Golden Day, Golden Memories

It was a day of small-but-golden things that cut deep memory-trenches where I might return, come snowbound winter days, to relive summer’s glow.

Playing peek-a-boo with a mouthful of chewed carrots from behind a table upturned against the house….

Concentrating over a “big girl” puzzle and winding up with just one piece that fit perfectly in the empty remaining spot…. 

Squealing in the plush “loo” (blue) beach towel after a swim amidst tossing waves….

These, and more, will become treasured golden memories that match her aureate locks.

Acorns

All through the days and nights, hundreds of acorn-bullets pelt our deck (rap-rap-rap, POP, PING, rap-rap, POP-POP-POP), spinning and rolling like wobbly little ova before coming to rest on the weathered boards.  A curious potential for new life lies within each woody, capped shell:  the mystery of a mighty oak in encapsulated greatness.

We call this phenomenon dormancy, as if a group of letters (a word like dormant) can capture the reality of seed-life as it awaits germination.  How easily we overlook the magnitude of the acorn’s gift: transformation into a giant, towering oak tree!

Gifted acorns.  Hard-shelled seeds awaiting spring.

Gifted humans.  Flesh-covered souls awaiting eternity.

Lakeside Insomnia

I. (prosaic)

The quiet begged me, “Go outside,” and so I stumbled through the door and down the lawn to hear some more: “Sit down, sit here.”  I hadn’t known the moon was out and almost full, and shining bright, and so I sat and stared at it on lakeward steps.

The moonlight calmed, it was enough, and yet the voice encouraged me, “And what if you slide down this tread?”  The water called. So without pause I stretched one foot, and into silky blackness stepped, and then the other followed suit.  They both submerged.

Then oddly, I felt linked somehow, and part of heaven, part of earth, and very small and yet so safe, as if made whole.  A timeless time, alive with hope, and moonlight’s look lifting me up, and lake bed sand earthing my toes: a comfort thing.

I sensed my place as caught between, (and grounded well with wetted sand, and soul-transformed with moon’s own gaze), awash with peace.  Then unannounced, the voice returned, and bid me leave this kairos spot, and enter house and time again: “Goodnight, now sleep.”

II. (poetic)

 The quiet begged me, “Go outside,”

And so I stumbled through the door,

And down the lawn to hear some more:

“Sit down, sit here.”

I hadn’t known the moon was out,

And almost full, and shining bright,

And so I sat and stared at it

On lakeward steps.

The moonlight calmed, it was enough,

And yet the voice encouraged me,

“And what if you slide down this tread?”

The water called.

So without pause I stretched one foot,

And into silky blackness stepped,

And then the other followed suit.

They both submerged.

Then oddly, I felt linked somehow,

And part of heaven, part of earth,

And very small and yet so safe,

As if made whole.

A timeless time, alive with hope,

And moonlight’s look lifting me up,

And lake bed sand earthing my toes:

A comfort thing.

I sensed my place as caught between,

(And grounded well with wetted sand,

And soul-transformed by moon’s own gaze),

Awash with peace.

Then unannounced, the voice returned,

And bid me leave this kairos spot,

And enter house and time again:

“Goodnight, now sleep.”

Act Your Age

In the good old days of indiscreet youth, I often pushed the limits of my physical endurance only to discover extra reservoirs of energy stashed in the hip pockets my body’s cells.  I’m not sure how it got there.  Maybe I was just gifted with high-octane mitochondria (thanks, mitochondria, you’re awesome).

Back then, when confronted with a big-big, laborious task, I figuratively lowered my curly sheep horns and battering-rammed my way through, all the way through to the bitter end.  Get ‘r done.  Yes m’am. No foolin’ around.  I was reckless and vigorous, a Roadrunner with ramming horns.  (Sorry to mix metaphors here.)  The classic super genius, Wile E. Coyote with his Acme Corporation challenges (dangling performance-carrots, anyone?), only served to inspire me to crash and burn even more. 

But let’s bring this up-to-date.  If I try to go full speed ahead when confronted (lured?) by one of those big-big challenges, after several hours my heart takes off galloping as if to say, enough already, stop cracking that stupid whip, I’m overworked here, and can’t keep up with all this running and ramming.  Before long I have to quit, or else run right off Roadrunner’s cliff to fall and splat into Lake Lassitude (which, if you know anything about cartoons, is in direct opposition to our beloved classic Roadrunner who d-e-f-i-e-s gravity).

