Heinz von Mueschrat

As twilight fell this evening, Heinz von Mueschrat paddled by our house leaving an ever-so-slight wake in the calm lake.  His name? Well, the wild muskrats here have always reminded me of stoic Germans, perhaps because of their vigilant, all-or-none approach to both work and play.  Even their scruffy hair, beady eyes, and stiff whiskers look the part – don’t you think?

Ja ja. Deutsch. Ja!

Anyway, here came Heinz, sniffing the brisk air, cruising along at idle speed, presumably enjoying the sunset’s glow on the water. A few oblivious swans grazed for underwater weeds with their fat bottoms in the air, vaguely reminiscent of those gross yard ornaments of bent-over women displaying their chubby pantaloon-strewn derrieres.

Heinz approached, obviously without concern.  The preoccupied swans continued eating with their heads underwater, ostrich-like.

Maybe Heinz’s paddleboat feet churned up some interest, or maybe he invited attack merely by entering territorial waters.  I don’t know.  But in any event, all of a sudden a swan righted her body, ruffled her wings in protest, stroked a few swift strokes toward Heinz, and peck-pecked the little Mueschrat on the head with jackhammer strokes. 

Heinz dove.  The swan kept drilling.

I didn’t see another sign of Heinz.  Perhaps as a practiced escape artist he zipped away to find refuge without further harassment.  I’d like to think he outsmarted that arrogant Nazi-swan and is safe and sound tonight in some cuddly burrow at the edge of the wetlands, asleep on a bed of dry bulrushes.

Not a Princess After All!

It’s true.  Tonight the predicted Princess Josie morphed into another identity altogether, a red spotted ladybug - as did her court, Madame Ellie-Bee.

A Look Beyond

Yesterday a dear friend told me she’d just learned her husband’s body was riddled with cancer.  At the time, we were in a public setting not conducive to a show of emotion, but later she confessed she just wanted to dissolve in my arms and weep. Today a 4-hour consultation with our financial advisor reinforced the obvious goal: hunker down.  Don’t spend money unless absolutely necessary, and definitely don’t make any plans to pursue the anticipated lake house remodel.  Also, Fritz is losing ground as the semester progresses, and today was very short-of-breath while taking a casual walk.   Although he’s not had medical verification, we both know the truth: his heart is laboring again.

There’s a flip side as I record these hard things.  Yesterday another friend experienced major breakthroughs in both lifestyle and occupational goals.  We jointly shared her exciting victories via electronic communication punctuated with a whole fleet of exclamation marks!!!  This afternoon a neighbor told us his young nephew with leukemia is in remission – such a relief.  And this evening we will be blessed by the beautiful presence of Princess Josie and her court, baby Ellie (our granddaughters), who will trick-or-treat in our neighborhood.  You just can’t find more uplifting company than THAT.

We all know life is full of sheer cliffs, ominous valleys and oozy swamps, as well as smooth sailing on the straight-aways.  Also, thankfully we look forward to those mountain top experiences when we climb high above the din to some pinnacle of experience, understanding or sheer delight. 

Currently a Beth Moore study (“Stepping Up”) is reminding me to recognize every step, hurdle, accomplishment, roadblock - even every inspiration and every struggle - along the way as a segment in a much longer journey rather than destinations in themselves…and to depend on the Tour Guide for guidance at each opportunity, juncture, challenge, and even (especially?) every black hole. 

The whole point of life is not to discover ultimate comfort zones or see how many stars we can accumulate on our performance charts, but for the journey (with all its external contours) to shape/mold, grow, and perfect our inner selves. 

We’re headed toward eternity, and so our lives on earth are an ordained boot camp  full of challenging, but enabling, training grounds. This is a perspective worth remembering and cultivating, especially in moments of discouragement when it feels like we’re wasting time, mismanaging our assets, or even missing out entirely on opportunities.  We ARE going somewhere, and it behooves us to know what that means - and Who is calling the eternal shots. 

