Making Carrots

So...I don't post for years, and the first thing I do is log a craft project?!  Sorry, folks.  There have been many things to say, but not words to say them.  And I want to save this craft so I can find it in the future.  So here it is!

Carrot treat bags.  I looked up someone else's tutorial but didn't care for her assembly instructions so made my own.  This drawstring is much easier to put together.

To begin:

I have cut these particular shapes.  I pressed them as shown, and please note that one short side of the green fabric is pressed toward the RIGHT side.  That will help form the drawstring channel.  I have also sewn the long sides of the green fabric.  The orange shapes are about 7 inches long, and the green are about six.

I pinned each orange piece to each green as shown, right sides to wrong sides.  They overlap about aninch, and the orange fabric is on top on the right sides. 

I sewed across the top and bottom of the overlap, staying very close to the edges.  My machine has a selection to offset the needle to the right, which helped a lot

Then, right sides together, I joined the two sides, being sure that the points were lined up (and the carrot tops for the most part).  I made sure to sew up to where the green and orange fabric joined, but not farther than that.

I turned them right side out, then put both ribbons in my bodkin and put them through at the same time.  I tied the ends of each ribbon, then pulled one through so its knot was on the other side.

Fill, tie closed, and enjoy!  Using a zipper-closure snack bag made filling easy.

More Roses in November

They may not look like much, but they mean a lot to me!  

Teen cut these from our rose bush last night.

Grateful

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day.  I had an unusual day, and I'd like to tell you about it.

We had invited seven guests - a man and his two boys, and four singles.  (The invitation process was long and confusing; suffice it to say that I did not know, at any point, how many were invited, much less how many would actually come.)  Two of the seven let us know by Wednesday night that they would not attend.

One guy called us Thanksgiving morning to tell us he couldn't make it.  One girl didn't get back to us at all - we learned she wasn't coming when she didn't show up.  The man with the boys didn't know until early in the afternoon, and he called us two hours before he was to arrive to ask if his cousin could come, as well.  Then, all four of them showed up nearly an hour earlier than expected.

On the surface, this all seems so confusing, and even downright rude.  And I thank God that I've become a more flexible person in the last few months, because my heart was beginning to feel put-upon and used.  Fortunately, I decided to wait and see how it all played out.

The guy who called on Thanksgiving morning is a bright young fellow - the kind of guy whose help you'd want for just about anything.  He's a whiz at computers, and equally eager to help with moving furniture, painting, or being a strong male presence in a hazardous situation.  He couldn't make it because he was called into work.  He's one of those people you call when you're aggravated with a certain appliance.  He's the numbskull you want to chew out when he gives you the answer he's paid to give you, but that you don't want to hear.  In our local depressed economy, a smart, eager young man needs to keep whatever job he can find - even if it's the kind that makes you listen to angry customers on a holiday.

The girl who never got back to us had good reason, too.  She has no phone.  And no car.  She's a teen.  She lives with her dad, who has a terminal illness, and she lost her mother just a few years ago.  She walks everywhere she goes.  She is one of the most dedicated friends you'd ever want to have - always there when you need her.  She's sweet, polite, and hides behind a thick, soft-spoken shell.  We were very sorry when she didn't appear.

The man with the boys is a chef.  A really good one, too.  To make ends meet, he took a job a few years ago at a local college cafeteria.  We've spoken to him a few times in the past weeks (aside from church business) because he has, literally, no food in his home.  His two boys were removed from their mother's partial custody when she was discovered living with them in an abandoned warehouse.  She was arrested for an unrelated matter.  Now he has sudden full custody of two energetic, curious little boys, neither old enough for free public education.  At first he struggled with finding child care.  Unfortunately, the economy being what it is, he is newly jobless.  The cousin he invited is a sweet girl with learning disabilities.  She was sad to be with us, because she had not yet seen her own mother that Thanksgiving day.  Why was he early?  Well, this jobless chef with empty cupboards was serving Thanksgiving dinner at a homeless shelter.  The dinner ended early, so he, his cousin, and his two little boys walked to our house.

When I was young, I couldn't go to church without someone sentimentalizing the idea that you're a missionary regardless of where you live.  The point was always that people need to hear the good news right here in our own back yards, schools, offices, and grocery stores.  I agree with the idea, but I never grasped, then, what I understand today (and what I will try to remember):  true missionaries cross cultural barriers.  And even though I live in the same town, within just a couple miles of each of these people,  our cultures are vastly different.  My cultural expectation is that you will know what you are doing on a holiday, and with whom, and that if I invite you, you will show at the appropriate time, or at least call with an explanation well in advance.  Their culture requires that they do what is needed as it is needed.  And aside from the demands of providing for their families, they give their all to help when they can.  Their culture, which from the outside can seem inferior, puts my petty life to shame.

