butt of his jokes all semester.
By the way, those jokes have been around a long time now. I usually hear about them at senior banquets, when the kids finally meet me in the flesh for the first time. I continue to try hard to NOT live up to the (ridiculous) image they’ve set: a grossly overweight Cruella-de-ville man-handler with cleavage (behind the knees rather than the chesty-type). And yet I suppose it’s a back-handed honor just to know I’ve been joke fodder that will go down in the annals of unwritten Purdue University history.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Student-for-a-
Student-for-a-Day
I’m going to school today - not really, but as a visitor to audit Fritz’s class. Would you believe in the 30 years he’s been a college professor I’VE NOT VISITED HIS CLASS EVEN ONCE? Years ago when I initiated the idea he said it would be “too embarrassing” or “too inhibiting,” so I dropped the ball and quit trying.
However, this morning I’m going in to campus with him. We’ll work on my German friend’s memoir project in the morning (I’m to the formatting stage, which requires professor-ish help on the computer) and I’ll attend 12:30 and 2:30 classes with him.
I plan to take notes in the back of the room – notes on his performance, not his lecture content. I’ll finally be able to evaluate that certain blend of charisma/performance/intensity that have earned him all those many awards over the past 3 decades.
Then I’ll give him a grade – ha!
I’m going to school today - not really, but as a visitor to audit Fritz’s class. Would you believe in the 30 years he’s been a college professor I’VE NOT VISITED HIS CLASS EVEN ONCE? Years ago when I initiated the idea he said it would be “too embarrassing” or “too inhibiting,” so I dropped the ball and quit trying.
However, this morning I’m going in to campus with him. We’ll work on my German friend’s memoir project in the morning (I’m to the formatting stage, which requires professor-ish help on the computer) and I’ll attend 12:30 and 2:30 classes with him.
I plan to take notes in the back of the room – notes on his performance, not his lecture content. I’ll finally be able to evaluate that certain blend of charisma/performance/intensity that have earned him all those many awards over the past 3 decades.
Then I’ll give him a grade – ha!
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Through the Looking Glass
Hurry, hurry
Snowflakes scurry
Landscape’s blurry
Not to worry
Sweater’s furry
This little ditty showed up yesterday afternoon as snow blighted the view on the other side of the window’s glass just inches from my computer, and so I jotted it down. Later in the evening I got a call from my BSF leader: class would be cancelled this morning due to a travel advisory.
It’s now 9:00 a.m. and 10 degrees outside, but the wind chill factor is taking the overall projected effect down below zero. Only a big sheet of glass blocks the frigid elements as I sit in toasty warmth overlooking the stark landscape with no fear of freezing. And yet, I have every confidence that the window’s glass is enough. The windowpane is completely trustworthy even thought I can’t see it.
In this Advent season, I sense so much reason to trust the Lord Jesus in the same way. He stands between me and so much that seems “impossible.” His mercies are fresh-and-new every morning in a world full of circumstances that should only inspire mistrust and worry. As it is, I strive to abide in the warmth of His security and view those numbing challenges “through Him.” Although there are times to confront their sting face-to-face, He simultaneously shelters and lifts me to another INTERNAL dimension where I live from an ETERNAL perspective rather than a TEMPORAL one. Praise to Jesus for His ongoing work of redemption in the human heart.
I just read Katie’s blog (our daughter who lives in balmy Austin, Texas) and found it fitting with the morning mindset right here in wintry Buck Creek, Indiana. Here’s a link – I don’t think she’d mind if you want to take a look:
http://katierobinson.wordpress.com/2009/12/10/recently-answered-prayers/#comment-344
Snowflakes scurry
Landscape’s blurry
Not to worry
Sweater’s furry
This little ditty showed up yesterday afternoon as snow blighted the view on the other side of the window’s glass just inches from my computer, and so I jotted it down. Later in the evening I got a call from my BSF leader: class would be cancelled this morning due to a travel advisory.
It’s now 9:00 a.m. and 10 degrees outside, but the wind chill factor is taking the overall projected effect down below zero. Only a big sheet of glass blocks the frigid elements as I sit in toasty warmth overlooking the stark landscape with no fear of freezing. And yet, I have every confidence that the window’s glass is enough. The windowpane is completely trustworthy even thought I can’t see it.
In this Advent season, I sense so much reason to trust the Lord Jesus in the same way. He stands between me and so much that seems “impossible.” His mercies are fresh-and-new every morning in a world full of circumstances that should only inspire mistrust and worry. As it is, I strive to abide in the warmth of His security and view those numbing challenges “through Him.” Although there are times to confront their sting face-to-face, He simultaneously shelters and lifts me to another INTERNAL dimension where I live from an ETERNAL perspective rather than a TEMPORAL one. Praise to Jesus for His ongoing work of redemption in the human heart.
