Baking Bonanza

Every once in a while my old baking compulsions return, usually when a guest is coming to visit.  Such was the case this morning as I await the arrival of Becky, Fritz’s niece, who will be visiting for a couple of days.  (Yay!)

Twelve years ago when I owned my bakery/deli/lunchroom this would seem like NOTHING, but now it represents a morning’s worth of work: whole wheat crescent rolls, sour cream coffeecake, and cherry cobbler – oh, and a pot of navy bean soup with Italian sausage.  Wanna come for lunch?!

Baby Betty

I’m not sure about Baby Betty’s origins, only that she was a special doll that my mother-in-law shared with my girls when they were little.  After my in-laws’ estate was settled, Baby Betty came to live at our house.  She’s as big as a year-old child, and so has her very own storage shelf in the toy closet.

Baby Betty is a Velveteen Rabbit kind of baby doll with arms that have been literally loved off.  Her eyes roll around in her head a little more sleepily than they used to, but she still has her rosebud smile and pink cheeks.

I recently knit a baby cap for one of our new granddaughters and tried it on Baby Betty (who, by the way, has a very large head) as a model.  Here are some pictures of the fitting.

Old Joe

A blue heron chose to roost on our pier a couple of times today.  When I tried to sneak outside and take a picture, Old Joe warily took off, swooping low over the water with agile ease.

One time he sat on the cover of the boat, all hunched over like an old man (or lady). 

Another time he stood on the platform of the pier itself, but as soon as I showed up on the deck he leapt into thin air sort of like Peter Pan on the run.  He was off to Never-Never Land (the swamp) without delay!

Tonight as I revisit today’s confrontations with this bird, I identify with the body language I captured in these pictures.  Although sometimes I can feel equally hunkered down, today I felt like soaring when my Rife frequency testing showed encouraging results.  While I’d been having hits on the family of cancers associated with breast cancer, today they were GONE. 

My spirits continue to be lifted (as if sprinkled with pixie-dust) even all these hours later.  

Time to Blaze

The trees continue to blush more each day, as if their secret is being exposed: they’ll be naked within the month.  Patches of reds appear in the midst of tree-green, suggesting that nozzles on giant cans spray paint have squirted a little here, a little there at the whim of a seasonal artist.

This year I’m watching the leaves more intently than in the past, as if their state mirrors my own aging.  As consistent green is mingled with strokes of color that make a final statement, I wonder if I’m entering a similar stage.  Perhaps it is time to for me blaze.

This morning a pastor spoke on Luke chapter 10.  “No one gets through life without being beaten, bruised, and left half-dead,” he said.  In other words, we all suffer.  He also reminded us that, “God desires mercy, not sacrifice.”  Thus as days pass and circumstances come and go, I may at times be the bloody man on the roadside – but at other times the Good Samaritan, blazing with mercy and compassion.  

I Thought So

It's gone again.  The pencil (see previous blog) is GONE.

That stubby little yellow editing pencil visited for about 15 minutes, but then evidently had other places to go, other people to see, other work to do.  It didn't like me.  That's it.  I KNEW IT.

Good-bye pencil.  And I thought we were going to be friends...guess I was wrong.

The Illusive Pencil

Well now, fancy THAT.  Wonders never cease!

I've complained several times here (pout, pout) that the edit function on this blog hasn't worked correctly. WHAT A BUMMER.

Ok, go ahead, call me a techno-granny.  Surely I should be able to correct a technical snafoo - just click on the little box that says "enable edit function," right?  I did that, ga-zillions of times actually, and NOTHING HAPPENED.  Even my techno-guru son tried to "fix it" on his computer by going over/under/around/through applications, only for me to discover that my computer didn't have the same settings. So I couldn't do his techno-gymnastics even if I wanted to....which I didn't, since I just wanted the "normal" edit function.  Wasn't I entitled to an ERASER, for goodness sake?

So I gave up.  If there were bloopers, and typos, so be it.  My pride would just have to suffer.  My readers would just have to think I was a loser.  A L-O-S-E-R!

Then lo and behold, presto-chango, TODAY (why today?), ON ITS OWN, the edit function shows up.  Out of nowhere, literally, it just decides to jump out of hiding.  A few minutes ago the cutsie, stubby little pencil (like a golf pencil) just SHOWED UP at the end of each post.  Bravo, pencil....but how long will you stick around?  Will you go cavorting off to your favorite CAVE?  (Surely the pencil is male.) We'll see.