In the final analysis, does anyone actually wants to glide through life on a skateboard without the adventurous dynamics of ups and downs to give meaning to the sport? Who purposes to take joys for granted; who intends to waste their suffering?  Rather, we must embrace all of life fully and let it do its refining work.  How?  As we seek the Source, the One of whom we are a part. 

It is with these thoughts that I process today by looking beyond the obvious, and looking up…to the Almighty One.

Pickle Brain

I think my brain is pickled - at least it feels like its fresh, crisp, snappy cucumber-ness has temporarily wilted and gone sour in a brine of vinegar-y intellectualism. 

Time seems to stand still when I’m writing creatively and my own ideas are streaming.  I could go on forever.  But when I’m manipulating material that already exists (as with Ann’s current book project), the effort feels like labor – yeah, like birthing a developed manuscript through a keyhole of borrowed possibility.  It takes hard work, and the minutes drag.

Tonight after several hours of reading, organizing, and collating, I feel fairly soggy, shriveled, and puckered in the head, and  need to find a way to un-pickle my poor kosher dill brain so I can do my Bible Studies.  

Spooooooooky…..

Seasonal goblins are out already, or else our outdoor security light (situated atop a very high pole) has suddenly developed schizophrenia.  Or maybe it’s just getting old.  Feeling a little weary.  Dealing with dementia.  Ready to retire.

The crazy thing has been switching identities all evening, from one extreme to the other.   It starts off with the softer, here-it-comes-warm-up-glow, then shines with full bright light, then bam – DARKNESS prevails until some later time when it decides to replay the whole cycle.

Working, working, working, WORKING……dead.  Like a battery-operated flashlight that can’t decide if it’s quite out of juice or not.

I decided maybe it is signaling messages to aliens in outer space in some sort of morse-security-code.  Rat-a-tat-tat, pointing the way to my ready-to-be-attacked Halloween trick-or-treat bowl full of incredibly decadent junk.  Just what every cute little Martian wants: ooo-eee,ooo-ah-ah, ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-bang!  That translates into Hershey bars!  Reese’s cups!  Almond Joys!  Krackels!  Kit-Kats!  Smartees! 

Never fear.  It’s pitch dark outside, but I’m under control.  Me-tough-woman, handle-those-pesky-Martians-with-candy!  The goodies are already tossed together like some exotic salad made of sugar, fat, more sugar and more fat, and seasoned with artificial additives.  (Sounds toxic to me.)  The full bowl stands just inside the porch – ready appeasement in case there’s a knock on the door in the middle of the night (shudder)…..

A Narnia Kind of Place

The cottage style two-story house drew me like a magnet even before I turned the car into the driveway.  Its massive boulder chimney and rough but artistic stone accents around the front door screamed WELCOME – COME REST AND RELAX HERE!  While walking around the yard I was impressed by someone’s obvious care: a rock-walled fish pond, tasteful (if overgrown) plantings, beautiful trees.

I only peeked through the windows at empty rooms, but could see potential lurking EVERYWHERE in the old original wood floors, high ceilings, tall French windows, and curved interior doorways.  A 3-car garage sat behind the house.

But the best was yet to come.

The property extended in a narrow but deep strip of beautiful, almost magical, wooded land that reminded me of Narnia – two acres in all. Someone, a long time ago, had spent lots of time bordering trails with natural river-rock and planting intentional-but-wild-looking forest gardens.  Maple leaves fell from the sky (golden manna?) as we tromped and scuffed through the thick carpet of leaves already underfoot.  Ahhhhhh… a judiciously placed picnic table.  I wanted to sit and stay a while, to let the leaves softly fall on my shoulders like a royal mantle so I might become part of the woods.  But no.  We were trespassing.