I just read Katie’s blog (our daughter who lives in balmy Austin, Texas) and found it fitting with the morning mindset right here in wintry Buck Creek, Indiana. Here’s a link – I don’t think she’d mind if you want to take a look:
http://katierobinson.wordpress.com/2009/12/10/recently-answered-prayers/#comment-344
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
A Personal Place
Memories of Baker’s Peak pop to the surface like so many jack-in-the-boxes this time of year. I can still envision winter-coated people with greedy eyes crowding to the overstuffed bakery case where they stared and pointed at holly-berry-decorated yule logs and single-layer cakes topped with hand-piped poinsettias. “This-or-that-party is coming up; can I special-order something unique?” They’re eager, appreciative, and maybe even (for a second or two when adult sophistication drops its guard) childlike. “Oh, and I’ll take a lemon square for right now, please.”
I can almost smell the thick smells, feel the greasy red-stained pastry tube in my aching-carpal-tunnel-prone hand, and feel the prickles in my arches from standing in one spot for hours on end. In my mind’s eye the “brain boards” stand on chairs like artist easels with their hundreds of flapping papers – boards created to facilitate dealing with mega-orders. And the cash register – well, there it is with familiar ivory keys waiting to ring up the price-lookup numbers for a chicken salad sandwich (14) and a drop cookie (23). Funny, those two numbers have lingered in my mind while the others have faded.
Eleven years ago this month I was unknowingly orchestrating my final Christmas as owner/manager of Baker’s Peak – and yet in a sense it all seems like it happened just yesterday. All I have to do is mix up a batch of sour cream sugar cookie dough (which I did last night) and presto, I’m transported back in time to my little shop where people clamored for hundreds – no thousands – of homemade tree and star and wreath cookies as if they were pure gold.
What was it about that place, anyway? Naturally it had to do with offering baked goods from scratch (as well as other yummy edibles of high quality). But something else was going on, too – something relational involving supply and demand of intangibles like concern and support.
To quote Kathleen Kelly, owner of the children’s bookstore named Shop Around the Corner in the movie “You’ve Got Mail,” it probably had to do with being PERSONAL. “Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal,” she said. That’s it. Ours was a personal business. People often told me our store reminded them of an extended home kitchen, or the atmosphere of good old Grandma’s. We were the opposite of Village Pantry with its meager offering of day-old donuts and instant cappuccino where a blank-faced employee might never make eye contact.
The shop required me to give more than I had of every personal resource imaginable: skill, time, strength, energy, patience, creativity, organization, sensitivity/boldness. It was hard – very hard. In that sense I was stretched to the limit and beyond – it is no surprise I battled with cancer during this era. I worked too hard and slept too little…and discovered financial and relational success, and a changed identity that would forever affect my attitudes about God, myself, and my role in His kingdom on earth.
The perspective of elapsed time has allowed me to remember how my patrons were “fed” more than a bowl of steamy homemade soup, a sandwich on a freshly-baked roll, and perhaps a snickerdoodle cookie. As well as sacrificial service and product customization, they were offered respect, acceptance, and friendship. Interestingly, these same intangibles ended up being mirrored right back to me and my staff.
Whenever someone walked inside they were greeted with the tinkling bell on the door, warm kitchen-y smells, AND warm hearts. Despite the realities of a few inevitably gritty personality ouchies, in general we collectively cared about each other – employees, “regulars” (many of whom were on a first name basis with us),and even occasional drop-in patrons. This automatic attitude of regard for individuals was “in the air” as much as the scent of vegetable-beef soup and cinnamon rolls.
Although I felt ill equipped as a business owner at the time, now I realize I ran the place like a family rather than a business (not having any experience BUT being a wife and mother), which was not a bad thing. Baker’s Peak ended up being a place where everyone belonged, and we did life together.
I can almost smell the thick smells, feel the greasy red-stained pastry tube in my aching-carpal-tunnel-prone hand, and feel the prickles in my arches from standing in one spot for hours on end. In my mind’s eye the “brain boards” stand on chairs like artist easels with their hundreds of flapping papers – boards created to facilitate dealing with mega-orders. And the cash register – well, there it is with familiar ivory keys waiting to ring up the price-lookup numbers for a chicken salad sandwich (14) and a drop cookie (23). Funny, those two numbers have lingered in my mind while the others have faded.
Eleven years ago this month I was unknowingly orchestrating my final Christmas as owner/manager of Baker’s Peak – and yet in a sense it all seems like it happened just yesterday. All I have to do is mix up a batch of sour cream sugar cookie dough (which I did last night) and presto, I’m transported back in time to my little shop where people clamored for hundreds – no thousands – of homemade tree and star and wreath cookies as if they were pure gold.
What was it about that place, anyway? Naturally it had to do with offering baked goods from scratch (as well as other yummy edibles of high quality). But something else was going on, too – something relational involving supply and demand of intangibles like concern and support.
To quote Kathleen Kelly, owner of the children’s bookstore named Shop Around the Corner in the movie “You’ve Got Mail,” it probably had to do with being PERSONAL. “Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal,” she said. That’s it. Ours was a personal business. People often told me our store reminded them of an extended home kitchen, or the atmosphere of good old Grandma’s. We were the opposite of Village Pantry with its meager offering of day-old donuts and instant cappuccino where a blank-faced employee might never make eye contact.
The shop required me to give more than I had of every personal resource imaginable: skill, time, strength, energy, patience, creativity, organization, sensitivity/boldness. It was hard – very hard. In that sense I was stretched to the limit and beyond – it is no surprise I battled with cancer during this era. I worked too hard and slept too little…and discovered financial and relational success, and a changed identity that would forever affect my attitudes about God, myself, and my role in His kingdom on earth.
