A Halloween Carole

Fill the bags with Twix and Mars bars, fa la la la la, la la la la.

‘Tis the season to be rock stars, fa la la la la, la la la la. 

Don we now our gay apparel, fa la la, la la la, la la la.  

Sing this Halloween-ing carole! Ha ha ha ha HA, ha HA, HAAAA, HAAAAAAAA!

A Very Merry Un-Birthday

A very merry un-birthday party erupted here last night, complete with gifts, a candle-studded grasshopper pie (the favorite of the 33-year-old un-birthday-boy whose real birthday is still a month away), party hats, and the original song from Alice in Wonderland.  We practiced singing in unison before it was time for him to blow his candles, and used an online clip of Alice and friends for the rehearsal.  

“A very merry un-birthday to you (to me?), to you (to me?)….”

We practiced three times until we had it almost, sort-of, well slightly, down pat.

The party made a huge impression on our three-year-old granddaughter. The idea that a person could have a birthday party without waiting a whole year for another “real” birthday seemed utterly fabulous!

Her parents have been gone for the past week, but will return tomorrow – and when I asked her what she might say when she first sees them, she became very animated and her little eyes widened into huge orbs.  “OH!  I’ll say hi mommy and daddy…..and, and, and…..I’ll give them a hug…..and, and, and…..then I’ll tell them about the un-birthday! And I’ll tell them the cake didn’t taste like cake at all, but was all gooey and minty like whipped cream!  And I’ll tell them I’m going to have my own un-birthday, too! With that kind of cake and presents for ME!”

Comfort Zone

Today our 18-month-old granddaughter needed me.  Her parents have been gone for almost a week, and I was her safe place. 

Between normal meal, nap, and play times, interspersed with trips outside to the sandbox and rides in the back pack while I prepared food, we periodically cr-creaked  back and forth in the rocking chair.  

Every once in a while her little cherub-face turned pouty and fussy, and she ran to me with her arms outstretched, asking to be held. 

“Do you want to sit in the rocking chair?” I asked each time after picking her up.

“Uh-huh!” she replied, and her tears immediately stopped. 

As we sat and listened to the ancient chair’s creaky voice, her little body melted into mine.   With her head locked beneath my chin, and my arms wrapped around her, we became one.

I was her comfort zone.  Oh, how we all need one of those.

Grace-Glimpses

It’s almost 11:00 a.m., and a gentle rain is pelting the lake and creating a pensive mood – the perfect atmosphere to think back over, and evaluate, the last several hours.

The new day woke up slowly, yawning and squinting in soft-gray light as a slow-moving fog-blanket lumbered across the lake.  I stretched to shake off the night’s residual sleepiness and watched, transfixed by the scene.

All-at-once a brash beam of sunlight reached down through the cloud cover and spotlighted the opposite shoreline; gilded cattails and tree leaves reflected its energy as if suddenly transformed into pure gold.  The magical moment didn’t last - in a matter of seconds the sun was gone, allowing the gauzy fog-shroud to once again partially mask the view.  And yet brevity made the sun-show no less real, no less captivating and stirring.  No less illuminating.  No less grand.

This scene parallels my own inner realities, even this morning.  Each time God’s grace suddenly floods my heart with mercy, hope, and clarity, and His ordained potential for me stands unobstructed in the transparent authenticity of the moment, I see Him, and myself, more clearly.  It’s as if my heart-vision re-focuses, and I catch a transforming glimpse of not only my Maker, but also of my truest self.

It is beautiful.

Eventually the sun burned through to announce a transient patch of blue sky, and chased the remaining fog-bunnies from the surface of the lake for the rest of the day.  I’m convinced that this is a small-but-inspiring foreshadowing of what it will be like one day to enter glory.

And yet, in the rain, I wait.

.

Driving

I’m not used to driving. 

This morning half-barren trees, proudly holding onto remnants of autumn plumage, flanked the narrow country road on my way to meet a group of friends for lunch.  Our rugged old gray mini-van, beyond a double centenarian* according to mileage, puttered along with its usual low engine growl resembling a sick cat’s alto purr.  Was I really behind the wheel?