Obviously there’s been some neglect and deferred maintenance, but the character of both the land and house come shining through.  There’s a for-sale side out front, and a sale is already pending for (shock, faint) the asking price of $60,000.  It is in close proximity to downtown Kalamazoo and Western Michigan University.  Children living here who attended Kalamazoo public schools would be heir to the Kalamazoo Promise (funds to pay for tuition to Michigan state colleges).  I keep telling myself THERE MUST BE A FATAL FLAW that we can’t see.  Dangerous neighborhood issues?  Structural problems with the house?  I don’t know.

Katie and Nathan fell in love with it at first sight last Sunday, and today Katie and I revisited with the girls after BSF class (an adventure in itself, as 400 women and 130 children evacuated to the basement during a tornado warning!).  There’s no reason to think Katie and her family might end up living there, and yet the incredible draw in potential - location, personality, character, space, freedom, wildness - seems overwhelming.

I don’t know how long this link will last, but here are some pictures:

http://www.pprmi.com/10042

Grinding, Grinding, Grinding....

I went to bed late last night and rose very early this morning – quite atypical for me (the early morning part).  Disquieted and edgy, I couldn’t reconcile my own turbulent thoughts, and so went about making carrot juice with my trusty Champion juicer – a reasonable distraction, or so I thought.

Instead, I ended up identifying with those two pounds of organic carrots full of juiciness.  I suppose this was symbolic: I couldn’t see the juice initially since it was embedded in the fibers. It took some grinding and pressing for the juice – the real life and nutrition, the guts of the carrot - to show up.

As I pull things together and start my day, I must say maybe it’s been a good thing I couldn’t edit (delete) yesterday’s first blog; maybe leaving it out there by necessity has forced me to examine the sure fact that my own baggage is just as heavy and covered-up as everyone else’s, as much as I’d love for us all to be perfectly transparent and unburdened. 

If I could start that blog over, I’d say the wedding was so very beautiful in many, many ways.  I loved the inspiring majesty of the chapel, the couple’s vows, the right-on-target homily, and the chance to see people I care about who have slipped into inaccessible corners – some for not only years, but decades.

As is not unusual, however, I ended up feeling the kind of pain that comes from seeing my own struggle and hurt mirrored, compounded and magnified in others.  I wanted it to stop - for the brokenness to be healed in some measure (as I’ve found is possible), and yet I felt so helpless to be of help. 

Now I’m looking at my orange-ish carrot juice as I dump the pulp in the trash, and confess how reluctant I am at times to allow the refining process – to bare the essence of my heart and soul.  I’m not always ready for my skeletons to be revealed, let alone healed.  Baggage is baggage is baggage, and sometimes it takes a very long time to unload it bit by bit by bit – even though the arms of a perfect Savior are ready and willing. Aren’t there times when we all just do whatever it takes to survive – to get through the hard times?

My day is quickly beginning, and in a few minutes I’ll be off and running as the babysitter-du-jour of two sweet granddaughters.  But I had to stop here first and state my intentions and my goal for the day: to grind away my arrogance and pride borne of misguided desire, and invite God’s grace to flow into every crevice of every life that touches mine.

Contrite

Layers

Leaves

It’s time to rake leaves again. 

Fritz was able to take today off work so he could have a 3-day weekend, and we used the extra day to collect and haul 9 big tarps of leaves from our yard to the woods on the other side of the road.  Several years ago we kept a running tally and ended up with 40 such loads by the end of the leaf-gathering season, so that means we’re about ¼ done with this year’s haul.

Part of me resists the job, being stubborn and lazy, while another part relishes the ceremony.  These little tree-flags have been shading us all summer while blowing in the lake breezes and providing a home for the squirrels and birds.  Now it is their time to rest.

Today's Companions

This morning while I was walking the road along the lake with only watery breezes and sunshine for company, a dark cloud suddenly rolled in overhead and shed pellets of rain that were caught and driven by the wind.  I pulled my hood over my head and tucked my face to avoid the onslaught, but my glasses were soon well-spotted and drippy anyway.  A minute or two later I finally looked up and was greeted by the widest, brightest rainbow I’ve ever seen!  The raindrops on my glasses actually seemed to enhance the effect; the magnified distortions of magnificent color caught me off-guard with their odd but striking beauty.