POV

Point of view is a big deal for people who like to write: POV (say it – no, not separate letters as in P, O, and V, but paw-uh-v, all run together – pawuhv – that’s right).  A story can take on a completely different tone and focus when seen from various angles, various POVs.

It seems life in general is the same.  A person’s point of view changes with age.  Things take on a different slant as the years click by. 

I see so many things about myself differently these days: my abilities, relationships, faith, hopes, fears, work and roles.  I’m becoming more flexible and less pigeon-holed; more willing to take risks and less crippled by expectations; more respectful of God and less tongue-tied when talking with Him and about Him.

It’s a good time of life.  As my elderly mother-in-law once said when asked to pin-point her favorite stage, “Every phase of life is my favorite.  Whichever phase I’m in is my favorite!”  What a great testimony to contentment.  What a great POV.

A Ray of Hope

Today I was given an opportunity to become a sunbeam in another person’s otherwise cloudy day. 

I’d never met a certain man named Steve who has had lung cancer, melanoma, and now is dealing with leukemia, but today I spoke with him on the phone for quite a long time. We shared our medical histories with cancer and talked about both conventional and unconventional treatments.

I felt a little like a steamroller since I can get pretty excited up on my “alternative” soapbox.  However, I think he could tell I don’t pretend to have all the answers but am simply open to learning about various modalities and sharing them with others.

At least at the end of the conversation he seemed grateful and said he was encouraged.  That got me thinking.  Our western mentality in general, and our medical community in particular, is all about facts and statistics and evidences.  But what good is it to mandate predictions of death in the midst of life?  As long as there is life, there is life – shouldn’t we focus on THAT?  Shouldn’t we recognize, and remind each other, that the human body was created to be self-healing and our job is to support it, and each other?  Shouldn’t we encourage rather than discourage?

I admire this man’s courage; he has not lost the will to fight although he’s been through a lot of suffering.  His body aches with pain every day, all day.  I felt privileged to share a few moments of hope with him.

Dancing With Words

It took a long time for the full moon to fall from the heights of the sky during the night – from 3:00 a.m. until dawn finally exposed a gray penciled-in version of the lake’s opposite shoreline. During the dark hours I lay in bed watching the moon trail reflect on a backdrop of the black water, and was mysteriously but magnetically inspired to walk back in time. 

The replay hadn’t been a premeditated idea.  I simply found myself needing to visit my earliest creative beginnings, speak them out loud, and narrate their progress right up to the present.  A time-consuming endeavor?  I suppose.  But remember - I had all night.

In the midst of today’s high noon exposure (symbolized by the brash, silvery light of an entire sun-spangled lake, so different from the moon trail), my take-away from last night is clear.  There’s been a “dance” in my heart all along seeking to find expression – sometimes through yearnings and longings, and less often through actual overt participation.  In some seasons this “dance” was completely ignored.  In others music swelled, or waves lapped against the seawall, or the sound of human voice invited me to express something from deep inside that had to come out – but the “dance” was often only partially realized.  Perhaps it was disabled in mid-stride by bulky props or technically-minded stage directors.  Perhaps a limp – emotional or circumstantial – limited my steps.

In recent years I’ve begun to realize a measure of consistent creative expression, mostly through writing.  I’ve always longed to dance, and still do.  But this I know.  I have been given the ability and desire to write, and I continue to discover new assignments.  As long as passion continues to translate the inner dance on paper, I will relish opportunities to dance with words.

Calm

Today was committed (and consecrated) to the goal of working on Ann’s posthumous book, something I’ve mentioned here before as a very time-consuming, involving, humbling, and yet valuable project.  The more I dig through her outpourings, the more I realize the vastness and depth of her personal journey – one that could inspire and minister to families also traveling similar (autistic) terrain.  It is an honor, but also such a challenge! I told Dr. S I’d have “something” for her to read by the end of the month, but I have a long way to go yet to reach that goal.