The driving ban mandated by state law after my seizure last April finally ended last Saturday.  Although I accepted isolation (and dependence) for six long months, as a newly reinstated driver I’m now sharply aware of EVERYTHING.  Gold and rust leaves glued on rain-dampened asphalt. A mother deer and her fawn half-hidden in the bushes along the side of the road.  The tactile feel of the wheel, the seat, and the accelerator.   A euphoric response to speed….and on the interstate, S-P-E-E-E-E-E-D!

Before lunch I ran a few errands, relishing my freedom over every mile and at every turn.  In-and-out of five stores; in-and-out of five parking lots. Swiped the credit card FIVE times in a row.  Wow.  Then off to lunch at a cute out-of-the-way diner that offered a menu with exotic burgers including one studded with olives, and  four sandwich specials scribbled on a dry erase board.  A great place for my coming-out party!

I almost felt like I was 16 again, getting a driver’s license for the first time.  Being free and on-the-go without a hint of restraint, and loving it.

I’m a little out-of-practice as a driver, but am very excited about recovering my independence.  I appreciate my junker-of-a-car, my valid driver’s license, and things-to-do, people-to-meet, and places-to-go. Driving feels really, reeeeealy goooood.

____________________________________________________________________

*A centenarian is a person (or in this case, a car) who is 100 years old, or continues living beyond the age of 100 years (or in this case, miles).  A car that is “beyond a double centenarian” (speaking of our mini-van) would be one with mileage well over 200,000 miles.  Such a vehicle might have wrinkles (in this case, dents leftover from hitting a deer) and age-spots (in this case, rust).

I'm Back!

After a couple of years of almost-daily entries, my blog recently lacked the addition of new words for two whole weeks.  That’s right – empty and blank for fourteen days.  Check the date of the last post if you don’t believe me.

Did anyone notice I was not posting? A couple of days ago one loyal reader confessed she’d been wondering about my absence, and asked if I was okay.  She knows the equation, writing = breathing, and was starting to get worried.  I told her I was breathing, and not to give up on me.  She kindly said she likes reading what I have to say.  I said thank-you, and told her I’d be back.

So now it’s a proven fact I have a loyal fan club of at least ONE, although that can’t be the reason I have a blog.  Truth is, the blog is my daily therapy – my diary, my pulpit, and my soapbox, a place for documenting memos and late-breaking news, a depository for thoughts and opinions, craziness and beauty, and sometimes for serious discussions about Things That Matter.

It’s a place where I have fun, get creative, and hopefully occasionally represent the Almighty God of Kairos-time.  I’m reopening the blog today, just because it’s time.  Time for what, you might ask?  To start back up.  And to share one of those Things That Matter.

But wait, I can hear the unspoken question of my one loyal reader. WHY did I deny myself blog-writing for two incredibly long weeks?  I have my reasons, but let’s just say I needed to re-set some inner channels that had gotten stuck on static-filled stations. Re-boot. Clear the air.  Turn the antenna. 

Of course it was worth it.  Some toxic stuff got purged, as is the case with any kind of fasting.  And just today I felt as if I could see an important truth clearly, one that has been hidden by self-protectiveness (think static) that just needed to be brought into focus.

So let’s get to the point.

For the past couple of months, I’ve been praying a paraphrased version of a Russian Orthodox prayer on most mornings, and have especially fallen in love with the last line.  The whole prayer goes like this:

Grant unto me, my Lord, that with peace in mind I may face all that this new day is to bring.  Grant unto me grace to surrender myself completely to Your holy will. Instruct and prepare me in all things for every hour of this day.  Whatsoever tidings I may receive during the day, teach me to accept them calmly, in the firm conviction that all eventualities fulfill Your holy will.  Govern my thoughts and feelings in all I do and say.  When things unforeseen occur, let me not forget that all comes down from You.  Teach me to behave sincerely and reasonably toward every member of my family and all other human beings, that I may not cause confusion and sorrow to anyone.  Bestow upon me, my Lord, strength to endure the fatigue of the day and to bear my share in all its passing events.  Guide my will and teach me to pray, to believe, to hope, to suffer, to forgive, and to love.  Amen.