Our piano tuner came later in the day – a genuinely nice guy who always has time to connect personally as well as tend to the piano.  A “snowbird” friend leaving for Florida on Monday also visited for a couple of hours, shared a hot drink, and then went shopping with me at the “Little Store.”  I sent both of them home with fresh-baked sticky buns – a small gesture of friendship – and felt somehow refreshed myself by doing so.

Messengers: Two Daves and a Cat Named Snickers

Here are several isolated stories.  Although seemingly not related, I will weave them together with a few concluding comments.

Story #1:

This morning as I buzzed around our son’s house (Fritz jr’s) accomplishing homemaker chores (laundry, dishes, etc.), I noticed his cat, Snickers, lying outstretched in a comfy-looking position beside the freestanding wood-burning stove.  She’d been so named because of her calico coat with colors resembling those in a Snickers bar: caramel, cocoa, and beige, plus white and black.  She looked relaxed and happy, except that the morning sun was streaming through the window straight into her open yellow eyes.  Wow, I thought, cats much have incredible eyes to withstand direct sunlight like that.

A few minutes later I was ready to mop the kitchen floor, and saw she was still in the exact same position.  As I stared at her eyes, still reflecting prisms of sunlight, dread swept over me.  I touched her head and she didn’t flinch.  Her body was cold.  Stiff.  She was DEAD.

Her master took the body to the woods and dug a grave.  Riley, Fritz's golden retriever (and Snickers’ companion and friend), was the only other graveside witness.

Story #2:

On the way out of Lafayette on my way back to Michigan, I swung through Buck Creek to return a coffee mug that belonged to a friend.  I also stopped spontaneously at the Post Office to say hello to the postmaster, Dave, a long-standing personal friend.  His wife had been battling with cancer back in June when we moved, and I was interested to see how she was doing.

The medical report was encouraging, and I was glad I’d stopped.  Dave and I chatted comfortably for a few minutes, just like old times, and I had that same pang as before: nothing had changed in Buck Creek except MY STATUS.  Before leaving I said, “Hey Dave, it was pretty weird when I first came in.  When I saw our old box I almost walked over to unlock it out of habit!”  There was mail in box #154 – our old box.  Of course I knew it was someone else’s mail.  Of course.

Dave disappeared from the service window and said, “Well now, let me get your mail for you!  I’ve been keeping whatever has come in with your name on it, although it’s mostly junk mail that couldn’t be legally forwarded.  Still, you might want something.”

Evidently the box wasn’t being used by anyone else.  Dave still honored it as ours, even though we weren’t paying for it and didn’t own a key! 

What if I’d NEVER stopped by?  Dave would have saved our mail anyway, at least for a while…just in case.  It struck me that this kind of advocacy went far beyond the job description of a postmaster.  This man was a true servant.

Story #3:

A couple of nights ago I was fortunate to visit Fritz’s BSF class.   Usually I would have been encouraged to attend a women’s class in this situation (when visiting another city), but Fritz was granted special permission for me to attend. 

It was AMAZING to witness hundreds of men singing hymns while gathered to study the Bible together.  Their voices were powerful; their eyes were focused and direct, but full of light.

The teaching leader, whose name was Dave, delivered an incredible lecture when the guys returned after discussing the lesson in their small groups.  I’d expected Dave to be profound, well organized, and inspiring, because Fritz had already tipped me off.  However, I wasn’t prepared for him to be so humble, astoundingly brilliant, and compelling.  I sat, enraptured, and couldn’t write fast enough to take effective notes since every word that came out of his mouth was meaningful. Our lesson for the week had been on Isaiah 7, and I was drawn to verse 9:

“If you do not stand firm in your faith, you will not stand at all.”

Throughout his lecture Dave ended up harkening back to this verse. I managed to catch a few of his comments:

“A fear of, and faith in, God leads to courageous, not just easy, living.”