By evening I was officially brain dead – gggggaaaaaaa, flat line here - and eager for my daily walk.  The sky was clear blue when I began, with only a few clouds resting quietly here and there.  However, by the time I arrived home the sun had fallen below the horizon on the other side of the lake and was spewing strokes of fuschia above the tree line and over the water.  The lake seemed peaceful and still, a mirror of waning daylight and an icon of rest.  It struck me that much of Ann’s life was defined by storms of struggle and upheaval, and yet she discovered a measure of this kind of calm in her later years if only because, as she testifies in her writings, she embraced the love and hope of Jesus.

Rain Down

A rainstorm just went through on the run; receding flashes of lightning still splatter the black sky in the distance.  Wet-smelling night air streams inside through an open window, rustling the post-it-notes stuck on the edge of my computer screen. 

Meanwhile, I correspond electronically with various people online in Kalamazoo, Lafayette, Chicago, and Austin.  It’s late and I’m alone here in the boonies, but am hardly lonely as I’m caught in the midst of conversation spanning a wide range of topics: wedding after-glow, cooking discoveries, health issues, emotional healing in the wake of a relational break-up, new friendship, upcoming birthing. 

Thunder grumbles.  More raindrops patter all-of-a-sudden and run irregularly down the windowpane as familiar, silvery dots.  I intentionally squint my eyes until they blur. 

Is it raining at our old house in Buck Creek?  I can envision rain running down the tall west window of our bedroom.  I remember how distant lightning illuminated the shape of the old barn roof from that view.  I wonder if the creek is swelling to the top of its banks, wanting to overflow?  I find myself wanting to go back, just for tonight, to watch the rain come down.

Isaiah - chapter 1

Two points distilled in my mind as I studied my BSF lesson this week (on the first chapter of Isaiah).

1.     1. Our lives become messy mostly because of self-reliance borne of self-absorption.  We are a guarded, self-directed people who rely on ourselves  (and our micro-managed committees and programs) rather than submitting to God and His plan for our lives.

2.     2. Isaiah was called by God to deliver a message of warning, comfort and deliverance: God offers HOPE and REDEMPTION. We accept or reject His work in our hearts to that end: repentance, cleansing, and restoration.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but as I grow older (and hopefully a little wiser) I realize I grew up thinking I had to protect and guard myself (survival), and please everyone else by being the Ultimate Good Girl (survival again).  It never crossed my mind for years that there was another more critical survival: spiritual.  I didn’t realize the goal of life was not only to survive, but to THRIVE spiritually, and thus also physically and emotionally.  What a life-altering concept.

Self-absorption is automatic and yet counter-productive – a result, at least in part, of unguarded prosperity.  It binds the spirit.  Isaiah speaks with integrity and compassion to lift our minds and hearts so we recognize and embrace the ways of our sovereign, holy God. 

A Literary Evening

Very occasionally I read something in my two VERY THICK anthologies (Norton Anthologies of English Literature), the only two texts I’ve kept from my college days.  This evening I read a few poems by an author I admired while studying literature so many years ago: Gerard Manley Hopkins.

It seems Hopkins has a way of power-packing poetry with words that lead the reader down, down, down into haunts where there’s nothing left to do but EXPERIENCE those words.  As a student, I was both frustrated and drawn for reasons that I couldn’t articulate.  Just when I thought I couldn’t understand Hopkins’ writing, at the same time felt I understood it all too well.  It was as if he drew me into a place of deeper consideration where I found what I’d not consciously known but recognized right away.

Tonight in an introductory section I was reminded he was influenced by a movement within the Church of England (the Oxford Movement) led by John Henry Newman, who also influenced many of his adherents to join the Roman Catholic Church.  At some point, Hopkins became a devoted Jesuit priest, but he never lost his identity as a sensitive poet fascinated by language and rhythm, and the color, form and detail of nature.  As a priest and later a professor, it was difficult for him at times to reconcile his vocation with his poetic genius.

In summary, Hopkins’ work is moody, profound, passionate.  His word choices are sometime startling or dialectic, his rhythms distinctive.  He combines colloquial and formal, simple and complex. 

Here is the poem Hopkins considered his favorite, one I read several times tonight.  In my opinion, it requires careful, slow, intentional reading (and re-reading) of every word, and pondering of the rhythms (as well as the words).  I love the title and the last line.

I included a lexicon for those who might stumble on first reading.