Evidently the extra high-octane rations are on back order, and/or the mitochondria are on strike.  Today in the midst of a major project, those cute little extra-reserve hip pockets had emptied-out by late morning.  I kept working anyway, running on “E,” and tonight find myself life-jacketed by God’s mercy in Lake Lassitude’s finitude. (If you don’t know, look it up.)

There’s a moral to this almost-but-not-quite-fable.  There’s nothing like old-lady drivenness mixed with overwork to confirm an important life lesson: ACT YOUR AGE. 

Today's Beautiful Adventure

Friends, a delightful couple and their three equally delightful children, visited today to share a late-summer-sun-spangled lakeside afternoon. The boys immediately paired up with the kayaks for some paddle-driven exploration, then Zorro’d the lake in tubes behind the ski boat, zig-zagging and slashing the water in repetitive Z formations. 

After all that activity, they needed sustenance, and refueled with fresh cherries and cinnamon pastries while considering the next activity.  However, out of respect for one member of the party who was not especially a water person by nature, we all piled in the pontoon for a lazier, less adventurous excursion.

Or so we thought. 

After touring awhile, we dropped anchor in a private bay surrounded by wild shoreline, a perfect place for a swim.  The friendly cattails waved their greetings as if delighted by our presence.  Sunlight dappled the lapping water.  Swans swam nearby, lost in their own reverie.  Serenity at its best.  A touch of paradise.

When it was time to go, we pulled up anchor, and I turned the key in the ignition.  Nothing.  Not even a hum.  Dead battery?  Maybe I didn’t turn the key all the way to the off position when we stopped.

Not too far away we noticed a classy fishing boat with a 114 hp engine and a couple of manly-looking fishermen, so I whistled my loudest womanly wolf whistle and waved my arms above my head – a pathetic, old-lady distress signal.

They saw us, and their boat nosed in our direction.  Good!

We’d already pulled up anchor and were drifting steadily toward the shoreline where the propeller could tangle itself in cattails and/or get stuck in muck.  I debated about throwing the anchor in again, and yet the rescue squad was fast approaching.  We threw them the anchor rope, the only one on board, just as the back of our pontoon neared the lilies.  They took off.  The pontoon obediently followed.  Whew!

Meanwhile the non-water-lover on board kindly laughed and made light of the situation, which helped me feel slightly less like I deserved a D- in boat handling.  Even though I did. 

The muscle-bound fishermen (surely they were really football players) towed us home.  Meanwhile, an observant neighbor watched from our pier.  As we drew near, he spontaneously jumped in, fully clothed, and helped us position the pontoon in the appropriate spot beside the pier.

Adventure?  I think that’s the right word, according to an online dictionary: 

adventure – n. -  An unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity; an undertaking usually involving danger and unknown risks.

I once read an author who felt mankind was created to live for two things: beauty and adventure.  We experienced both today. 

Hobie Rescue

Our 16’ Hobie Cat (catamaran) joined our brigade of boats a decade ago - a cheap, second-hand lake toy offering tipped-up pizzazz for anyone bold enough to take it out on a windy day.  It is special, a real one-of-a-kind - in fact, it’s the ONLY sailboat of any kind on our lake.  Besides daring, it has character: a snazzy, colorfully striped mainsail and white jib, and a ratty-edged trampoline that has been through many a seafaring adventure.

This afternoon while two family members were sailing in a stiff breeze, the Hobie began listing to one side.  It dragged more and more as if injured, or maybe just bone weary and needing rest.  So they came home.  Once it was elevated on the lift, the problem was obvious: a hole had blown out in one of the hulls. 

I thought this was the end of an era for the Hobie, and for us.  But just now an elderly neighbor who was swimming in the lake (it’s raining, no less) approached our pier, and I went down to see what was happening.

“Lost something?” I said.

“Nah, looking at your BOAT,” he said hoarsely.

I thought he meant the pontoon.

“It mumble-mumble-mumble,” he continued.

“Excuse me?”

“The HOBIE,”  he said.  “All it needs is a little fiberglass patch.”