“Faith isn’t a state of being, but a state of doing.”

“Faith makes ordinary men extraordinary!”

“God expects us to take steps (not leaps) of faith.”

“The ability to withstand life’s difficulties is dependent upon faith in God.”

“God has provided a way to save us: faith in Him and His ways.”

“God is patient and gracious.  He doesn’t expect our faith to be blind!”

 Concluding Remarks:

The drive from our son’s house (south and west of Lafayette) to our Michigan house takes almost 4 hours.  During the drive this afternoon, I kept thinking about the events of the week, and particularly these three most recent incidents. 

Within 48 hours three different unexpected messengers had left marks: messengers of death, advocacy, and faith.

As the miles clicked by, I felt overwhelmed, as if with recognition that every circumstance in life also reflects a heavenly dimension if we only have eyes to see it.  When I finally arrived, it was with a full heart.  The sun was setting, and a golden glow spread over the sky and lake.  The cumulative message? Peace.

Thanks, Snickers.  Your death helped me appreciate life today, but with the perspective that I will also have my turn with the grave.

Thanks, Postmaster Dave.  Your example as a public servant reflected truths about my Perfect Advocate – the One who bridges the gap between death and life, the One who pleads my case before the Father.

Thanks, Lecturer Dave.  Your confessions, insights, and challenges inspired me to “stand firm in faith” because of your own powerful influence and witness to faith in that One. 

Turkey Run

Today we hiked the infamous, winding trail (Trail 3, for those of you who know it) at Turkey Run State Park with our daughter (Emily) and her two boys (Caleb and Jordan).  It was a picture-perfect, sunny fall day with clear blue skies - just right for exploring rocky caverns, trails covered with crunchy leaves, and the one-and-only super-jiggly suspension bridge over Sugar Creek. 

I’m quite convinced that days like this forge memories that shape and mold not only current family identities, but visions for the future.  It gives me great joy to know that someday long after my time on earth is done, Caleb and Jord may be walking those same trails and exclaiming over the same sights with their own children and grandchildren.

Last Night

The hayride…what can I say about this year’s hayride?  All our kids were there (just like old times), and most of our grandkids, as well as a bunch of other people we care about.  The half-moon hung in a clear sky during the cook-out (while I ate way too much junk food), and Grampa and I stayed by the fire with baby Ellie during the wagon ride (the first time we’ve not ridden in the wagons, EVER).  We hung out for a while afterwards with the younger set who spent the night at Dick’s campground in his woods: starry sky overhead, roaring campfire, tents all clustered in outdoor community.

It was all good.  Very good.  Maybe too good when I’m trying to let go of an old lifestyle and embrace a new one.

I guess this has been just another example of how sometimes things change in a major way, and yet some aspects of those things don’t change at all.  Like the hearts of the people involved.

Walks

While I’m visiting our son’s house in Lafayette for a few days, my daily walk is becoming a bit more of an adventure.  Yesterday evening I started out in his low-low valley full of walnut groves, climbed a curvy, steep hill, and was greeted at the top (breathless by virtue of both the ascent and the view) by a sky displaying corrugated white popcorn-shaped clouds next to a golden sunset. As I trekked along the now-straight country road, my high-stepping shadow stretched half-way across a barren soybean field! On the way home, the knobby white clouds were momentarily brushed with bright pink by lingering sunset rays until they looked like little puffs of suspended cotton candy.

This afternoon I walked a similar path but with a few detours that led me to discover a gorgeous (previously secret) house tucked back into some trees, and in the opposite direction, a small, hidden lake surrounded by forest.  When I reached the top of the same tree-lined hill this time, the sky was ablaze with bright blue.  Big marshmallow-clouds hovered above like so many white bumper cars in their parking lot just waiting for drivers to take them for a spin.

Beauty everywhere!  I’ve enjoyed the change of scene, and may go the opposite direction tomorrow and explore a river.  