The perspective of elapsed time has allowed me to remember how my patrons were “fed” more than a bowl of steamy homemade soup, a sandwich on a freshly-baked roll, and perhaps a snickerdoodle cookie. As well as sacrificial service and product customization, they were offered respect, acceptance, and friendship. Interestingly, these same intangibles ended up being mirrored right back to me and my staff.
Whenever someone walked inside they were greeted with the tinkling bell on the door, warm kitchen-y smells, AND warm hearts. Despite the realities of a few inevitably gritty personality ouchies, in general we collectively cared about each other – employees, “regulars” (many of whom were on a first name basis with us),and even occasional drop-in patrons. This automatic attitude of regard for individuals was “in the air” as much as the scent of vegetable-beef soup and cinnamon rolls.
Although I felt ill equipped as a business owner at the time, now I realize I ran the place like a family rather than a business (not having any experience BUT being a wife and mother), which was not a bad thing. Baker’s Peak ended up being a place where everyone belonged, and we did life together.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Rubbed Down and Lifted Up
Kate worked at the massage parlor on Main Street where I’d been given a coupon for an hour-long massage. I was assigned to her when I called to schedule a time to redeem it, and we met yesterday at the appointed hour.
After filling out the appropriate information form, I tromped up the creaky, steep stairs in the old Victorian home-turned-business to a quiet bedroom where Christmas carols played softly. I slipped between the sheets and was soon in la-la-land as Kate worked her magic. Her hands were like agents of mercy that transferred her heartfelt desire to me: R-E-L-A-X. I felt my mind go somewhere else - I honestly know not where - while my body responded to her trained touch.
After our session there was not a stiff joint left anywhere, or so it seemed, and my brain felt almost woozy, like a jiggly bowl of Jell-O. Although I barely knew Kate, I sensed caring/serving were her true colors, and asked for her perceptions knowing she’d obviously discovered some deep knots in my neck and shoulders.
“You’re very, very tight – VERY tight. No doubt you tense up automatically as a defensive mechanism against your tinnitus,” she explained. “Your neck, shoulders, and even your arms (wow) are – well – incredibly tense. It’s probably become a lifestyle and you don’t even know what it feels like to relax anymore.” I could see it written all over her face: I WISH I COULD HELP YOU.
I asked her, “So what’s the most rewarding and challenging part of your job?”
She stretched her arms over her head and gazed at the ceiling; she seemed to look at both questions through rose-colored glasses tinted with compassion. “Most rewarding - well - I love being able to help people.”
“That’s only half – what about the most challenging part?”
“Sometimes I can’t help them. That’s a bummer.” Still a rosy view, I thought, from the motive (wanting the best) point-of-view.
Interesting. I told her I’d like to stick her in my hip pocket and pull her out every now and then for a quick rub-down when the tinnitus noises started throwing their rotten eggs at me. She smiled gently and her eyes sparkled as if to reflect an inner fire: sincere mercy. I felt encouraged, even fleetingly, as if I’d found someone who understood and cared about the rotten egg-y-ness from my point of view.
Somehow it’s easier when you know you’re not alone. That reassurance was almost as valuable as the massage itself, and the after-glow lasted all evening and even into this morning. I wonder if she knows she ministered to my soul as well as my body.
After filling out the appropriate information form, I tromped up the creaky, steep stairs in the old Victorian home-turned-business to a quiet bedroom where Christmas carols played softly. I slipped between the sheets and was soon in la-la-land as Kate worked her magic. Her hands were like agents of mercy that transferred her heartfelt desire to me: R-E-L-A-X. I felt my mind go somewhere else - I honestly know not where - while my body responded to her trained touch.
After our session there was not a stiff joint left anywhere, or so it seemed, and my brain felt almost woozy, like a jiggly bowl of Jell-O. Although I barely knew Kate, I sensed caring/serving were her true colors, and asked for her perceptions knowing she’d obviously discovered some deep knots in my neck and shoulders.
“You’re very, very tight – VERY tight. No doubt you tense up automatically as a defensive mechanism against your tinnitus,” she explained. “Your neck, shoulders, and even your arms (wow) are – well – incredibly tense. It’s probably become a lifestyle and you don’t even know what it feels like to relax anymore.” I could see it written all over her face: I WISH I COULD HELP YOU.
I asked her, “So what’s the most rewarding and challenging part of your job?”
She stretched her arms over her head and gazed at the ceiling; she seemed to look at both questions through rose-colored glasses tinted with compassion. “Most rewarding - well - I love being able to help people.”
“That’s only half – what about the most challenging part?”
“Sometimes I can’t help them. That’s a bummer.” Still a rosy view, I thought, from the motive (wanting the best) point-of-view.
Interesting. I told her I’d like to stick her in my hip pocket and pull her out every now and then for a quick rub-down when the tinnitus noises started throwing their rotten eggs at me. She smiled gently and her eyes sparkled as if to reflect an inner fire: sincere mercy. I felt encouraged, even fleetingly, as if I’d found someone who understood and cared about the rotten egg-y-ness from my point of view.