“OH! Really?  Would it take long to fix?”

“I’ll tell you when I’m through,” he smirked.

I don’t know if he’s serious about fixing it or not, but a least I appreciated the encouragement.  Maybe our Hobie days are not over after all.

Ace

An online friend owns Ace, a very large avocado-green parrot with patches of red and orange on his head and wings, and yellow bugged-out eyes.  He looks like he should belong to a pirate, although a jolly one - not Captain Hook.

Since Ace so quickly and easily learns new sounds, I imagine his bird IQ to be quite high - right up there with, say, Big Bird.  Or Woodstock.  Or the Roadrunner.

At some point in his career of mimicking, Ace developed an operatic voice, and began delighting his visitors with an ear-splitting, shrill vibrato. Real opera is a very strict discipline that demands impeccable concentration and commitment, and an average of 2-3 hours a day of practice. But Ace?  He didn’t know the textbook version.  He just picked it up after listening to a few CD’s.  And he never forgot.

Some birds in the wild sing to attract mates or defend territories.  Others have flight songs or early morning wake-up songs. But I have a feeling Ace, who is confined to a cage with only his infectious, optimistic Pollyanna personality and some CD’s for company, sings only for the pure joy of song. He sings without obsessing over either the critic or the paycheck.  He sings without killing the love of it. I’m guessing we might all like to be a little bit more like Ace.

Goodnight Moon

It’s late and I can’t sleep, probably because the moon insists on spotlighting the lake with very bright reflective glitter, OR because my brain is on overdrive with too many bizarre topics and refuses to shut down.  Probably the latter, although the former makes a good scapegoat.  Sorry, moon.  I apologize.  You’re really very pretty out there.  Really.  Are we still friends?

So what am I thinking about, exactly?  Nothing profound. 

Jack the yellow tiger cat, for example.  He got in the way of the car, broke his lower back, and had to have his tail amputated (not my car or my cat) for the low-low price of $250.00.  And the GPS.  It distracted the driver with 3 kids in the car and caused an accident that required towing (not my car or my GPS again, but the same car as the cat incident, just a different day).

Just things like that.  Things that force you eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at midnight; things that grow LARGE in an old lady’s mind in the dark and the silence.

Shine on, moon, shine on.  You’re good late-night company.  I like you.  You’re a good listener.  So, moon, here’s a question for you.  What can I do about cars and cats that aren’t even mine?   See, you don’t know either.  The answer is nothing.  NOTHING. So I should just go to bed.  Right?  And leave the rest of the night to you. 

Goodnight, moon.  Goodnight cow jumping over the moon.  Goodnight old lady whispering hush.  Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.

Cucumbers

As I type these words, I’m nose-to-nose with a blank wall, suffering (hear me wail?) from a serious case of writer’s block.  Yes, I had a good idea when I sat down to blog.  Yes, it had merit, and might even resonate with someone out there.  But no, NO, the words refused to come. I couldn’t seem to squeeze them out proving, once again, you can’t get blood (stories) out of a turnip (writer with block).

However, to prove I’m not one to quit when licked, I’ll talk about something else. Not turnips, though.

How about……cucumbers?

They grow around here. In fact, we live about 20 minutes from a large cucumber station. I’m not sure what actually happens in that gigantic building, or rather series of buildings, but the place looks vacant most of the year UNTIL, during cucumber harvest, it jumps to life. Lights!  Action!  I've been told its a way station rather than a factory.  Still, I'm not sure what all that entails.

Evidently there are two varieties of cukes farmed in our area.  One is harvested mechanically, the other manually.  This explains the long row of mobile homes housing migrant workers not far from the facility.  They sit empty for most months, except for harvest season when vigorous, dark-skinned, muscular-looking young men and their young families move in.

Tonight I drove by the facility and noticed quite a few huge truck trailers mounded high with millions upon millions of fat green cuke fingers.  (Larry, are you in there somewhere? Bob wants to know.) Evidently they’re waiting to be hauled somewhere, and presumably will end up being brined in a vinegar mixture either whole, speared, sliced, or chopped into relish.

And that’s all I have to say about cucumbers.