Made me realize that, far from being the one providing something to the needy on Thanksgiving, I was the recipient of a wonderful blessing.  One I hope to hold onto and live out for a long time.

P.S.  Oh - and my Teen:  As we put away the leftovers, she asked if we could make plates and take them to the bus depot.  I think she gets it.

A Really Bad Pastor's Wife

..as in the wife (of the pastor) is bad.

Introverts should not be in ministry.  Or married to those in ministry.  Or children or pets of those in ministry.

Sunday morning church was fine, as usual.  I expect an onslaught of huggers and chatterboxes, and I allow for it.  Racing home to prepare dinner for my family and a guest or two has become the new normal, so I'm becoming used to it.  But that is supposed to be the end for me.  After dinner, everyone (except the toddler) is supposed to leave for evangelism ministry for a few hours, then the immediate family members are to return home to spend a quiet, uneventful evening of movie watching and random napping.

Today one guest and one child (teen) stayed after the others left.  That was acceptable; teen and the guest are both introverts, as well.  However, just after the guest left, the rest returned - with ADDITIONAL people.

Listen, folks.  People who are on an evangelism team are extroverts, no matter what they might tell you.  And extroverts are loud, and over-friendly, and sensitive.  If you aren't wildly eager to see them, and hugely interested in listening to the day's exploits, then you don't like them and they need to know what is wrong and how to make it right.

I want want WANT to be hospitable and welcoming.  I desire to be warm and Jesus-like to the masses that find my home a place of refuge and rest.

But I really, deep down in my heart, just want them all to leave.  The unexpected ones, the guests, and sometimes even the extroverted family members.

My cat would agree.  She's new to the family, you see, so everyone wants to ooh and aah and pet the wittow kitty.  But she's allowed to run off and hide under a bed, whereas I am supposed to greet, kiss, and feed everyone.

I confess that I was bad.  I had just begun to clean the kitchen when they arrived, and I continued to do so when I should have been smiling and hugging and serving.  Hot, sudsy water and a loud dishwasher can relax me when these mundane things serve as a wall between myself and those who need me.

I don't regularly read many blogs, but I very much enjoy Jamie the Very Worst Missionary.  She recently wrote about being the Very Worst Pastor's Wife.  I snicker at the things she posts; I often feel the same way.  (If you're one of my friends who is concerned with vulgarity or coarse jesting, then I suggest you skip her blog link.  She's very real, in a way that most of us in ministry can't be.  While I don't go to the mental lengths she does, you'd probably be surprised at how close I come.)  But one big difference is that her heart is always in the right place.  Her answer is the right one.  She surrenders and submits to the Lord in all the places that none of us really want to.

I stay in my kitchen and wash the dishes.

Of High Aspirations

My Teen shocked me the other day.  Her stated goal for herself since she was a young girl is to be a foreign missionary.  Now, I know well that this might change, and that's fine with me, but in the church world, foreign missions is a lofty goal.

For the past year and a half she's attended a charter school targeted for those interested in the health sciences.  She feels that having a medical background will open more missions doors for her.  Plus, there is always the possibility that she will not be a missionary, and the medical field seems to be fairly wide open right now.

But these are not her highest aspirations for herself.  She shared with me, one late night when everyone else were in bed, what that other, loftier, goal is.  She'd love to be a stay at home mom who home schools her children.  She spoke with awe in her voice at the grand design of raising children to be their best, before the Lord and in the world.  She realizes, though, that this is a gift and that she might not be given it, so of course she will prepare for life in the working, serving world.

I was stupefied.  Truly.  She wants my life.  And I, to be honest, don't.

I gave up a job I found very satisfying in order to follow my husband toward his dream vocation.  When I left that job, I knew, like anyone knows anything, that I would not last more than two months as a SAHM.  And here I am, 14 years later, still a SAHM, still reluctant.  And this life I defaulted to because there was nothing better available is now my daughter's dream job.  I laughed in pain at the irony.

I wonder how much better at it I would be if I loved this thing that I do - if I saw it as the perfect achievement of a lifetime of desire, as a gift.  Would I be able to  really cook?  Would my home remain clean for more than ten minutes at a time?  Would my children rise up and call me blessed, instead of grumbling when I remind them that there is another English paper due?

This is not something that I can work up, however.  The desire for it is, I think, a gift, as much as the bestowing of the lifestyle is.  I'm like most people who are stuck in a job that isn't ideal for them, that makes them feel inadequate daily, but is how they get by.  I think, though, that knowing there is a level-headed kid out there who would love to be in my shoes just might make carrying this load a little easier.

*****

Today I chatted with Tween.  Since I was curious, we discussed his dream job.  He has two he can't choose between - the pastorate (DH's field) or a train engineer.  I asked him how he planned to go about fulfilling his dreams.  These are his plans:

If he decides to become a pastor, he will go to college and work toward a higher-level degree.  Meanwhile he will volunteer his services at a church that really needs him so he can get some hands-on experience.