Somehow it’s easier when you know you’re not alone. That reassurance was almost as valuable as the massage itself, and the after-glow lasted all evening and even into this morning. I wonder if she knows she ministered to my soul as well as my body.
Monday, December 7, 2009
A Raw Foodist "Soapbox Moment"
The symbolic name of yesterday’s advent candle at church hit me squarely between the eyes: humility.
Pastor Dan quoted from a resource saying affluence (“affluenza”) cripples/kills us by inducing dependence on more and more THINGS (“thing-i-fication”). It takes humility to recognize that consumerism competes with God in that sacred place: the human heart. How often we’re numbed by desire that relishes more and more, even if it is counterfeit. How often we limp as cripples under the weight of discontent.
During recent years I’ve confronted this mindset specifically in the area of food. In my opinion, we’re a nation of satiated gluttons who cover a multitude of sins with a convenient mantra: “Everything in moderation.” And yet moderation, like so many other things, is situational and subjective.
As an ex-bakery owner and ex-queen of denatured, chemically bleached, generic white flour and refined white sugar (not to mention frosting made of shortening that is just one molecule away from plastic – no joke), I continue to be challenged by taste buds self-trained in rampant self-gratification…and am not beyond the pull of junk food addiction. However, I’ve come a very long way toward recovery, and have learned that, like everything else, victory in this area depends on humble (there’s that word again) obedience to God. Perhaps the Christmas season is a good time to evaluate “food-i-fication” as well.
Genesis 1:29 is pretty clear that God’s original intent was for mankind to live well on raw plant-based foods found in His Garden. After the flood Noah was given permission to eat the flesh of animals (Genesis 9:3) - but I have to wonder if that was because the excessive water destroyed all the plants? Later, Daniel mandated vegetables over “dainties” and rich food offered by the king. You can find that story in Daniel 1:1-16. (I love verses 8 and 12, especially.)
People will argue that Jesus wasn’t vegetarian since He ate fish; of course fish isn’t evil. No doubt His diet was comprised of basic foods like the wheat He gleaned along the road. Surely there were no Twinkies (did you know they have a shelf life of 26 years?), let alone fried potato chips with artificial onion dip full of chemical preservatives. We convince ourselves that it doesn’t matter, that a little indulgence here and there (or even overt bingeing or gorging at “special” times) isn’t a spiritual issue. But how dishonoring to treat the bodies God gave us as if they’re toxic waste dumps, and then to ask Him to fix the cancer or diabetes or other degenerative disease that erupts in its wake! Surely food consumption DOES reflect the monarch of the heart: pride or humility.
Arrogant food hypnosis runs rampant during the holiday season. Our already-indulgent expectations about excessive gift-buying drip over into the kitchen where it’s okay to eat defiling foods. In fact it's not only okay, but expected and lauded. Please pass the cookies, fudge, and pie….the huge servings of dressing, potatoes, and gravy (of course)….and whatever else our lustful selves crave.
It takes a lot of humility in general to swim upstream, but I personally am prepared to take a serious stand as a revolutionary raw-foodist (yes, this is a real term representing a real lifestyle, one I’ve dabbled in for the past 3 1/2 years). For example, I’d love to encourage people to resurrect the morning-break-time and replace coffee and donuts with fruit, nuts, juice, and maybe hot herbal teas or Teeccino. But THAT kind of suggestion rocks the boat BIG TIME and won’t happen until a whole lot of humility shows up first.
I'm challenged to win an audience (and make a difference?) through right motives - love and personal example. With that said, I just made a batch of Green Lemonade and would be happy to share a glass if you'd like to come over for a chat. :-)
Pastor Dan quoted from a resource saying affluence (“affluenza”) cripples/kills us by inducing dependence on more and more THINGS (“thing-i-fication”). It takes humility to recognize that consumerism competes with God in that sacred place: the human heart. How often we’re numbed by desire that relishes more and more, even if it is counterfeit. How often we limp as cripples under the weight of discontent.
During recent years I’ve confronted this mindset specifically in the area of food. In my opinion, we’re a nation of satiated gluttons who cover a multitude of sins with a convenient mantra: “Everything in moderation.” And yet moderation, like so many other things, is situational and subjective.
As an ex-bakery owner and ex-queen of denatured, chemically bleached, generic white flour and refined white sugar (not to mention frosting made of shortening that is just one molecule away from plastic – no joke), I continue to be challenged by taste buds self-trained in rampant self-gratification…and am not beyond the pull of junk food addiction. However, I’ve come a very long way toward recovery, and have learned that, like everything else, victory in this area depends on humble (there’s that word again) obedience to God. Perhaps the Christmas season is a good time to evaluate “food-i-fication” as well.
Genesis 1:29 is pretty clear that God’s original intent was for mankind to live well on raw plant-based foods found in His Garden. After the flood Noah was given permission to eat the flesh of animals (Genesis 9:3) - but I have to wonder if that was because the excessive water destroyed all the plants? Later, Daniel mandated vegetables over “dainties” and rich food offered by the king. You can find that story in Daniel 1:1-16. (I love verses 8 and 12, especially.)