Flower Pounding

Evening shadows stretched across the road with elongated elegance as I walked along, enjoying the privacy of my own thoughts.  I was wearing my hearing aids, and therefore noticed the murmurings of some mourning doves close by – one of just a few birdcalls I can still hear.  A light breeze tossed the tresses of a weeping willow, and the sinking sun spotlighted wild weeds featuring heavy clusters of lovely mature berries.

All of a sudden I heard something, a pinging or pounding like misfiring pistons.  As I continued, the sound intensified, until I finally discerned it was coming from a pole barn with open doors.  Wham, wham, wham-wham, wham-wham-wham-wham.

When I reached the barn, I was startled to see four banquet tables surrounded by seated older ladies presumably in their 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s, pounding with hammers.  Each one was intently looking at the spot on the table directly in front of her.  They whacked away like a practicing class of nail-drivers.

 The hostess walked out just as I passed by.  “They’re working out their aggressions,” she said, smiling broadly.

“Yes, well, I suppose so!” I answered, trying to be cordial.  “But really, what…..?

She enjoyed my perplexed expression, and laughed out loud.  “This,” she gestured toward the barn with flourish, “is a garden club I belong to, and it happens to be my month to host. We’re doing a craft project.  You take fresh flowers, and put cloth over them, and pound them until the flower pigments are released into the cloth.”

I could hardly hear her because of the pounding in the background.  Surely someone else in that group had hearing issues, and it was driving them crazy, too??

“Lovely!  What a great idea!”  I responded, trying to be enthusiastic.  But honestly, I could not have been bribed with any amount of money to be part of this project.

I walked another mile and circled back to find the ladies still heartily pounding and pounding and pounding some more.  Such relentless pounders!  The sounds of their hammers echoed across the road, and even perhaps across the lake and back, with mechanical overtones - as if some machine (a group of little old ladies – ha!) was demanding a voice here in our little quiet corner of the world.

Their results were probably beautiful, but no thanks.  No flower pounding for me.

Black Beauty

While shopping in the grocery’s pharmacy area for fresh supplies of Neosporin and butterfly bandages (see blog from 8-18 if you want to know why), a woman entered the same aisle with a troop of kids bouncing along behind like little marionettes doing a dance, or maybe several different dances.  Passionate to find my stuff and get out of there, I half-smiled politely to recognize their presence, but didn’t pay much attention UNTIL they all crowded around to also explore the band-aid section.

Mom was maybe in her mid-30’s, a blonde, fair-skinned, baby-blue-eyed, willowy woman of seeming Germanic descent.  Her boys, around 8 and 6, and a daughter that might have been 4, all resembled her.  Then there were 2 other sisters, perhaps 5 and 3, black-skinned beauties with muscular bodies, dark-roasted-brown eyes, and kinky black hair twisted into a million braids each. 

They had come to do serious business: stock up on decorated band-aids.  As if on cue, the dancing stopped and each child picked out at least one box, maybe two: Spiderman, My Little Kitty, stars, crayons, army camouflage.  After a while I lost track.

The kids chattered happily among themselves as they shopped, discussing their choices.  At one point the older black girl started hop-hopping on the tips of her toes chanting, “Mom….Mom….Mom….here….this one….” while pointing vigorously at Barbie band-aids.

Finally I couldn’t resist, and spoke to the woman who was now holding a stack of band-aids like a tower of miniature pizza boxes against her chest. “It looks like you must be about out of band-aids at your house!”

She laughed.  “Yes, but after today we’ll be covered.  Ready for whatever happens.  And you NEVER KNOW,” she paused with a convincing smile, “what MIGHT happen NEXT at our house.” 

“For sure….I can only imagine,” I replied.

We half-conversed out of the sides of our mouths as you do sometimes when meeting people in public, and then chuckled in unison. 

With their job accomplished, the kids - such a handsome concoction of ethnic opposites - began to mill around, mill around, like cattle in a fenced pen looking for a way out, waiting for the gate to open. 

While Mom organized her loot so she wouldn’t drop the whole stack, my eyes met with those of the black beauty who asked for the Barbie band-aids.  We looked into each other briefly - yes, into rather than at; into as in seeing beyond the exterior. She was checking me out the way kids do, like who are you, really, and do you care about me?  I was simply stunned by her loveliness, her deep-down appeal held together by such a solid little frame with near-perfect configuration. I was captivated by her ebony skin; the clear moon-like whites of her eyes; her full, sensory mouth; the resonant quality of her voice.