Recently as each day has played out, I’ve repeatedly asked the Lord to teach me  to pray, believe, hope, suffer, forgive, and love. But today there was a shift. I realized in a flash moment that certain challenges I’ve been facing are providing an inner classroom, a personalized tutorial for my heart.  Those challenges are more about shaping me internally than affecting me circumstantially. I am being taught, day-by-day by day, and it’s been my choice to pay attention to the Teacher or tune out the lessons and daydream in my own static-filled way.  And end up stuck.  In annoying, nerve-jangling fuzziness.

But I’m getting it, just as of today, and the scales are dropping from my eyes. To go back to that last line of the prayer, I AM learning to pray differently – persistently and boldly. To believe differently - from a deep sense of trust, and a desire to obey and proclaim the Object of my trust.  To hope differently - unconditionally, knowing the Father is faithful to His own.  To suffer differently - to suffer well so my suffering isn’t wasted, knowing there is purpose in the pain and that there are equal measures of His grace (His very presence!) bestowed on me in the midst of it.  To forgive differently – both myself (*gasp*) and others.  To love differently – making love a first choice even in difficult situations in order to live passionately as the Lover’s ambassador.

Psalm 71

I love reading the Psalms.  They have a way of creeping under my skin and penetrating into some deep place with their stark honesty.  I always end up refocused away from from petty everydayness and toward God’s preeminence, sovereignty, and faithfulness - and His promises for my ongoing protection, hope, restoration, and comfort. This morning I read Psalm 71 and the following jumped out at me (italicized words are my own emphasis):

Be my rock of refuge…you are my rock and my fortress. (v. 3)

For you have been my hope, O Sovereign Lord, my confidence since my youth.  From birth I have relied on you; you bought me forth from my mother’s womb.  I will ever praise you. (v. 5,6)

But as for me, I will always have hope; I will praise you more and more.  My mouth will tell of your righteousness, of your salvation all day long, though I know not its measure.  I will come and proclaim your mighty acts, O Sovereign Lord; I will proclaim your righteousness, yours alone. (v. 14-16)

Though you have made me see troubles, many and bitter, you will restore my life again; from the depths of the earth you will again bring me up.  You will increase my honor and comfort me once again.  (v. 20-21)

We're all hard-wired to long for a safe place; a sure and hopeful resource; an intense, hopeful, and lasting relationship with the Creator. Sometimes we look in all the wrong places to fill these longings, however, and neglect to praise our Maker for His current moment-by-moment mercy: unfailing love for today and all eternity.  In the words of Psalm 71:

My lips will shout for joy when I sing praise to you, I, whom you have redeemed.  My tongue will tell of your righteous acts all day long..."  (v. 23, 24a)

Blessings

I praise You, Lord, for showering me with so many blessings TODAY!

For beautiful, delicious, sustaining food:

For comfortable friends of many years (like those visiting right now).

For stunning fall colors in the treetops.

For graceful swans dotting the lake with their elegance.

For clear blue skies, brilliant sunshine, and (as night fell) an almost-full moon.

For a well-written, and inspiring, book to read.

For the loyalty of family members who insist on loving me.

For people to serve.

For increasing wisdom about what matters and what doesn’t.

For emerging possibilities that seemed impossible not so long ago.

For lessons learned.

For a renewed heart.

For the ability to trust You.

For Your unfailing work in my ongoing transformation.

For challenges that turn me back again and again to You.

For Your Holy Spirit’s presence within me.

For surprises.

For quiet.

For desire.

For strength.

For understanding.

For patience.

For love.

For faith.

For HOPE that is not a mere wish or yearning, but a promise.

Success

In 1904, Elisabeth-Anne (Bessie) Anderson Stanley entered a writing contest inviting entrants to answer the question, “What is success?” in 100 words or less. Mrs. Stanley won first place with a prize of $250.00.

Even though various versions are floating around, many of us recognize Ms. Stanley’s work, even in plagiarized forms. 