If he decides to be a train engineer, he will go somewhere with an Amtrak station and a sightseeing old-time steam engine line.  He'll go to college just in case there aren't any train jobs available, but if they're hiring, even just for a janitor, then that is where he plans to begin.

When Teen and Tween were little, I used to worry that they'd buy too heavily into the "you can do anything that you want to" mentality.  I was concerned that Teen might want to be a ballerina and Tween an astronaut, and that I'd have to burst their bubbles and help them set more mundane goals.  Looks to me like that concern was misplaced!

Aim low, kids!

November Rose

On Wednesday evening, as we pulled out of our driveway, I noticed that our rose bush had forced out one last bloom.  Unusual.  Our roses usually bloom in June and again in August, but this was the end of November - yet there it was, proud banner at the very top of the otherwise-dormant bush, looking bright and fragrant and summer-y.  I asked for a volunteer to cut it and bring it in from the impending frost, but no one was willing, so when we got home I cut it for myself, placing it in a bud vase by the kitchen sink.

Every Thanksgiving, my husband invites people to our home for dinner.  There are plenty of lonely people around here.  Even though our home is uninvitingly small and I am a poor cook at best, Thanksgiving is all about togetherness, and no one should spend the day alone.  Typical of those without plans, most of them don't let us know if they will come until just before the meal is served.  I am not usually familiar with the people who are invited, and sometimes meet them for the first time when they arrive at my house.

Being a poor cook, I used to be quite sensitive about having people over.  It's hard to prepare foods for special events when there is no hope of the food being special.  However, over the years I've become pretty good at a few dishes:  turkey, gravy, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, and homemade rolls. While I will never make a Thanksgiving Feast cookbook, my versions are passable and sometimes, by chance, tasty.

This year, however, the potatoes were a problem.  First of all I forgot to buy them.  When I realized on Wednesday evening that I didn't have them, I considered skipping them altogether, but they are a favorite with Teen, so off to the crowded supermarket I went (which is when I spied the rose).  On our return home, I scrubbed, cubed, and boiled them.  Something wasn't right, though.  Some of the potato cubes were overdone, while others seemed undercooked.  I drained and mashed them anyway, but the result was a starchy, lumpy concoction that even I was embarrassed to claim.  I decided it was too late to change plans, though, and on Thursday I put them into the oven with the rest of the food to warm.  To add to my embarrassment, the top and sides ended up a bit crusty.  Ah, well.  No one really expects gourmet meals from me, and there would be plenty of gravy.

All of our guests called with regrets, but at the last minute one man, David, decided to come.  My husband introduced us, then Teen and I set the food on the table and we all sat down to the meal.  After a prayer of thanks, I served as we made small talk.  Everything was going well until I began to serve those potatoes. I mentioned that they'd been a bit of a problem to make.  My husband said, "Oh!  Well, David can help you with that.  He's a chef!"

Gulp.

A chef.

At my table.

On Thanksgiving.

And I'm a terrible cook.

And I've ruined the simplest dish on the table.

I heaped everyone's plates Thanksgiving-full, but went very light on the potatoes.  I didn't want the added embarrassment of having six plates full of potatoes to scrape into the garbage.  Gravy, butter, salt, and pepper were passed, and we began to eat.  The usual compliments were passed, as well: turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, and rolls all were duly noted.

Then it started.  "These potatoes are delicious!!"  "Amazing!"  "Wonderful!"  Everyone ate their potatoes.  Most asked for more...and more.  The chef had three helpings, all the while extolling the virtues of the incredible potatoes.

Figures.  The one thing I cook fantastically well is not only an accident, it's also not reproducible!  Still, it felt good to have cooked something that everyone genuinely liked.

We enjoyed the rest of the day, sharing family stories, playing Wii, and discussing Scripture.  The table was cleared and our guest left after a very pleasant time together.

Reflecting on the meal and fellowship as I washed dishes, I sniffed my unlikely rose and called it a good day.

More on Me 'N' Solomon

One the Bible's great mysteries is Solomon's downfall.  God gave him wisdom - more wisdom than anyone who'd ever walked the earth, before or since.  And Solomon walked away from God.

I know that's a gross oversimplification.  After all, he lived a life between being granted that gift and the end of his days.  As the king of a powerful nation, I'm confident that his life must have been full of more stress and trial than I'll ever imagine.

Still, I wonder.  What was the problem?  He had money, prestige, and power.  And he used it to obtain lands, wives, wealth, and, ultimately, other beliefs.

He had an amazing father.  King David was no spiritual slouch.  He was exuberant for the Lord.  His praise was lively.  His repentance was deep.  His reliance on God was exemplary.  And the more I think about it, the more I wonder if this was part of Solomon's problem.

