tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42777533603279928522024-03-19T03:41:12.004-04:00iron acresJAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.comBlogger247125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-36184812812687191062012-05-13T12:21:00.001-04:002012-05-13T12:21:49.504-04:00Red Flannels<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I hurried into the drugstore and collapsed the borrowed umbrella. The night sky was pouring out rain like there was no tomorrow, but inside it was dry and bright. As I hurried over to the appropriate aisle to grab a couple of pints of Blue Bell, I glanced at the line forming at the checkout counter. My sister was waiting in the car. It might be a long wait.<br />
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I patiently took my position in line behind 3 others and scanned the immediate area. There was a tall, older man at the front of the line. He seemed to be in a good mood despite the weather and the lateness of the evening. We had missed closing time at the first store we stopped at by 10 minutes. The cashier was called away from her post for a moment. My eyes wandered distractedly to the floor.<br />
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I noticed the shoes first. Tennis shoes. The kind that kids wear. Then the pants. The ensemble was topped off with a plain white tee shirt. But it was the pants that drew my attention. They were red plaid flannel pajama pants, the kind that even adults wear out in public. I shook my head. What can be said about a culture that accepts pajamas as appropriate street wear? We have gone past informal to ridiculous. I wondered if this middle schooler would wear pajamas to a job interview. <br />
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Then, in the middle of my rant, my eyes were drawn to the counter. There lay a small package of inexpensive chocolates, and underneath, a Mother's Day card. He handed the cashier a ten dollar bill, received his change, and vanished into the dark and the rain.<br />
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I won't forget him. Or the mother that inspired him to brave the weather to express his love for her in a simple way. I wish I had had the time to say something to him, to thank him for inspiring me. But those moments had been wasted. In my inner tirade about fashion, I had missed the glorious humanity that stood before me, the act of love that was unfolding.<br />
<br />
I had dashed in for ice cream, but left with something much more substantial in my soul: the picture of a young man who braved a rainy night to find a gift to express his love for his mom. <br />
<br />
In red plaid flannel pajama pants. <br />
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<br />JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-34572147255664351142012-05-07T03:51:00.000-04:002012-05-07T03:52:11.583-04:00Framing a SoulI made the first phone call in December. A neighbor had given me the number. Then the world began to spin with questions and answers and plans and the proposal. After the meeting in which the contractor explained in great detail all that was involved and the final cost, I was exhausted. Exhausted and horrified.<br />
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Reality exploded expectation, leaving behind despair.<br />
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All I wanted was a little sun porch, but the contractor saw so much more: a new roof and completely residing the house. To make it fireproof. And termite proof. A house that would last for years. It all sounded good, (especially after the uncomfortably close wildfires that destroyed so many homes last summer), and previous attempts to reattach our aging vinyl siding in places were unsuccessful, but the final cost was too much. Way too much. Ridiculously too much. More than we had originally paid for the house itself.<br />
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But there were obvious repairs that were needed, and after dragging my feet for a few months, I started looking for other contractors. I found three, and spent a seemingly endless day meeting with them all, one after another, going through the same questions, showing what I wanted done, asking what was practical.<br />
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The first one's mantra was, "just tell me what you want and I'll make it happen." Although he obviously had experience, I needed more assurance that what I wanted was architecturally sound and would be aesthetically pleasing.<br />
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Number 2 contractor was more helpful, and told me I could save money by doing some things myself. He could give me a materials list and I could do the purchasing and arrange for delivery. But how was I to know which materials were sturdier than others, or where to get them? And his window for completing the project was very narrow. He was an entrepreneur juggling several different businesses.<br />
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The third contractor's bid was reasonable, and I felt comfortable working with him. A few more weeks passed before I got up enough courage to commit to the project. I was afraid of two things: choosing the wrong contractor and choosing the wrong plan. I needed to be able to see what the finished product would look like.<br />
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So I went online to find a free CAD program (<a href="http://sketchup.google.com/download/">SketchUp</a>) and set about creating a crude mock up of what I thought we wanted.<br />
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Perfectionism is a killer. It's all about the fear of being wrong. It consumes and stifles, and in the end, not doing anything is worse than not doing the wrong thing. My Dear Professor talked over the details and costs and assured me of his confidence in me to make a good decision. <br />
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And so, with a deep breath and a trembling hand I called Number 3 and gave him the green light. I was not prepared for the noise, the mess, the chaos.<br />
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A flimsy foundation had to be replaced with a solid one. The old and rotten had to be torn away to make room for the new. A plumb line was needed to make the lines straight and true.<br />