People will argue that Jesus wasn’t vegetarian since He ate fish; of course fish isn’t evil. No doubt His diet was comprised of basic foods like the wheat He gleaned along the road. Surely there were no Twinkies (did you know they have a shelf life of 26 years?), let alone fried potato chips with artificial onion dip full of chemical preservatives. We convince ourselves that it doesn’t matter, that a little indulgence here and there (or even overt bingeing or gorging at “special” times) isn’t a spiritual issue. But how dishonoring to treat the bodies God gave us as if they’re toxic waste dumps, and then to ask Him to fix the cancer or diabetes or other degenerative disease that erupts in its wake! Surely food consumption DOES reflect the monarch of the heart: pride or humility.
Arrogant food hypnosis runs rampant during the holiday season. Our already-indulgent expectations about excessive gift-buying drip over into the kitchen where it’s okay to eat defiling foods. In fact it's not only okay, but expected and lauded. Please pass the cookies, fudge, and pie….the huge servings of dressing, potatoes, and gravy (of course)….and whatever else our lustful selves crave.
It takes a lot of humility in general to swim upstream, but I personally am prepared to take a serious stand as a revolutionary raw-foodist (yes, this is a real term representing a real lifestyle, one I’ve dabbled in for the past 3 1/2 years). For example, I’d love to encourage people to resurrect the morning-break-time and replace coffee and donuts with fruit, nuts, juice, and maybe hot herbal teas or Teeccino. But THAT kind of suggestion rocks the boat BIG TIME and won’t happen until a whole lot of humility shows up first.
I'm challenged to win an audience (and make a difference?) through right motives - love and personal example. With that said, I just made a batch of Green Lemonade and would be happy to share a glass if you'd like to come over for a chat. :-)
Sunday, December 6, 2009
STORYTELLING: Favor's Story
Once upon a time there lived a young girl with a sensitive heart who felt deeply and noticed much. She dwelt, however, with parents whose hearts had become first broken, then seared and blackened, by despair.
Eventually sinister darkness overshadowed this girl, whose name was Favor, and she became disillusioned. “What’s the point?” she thought. “I’m trapped and alone, and there’s no way out.” In order to survive, she retreated to an internal place of refuge and snuffed out any remaining childhood hope of discovering and participating in the beautiful.
Life became defined by the dutiful performance of a to-do list. While others’ hands extended to touch her, they reached only skin-deep – not to her heart. No one recognized her true state of apathy, or the monumental effort it took just to survive. In time Favor’s inner tension screamed for release. She longed for genuine relationship, but it seemed no one connected with her fine-tuned perceptions.
One day she turned against her own innate sensitivity to initiate something evil: something that might express this growing, consuming, overwhelming anguish. In a subliminally inspired attempt to hurt the presumed perpetuators of her gruesome inner solitary confinement, she chose (against her own conscience) to disfigure her face outwardly and thus match her heart’s brokenness. With intentional precision, she stood before a mirror, held a sharp paring knife to first one cheek and then the other, and scored them each with tiny slits until tears trickled to form bloody rivulets that ran to her chin.
Later the wounds appeared as scratches; no one asked what had happened or seemed to notice or care. Their indifference seemed to seal her fate. She was indeed alone in a vast sea of isolation, a numb waif left to find her own way.
Eventually Favor learned to cope within the narrow parameters of her life in a frozen, unfeeling sort of way. Although her stinging scars faded externally, arrows of abandonment remained - impaling her soul like ice shards that refused to budge. In time she grew to became a self-marked woman, stained by her own hand, branded by disdain and self-imposed violation, unable to recover the hope of her youth.
Her perfect Lover watched all of this with the discerning eye of an eagle. At just the right moment, long before it was “too late,” He intervened – calling so softly and yet powerfully, suggesting He would come and indwell that dark inner place and never forsake her if only she would have Him. In a moment of imputed grace Favor replied, “Yes, Lord.”
With the precision of a surgeon, He meticulously began removing thousands of icy splinters one by one by one - those that had held her heart captive for so long - with His gracious tweezers of mercy. He taught her to love and be loved; to hope with a hope founded in promises rather than disappointments; to flourish within confining situations rather than clawing for escape as a victim.
Favor’s heart quickened and she began to taste freedom and restoration while soaring above circumstantial pain - migrating ever further from it, fleeing frigid limitation for hopeful expansion and warmth. She embraced the One who understood who she was and how she should live; the One who could prepare her to receive and share abounding compassions. Not surprisingly, she discovered He was also the Source of the Beauty that had stalked her from birth.
In time Favor realized her sensitive nature to be a gift rather than a curse – a blessing to be fulfilled rather than a liability to be squelched. May her story be heard, and may her memory - one of acceptance, rescue, and victory - be venerated.
Eventually sinister darkness overshadowed this girl, whose name was Favor, and she became disillusioned. “What’s the point?” she thought. “I’m trapped and alone, and there’s no way out.” In order to survive, she retreated to an internal place of refuge and snuffed out any remaining childhood hope of discovering and participating in the beautiful.
Life became defined by the dutiful performance of a to-do list. While others’ hands extended to touch her, they reached only skin-deep – not to her heart. No one recognized her true state of apathy, or the monumental effort it took just to survive. In time Favor’s inner tension screamed for release. She longed for genuine relationship, but it seemed no one connected with her fine-tuned perceptions.