Pied Beauty (1877)

Glory be to God for dappled things –

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in a stipple upon trouth that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

Landscape plotted and pierced - fold, fallow, and plough;

And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise Him.

Lexicon:

+ Pied – blotchy or dappled

+ Brinded - brindled or streaked

+ Stipple - dots or small spots

+ Chestnut-falls - chestnuts stripped of their husks after being roasted in “fresh-firecoal”

+ Pierced – divided into rectangles of different colors, as the English landscape appears

+ Fold – enclosure for animals

+ Fallow – a field plowed but left unsown for a season

+ Trim – equipment

+ Counter – contrary, in contrasted patterns or colors

+ Spare – rare

How Life Looks "From Over There"

*whinewhinewhinewhinewhine* Without an edit function anywhere in sight (where are yoooooou, stupid-not-to-mention-illusive little edit function?), I can’t FIX typos, or bloopers of any kind, on any of my blogs.  Alas, I must be content to hang my head and live with the blips in the first two sentences of the post from earlier today…..*sigh.*

I actually came back to post a second entry today for a REASON, though - not just to cry over spilled milk.

So here’s the news.  I had several “lightbulb moments” at a new friend’s baby shower this afternoon.  The honored mother-to-be, Abra (feminine form of Abraham – isn’t that cool?), is a beautiful black woman, and I was one of 5 white people in attendance out of a total of around 40, kids and husbands included. 

For one thing, it is AMAZING that I even know Abra.  Our paths happened to cross in a literal split-second of time some weeks ago…and here we are!  Second, it is AMAZING she and our youngest, Katie, are exactly the same age, have the same college degrees and vocational goals, and are at the same point in their families with two little kids (only Katie has girls and Abra has a little boy with another boy due in about 3 weeks).  Third, although I was a little tentative at first, it was AMAZING to see how I fit right in today! Cultural similarities (mostly common relational expectations, education levels, and faith in Christ) wiped out the fact that different skin colors, eye colors, and hair textures set us apart.  And yet, with all the similarities, there was an exemplary spiritedness and suave cadence in the black relationships I witnessed – something I couldn’t put my finger on, a characteristic unique to the race.  I LOVED IT.  The little kids running all over the place were precious beyond compare – cocoa-colored, bright-eyed, pigtailed, carefree-but-respectful given their tender ages.   Obviously there are many white children – and children of all colors – who would love to be so happy, grounded, and well-loved.

Fourth, and perhaps most interestingly, I met a young lovely 36-year-old junior high art teacher named Gail (or Gayle?) whose gentle-yet-strong presence left a mark on me.  I can still see her clear eyes and earnest expressions in my mind’s eye.  Although she was busy with shower preparations when I arrived, within the first half hour of “mingling” she approached me (literally sat at my feet) and struck up conversation.  AMAZING!  I felt so honored! Since we easily “clicked” in seemingly more than superficial ways, I hope our paths cross again in the future.  In fact, I hope to make sure they do.  I want to know what happens to her dream: creating and marketing a line of greeting cards that feature her artwork!

This afternoon reminded me how good it is to get out-of-myself-and-my-practiced-rut every now and then – to jump feet first into someone else’s arena and see how life looks from over there. 

Night on the Town

Kalamazoo, a city (3 times the size of Lafayette!) big on promoting the performing arts.  we were invited to attend a musical at the New Vic Theatre last weekend, and another last night at Farmers Alley Theatre.  I love the emphasis on REAL PEOPLE performing with REAL TALENT in a day and age when technology’s special effects and artificial realities are such the recreational norm.  Blah.  You can’t beat the connection of real-life acting and singing – real people doing what they’re gifted to do in ways that reach out and touch the audience.

Last night’s show was called, “A Closer Walk With Patsy Cline.”  We listened to oldies-but-goodies like “Your Cheatin’ Heart” and of course “Crazy” as performed by a Patsy Cline look-alike, Lana Hawkins.  WHAT A VOICE that girl has!  Our friend/host had kindly reserved front row seats because of my hearing issues, and we enjoyed the company of 4 other couples who are also good friends.  A great night on the town....  

Squirreling Around

A storm pushed through earlier today with strong winds and driving rain, and the deck is still wet.  Some of our generous crop of acorns (see yesterday’s blog) is currently soaking in puddles of rainwater.