My husband's faith is exuberant, lively, deep, exemplary.  He makes no bones about loving his Lord.  Most of the time it's beautiful and outstanding and worthy of emulation.  It can also be perplexing, dismaying, and even embarrassing.  I'm sure some in David's day found him the same, though I'm certain that few had the platform to say so.  Naturally, the Bible would not report such near-blasphemous thoughts.

If David were alive today, would he sit in his car, in his own driveway, blasting the worship music and weeping?  Would he jump and kick before the podium while strumming his lyre?  Would his amplified voice crack with emotion as he pronounces words of redemption?  Would he shake hands with strangers and look deeply into their souls as he shares his savior with them?  Would others' discomfort in these situations even admit itself to his perception?

Men of great passion are hard to live with on a daily basis, particularly for the cerebral.  Those of us who are also spiritual face an internal dissonance.  The man of passion lives all the external ideals of the faith. To disdain his passion is to seem to disdain his faith, as well.  The dissonance must be even greater for an adult child than it is for a wife.

There are few choices in such a situation.  To embrace the passion is to slap one's own intellect in the face.  Living alongside it, without participating, causes the dissonance to crescendo to an unavoidable din.  Outright rejection, the option that perhaps Solomon eventually chose, is unacceptable, at least to the faithful.

There is another option, one that doesn't particularly appeal to me as an all-or-nothing kind of person.  And that is to step in slowly, toe first, as if timidly entering a pool.  A sprinkle baptism of sorts, if you will, with the intention of becoming a dunk...eventually.  The hard part is that it must be intentional.  Rather than waiting for the Holy Spirit to come and shove me into the tank, I've got to bare my own sole and begin the ponderous plunge myself.

If I maintain my gradual immersion, perhaps my kids, who are  guided by my actions far more than by my words, will find their balance better than Solomon did.

***

Some of my earlier thoughts on Solomon.

Picking at Scabs

Why do we do this? When we were kids, we'd peek under the band-aid until it fell off, then pry up the edge of the crusted blood. It hurt hurt hurt, but for some reason we just had to look.

I was on Facebook today, and decided to look over the list of folks Facebook thought would be good friends for me. I was very surprised to see the name of a person with whom we'd had a significant disagreement this past summer. It wasn't your normal relationship thing, either. There were very serious allegations involved, and the outcome was the splitting of a beautiful group of people and a lot of very hurtful finger-pointing.

So did I scroll past the suggestion? Did I close the page? Did I shut down my browser and find something else to do? Of course not. I clicked on the name.

Despite only recently joining Facebook, this person had hundreds of friends. Of the top few, several were former friends of ours who'd judged us, harshly, based on accusations that were fabricated to sway opinion. These former friends never even sought our side of the story - just cut us off.

This person had also set up a brand spankin' new website for the group that had so painfully been split. Naturally, pathetically, I followed the link to view the site. It was very welcoming. It warmly invited all who were interested to join (except those of us who'd been asked to leave, but of course that was not mentioned).

Ouch.

What happens when we pick at scabs? Well, our curiosity is sated. At what cost? Pain. Prolonged time for recovery. And, if we're not careful, infection. The wound now requires more time and attention to heal properly, and is more likely to leave a lasting scar.

Of course I realize that there is no way this wound was going to heal completely to begin with. The laceration was jagged, rough and deep. Those who would have offered aid and relief were the ones who caused the injury. And infection set in very quickly. (Should I admit that I derived a very tiny amount of pleasure from the grammar and spelling errors I saw on the website? Probably not.)

But there was no good reason for me to entertain my curiosity this way. I might just as well have poured salt right into that gaping gash. And not the good, "salt of the earth" kind of salt, either.

So why do we do this? I have no answer. I'd love to be able to say it filled my heart with forgiveness and love toward the people who hurt us. I'd love to say that I wished them well with their new group and rejoiced that they seem to be off to a good start. I'd love to, but I'd be lying.

Time for a fresh band-aid. Maybe some antibiotic ointment - I'll find it in prayer. And maybe my Father will hold me again, despite my foolish picking, and reassure me that it will be all right.

Hotdog Lady

Since I was young, I've always wanted a nickname.  When others give you a moniker, it indicates a kind of intimacy.  It must feel good to have those you belong with confirm that belonging by choosing an endearing quality about you and dubbing you with a special name.  Even silly names often reflect a fun event in the history of a relationship.  In fact, one of my favorite Bible promises has long been Revelation 2:17, which says "I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it."  A sort of a nickname straight from God, in my mind.


That's not to say that I didn't have a nickname growing up.  My first name, unfortunately, rhymes with the name of a particularly odious canned meat product made, nominally, of spiced ham.  The coincidence was not lost on the average American schoolchild, so rather than my given name, I was often called by the name of the "food" item, instead.


Nickname - good.  Processed meat - bad.