Here is the original:

Success 


He has achieved success


who has lived well,


laughed often, and loved much;



who has enjoyed the trust of


pure women,



the respect of intelligent men and


the love of little children;



who has filled his niche and accomplished his task;



who has left the world better than he found it


whether by an improved poppy,


a perfect poem or a rescued soul;



who has never lacked appreciation of Earth's beauty


or failed to express it;



who has always looked for the best in others and

given them the best he had;



whose life was an inspiration;


whose memory a benediction.



--1904 Bessie Anderson Stanley 


Here’s another version:

To laugh often and love much

To win the respect of intelligent people

And the affection of children

To earn the appreciation of honest critics

And endure the betrayal of false friends

To appreciate beauty

To find the best in others

To leave the world a bit better

Whether by a healthy child,

A garden patch, or a redeemed social condition

To know even one life has breathed easier

Because you have lived.

This is to have succeeded.

Record-Breaking Grand-Girls!

To my knowledge, none of our family members have ventured into the lake beyond mid-September – the water is just to COLD (brrrrr) – and definitely not in October. But yesterday’s unseasonably summery temperatures enticed two little girls onto the pier, and the water magnetized them from that vantage point!  They ended up squealing down the kiddie slide into the water (and back up the ladder, and down-and-up repeatedly) with as much, or more, avid enthusiasm as what they displayed a couple of months previous when the water was warmer and much less invigorating!

The Truth About Acorns

I must confess that I had way too much fun writing about sardines yesterday. It was liberating to casually investigate this topic - it felt a little like switching from watercolors or oils to fingerpaints.  I liked being loose, with an authentic voice.  And bingo, that old memory of Sunday nights popped up to make the whole thing worth the effort.

I’m back today, wondering if the spell still lingers. 

Yesterday I reminded myself of something while writing about sardines: let go. Pull the stops. Don’t worry about the overt “value” of what is being said, or even how it is being said. Most “unworthy” topics really do matter, if only because there’s a story attached somewhere.  It’s a matter of starting the process and inviting that story to come out of hiding and surprise everyone (me included, or maybe especially me?).

So, right now I need to pick another unlikely topic (but not sardines again).  How about….hmmmm, thinking, thinking….oh, I don’t know.  How about acorns?

Okay.  Sure.

This afternoon I swept 1,264 (give or take) of the little round, dormant baby-oak-trees-in-hiding from our deck. And there must be at least ten times that many still overhead.  (This is a conservative estimate.)

Eager excavation-specialists (fox squirrels) are hanging out in our yard with the acorns - Forrest Gump would say “like peas and carrots”.  Evidently acorns must be their version of prime-rib-du-jour all winter, although I’m not sure why.

And I’m not sure why because I know the truth.  They taste awful.

THERE.  That last sentence just told me “the rest of the story” (to quote Paul Harvey).

The year I was ten or twelve years old I decided our grandfatherly, weathered oak tree at the lake was producing acorns that looked almost identical to the hazelnuts-in-the-shell in the nut bowl at Christmas-time. So I set out to prove to myself that I need not wait months until the holiday season rolled around to enjoy crunching away – after all, there were almost an unlimited supply of acorns.  So I smashed one on the concrete step with my dad’s hammer, and learned the truth that day. They taste awful.

Although I’m not exactly sure of all the implications, it seems important that this little writing exercise led to my remembrance of eating that disgustingly bitter acorn half-a-century-ago.  As I think back on that previously forgotten memory, it’s like opening a gift-wrapped piece of myself that had been long-hidden in a dark closet, covered with mothballs.

There’s nothing profound in any of this. Nothing especially important or valuable.  So thanks for hanging with me while the process of discovery unfolded. If you’re desperate for take-away so you don’t feel like you’ve totally wasted the last several minutes of reading time, remember this bit of trivia about acorns: they taste awful.

Sardines

Some experiences are hard to put into words.  Others are simply questionable candidates for documentation in the first place.  But crazy people, writers for instance, must write about them anyway. It must be done. 