A couple of squirrels are busy in the aftermath of the storm, and I’m watching them through the picture window.  One in particular continues to return to the deck and search for acorns worthy of burying for the winter.  He goes from acorn to acorn, sniffing and looking them over, until he finds one he likes.  (It seems the very wet ones are not preferred.)  Then he grabs a “select nut” with jaws wide open and runs off to find a good spot to plant it underground.

His chosen burial spots are well within easily watch for me.  First he digs-digs-digs furiously with his forepaws, his back arched with the effort – then drops the acorn in the hole and tamps-tamps-tamps with equal effort to make sure it is well covered.  I would call this industriousness at its best.

Within seconds he runs back for another acorn as if there’s no time to waste.  Hurryhurryhurry!  Only occasionally does he sit and enjoy eating an acorn snack on-the-job.

Our yard is quickly becoming an acorn graveyard.  I’m totally baffled by the squirrels’ ability to find them months later – a dilemma not unlike the one posed by the proverbial needle in the haystack.

The Sky is Falling...The Sky is Falling!

Yup, it’s true; the sky is falling!  Brown pellets consistently rain all over the deck and picnic table, banging like bullets.  Watch out chipmunks! 

A person takes his life in his own hands out there.  I haven’t had a boink on the head YET, but it’s inevitable since the onslaught has only begun.  Our oak trees will continue to shed acorns for weeks….

Starting Again

Today BSF resumed with its first meeting of the year, this time with a brand new curriculum that will explore the book of Isaiah!  It was exciting to be enrolled as a regular member in the daytime Kalamazoo class (one I’ve visited periodically in the past when enrolled in other classes), meet the so-so-awesome ladies in my discussion group, and launch into a new study.  The church was bursting at the seams.  I’m guessing there were maybe 350 women present, based on previous years when numbers in this particular class hovered just under 300.

The author of the notes grabbed me with this:

He wants His people to be restored to Him in true worship, which consists of a broken spirit and contrite heart.

Also this:

The Bible is first and foremost the revelation of God and His plan of redeeming a people for Himself.  As we study the book of Isaiah, we will be asking ourselves, “What does this passage of scripture reveal about God – His person, His purposes, or His work?”  This is very important, because what we believe about God determines what we believe about ourselves, our world, our purposes, and our lives.

I’ve looked at this week’s homework, and already have a clue what we’ll be discussing next week.  We’re living in a time and culture (like Isaiah) when church involvement is sometimes worn like a costume/mask over self-reliant, self-centered (and even self-destructive) hearts.   Proud hearts. Rebellious hearts.  I-don't-need-anyone hearts.

According to our teaching leader this morning, Isaiah’s heart cry continues to be relevant today: God is eternal, and He offers hope and redemption/healing that restores our hearts and our messy lives. 

Ah, I’m quick to agree life IS messy.  But praise God….He is faithful to redeem the mess.

Stalker

I noticed someone following me down the sidewalk at a distance. I turned. 

"Excuse me, who are you and why are you following me?" 

"I'm the old you," he responded. 

"Me?" 

"No, the old you . . . before Christ." 

"But you're dead," I said with confidence. 

"I know," he said. 

"Then why are you following me?" 

He smiled.  "Because sometimes you forget I'm dead."

 

-George Parler

Surprised by the Moon

Surprised by the Moon

I just turned around from doing dishes in the kitchen to be greeted by THIS – a crescent moon reflecting in a lake quietly ablaze with leftover sunset colors. 

Rainy Day Flashback

I just walked out to the mailbox where I was confronted by a nostalgic flashback.

It was raining pretty hard, but I wanted to rsvp to a family wedding and send my reply TODAY.  So I slipped on a plastic hooded raincoat (one I hardly ever use) and dashed through the puddles in our crater-strewn driveway.  Raindrops splashed all around like little wet volcanoes spewing rainy lava; my hurried footsteps added to the chorus of splish-splashes.

The rain-smells were wet and clean, mixed with the inevitable aroma of the lake as clouds pushed down to capture it beneath their insistent gray hand.

I slipped the card in the box and flipped up the red flag as a signal to the postal carrier.  The plastic raincoat felt cold and stiff against my arms as I looked back at the puddles I’d just traversed.  Rain pinged my head.  I breathed deeply.