When I first became a Christian, I felt strongly about not participating in Halloween.  It just seemed wrong, given its history and its spiritual significance, which continues even to the present.  For many years, my husband and I would purposely go out to dinner rather than stay home during trick or treat time.  However, about four years ago I was very touched by a post I read on a homeschooling forum.  A mom much like myself shared that she'd felt the same way, and even had a good excuse not to join in - her family lived on a house at the top of a solitary hill.  It would be quite a hike for little ghouls and goblins to reach their home, not that she desired to participate, anyhow.  But one day a Bible verse touched her: the passage in Matthew 5 that says that a city on a hill can not be hid, and to let your light shine before men.  From that time, she has thrown on the lights and made her home on a hill bright, welcoming those who would come and hoping to shine a spiritual light in her neighborhood.  She really got me thinking.


A little further in the conversation, another mom related how they handed out hotdogs every year.  "Huh?" I thought. "Hotdogs?  That's a little nuts."  But the more I thought about it, the more I loved the idea.  Once per year the whole neighborhood comes right to my door.  What better way to meet people than to give them something they would value?  They'll surely stay a few minutes and chat.  I shared the idea with my husband, and after some prayer, he agreed that we would try it.


October 31, 2008, we brought our barbecue onto our front walk and began grilling our Halloweenies.  Even though it's an urban neighborhood (or perhaps because of it), we don't get a whole lot of folks trick or treating.  But what fun it was to ask a group of costume-clad travelers if they wanted hotdogs.  None of them had ever heard of such a thing!  The idea took a few seconds to process.  Sometimes they asked how much we would charge them.  Sometimes they appeared distrustful.  But for the most part, they came, enjoyed a hotdog, and spent a few minutes talking.  We had a wonderful time!  We met neighbors, shook hands, and even prayed with a few people.  We had tracts available because they were stamped with the church address (and often, when people hear that my husband is a pastor, they want to know which church he leads).


We've given out hotdogs every year since, and this was our fourth year.  Once we also gave out juice boxes, but that got a little messy.  The next year we changed it to hot apple cider, which most parents welcome as the chilly day draws to an end.


This year was extra special.  Really, really special.  You see, right around 5:30 we saw two families traveling together.  While they were still across the street and nearly a block down, one little girl began to jump up and down.  "It's the hotdog lady!  The hotdog lady!" she yelled.  The group walked a bit faster - one family of kids were eager to have a quick meal, and the other were excited to see who on earth would hand out hotdogs for free.


I was chatting with another mom, whom I'd met the year before, when her husband called.  He wanted to know where to meet her.  "I'm at the hotdog lady's house," she told him, and he needed no further description.


Ah.  At long last.  My dream has come true!


Nickname - good.  Processed meat - good!

They Didn't Come Back. But...

The Visitors did not return.

We were all rather pathetic on Sunday.  As the regulars entered the sanctuary, they were clearly crestfallen at the sight of the two empty pews.  And each time the church door opened, almost everyone turned to see who was entering.  The thoughts were nearly audible - maybe the Visitors came a little late!

Nope.

But...they called on Wednesday.  Out of town guests kept them away, and a vacation would prevent attendance next week, but they are looking forward to joining us again the week after that.

Ah.  That feels good!

Back Door Optimist

This is my new term.  It describes someone who acts and talks like a pessimist, when all along the real determination is optimism.

I am a back door optimist.

When something comes up (an opportunity, a problem), I immediately assume the worst will happen.  And why do I do that?  Because the worst WON'T happen, and then I'll be a step or two further toward happy than I would have been if I had optimistically expected the best but didn't get it.

The only hitch to this is when the worst does happen.  Because I wasn't, actually, expecting that.

You might say I'm a "glass is 1/8 full" kind of gal.

There Is Only One Leonardo da Vinci...

...and you're not him.

I said this to my son today.  See, he's very smart.  Unusually smart, if I do say so myself.  But he's lazy as the day is long.  He'd rather sketch a few ideas, jot some notes, and wait four or five hundred years for someone else to come along and actually produce anything worthwhile.

Unfortunately, brilliant inventors who do nothing are probably a dime a dozen.  I often wonder how on earth Leonardo actually became famous.  Surely it was because of his art.  But my son is not artistic.  And there aren't many rich aristocrats looking for starving artists to sponsor these days, anyway.

Nope.  He's just going to have to learn to work, like the rest of us.

Poor guy.

The Visitors That Came Back

Today was a banner day at church.

You see, we had visitors last week.

Our church is small - very, very small - so visitors are quite noticeable.  Our church is very, very friendly, so visitors are much welcomed.  Our church is also a very, very short distance from a major tourist attraction, though.  And, besides all that, we're Pentecostal.

Now, we're not Holy Rollin' Pentecostal, by any stretch of the imagination.  Our worship is lively but not jumpin'.  Some of us (most of us) raise our hands now and again as an expression of worship.  One or two dance sometimes, gingerly and a bit self-consciously.  After each song we generally have some light applause and a few quiet hallelujahs.  In the murmur, if you listen carefully, you can hear one or two gently praying in a special language only the Holy Spirit understands.