One day she turned against her own innate sensitivity to initiate something evil: something that might express this growing, consuming, overwhelming anguish. In a subliminally inspired attempt to hurt the presumed perpetuators of her gruesome inner solitary confinement, she chose (against her own conscience) to disfigure her face outwardly and thus match her heart’s brokenness. With intentional precision, she stood before a mirror, held a sharp paring knife to first one cheek and then the other, and scored them each with tiny slits until tears trickled to form bloody rivulets that ran to her chin.
Later the wounds appeared as scratches; no one asked what had happened or seemed to notice or care. Their indifference seemed to seal her fate. She was indeed alone in a vast sea of isolation, a numb waif left to find her own way.
Eventually Favor learned to cope within the narrow parameters of her life in a frozen, unfeeling sort of way. Although her stinging scars faded externally, arrows of abandonment remained - impaling her soul like ice shards that refused to budge. In time she grew to became a self-marked woman, stained by her own hand, branded by disdain and self-imposed violation, unable to recover the hope of her youth.
Her perfect Lover watched all of this with the discerning eye of an eagle. At just the right moment, long before it was “too late,” He intervened – calling so softly and yet powerfully, suggesting He would come and indwell that dark inner place and never forsake her if only she would have Him. In a moment of imputed grace Favor replied, “Yes, Lord.”
With the precision of a surgeon, He meticulously began removing thousands of icy splinters one by one by one - those that had held her heart captive for so long - with His gracious tweezers of mercy. He taught her to love and be loved; to hope with a hope founded in promises rather than disappointments; to flourish within confining situations rather than clawing for escape as a victim.
Favor’s heart quickened and she began to taste freedom and restoration while soaring above circumstantial pain - migrating ever further from it, fleeing frigid limitation for hopeful expansion and warmth. She embraced the One who understood who she was and how she should live; the One who could prepare her to receive and share abounding compassions. Not surprisingly, she discovered He was also the Source of the Beauty that had stalked her from birth.
In time Favor realized her sensitive nature to be a gift rather than a curse – a blessing to be fulfilled rather than a liability to be squelched. May her story be heard, and may her memory - one of acceptance, rescue, and victory - be venerated.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Cards, Cards, Cards
Ah, what could be more reminiscent of the traditional sending of Christmas cards than….writer’s cramp? Somehow the names on our card list have multiplied like bunnies until we’re nearing the 200 mark (186, I think), and being the old fogy-types we’re not yet doing machine-printed address labeling. That means hours of flicking through the old rolodex cards (do you ancients remember those?) and hand writing addresses on all those envelopes. Somewhere in the middle of the M’s my penmanship goes out the window and names turn into something resembling doctor signatures, but oh well.
I’m not complaining. Nope, not even a little bit. I’m grateful we have these people in our lives representing our past, present, and future - people who enlarge us and provide context for our ongoing journeys.
It seems interesting that when Fritz and I took the Myers-Briggs personality tests last summer we both scored more toward introversion than extroversion. And yet in our own unique ways we’re sold out to relationships as a high priority (even though we express this in diametrically different ways). Guess that proves you don’t have to be a classic extrovert stuck to magnetic people 24/7 to have hand cramps this time of year.
I just lubed up my hands with some yummy Burt’s Bees moisturizing cream (no no, I don’t eat it, but it DOES smell and feel yummy) before approaching round #2, and am ready to tackle the N’s. Only thing is, my hands are too greasy to hold the pen.
I’m not complaining. Nope, not even a little bit. I’m grateful we have these people in our lives representing our past, present, and future - people who enlarge us and provide context for our ongoing journeys.
It seems interesting that when Fritz and I took the Myers-Briggs personality tests last summer we both scored more toward introversion than extroversion. And yet in our own unique ways we’re sold out to relationships as a high priority (even though we express this in diametrically different ways). Guess that proves you don’t have to be a classic extrovert stuck to magnetic people 24/7 to have hand cramps this time of year.
I just lubed up my hands with some yummy Burt’s Bees moisturizing cream (no no, I don’t eat it, but it DOES smell and feel yummy) before approaching round #2, and am ready to tackle the N’s. Only thing is, my hands are too greasy to hold the pen.
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Fine Art of Waiting
Just as there’s an art to tasting fine wine, there’s also an art to waiting. I don’t mean the kind of waiting characterized by drumming fingers when running out of time, or sighing in the long line at the supermarket, or mumbling at the driver who refuses to take his turn at the 4-way stop. Rather, I mean waiting on God in whatever circumstance, expectantly, out of a sense of hope founded in His promises.
It strikes me that every day as the sun rises God deals out His mercies – mysteriously new every morning and yet also paradoxically continuous. They infiltrate all of life just as the sun perpetuates life on earth. Without them, just as without sunlight, life would vanish.
When we’re children, adults often ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I used to tremble when asked this question since I felt I lacked the correct answer. In fact, I usually fabricated something on-the-spot that made me sound like I “had it together.” In reality, deep down I wanted to be a ballerina – to shape my body to the sound of music that refused containment; to express beauty and freedom that defied understanding. A deep longing called to me from “beyond” myself, and yet I learned to hog-tie and muffle it, to stuff it way in the back of some dark soul-closet: a fugitive dream. Now I believe it was the voice of God, inspiring my heart to create something beautiful along with Him that might minister to others while fulfilling my own heart longing.