All of a sudden in my mind I was back on the road along the south side of Lake Maxinkuckee, just west of Campy’s boathouse, riding a bicycle through similar puddles.  I was wearing a cold, crinkly plastic raincoat and my older sister, Mame, was wearing another similar one while riding next to me on another bike.   I was probably 12 or 13, which would have made her 25 or 26.

She was on my left, nearer the edge of the road and its adjoining swampy forest as we rode along.  Heady green smells mixed with lake smells.  The rain beat on our heads; splashes jumped up on our feet.  Our socks and legs were soaked! We didn’t care.  She laughed, and I followed suit.  She was my much-older sister whom I rarely saw, and yet we were riding bikes in the rain together! 

Today, back at the mailbox in the midst of my reverie, I celebrated for a moment and pushed aside momentary regret that there hadn’t been more of those moments. I headed back inside, grateful for memories of my past and encouraged by what is, and will be.

A Door Opens

I think I’ve said this before: encouragement is a rare commodity.  By this I don’t mean nicey-nice pats on the back, but real-deal encouragement when you know another person’s words, gestures, and motives link up with a bigger picture and FIT.  Such encouragement is refreshing, uplifting, and confirming.  How grounding to know, via another person’s testimony and invitation, that you’re not just treading water or wasting time, but are GOING SOMEWHERE in life and making a difference.

Today I was issued a casual but sincere invitation that would enable me to pursue a particular goal that has been brewing for a long time – at least 6 years, and probably more like 10.  It would give me a voice in an area of passion, and in a way that could be considered advocacy, if not also ministry.  This is not something to be taken lightly, for with positions of authority (such as that experienced by a teacher) comes responsibility.  Still, I am encouraged by the prospect and feel as if a new door is opening that may lead me to greater opportunity for fulfillment and service.

The Dance

The lake is lavender and gray slate in the aftermath of this evening’s sunset, with a buff-and-peach glow still reflected along the western shoreline.  Slight air movements play across the top of the water leaving tiny dimples that come and go.  It’s as if millions of unseen dancers might be flowing across the watery stage, leaving evidences of their choreography in the form of delicately placed footprints.  

A ballet simultaneously plays on public radio; I feel the old desire rise within me.  An inner urgency has prodded me to pursue ballet my entire life.  However, I waited too long while millions of other things crowded out the dream, and now I am too old.  But I can, and will, watch the dance on the lake and vicariously engage with it.

There are fewer dimples now, and the music – the staccato piano, the soft flute – seem to be slowing down, too.  I can imagine myself out there with the invisible fairies on the lake as their dance winds down - slowly, methodically, rhythmically responding to the quiet of the setting sun, breathing and flowing with body movements that respond automatically to the music of the spheres.

The rest of the world fades away in the midst the dance.  Surely dancing must be a glimpse of heaven.

Belle

This morning I attended a funeral for Belle Lallinger, a woman who lived to celebrate her 102^nd birthday just a few weeks ago.  Although I was connected only through her son and didn’t know her personally, I’ve continued to think about her this afternoon and evening.  I wonder about all the chronological days behind her – the wars, great depression, technological changes - and the eternity of time-beyond-time ahead of her.  Kairos here?  Kairos there?  

Mystery speaks: “Believe.”

Thick and Thin

Frothy white caps rolled across the lake all day, and this evening a stiff breeze was still blowing as I tramped along my usual 2-mile lakeside course.  The walk seemed to go quickly as I relished the water-laden wind in my face – ultimately refreshing, stimulating, and comforting.

While walking, I challenged myself to think of a word to capture recent thoughts about growing older.  Of course the process of aging necessitates change (sssh, ssssssshhhh-ssh went the non-stop waves).  Hmmmmm.  An aging person’s life changes just like those swells rising and falling and rising again until they stop at the shore.  But I wanted a single word to answer my question.  An aging person is…..?   Is WHAT?  I finally decided on a word: THIN.

THIN wasn’t perfect, but it would work.  Physical skin becomes thin.  Hair thins.  Physical capabilities like hearing and seeing weaken or thin out. Personality characteristics like daring and stamina – they’re scarcer; thinner. 

But right on the tail of that thought came the reality that I’m less vulnerable in other ways.  I’m thicker - stronger, safer, more secure in faith, hope, and the reason I am alive.  