Last week, two whole families came to visit.  Two.  Whole.  Families.  That's two pews - whole pews! - filled.  Although our church seats over 200, our regular Sunday attendance is somewhere around 45.  Our service was unusually long last week - an hour longer than usual.  We had a visiting missionary from India, you see, and we freely give our pulpit to those who give their lives to share the gospel and minister to others in need.  After the service, the two families stayed for a bit, greeting people and talking among themselves.

Then they left.

And the waiting began.

It isn't usual for visitors to return.  Generally, they really are just visiting and are from out of town.  Or our Pentecostalism turns them off.  Sometimes our service is too long (usually an hour and a half).  Or our two-member worship team just doesn't do it for them.  Or any of a number of reasons (pews too hard, nursery too small, not enough families, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera).

It is nerve-wracking to be a tiny, close-knit church and have two whole families visit.  You can't help but hope to see them again.  I suspect that, last Sunday, there was a lot of talk over dinner at various members' homes about the Visitors and the likelihood of their return.  Last week's Visitors, especially.  Turns out they were local.  And they stayed after service to talk with us - a good sign.  We imagine the Visitors' teens in our youth group.  Perhaps the Visitors will even come to Bible Study.  Maybe one or two of the Visitors plays an instrument!  Why, we could double our worship team!

Those two pews looked really good all filled up like that.  And the people who normally sat there didn't bat an eye about their usual seats being taken - after all, these were Visitors.  And the Visitors were nice people.  And they had kids.  They held a sort of promise that maybe our church won't always be so very, very small.

At our house, we expressed some hope, but kept things pretty quiet.  No one wants to get all excited over visitors, only to be disappointed yet again.  It's probably toughest on the pastor and his family when visitors come who could potentially stay.

It was a long, wait-ful week.

And this week, they came back. (!!!)

And, if possible, we'll be even more nerve-wracked come Saturday night of this week, wondering if we'll see them again.

Summer Travels

I've recently returned from Jackson, Mississippi, where I lived for a year.  Only it was actually only four days.  A good book will do that to you.

I read a lot.  In fact, I've curbed my reading over the last few years because once I begin a book, nothing much else gets done.  I'm the kind of reader who can't let go of a story, no matter how poorly written or how ridiculous the story line.  Because of this, I've experienced a lot of great literature, and a lot of baloney books, too.  Last week I made a wild swing on the whiplash express between the two.

Now that my toddler is in a big-girl bed but is not the kind of person you'd want wandering free in the night, I've loaded several reading apps into my iPod Touch.  I sit at the foot of her bed and read as she falls asleep.  Because of my skinflint nature, I only read freebies, so I picked up a few free offerings from CBD's new ebook list and downloaded a title or two from the local library.

One of the first titles I read was Reinventing Leona, by Lynne Gentry.  I liked the concept behind the story line:  a pastor's wife, living in the church-owned parsonage, is abruptly widowed.  Always dependent on her husband's strong personality and comfortable in her role as his helper, she now must become her own person and make her own life.  This plot rang a bell with me, since I am the wife of a pastor and we live in the parsonage.  As I read, I related more with the author of the book than with the story, however.  In my mental fiction, Ms. Gentry has enjoyed reading since she was a small child.  She probably won school awards for her writing.  Maybe she has a blog and gets a lot of compliments on her imagery and writing style.  She's toyed with an idea:  she dreams of writing a book (don't we all?).  Armed with a unique and interesting story line and the good wishes and encouragement of her friends, she begins to write.  It goes in spurts.  Sometimes the writing just flows; at other times, she agonizes over each phrase.  She reads and rereads until her own words make her crazy.  Finally she turns portions over to her friends and asks them for brutal honesty.  They like it!  She's affirmed!  After sending her idea to a publisher, they ask for the manuscript, the deal is sealed, she works and sweats and strains, and one day she holds a book - HER book - in her hands!

Bad news:  My story is better than hers.  Her writing never quite invites you in.  The plot is overly segmented and often difficult to follow.  You never actually experience Leona reinvented, but only rehashed.  Scriptures are placed carefully and predictably.  But the worst part - the part that made me groan and roll my eyes, even though I empathized with Ms. Gentry - was the imagery.  The imagery, in fact, was what clued me into my likeness with her.  At points, her story moved along smoothly enough, but then I'd hit rocky pavement littered by sharp descriptions of every type and of every thing.  My mind stumbled and stalled as I tried to follow the faint trail of her plot through the clutter.  Some of her images bordered on the ridiculous (sorry, Ms. Gentry, if you ever read this, but it's true - please keep reading), like when she described the main character entering her overbearing mother's hospital room "like the Ty-D-Bol man."  The fits and starts are where my mental self-critic inserted itself.  "Just why," it asked bluntly, "do you think you could do a better job?  Your words are much like hers.  You rarely think of a unique phrase or untried description.  If you weren't reading this right now, you'd never even see it."