Even more quickly than they’d appeared, Mom and her gang exited the aisle, leaving me still looking for butterfly bandages that weren’t even there, thinking about the little black beauty I’d just met and hoping she doesn’t buy into the societal Barbie icon that better fits her white sister.  She’s beautiful in her own way, striking really, and I have a sense that her Barbie mother will make sure she knows and believes it.

How to Blow Out Your Finger (think tire blow-out)

Step One: Be in a hurry, a very big hurry.  Small hurries won’t do.

Step Two: While already in the process of doing something – taking the trash to the road for the next day’s pick-up works nicely – allow an annoying, out-of-place concrete block sitting next to the messy woodpile to distract and irritate you. 

Step Three: Decide, hurriedly (of course), to move said problematic block 12 inches to one side so it sits squarely beside the shed as if might actually belong there and have been intentionally placed, instead of looking like a sad vagrant that just dropped from someone’s construction truck and rolled to rest accidentally. 

Step Four: Stop pushing the trash cart.  Lean over.

Step Five:  Pick up said block (remember, speed is of the essence), and swoop it to one side.

Step Six: Miscalculate the distance. 

Step Seven: Plop it down in its new location.

Step Eight: Slam your middle finger squarely between the block and the wall of the shed in the same tradition as sledge hammering it.

(Tutorial ends here.)

   

Comfort Food of a Different Kind

Momentum builds when one person gives a little push to get a ball rolling, and then releases it to those traveling the same path.  Things just snowball.

Last June I initiated a Summer Reading Club for women at our church, and specifically suggested we corporately read The True Vine by Andrew Murray.  After a couple of months of reading, today we met to discuss the book, share lunch, and harvest our reactions. 

The atmosphere was relaxed and comfortable, and yet charged with expectancy since the subject of abiding in Christ inspires earthquake-like shifts. We pored over some of the lessons, promises, and personal applications of the analogy in John 15 exposed in The True Vine – the mystery of divine love, omnipotence, abiding, and pruning that leads to human fruit-bearing – and decided they addressed many of the principal challenges of the Christian life while also inspiring growth and accountability.

God is the Husbandman, or Gardener of this world. Jesus is the True Vine, the heavenly mystery of divine love come to earth.  We are the branches of that Vine.  As we abide in Him (ah, this is the meat of the matter, understanding and embracing what it means to abide), we bear His fruit.  Not our own varieties that perish, but lush fruit that lasts.

Today as we ended our discussion, I challenged the women to express a summary they might readily share if asked to describe Murray’s book.  “I felt fed…but also comforted,” one woman said as she wrestled with the question.  Ah.  A profound response that snowballed and landed right there in all of our laps.  Jesus’ parable in John 15 is comfort food.

Redefining Mint…Forever

Summer is waning (sniff sniff) and it’s time for our large mint patch to flower.  I’m told by knowing old-time neighbors that a hidden artesian spring – one sadly covered over and rerouted to its source by previous owners of the property – explains why this volunteer patch does so well, even in drought situations.  No doubt some waters are still seeping up to the surface of the earth, and probably this spot behind the seawall is the point of least resistance. 

This afternoon I noticed the tall stems dressed in fragrant leaves had abruptly sprouted Tinkerbelle-sized heads wearing hats made of tiny purple blossoms.  It’s as if the whole patch suddenly decided to put on Easter bonnets.  Dress-up at its best.

I knew mint flowers are supposed to be edible (as well as the leaves, of course), so I tried just the teeniest bite with my front teeth – a snip – that I continued to chew, nibbling like a chipmunk.

POW!  MINT CONCENTRATE!  Breath freshener at its best! Who knew such delicate, girly-looking little blossoms could pack this kind of punch?

Rainy Day Bread-Baking Experiment

Gray skies continued to darken here all morning, and finally around 9:00 released their tears to drill the lake with unrelenting schrapnel-drops.  Thunder rumbled like an advancing army, ever closer.

Unexpectedly, at 9:15, the wind stilled, rain turned to gentle dimples, and thunder ran the other way, yelping and retreating with its tail between its legs.  Maybe I’d take a walk after all?  But no, it returned, bringing cold dampness that settled in, like a bulldog or maybe an opinionated tomcat, to stay.