Whatever seems to be growing thinner – weakness of body and soul - is both undergirded and covered over by supernatural love that never fails.  Ever.  That’s about as thick as you can get.

What a Day!

Labor Day.

Have-friends-over-to-the-lake-day.

Picnic-lunch-in-the-great-outdoors-day.

Girls-screaming-behind-the-boat-day.

Dog-jumping-off-the-pier-day.

Brats-sizzling-on-the-grill-day.

Fire-flickering-on-the-deck-day.

Stars-twinkling-in-the-dark-day.

Time to call it a day!

User-Friendly...or...?

The meaning of commonly used words can sometimes become diluted when we sling them around casually in conversation.  Think about the word “praise.”  We praise the dog for fetching the bone, praise the hairdresser for giving us a great-looking “do,” or praise ourselves for sticking with some boring, tiresome conversation when we’d rather bow out and get on with something else that m-a-t-t-e-r-s.  The inference is OH YAY, someone did a good thing worthy of recognition.  Maybe a noble thing.  Maybe a sacrificial (or, on the other hand, self-exalting?) thing.  Not a bad way to use the word, but it makes us lazy.  We stop thinking about the deeper implications of praise.

The word “worship” seems quite a bit spookier.  While we’re quick to talk about praise, we don’t freely verbalize thoughts about worship. The word is hush-hush. Shhhhh.  Don’t say it too loud.  It’s a strong word.   A this-really-makes-a-difference word.  However, it’s also a word stuck on the shelf of our respective internal libraries without much use.  A word that makes us think about our own humility, something American’s tend to avoid like the plagues of Egypt.

It seems we who practice what we call “contemporary worship” sometimes get praise and worship a little mixed up, at least in the context of Sunday morning.  We make them one-and-the-same when they’re not.  We even print them in the same line in the church bulletin as the “praise team” leads “worship.” In my opinion, we may inadvertently promote something relatable and meaningful, but side-step true heart-level worship of our incredibly high God.

In recent years I’ve been inspired by worship practiced by some of the more traditional Christian churches, even though there seems a danger that the liturgy and repetition can become rote and therefore meaningless.  I was one who pooh-poohed similar worship styles years ago.  However, now in such "high" settings I sense my own neediness in the presence of God’s greatness – a good (perhaps imperative) thing. I realize how desperate for His mercy I really am, and that He isn’t supposed to be primarily user-friendly, but rather awesome: powerful, mighty, great, HOLY. 

Even with that said I am comfortable with typical contemporary formats.  Maybe that says it all.  Maybe comfort is the problem.  Ah, yes….it’s the American way.

Here’s an article I enjoyed reading that speaks to the topic of praise and worship:

http://www.truthinhistory.org/praise-and-worship-are-they-the-same.html

Psalm 150 Got Me Thinking....

Praise the Lord Jesus Christ.

Praise Him, seated at the right hand of the Father.

Praise His Spirit on earth, living in human hearts.

Praise Him for His redemptive work.

Praise Him for His majesty and sovereignty.

Praise Him with lips that testify of His love.

Praise Him with honesty and transparency.

Praise Him with acceptance and expectancy.

Praise Him with every act of loving service.

Praise Him with every expression of faith and hope.

Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.

Praise the Lord.

What I'm Doing

“What HAVE you been DOING this week?” Theresa (Tena’s sister and assistant) said with a definite rise-and-fall in her voice.  Her hands were sitting on both hips for emphasis. 

We both stared at the water that had been changing colors during my footbath ionization treatment. 

“Well, I’ve been taking my yeastex pills/maple syrup with soda/oregano oil/raw apple cider vinegar/unhomogenized yogurt/flax oil/50-billion-a-day probiotics/ and about 20 different supplements.  I’ve been eating Spartan pure-food-no-frills meals, like super-super-basic. And I’ve been writing, which is my therapy,” I replied.  “Oh, and I’ve been walking – usually a couple of miles every other day – and resting.  I let myself sleep when I feel like it.  Morning, afternoon, evening, whenever.”

Still gawking at the tub where my feet were submerged beneath cappuccino-looking foam, Theresa couldn’t stop talking. “Look at all the stuff coming out; here’s so much yeast!  And those black rivers in the white foam – those are toxic metals,” she remarked.  “Lots of metals – LOTS!”