As I get older, I see my identity more clearly. I’m finally learning to open up the closet and release the essence of the dream. I’m learning what it means to wait on Him, receive from Him, and then act with Him. If someone would ask me now, “What do you want to be?” I would have to say, “One who waits.” I wait for eyes to see His graces; for a heart to receive them; for a soul, mental acuity, and physical strength to share them. I wait because waiting is the greatest evidence of hope, and without hope we have nothing.
I’ve lived much of my adult life in a frenzy of beginnings defined by my own initiative, and yet at this stage I’m not interested in pushing my own agenda. Instead I desire to wait, hope, receive His compassions and His power, and then step out and exercise faith by doing what he gives me to do.
This is purposeful waiting. This is fulfillment.
It strikes me that every day as the sun rises God deals out His mercies – mysteriously new every morning and yet also paradoxically continuous. They infiltrate all of life just as the sun perpetuates life on earth. Without them, just as without sunlight, life would vanish.
When we’re children, adults often ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I used to tremble when asked this question since I felt I lacked the correct answer. In fact, I usually fabricated something on-the-spot that made me sound like I “had it together.” In reality, deep down I wanted to be a ballerina – to shape my body to the sound of music that refused containment; to express beauty and freedom that defied understanding. A deep longing called to me from “beyond” myself, and yet I learned to hog-tie and muffle it, to stuff it way in the back of some dark soul-closet: a fugitive dream. Now I believe it was the voice of God, inspiring my heart to create something beautiful along with Him that might minister to others while fulfilling my own heart longing.
As I get older, I see my identity more clearly. I’m finally learning to open up the closet and release the essence of the dream. I’m learning what it means to wait on Him, receive from Him, and then act with Him. If someone would ask me now, “What do you want to be?” I would have to say, “One who waits.” I wait for eyes to see His graces; for a heart to receive them; for a soul, mental acuity, and physical strength to share them. I wait because waiting is the greatest evidence of hope, and without hope we have nothing.
I’ve lived much of my adult life in a frenzy of beginnings defined by my own initiative, and yet at this stage I’m not interested in pushing my own agenda. Instead I desire to wait, hope, receive His compassions and His power, and then step out and exercise faith by doing what he gives me to do.
This is purposeful waiting. This is fulfillment.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Shooting the Wad
I’m notorious for my raggedy sale-rack knit shirts worn to a frazzle that are dubbed with lasting marks from the kitchen: food prep stains. Yesterday while Christmas shopping I decided it was past time to upgrade my image.
It’s no secret that department stores are trying to move their stuff to spur the slow economy, and red sale-here, sale-there signs lure vulnerable customers like myself to buybuybuy. Usually I blow them off and keep walking with blinders of thrift-above-all keeping me on course, but not yesterday. I came home with not one or two, but eight – yes eight – new shirts.
This must be some sort of record for me. I rarely buy clothes except during occasional sojourns to TJ Maxx to look for some illusive/undefined/cheap bargain, let alone in bulk. But it’s pretty exciting to open the drawer this morning and see those neatly folded shirts in piles, just waiting for me to show the world a new (clean/smooth/orderly) emerging identity. Later today I plan to throw out at least a few of those ratty, grease-speckled shirts with their evidences of battle – old uniforms from the kitchen war zone. There will be a semi-formal ceremony to toss-the-rags-in-the-wastebasket, and then I’ll dust my hands and proclaim good riddance.
Upon hearing my confession of shooting the wad, Fritz congratulated me (well, sort of) and with tongue-in-cheek suggested I start wearing aprons in the kitchen in the future. This is something I’ve never done, if only because I don’t like feeling encumbered by that extra layer (call me stupid, but I’m a free spirit when it comes to cooking). Of course he’s right. It would be an old-dog-new-trick thing, but I think I can adjust to apron-wearing – to save my shirts, yes, but also to save my new image, not to mention my skin.
It’s no secret that department stores are trying to move their stuff to spur the slow economy, and red sale-here, sale-there signs lure vulnerable customers like myself to buybuybuy. Usually I blow them off and keep walking with blinders of thrift-above-all keeping me on course, but not yesterday. I came home with not one or two, but eight – yes eight – new shirts.
This must be some sort of record for me. I rarely buy clothes except during occasional sojourns to TJ Maxx to look for some illusive/undefined/cheap bargain, let alone in bulk. But it’s pretty exciting to open the drawer this morning and see those neatly folded shirts in piles, just waiting for me to show the world a new (clean/smooth/orderly) emerging identity. Later today I plan to throw out at least a few of those ratty, grease-speckled shirts with their evidences of battle – old uniforms from the kitchen war zone. There will be a semi-formal ceremony to toss-the-rags-in-the-wastebasket, and then I’ll dust my hands and proclaim good riddance.