Meanwhile, I gave up on walking and decided to bake instead. At church this coming Saturday a group of women be reviewing The True Vine by Andrew Murray - conversing about the application of Jesus’ parable of the grapevine and its branches in John 15 to everyday life.  So I decided to bake grape-cluster-shaped breads to share at our luncheon before the book discussion.  Here they are, before rising…

…and here's one during rising…

…and after baking.

Star Gazing

About an hour ago (10:30 p.m.), I padded outside in my flip-flops – the black Tevas with the left big toe and right heel worn down to almost-nothing, proving that my whole self is listing to the right like the Tower of Pisa - to join the real night, the outside night.  Stretched prone, with my hands above my head on a hard pier section in the midst of stark stillness and the heavenly dome yawning above, I flashed back to star-watching on similar nights as a child.  Nights when the sky came to earth and entered me; when I fit, like a little human star, in the enormous cosmos. Nights when I belonged, when complete disclosure (skinny-dipping in the lake) beneath the stares of open-eyed stars was acceptable and right.

Now I don’t star gaze much.  Almost never. I stay tucked inside my little house with a refrigerator and bathroom and grown-up company: a computer screen and glass of iced tea. I am much smaller in here, in this predictable, controlled space, which is why I went outside tonight: to revisit my space under the stars.  I am pleased to say it was still there.

Better Error Messages: Haiku Poetry

(Note: I take no credit for this – the author is unknown.)

____________________

In Japan, they have apparently replaced the impersonal and unhelpful Microsoft error messages with Haiku poetry. With their strict construction rules (each poem has only 17 syllables: 5 syllables in the first, 7 in the second, 5 in the third), Haikus are used to communicate timeless messages, often achieving a wistful yearning and powerful insight through extreme brevity.

The Web site you seek Cannot be located, but Countless more exist.

Chaos reigns within. Reflect, repent, and reboot. Order shall return.

Program aborting: Close all that you have worked on. You ask far too much.

Windows NT crashed. I am the Blue Screen of Death. No one hears your screams.

Yesterday it worked. Today it is not working. Windows is like that.

Your file was so big. It might be very useful. But now it is gone.

Stay the patient course. Of little worth is your ire. The network is down.

A crash reduces Your expensive computer To a simple stone.

Three things are certain: Death, taxes and lost data. Guess which has occurred.

You step in the stream, But the water has moved on. This page is not here.

Out of memory. We wish to hold the whole sky, But we never will.

Having been erased, The document you're seeking Must now be retyped.

Serious error. All shortcuts have disappeared. Screen. Mind. Both are blank.

Java News

Drinking excessive amounts of coffee has never been a vice for me.  I’ve battled other food addictions, but have not been plundered and taken over by The Roasted Bean like some people. In fact, java and I have kept our distance for the most part, like strangers who share the same space in public places and even make eye contact, but don’t physically touch or exchange verbal greetings.  Sugar or butter or anything made of grains might be different story.  I easily befriend and sidle up to THOSE. But right now we’re talking about coffee.

When I was a child, my parents’ brewed coffee smelled heavenly and tasted like burned cardboard with a heaping dose of metallic flavoring added.  It originated in their slurp-burping percolator, a slender silver pitcher with a skinny, curved-worm for a spout - “8 O’Clock” brand coffee, or else whatever was on sale at the time.  My mother was amazingly thrifty, and purchased discounted food in bent cans, unlabeled cans, and torn packaging.  Sometimes she brought home a ripped bag of coffee (always ground, I never saw a whole bean until I was an adult) that had been patched with miles of masking tape by some overzealous shelf stocker - wrapped and wrapped and cinched tight like Scarlett O’Hara.  

I thought the coffee from that percolator tasted, for lack of a better word, burned.  Bitter.  Surely the stained, perforated aluminum basket holding the grounds had something to do with it.  Between brewing episodes, if you happened to be the one dumping the grounds, the basket smelled like the coffee tasted.  Scorched and tinny.  Even when clean.