All I knew was that during the previous week I’d started to feel better than I’d felt in a long, long time.  And yet unusual symptoms had persisted.  Also, a respected doctor had continued to press me to pursue a procedure I was not sure was the appropriate next step.  In regard to that issue I’d confronted the possibility of my own rebellion and/or denial, but in fact recognized I was actually being more pro-active than most people who pass the buck and become just another cog in the wheel, submitting to whatever they’re told without even thinking what might be best.

There’s a basic difference in the way people think about wellness.  Culturally we’re programmed to believe we’re pawns pre-programmed by genetics-gone-wrong.  If not, then we’re attacked from the outside by bacteria, viruses, imbalances, cancers, whatever.  But I don’t buy this stance anymore.  I think we’re incredibly complex, beautifully intricate creatures with innate healing powers built right into our bodies, if we only know how to support the healing processes. I think our bodies need to have a chance to make inner corrections and/or heal themselves BEFORE we automatically drug them, burn them, and cut them to pieces.

I’m not saying I totally disbelieve in modern medicine or invasive intervention. There are times western medicine shines.  But in general, I don’t have much confidence in a system that it is first and foremost about big business and making money, and second all about suppressing symptoms rather than dealing with the underlying cause.  That doesn’t sound like optimal wellness to me.  Also, statistically we’re taking more drugs and doing more procedures than ever before (and promoting more weight-loss schemes and exercise programs) and yet are sicker than ever.  Statistics don’t lie.

For now, I’m looking forward to stepping up my visits with Tena. I’ll receive Rife machine treatments (can’t take time to explain that right now, but it’s fascinating) twice a week instead of once, the quad-harmonic “zapper” for yeast once a week, and the ionic foot bath (“Energy Balancer”) for general detoxification once a week.  These are all harmless and non-invasive, but effective, treatments. 

I know all of this must sound like Greek to anyone who is still thinking about health in terms of drugs, shots, surgeries, radiation and chemo.  I’m also still unlearning old vernacular – and old practiced, habitual thoughts and attitudes and “rules” – and relearning new ones. 

So THAT’S what I’m doing!

A Hopeful Advocate

When circumstantial challenges fall across the path of life like thick, restraining curtains, hope may seem temporarily blocked.

I like metaphors, so the image of heavy theatrical curtains works for me.  These curtains can represent all sorts of personal obstacles, but also outside influences: newscasters sharing little else but calamity, economists predicting the worst, philosophers ruminating about the impossibilities of life, and even medical professionals intent on seeing health issues as beyond nature’s ability to cope. No wonder doubt, dread, anger, and fear threaten to run rampant.  No wonder the curtains seem to have their way. No wonder we’re all desperate for a respite from the onslaught of negativism; for a breath of fresh air; for hands-on experience with real freedom and hope and a clear pathway to the paradise of Psalm 23.

We turn to God for reassurance and guidance despite those curtains and our own situational paralyses, and praise Him for His faithful presence in the midst of the shrouded path.   The Enemy tucks tail and runs – he can’t stand it when we give praise to the Father – as God’s hand reaches out to work.  We become instruments of encouragement for each other and mysteriously find we are able to push back the curtains - together! 

Earlier today I was wrestling with my own set of curtains.  I couldn’t reconcile seemingly conflicting decisions and unanswerable questions.  I felt almost hopeless, although I believed God would not leave me comfortless or without direction.  However, I was not expecting advocacy at the very moment one of His children spontaneously stepped in to intercede with insight, wisdom, and on-the-spot prayer.  Those heavy, dark curtains swooshed back to reveal fresh pasture and still waters where deep-breathing and expanded vision became the new expectations-du-jour.  HOPE!

My decisions and questions didn’t immediately resolve.  But the anxieties that had been nipping at my heels like dogs bent on drawing blood suddenly retreated, and I could step out in faith again toward my Lord as He waited, as always, with His hand extended.  

“Come.”

Tonight I rest in His pasture.  Tonight I praise Him for His faithfulness, and also for the heart of His servant who I am privileged to call a friend.

Uncertainty

Uncertainty is a beast gnawing gaping holes in confidence, resolve, and strength.

Uncertainty is an appointed messenger directing the way to The Ultimate Resource.

Which will it be?