The Right Place

I drove to Lafayette this afternoon for the first time since closing on our property June 29^th.  On the way to my destination (our son’s house) I stopped by Buck Creek, which felt both normal/comfortable and emotionally prickly.  At first glance nothing much had changed.  Nothing but my status.  After living in the old farmhouse for 30 years, I no longer belonged. I was an alien, even though our name was still on the mailbox.  (How STRANGE.)

The new highway behind the house appeared to be progressing, so THAT was different.  The pasture had grown up in weeds without Dick’s cows there to keep it cropped.  Unfamiliar cars were parked in the driveway.  The lawn needed mowing.

As I drove away I felt a twinge of anxiety, as if I needed to go home but couldn’t.  I should check on things - make sure everything was all right – shouldn’t I?  What was I supposed to do with feelings like THAT? 

I choked back a little sob as I drove out of town, and yet the anxious feeling was followed by something close to relief.  The place had become too much for us to manage in our senior years.   In our last weeks there we’d been reminded of this by various panic-button maintenance jobs that stretched us to the max.  We were wise to leave when we did. 

The fact is, I love my new life in Michigan.  I can leave the old life confidently, knowing with certainty that I was exactly where I was supposed to be while living in Buck Creek, and am exactly where I’m supposed to be for the forthcoming era of my life.  Nothing can disturb the sense of rightness I’ve felt about my past, OR the rightness I feel about my future. 

This is a good place to be.

Blackbirds

Thousands of blackbirds were perched together to blacken the tallest branches of the rust-and-gold treetops as I clipped along on my lakeshore walk this afternoon. My memory told me they were cackling away like crazy.  But even with the help of my hearing aids, today I could only hear a faint murmur of their lowest tones.   As a child I’d wondered what such huge flocks of blackbirds could possibly be saying to each other with such rapid-fire conversation, and how in the world they could hear each other with all that raucous gabbing going on.

Now that I’m a bit older and my perspectives have changed, I’m tempted to think they’re not communicating with each other at all, but simply praising and worshipping their Creator. 

This evening I discovered a short devotional online:

Why do birds sing?  They sing because of WHO GOD IS.  His praise was built into them. He so ordered (commanded) their praise when He included them in the list of who should praise Him in Psalm 148.  The psalmist does not mention God’s blessings as a basis for praise. “He alone is exalted” and worthy of praise.

Autumn Finery

I kept my camera handy while driving down isolated county roads in our area today.   These photos barely do justice to the magnificent autumn finery surrounding me!

Big Love

God’s love for us blows our  finite minds.   

His love causes us to  EXIST. 

We either respond to that love by giving back “our” lives – by responding to Him with love and submitting our inflated egos to Him - or else floundering in circumstantial high seas while struggling to navigate swells of despair and temporary (fleeting) uppers. 

Love is our source of significance.

We chase after whatever feels good, but ultimately disappoints; His love calls us back to Himself.

We fail to succeed; His love redeems our failures and restores us in the context of new possibilities.

We get caught up in consumerism; His love provides more than we could dream - a secure haven under His wing.

We grasp for illusions of control; His love controls us with His Spirit.

We want life to be all about us and our plans; His love patiently instructs us that it is actually all about Him and His path for us.

We seek thrills/pleasures/comforts; His love leads us into meaningful adventure.

We choose to be puffed up and self-absorbed; His love inspires us to receive His holy PRESENCE and then pour ourselves out for others.

Too often we who are sold out to Him (and His love) STILL send wrong messages – we spout off rules and necessities, live out of a program-and-committee mindset,  and become rote in our approach to faith.  We may appear segmented, self-centered, and autonomous.

However, HE is love.  He is hope.  He is redemption.  He forgives; He gives grace.  He restores; He heals.

And we are His.

I LOVE MY DEHYDRATOR!