It wasn't a horrible book, but it wasn't one I'd recommend.  It had a unique story line and interesting characters.  And her descriptions were vivid, though heavy-handed.  I ended the book without the sad regret you feel when you've become a part of the literature.  But I learned a lot from that book about great literature, and talent, and running with your dream.  I hope Ms. Gentry writes again, and I hope she finds her way to clarity and definition.  I hope her friends and editors do more than encourage.  And I hope that I can make as much of my talent (when I find one!) as she has.  The plot line sold me on the book because of my similarity to the main character; my take-away was my similarity with the author.

The ebook I read after that was borrowed from the library.  The Help, by Kathryn Stockett, doesn't require my review.  I hope I get to visit Jackson, Mississippi (or New York, or Chicago...) with her again soon.

Truth from a Toddler

Warning:  Sappy, religious content ahead.  Read at your own risk!

Teen was cleaning her bedroom with Toddler on Saturday.  While emptying an old backpack, Teen unearthed a small New Testament Bible, and Toddler begged her for it.  Daddy, being the preacher that he is, explained to Toddler that this is the Bible - the Jesus Book.

Toddler took this idea and completely ran with it.  She would NOT put that Bible down for a minute.  She opened it, "read" it, closed it, and carried it around with her all evening long.

When it was time for bed, I let her keep it with her rather than face the tempest that would surely come if I took it.  I was glad I did!  She held the book up to me and told me, "Momma!  This book says Jesus loves me!  That's what it's about, Hun-neeee!"  Over and over she repeated it.  She opened her Bible and noted that there were letters inside, which I explained made words that we can read.  Then she closed it and silently pondered it for a minute.  In a voice filled with reverence, she said, "There's a power in this book.  This book is a power!"

This preaching of hers is old territory for me.  I know the Bible is powerful; I know its central message is to bring men and women (and very little girls) to the love of God through Jesus.  I know that, and I depend heavily on it.  But familiarity with long-memorized verses, and with the old, old story itself, dull my awareness and my thinking.  The truths of the Bible become like oxygen - vital for survival, but outside of my daily consideration even as I fully rely on them.  I can repeat them even as I can repeat the qualities and uses of oxygen.  Faith is a lot like science in that way - filled with wonder at first discovery but everyday-ordinary after some routine usage.

This is, of course, why Jesus wanted us to have faith like that of a little child.  Every reading of the ancient book results in a brand spankin' new discovery - a little more fresh oxygen to support life and growth.  This is where the verse comes to pass, in my life, anyway, that a little child shall lead them.

Gardening Work

Only three blog posts in July!  Disappointing (to me, anyway).

So very much has been going on that I'm surprised I haven't written.  These are not things that keep me busy physically, but they take a lot of mental and emotional energy, and that usually means thoughts stewing into written words.

Some things have been good.  Toddler has doubled her age.  Teen went to a foreign land as a medical missionary.  Tween has somehow come across a new self that enjoys being responsible (sometimes).

Some things have been very bad.  Beloved friendships are being tried.  Life-altering decisions are being made.  Good, good things are being pried from my fingertips as I stand, confused, and wonder why.

Growth and pruning.  Growth and pruning.  Beauty comes, and some of it must be cut away - but not without purpose.  As painful as the shears may be, they make room for better, more beautiful things, once the pain dulls and the wounds heal a bit.  As the blades bite, the pain leaves me wondering what could possibly spring from this.  But, at my age, I've seen it before - this gardening work.  And because of that, the pain becomes resignation.  There is hope.  There is knowledge - good, firm knowledge - that better is coming.

Spinning Ceiling Fans Tell No Tales

Typing on my iPod so I'm not sure how this will turn out...

I'm not much of a housekeeper. I've gotten better over the last few years, but better doesn't always equal good.  An example is my ceiling fan. It never occurred to me that this is an item one must clean. We had no ceiling fan as a kid, and even if we had, not a lot of cleaning went on at our house, anyway.

This afternoon I was very pleased to have visitors to my home - a friend I'd met on an online forum and her children. My kids and I were pretty well prepared for this visit. We'd shopped for lunch items yesterday, then cleaned and straightened the house until all that was left to do was slicing fruit and tidying up a bit.

This morning, as I stood at my unusually neat counter cutting watermelon, I happened to look up and notice my ceiling fan. I've seen it many times, but rarely noticed it - and what I noticed today made me cringe.  I suppose the fan blades had been white at some time in the past, but time, humidity, grease and ash (have I mentioned that I'm a terrible cook?) have done their work well.  The blades are now grey and splotched.  I would even tell you that they look a bit fuzzy but I'd hate to lose any of my few readers.  I recall trying to clean the blades once in the not-recent past.  I applied a number of different cleaning preparations and tools, but nothing worked and I gave up.  The blades certainly looked no better this morning for a few more years' accumulation.