Then there was instant coffee.  The folks used this at the lake cottage sometimes – for convenience, I suppose.  Little crunchy granules.  Stir them in hot water, and voila: mud.  In my opinion, instant coffee was horrible as well.  Even worse than the brewed stuff. 

Not surprisingly, I rarely drank coffee when I got older - but when I did, I watered it down, thinking it to be more tolerable that way.  And black please, don’t complicate things with cream or sugar. I convinced myself I preferred plain weak coffee, and for some odd reason, wasn’t tempted to try higher-class varieties, say, at a coffee house.  First of all, there weren’t any Starbucks businesses around when I was a young adult, and secondly, I wasn’t the kind to meet a friend for coffee anyway.  It would have been too expensive, and I’d inherited my mother’s thrifty ideals. I occasionally ordered a cup of decaf to sip with dessert at a restaurant after dinner, but that was all.  I don’t know why I was so almost totally hands-off except that perhaps a subliminal precautionary gene knew about my addictive predisposition and decided to protect me from another reason to overindulge in something.

But all of this discussion is preliminary, and brings me to the point for today.  Last Christmas I gave my hubby a Keurig coffee maker – one of those snazzy machines that invites you to choose a little cartridge of a particular coffee of your liking, and then brews just one cup in seconds.  A very cool toy.  But again, his toy.  I didn’t suddenly become interested in drinking coffee all the time.

However, this past week I’ve been tempted to try some of the Keurig cups that stock our coffee station.  Why not?  There they are.  Cute little round K-cup cartridges.  Different flavors.  Quick. Enticing.  And the brew method is supposed to be outstandingly awesome. The first time I heard a review for Keurig coffee, the individual said, “That’s the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.”

Discovery #1: I very much enjoy both light- or dark-roasted coffees when iced and served with a touch of stevia.

Discovery #2: I particularly enjoy the darkest of the dark roasted varieties (shocking news for this weak coffee drinker) when piping hot and served with a touch of stevia.

Discobery #3: Both of the above are beyond amazing with a shot of crème de cocoa added.

So all-of-a-sudden, I’ve gone coffee crazy, and yet overindulgence will not be a problem as long as cream isn’t in the house.  Add cream to #3 and I could be enslaved forever.

Deeper and Higher

Every now and then a glimpse of grandeur jumps out and stuns me – a mysterious but tangible reality in another person, a surpassing greatness that is not earned but bestowed. Such was the case at Jean Watson’s concert tonight.

You can see and hear my friend, Jean, here: http://www.jeanwatson.com/fr_home.cfm\\

Like all of us, Jean knows what it means to suffer, but pain is not her greatest reality.  “Life is hard - but SO good!” she said tonight.  “There’s no place to go in God's perfect love other than deeper and higher.”

While living a quiet life in a small village, Jean become internationally acclaimed in just a few years.  Her producer in Nashville lauds her unique talent and style, and her music has made the charts in England.  Recently she was invited to host a regular radio program in Ireland. 

But recognition isn’t what it’s about. “I was just doing my thing, playing my violin, and God showed up and made all this happen.”  She gives the glory to Him.

I should clarify, however, that “her thing” is not really her thing.  As her life journey continues, she submits herself over and over to be used by Him.  Looking back, there are Almighty footprints where she has walked.  Looking ahead, the path is clear: deeper and higher.

Deeper, and higher,

And wider, and fuller,

Immeasurable love,

Transforming and free.

Deeper, and higher,

And wider, and fuller,

Thy mercies unending,

Our praise goes to Thee.

Peelers

“My shoes – they’re still wet inside,” I whined.

“Why?”

“I walked after the rain yesterday.  And the soles are, you know, peeling. So water seeped inside.  I thought they’d dry out overnight, but they didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are the soles peeling?”

“Because.  They just are.”

“They’re old.”

“Not THAT old.  Just worn."  I paused.  "They're peelers”

“You’re very hard on shoes.”

“Yes, I am.  I always have been.”

“If these are shot, then go buy new ones.”

“That’s just it.  I don’t want to be spending money on new shoes all the time.”

“So you wear ones with peeling soles that get wet inside.”

“Yes.”

There wasn’t much else to add at this point.

“You’re very hard on shoes,” he repeated, not knowing what else to say.

“I am.  I work hard and play hard.  My fingernails are always wearing down, too. I’m just hard on myself,” I nodded with a grin.