Here’s a picture of my two favorite yum-yummy, nutritionally power-packed RAW dehydrated snack foods.  These are made from all-raw ingredients and not heated over 117 degrees, so all the living enzymes (as well as other nutrients) are still present.  On the left is granola (one plain, one with raisins) and on the right are crackers. Both products are high in protein rather than carbs (and we all know we get enough of THOSE).  Here’s an ingredient list:

Granola

Sesame seeds

Sunflower seeds

Pumpkin seeds

Almonds

Walnuts

Oat groats

Rolled oats

Virgin olive oil

Raw honey

Vanilla

Raisins (optional)

Crackers

Sunflower seeds

Flax seeds

Walnuts

Almonds

Tomato

Red onion

Cumin

Salt

Watery Refreshment

The lake was a perfect mirror this morning, standing so still and smooth that trees on the opposite shoreline stood upside-down in the water.  That kind of serenity has a way of seeping deep inside and softening heart-spots hardened by too much self-focus.  I’m glad I took time to notice the stark clarity and magnification before me with its message of regeneration.

Although I’m on the front end of this year’s BSF curriculum on Isaiah, this morning I decided to jump ahead and ended up pondering a later verse addressing the restoration of Israel (see below) that captured the lakeside mood.  It seemed a good fit. God’s shepherding-compassion to His own here on earth is a reflection of the “springs of living water” in heaven when “God will wipe every tear.” (Rev. 7:16-17).

“They will neither hunger nor thirst,
Nor will the desert heat or the sun beat upon them.
He who has compassion on them will guide them
And lead them beside springs of water.”  (Is. 49:10)

Stepping Up

I began attending a new Beth Moore study tonight: Stepping Up - a journey through the Psalms of Ascent.

Hebrew pilgrims traveled to Jerusalem and climbed Mt. Zion three times a year to celebrate various feasts.  During their final ascent they sang Psalms 120-134. The ascent of the Israelites is a prototype of the experiential growth and spiritual ascent of Christian believers.

Here is a quote by Eugene Peterson from the intro:

There is no literature in all the world that is more true to life and more honest than Psalms, for here we have warts-and-all religion.  Every skeptical thought, every disappointing venture, every pain, every despair that we can face is lived through and integrated into a personal, saving relationship with God – a relationship that also has in it acts of praise, blessing, peace, security, trust and love.

Good poetry survives not when it is pretty or beautiful or nice but when it is true: accurate and honest.  The psalms are great poetry and have lasted not because they appeal to our fantasies and our wishes but because they are confirmed in the intensities of honest and hazardous living.

Munch-Lunching with Honesty

It was the usual restaurant scene: a couple of oversized guys gulped all-you-can-eat lunch buffet in the booth across the aisle; a tip-conscious, very young/blonde/skinny waitress with dark glasses filled and re-filled my mug of hot water; a salad bar beckoned with overflowing veggies and prepared salads, hot soups soft serve ice cream. This is where I met a friend today.

This friend has another name of course, but I’m giving her a pseudo-name: Honesty. 

I enjoyed sharing a couple of hours with Honesty over lunch.  Why?  Because she’s Real at the core, and that Realness came oozing all the way out through her blue-blue eyes and big smile, her careful listening and ready conversation, her attitudes and outlooks and, well, her HONESTY.

She’s a wizened but frisky filly, about my age, with beauty including, but extending well beyond, physical features into the realm of charm and grace that comes with age.  A couple of times today her hands spoke volumes to me through simple but expressive gestures – soft, gentle hands that would be volunteering all day tomorrow to clean someone else's house in preparation for new occupancy.

As we munched through our respective custom salads, and then refilled our plates with second helpings, I felt myself relax.  Ahhhhh.  In the presence of one so unguarded, so lacking in pretense and ultra-sophistication, her demeanor is bound to rub off.  I left feeling encouraged and tangibly, if inwardly, transformed: lighter, freer, and bouncier.  That’s what honesty does.

Living Temple Weirdness

I’m currently on a collision course with an emerging identity: weirdness.  Some folks assume I must be just a little (or a lot) strange, you know, “out there,” because of atypical views on food, health, and wellness. 