It's daunting to have visitors when you're a terrible housekeeper, particularly if they are people you've never met.  Over the past few years I've tried to adopt an attitude that showing hospitality is more important than absolute cleanliness, but when fuzzy fan blades are staring you in the face, those thoughts go right out of the window.  I had two options:  Stop preparing lunch and try to scrub the fan blades (guaranteed to fail), or ignore the fan blades and hope everyone else did, too (certain to blow my cover as a successful housekeeper).  In a mild panic, I stopped what I was doing to think.  I walked over to the door and flicked on the light, and that's when the perfect solution hit me!

Yesterday, as part of preparing the house, I'd mopped the kitchen and turned on the ceiling fan to help the floor dry.  The fan was on all day, and when the kitchen light was turned off at bedtime, the fan turned off, as well.  When I flipped the light switch, the fan again began to turn.  Voila!  My problem became imperceptible.

If only solving all of life's problems was so easy!

Not Nothing To Say...

but far too much.  Most of which will probably never refine itself into coherent blog posts.

Can't think of when I've ever been speechless before!

Planning School

I've been trying to decide what to teach my son next year.  There are so many things to learn, and so many ways to teach them.  It's a difficult decision.  Today it occurred to me that I'm going about the thing all wrong.

I'm seeking, as usual, a good match between his interests, his learning style, and what he needs to know to fulfill state standards.

What I should be assessing are areas of strength and weakness, and areas that require growth and change.

This was a difficult year.  The first semester was spent unschooling, as much as anyone in a highly regulated state can do that.  By the end of the semester, he realized that self-directed learning wasn't really getting him anywhere, and asked for books.  I happily complied.  He excelled at first, but after a month or so, his enthusiasm waned, and so did his character.  He became lazy, deceptive, and occasionally defiant.  These issues were much more easily treated when he was younger; compounded by approaching teen-hood, they fixed themselves firmly as a part of his personality.

I don't know how far any curriculum can go toward goals that are more character-oriented than standards driven, but I need to try to pursue strategies that will encourage the character growth as well as the knowledge.

As a reminder to myself, these are areas I need to focus on in the coming year:

• Partnership learning - he and I need to work together in one subject area, not so much as authority and subordinate, but as partners.  Goal: relationship building through shared experience.
• Independent work - he needs to be able to read and comprehend lessons without my intervention in at least one subject area.  Goal: building confidence and self-reliance.
• Planning and strategizing - he needs to better plan and prioritize his work.  Goal: base his expectations on a realistic understanding of the work involved.
• Honesty/integrity - he needs to mean what he says with intention to fulfill his word.
• Social skills - he needs to catch up a bit in terms of social maturity. 
• Get my husband involved - Tween needs to have more of a connection and mentorship with his strong Christian father.  He also needs the pressure to excel that closer interaction with his dad will build. Not sure how to implement this one, given my husband's erratic schedule.

Often, when I type things like this, I feel like I've set my Christianity aside.  Please understand that these thoughts presuppose God's guidance and help.  The ultimate goal is always to become conformed more to the image of Christ, for him and for me.

Impatient

I did a little gardening today.  Been trying to spruce up the front flower beds.  I'm not a garden artist; I plant and hope for the best.

My front flower bed needed a little border around it (and the bed on the other side of the door needed a pick-me-up), so I added some impatiens.  Meaning no offense to any gardener who might be reading, planting impatiens feels, to me, like serving TV dinners.  I bought them ready-made, dug a hole, and called them mine.

We had a little garden in our back yard when I was growing up.  It was about 20 x 10 feet, and each of the four of us had a section to plant.  We grew vegetables - tomatoes, corn, carrots, and a little lettuce.  There was also the famous Radish Year, which was the year we each planted a gazillion radishes, then realized we all hated them.  My father, who grew up during the Great Depression and couldn't bear to waste food, ate radishes at every meal and then some.  Gardening, when I was a kid, was about digging, planting seeds, nurturing tiny seedlings, and a long, work-heavy process before fresh veggies were served for dinner.

I planted my impatiens and considered how life has changed.  I've always dreamed of raising vegetables and flowers from seeds with my kids.  We've tried a number of times, but have never been successful.  The poison of neglect always kills any chance of a crop.  The one exception has been cherry tomatoes, and those were grown from plants purchased at a store.  To be honest, I lack the wherewithall to prepare peat pots, care for tiny seedlings, turn the soil, plant, water, weed, and stake.  It's a faster-paced life, at least for me, and I lack the determination to slow it down enough to watch the plants grow.

I'm glad for my impatiens, but sorry for my impatience.