“Your shoes prove it.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Like a badge.”

“Of honor.”

“Of hard walking.”

“Of hard something.” 

“Of a hard-core, hard-headed… ”

“Oh stop it!”

That was the end of a pointless and yet confirming conversation that verified what I already knew: I’m hard on shoes.  Really, really hard on shoes.  I go through a decent quality pair twice as fast as another person wearing the same brand.  I don’t know why this is so.  It just is.

Rain Down

Watery-pebbles

Pelting

Dimpling

Raindrops

Free-falling

Dapple-drilling

Dibble-drops

Loving

Quenching

Earth

Guzzling

Glutting

Sufficiency

Providing

Running Over

Grace

Restoring

Redeeming

Living Water

Re-creating

Saving

Barbecue Sauce (and Other Things)

While wandering through Stress City today (a “local” grocery store 20+ minutes away – not its real name, of course) I found myself frozen in the middle of the condiment aisle, blocking oncoming cart traffic.

Nothing on my list necessitated my even BEING in that aisle, and yet there I was, right in front of a very LARGE barbecue sauce display. I wasn’t secretly craving barbecued ribs; I didn’t WANT to buy barbecue sauce. I just stood there, staring.

Six rows, ten feet long, of very red bottles stared back at me. Shiny, saliva-inducing bottles of once-upon-a-time-tomatoes cooked to certain death and beyond, and then spiked with high fructose corn syrup (which predisposes diabetes) and MSG (which induces neurological toxicity).  Who knows what other additives lurked within some of those permeable plastic bottles with shelf lives of YEARS that would mock the longevity of anything in the produce section, tomatoes included. 

I stared back with a parting glare that said “no.”  The barbecue sauce would not win.  It would not allow errant taste buds to overrun my rational mind.  I knew better.  This stuff was hazardous.

Entering the next aisle skeptically, I wondered: is THIS what grocery shopping is supposed to be?  A war zone between overindulged, addicted tastes (the American dream gone culinary) and the logical mind guarding physical wellbeing?  Worse, how many people don’t even know how bad all this stuff really IS for us, particularly over the long haul?

Pushing my cart along with a glazed expression that denied eye contact with AN ENTIRE AISLE OF PRICEY PROCESSED CEREAL (especially the sugar-sweetened stuff is deadly, just ask any cell in your body), I wondered how much food in Stress City is really not food at all, but tasty ingestible material that won’t kill us (at least not immediately) but fills us up so we think we’re well-fed?  Over time, especially the last decade, I’ve come to think the answer could be appalling: most.

There are no warning signs anywhere in Stress City, which is a shame.  Cigarettes are clearly labeled with a warning sign, why not food?  Everything but that tiny display of organic produce could apply (there is no organic meat in this store).  “WARNING:  The surgeon general has determined tampered-with food to be hazardous to your health.”

Or if we wanted to be more specific, the shrink-wrapped, sectioned carcasses of chicken, pork and beef could be labeled, “hormone-laden, antibiotic-infused – known to create chemical imbalances” and specific meats could also read, “nitrite and nitrate contaminated – known to cause cancer.” Fresh vegetables could say, “pesticide-ridden, genetically modified, wax-coated, irradiated, chemically fertilized, picked green and ripened in gas chambers – distorted and known to distort when ingested.” Milk product disclaimers, even when condensed, could become a mini-tutorial: “pasteurized, homogenized dairy items encourage acidity in the human body which predisposes inflammation which in turn predisposes chronic disease; they are mucous-producing, cause arterial clogging, their calcium is not readily absorbable, and hormones fed to dairy herds induce early puberty.” And all of this is just the tip of the iceberg.

IF this is true (you ask the question with a stern look and squinty, doubtful eyes), why is it allowed?  Because, dear friends and gentle people, it’s not about the quality of our food being nutritionally superior.  It’s about MONEY.

Which brings me back to barbecue sauce and adulterated food in general.  Liking it, craving it, and then becoming addicted to it, is good for big business.  Food manufacturers do what they must to make sure we love it. Hating it is better for me in just about every sense.  Sadly, I do both, with sometimes more, and sometimes less, focus on better (if not optimal) choices. Just look at yesterday's blog.  See what I mean?