Upon hearing my confession of shooting the wad, Fritz congratulated me (well, sort of) and with tongue-in-cheek suggested I start wearing aprons in the kitchen in the future. This is something I’ve never done, if only because I don’t like feeling encumbered by that extra layer (call me stupid, but I’m a free spirit when it comes to cooking). Of course he’s right. It would be an old-dog-new-trick thing, but I think I can adjust to apron-wearing – to save my shirts, yes, but also to save my new image, not to mention my skin.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
A Thesis Topic: Pizza Topping
Here are highlights of a conversation from a few days ago.
Fritz jr: Dr. Kelly (a professor in his master’s degree program) says he’s got a good pizza topping for me.
Me: Cool! Are you going to try it?
Fritz jr: Well, maybe – or probably – I don’t have any reason not to at least consider it.
Me: So does he like to cook?
Fritz jr: How would I know?
Me: Well, what’s his deal with pizza?
Fritz jr (blankly): I don’t even know if he likes pizza!
Me: Then what’s he doing recommending a good topping?
Fritz jr: Topping for what?
Me (dumbfounded, with hands on hips): For pizza, of course!
At this point our younger daughter, Katie, intervenes.
Katie: Wait a second…Mom, what did you think Fritz just said?
Me: Well, that Dr. Kelly knows of a good pizza topping, and he’d like Fritz to try it.
Multiple fists erupt on the table as the hoot-hooting ensues. “Yeah! Right on! PIZZA TOPPING!” Everyone’s cracking up.
Meanwhile, I wonder what could possibly be funny about pizza topping. I’ve never thought it to be particularly amusing. Sloppy, spicy, and addictive maybe, but not funny.
Me: All right, what’s the joke here? When did pizza get to be so hilarious?
Katie: NO NO! Mom…you missed it. Dr. Kelly said he has a good THESIS TOPIC for Fritz!
Me (laughing boisterously): Of course! Absolutely! I knew that, right? I was just leading you on to see if YOU thought he said pizza topping. Hahahahaha! (pause) Well, not really…actually, I thought he said pizza topping. I did. Yup, that’s what I thought!
Oh brother.
Stuff like this happens everyday, although usually I don’t botch it so badly when the context is fairly obvious. In this case, without hearing the consonants (which I don’t do very well anymore), and with no parameters in place conversationally, I assumed “thesis topic” was “pizza topping” (short e sound, short uh sound followed by short o sound and short i sound, and an identical number of syllables). Pretty darn close, eh? Maybe Fritz jr. will write his master’s thesis on pizza toppings. Er, well, maybe not.
Fritz jr: Dr. Kelly (a professor in his master’s degree program) says he’s got a good pizza topping for me.
Me: Cool! Are you going to try it?
Fritz jr: Well, maybe – or probably – I don’t have any reason not to at least consider it.
Me: So does he like to cook?
Fritz jr: How would I know?
Me: Well, what’s his deal with pizza?
Fritz jr (blankly): I don’t even know if he likes pizza!
Me: Then what’s he doing recommending a good topping?
Fritz jr: Topping for what?
Me (dumbfounded, with hands on hips): For pizza, of course!
At this point our younger daughter, Katie, intervenes.
Katie: Wait a second…Mom, what did you think Fritz just said?
Me: Well, that Dr. Kelly knows of a good pizza topping, and he’d like Fritz to try it.
Multiple fists erupt on the table as the hoot-hooting ensues. “Yeah! Right on! PIZZA TOPPING!” Everyone’s cracking up.
Meanwhile, I wonder what could possibly be funny about pizza topping. I’ve never thought it to be particularly amusing. Sloppy, spicy, and addictive maybe, but not funny.
Me: All right, what’s the joke here? When did pizza get to be so hilarious?
Katie: NO NO! Mom…you missed it. Dr. Kelly said he has a good THESIS TOPIC for Fritz!
Me (laughing boisterously): Of course! Absolutely! I knew that, right? I was just leading you on to see if YOU thought he said pizza topping. Hahahahaha! (pause) Well, not really…actually, I thought he said pizza topping. I did. Yup, that’s what I thought!
Oh brother.
Stuff like this happens everyday, although usually I don’t botch it so badly when the context is fairly obvious. In this case, without hearing the consonants (which I don’t do very well anymore), and with no parameters in place conversationally, I assumed “thesis topic” was “pizza topping” (short e sound, short uh sound followed by short o sound and short i sound, and an identical number of syllables). Pretty darn close, eh? Maybe Fritz jr. will write his master’s thesis on pizza toppings. Er, well, maybe not.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Eggbeater Bed Mate
Tumble tangle
Covers mangle
Tossing turning bossing burning
Ever churning
Hog-like grunting
Snores so stunting
Need a muffler for this growling
I’ll go prowling
Midnight munchies
Crackers crunchies
Send me carb-ing bingeing glutting
Stomach jutting
Back to snort’s grand
Wave-tossed sleep land
To snuggle up without a peep
And soundly sleep
Covers mangle
Tossing turning bossing burning
Ever churning
Hog-like grunting
Snores so stunting
Need a muffler for this growling
I’ll go prowling
Midnight munchies
Crackers crunchies
Send me carb-ing bingeing glutting
Stomach jutting
Back to snort’s grand
Wave-tossed sleep land
To snuggle up without a peep
And soundly sleep
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