Take eating Mexican sardines, for example.  I must try to explain in written form what happens when I screw the knob on the hand-held can opener so it travels around and around the big oval-shaped can.  Hmmmm.  And what happens when those wide-brimmed sombreros and Spanish-looking ingredients printed on the label return my stare.  How they make me wonder.  They look, well, foreign. 

Surely someone must want to know about these sardines.

So let’s talk about what it’s like to open that can, especially how I must go around with the opener a second time in order to cut those stubborn places that refused to snap through with the first go-round.  How fishy-fragrances prompt saliva to flow like a river, and how bloody, lava-like tomato sauce oozes out of the crack on the edge of the can as if volcanic pressure just had to force out the innards.  How I grumble as red drips flip all over the wall when the lid is pried up and it snap-snaps at that one stubborn last place that was almost, but not quite, cut through. Stupid sauce.

And let’s not forget, ah yes indeed, the nostalgic sardines of the past.  Perhaps this is the real point - the whole reason for this diversion into sardine-talk.  When I was a kid, Pop’s oil-and/or-mustard-drenched sardines came out on Sunday nights along with salty-cheek-puckering-anchovies and Ritz crackers. Sometimes popcorn accompanied the fishy delicacies – popcorn that exploded like rapid-fire artillery in that paint-chipped stovetop pan with the turn-handle affixed to the lid.  When Pop turned that handle, an arm reached down into the pan and stirred the kernels in their oil to keep them from burning.  Often there was hot chocolate, too – wonderful stuff to float the popcorn, sort of like mimicking cereal (puffed corn?) only with oil slicks swimming in the warm chocolate-contents of the cup.  But the sardines were the big deal.  The Sunday-night-staple.

No wonder sardines have a special place in my heart.

These are the kinds of things that must be put into words, because such small stories are where life happens.  This is it.  Right here with the sardines.

They look up at me with decapitated little bodies smothered in tomato-red too. Right there in their coffin-of-a-can, in neat every-other-one-turns-the-other-way rows.  Next to the computer.  Within stabbing range of my fork.  With no one watching or saying, alright, this is just absurd. It’s 9:00 at night.  Sardines will give you bad dreams.

No one is watching, that is, except me.  And now, vicariously through the use of these glorious words, you. 

Gratitude

Yesterday I was reminded of a hardly-talked-about attribute - a core virtue we call gratitude.   Not that we intentionally think about cultivating virtues at all, or at least we rarely identify them as such.  When was the last time you wrote up a list of virtues?

That’s why I decided to blog briefly about gratitude.

Gratitude can pop in and out of our days like a happy elf, but holds the potential to radically reform us when adopted as a lifestyle.  What evidences show up in a life defined primarily by humble praise of God born of gratitude? Inner peace, confidence, and meaningful living even in the midst of difficulty…which births more gratitude.  Discontent, on the other hand, inspires praise of self and is born of striving. Grasping. Drivenness. In this case, life is about us and our agenda rather than God and His.  Such a mindset leads to an ongoing longing for, and crashing after, “something else” and “something more” and “something other than” and….ongoing discontent.

Gratitude relies on gracious divine intervention – rescue, if you will, from the onslaught of those “somethings.” This is not situational rescue, as in having difficult circumstances radically altered until they feel comfortable, but rather heart-level restoration.  Gratitude, coupled with praise and humility, are the antidotes for alienation from God, self, and others.  Gratitude is the way back Home. Perhaps most importantly, gratitude is the manifestation of true faith.

Two Yellow Highlighters

A couple of days ago I learned something important: manly men only use yellow highlighters.  Not blue or orange, and CERTAINLY not pink.  Just yellow. It is the appropriate color of choice for the male gender.

I argued the point.  What’s wrong with orange?  Or blue?  I was told they’re not acceptable.  But what makes yellow acceptable?  It just is.  It is scholarly.  It is male. It is the original highlighter color.  The Highlighter Code apparently says so.

Two brand new yellow Sharpies now sit on the table next to my husband’s notebook – one for immediate use, and one to serve as a back-up.

Yellow. It proves you’re a man.