After all, I refuse to fit the norm when it comes to attitudes about fried mozzarella sticks dipped in Ranch dressing, fast food hamburgers layered with plastic cheese, and tall ice cream waffle cones stuffed with hormone-and-chemical-laden-pasteurized-and-homogenized-cream-topped-with-artificial-hydrogenated-fat-topping.  Instead, I go flying off on culinary tangents and indulge in (raw) zucchini spaghetti topped with (raw) marinara sauce, (raw) crackers made from nuts and vegetables, (raw) chocolate mousse (I kid you not), and other delights that sounds totally foreign to the Standard American Diet (because they ARE). 

As if this isn’t enough weirdness, I also resist (until the last resort, at least) chemical drugs and invasive treatments that are considered the “gold standard.”  HA! I suppose “gold” fits, since someone makes a ton of money while those treatments often mask symptoms without addressing the CAUSE of the problem and even sometimes just cause additional issues requiring more “gold standard” treatments! 

I’m weird because I receive therapy from a Rife (frequency) machine instead of plunging headlong into suggested surgery. I’m weird because I follow recommendations from an oncologist from Italy, a Franciscan monk who served for his entire life in the jungles of South America, and a local wellness practitioner with no capital letters after her name to prove her status.  How strange.

The skeptics can’t stand it, being slow to shift gears from practiced mind-sets, and prefer to smile politely with those I-think-you’re-kooky-but-I-like-you-anyway grins. I’m sure they wonder how I ended up so far out in left field…even when the positive results/evidences stack up.   Funny, because those same people also say I look better than I have in a long time.  I’m flattered, but respond by saying that my step has a little more bounce, too, because I FEEL better than I have in a long time. 

So WHY do I choose against the American Way, complete with its drug, cut, or burn approaches - at least until other options have been exhausted?  Because, remember, I’m so weird that I’ve decided to give my self-healing body a chance to heal itself.  As I’ve probably said before in other soapbox moments, my job is to figure out how to support its efforts to that end.

I decided it might be good to take a moment and clarify my motives right here, just in case someone cares. The current focus in these aforementioned areas stems primarily from one thing: obedience to God.  Yeah.  That’s right.  You may not see it that way, but then I don’t necessarily expect you to.

It boils down to this: I hope (in my weakness, with Him as my strength) to take an offensive stand for honoring THE TEMPLE.   God help me live out this conviction!

“Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit lives in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him; for God’s temple is sacred, and you are that temple.”  I Co. 3:16

“Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God?  You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body.”  I Co. 6:19,20

“What agreement is there between the temple of God and idols?  For we are the temple of the living God. As God has said, ‘I will live with them and walk among them, and I will be their God, and they will be my people.’”  II Co. 6:16

Moonwatchers - Part III

AHA!  So my attempt to post a copy of the picture FAILED MISERABLY, as you can see.  But at least about a third of it (minus the couple, the focal point) showed up.  :-)

Moonwatchers - Part II

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Moonwatchers

A beautiful painting caught my eye today, one featuring an older couple sitting on a bench overlooking their estate and a nearby village.  Rust-and-gold leaves linger in the trees as shadows fall across the lawn and a moon hangs low in the afternoon sky. 

I looked it up online to find out a little bit about the artist, William S. Phillips, and discovered a commentary on the picture:

This is a celebration of commitment and enduring romance, says William S. Phillips. It is a love story, one that speaks of love in its various stages. You cannot help but wonder how many times our moonwatchers have held hands and shared dreams sorrows as they have watched each season pass and each new moon wax and wane. Our couple sits quietly with their dogs, gazing out across chapters of their lives.There is the warm and comfortable home that has heard the laughter of children; there is the church where they were married so many years ago. And there in the distance, is 'their' moon. I hope this print can be shared and appreciated by lovers the moonwatchers of any age.

Here’s a link if you’d like to see it (since I’m not sure how to copy/paste it here):

http://www.world-wide-art.com/William_Phillips/Moonwatchers/vaid19220.html