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On the first day, after the crew had finished and left, I opened the door to see the bones of the porch, and the exterior walls devoid of siding. My initial reaction was sheer terror. It felt so exposed. The previously uncluttered view from the front door was blocked. The space seemed too small. The perfectionist voice inside heckled, "You've gone and done it. Wasted money, wasted time, wasted opportunity."<br />
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Reality exploded expectation, leaving behind despair.<br />
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After I raged within for awhile, I sought wisdom. Wisdom told me <i>expectation will always turn to despair in the light of reality</i>. <i>Take a deep breath. Wait. See what develops.</i><br />
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So I waited.<br />
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<br />
The ensuing days brought wonder and astonishment. The obstructed view became an upward view. What was taking shape was a thing of beauty. A thing created by gifted craftsmen. As the work progressed, I began to relax and trust. Although communication with the head carpenter was difficult (he speaks Spanish and I speak English), on the morning of Day 8, I managed to express how much I liked what he was doing. He grinned and said, "I make it beautiful for you."<br />
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And he has.<br />
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We are currently on Day 16, with 60% completed. It's almost time for the celebration. Visitors have offered comments of approval and delight.<br />
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It's not very different, the framing of a house and the framing of a soul. We get a vision of the kind of life we want to live and start on a journey to find it. We want it fireproof, we want it to last, we want it to be practical, <i>we want it to be beautiful</i>.<br />
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But we don't want it to cost too much. <br />
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There are many voices who offer paths toward realizing that vision. Some say, "do whatever you want, it doesn't matter," others say, "you have to follow these steps to earn it".<br />
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Only one voice is the Way.<br />
<i>He will take my desires for small things and turn them into desires for eternal things. </i><br />
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Only one voice is the Truth.<br />
<i>He will take my expectations and show me a glorious reality I could not dream. </i><br />
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Only one voice is the Life.<br />
<i>He will teach my trembling soul how to breathe without fear. </i><br />
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It will cost me all I have but, in the end, that will seem like nothing at all.<i> </i><br />
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If I turn toward that Voice... if I trust.. if I wait,<br />
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He will make something beautiful out of my life.<br />
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<i>Counting gifts with the community of gratitude:</i><br />
<i>345. words of wisdom</i><br />
<i>346. his confidence in me</i><br />
<i>347. a reasonable bid</i><br />
<i>348. skilled hands</i><br />
<i>349. an eye for beauty</i><br />
<i>350. gratitude that transcends language</i><br />
<i>351. chaos that gives birth to order</i><br />
<i>352. </i><i>fear that gives way to trust</i><br />
<i>353. a new upward view</i><br />
<i>354. a new space</i><br />
<i>355. learning to wait</i><br />
<i>356. stripping away the old</i><br />
<i>357. despair that gives way to joy</i><br />
<i>358. </i><i>a good plan</i><br />
<i>359. a solid foundation</i><br />
<i>360. a plumb line</i><br />
<i>361. </i><i>the eternal beneath the everyday</i><br />
<i>362. </i><i>hammers & nails</i><br />
<i>363. </i><i>the Master Carpenter</i><br />
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<br />JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-49910400055353855572012-04-07T14:55:00.000-04:002012-04-07T14:55:37.461-04:00A Meditation for Holy Saturday<br />
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<i>(based on an ancient homily, from the Book of Common Prayer) </i></div>
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<i>"A MEDITATION FOR HOLY SATURDAY</i></div>
<i><br />
Something strange is happening - there is a great silence on earth
today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence
because the King is asleep. The earth trembled and is still because God
has fallen asleep in the flesh and He has raised up all who have slept
ever since the world began. God has died in the flesh and hell trembles
with fear.<br /><br />
He has gone to search for our first parent, as for a lost sheep. Greatly
desiring to visit those who live in darkness and in the shadow of
death, He has gone to free from sorrow the captives Adam and Eve, He who
is both God and the son of Eve. The Lord approached them bearing the
cross, the weapon that had won Him the victory. At the sight of Him,
Adam, the first man He had created, struck his breast in terror and
cried out to everyone: 'My Lord be with you all'. Christ answered him:
'And with your spirit'. He took him by the hand and raised him up,
saying: 'Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give
you light'.</i>
<i><br /><br />
'I am your God, who for your sake have become your son. Out of love for
you and for your descendants I now by My own authority command all who
are held in bondage to come forth, all who are in darkness to be
enlightened, all who are sleeping to arise. I order you, O sleeper, to
awake. I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell. Rise from the
dead, for I am the life of the dead. Rise up, work of my hands, you who
were created in My image. Rise, let us leave this place, for you are in
Me and I am in you; together we form only one person and we cannot be
separated. For your sake I, your God, became your son; I, the Lord, took
the form of a slave; I, whose home is above the heavens, descended to
the earth and beneath the earth. For your sake, for the sake of man, I
became like a man without help, free among the dead. For the sake of
you, who left a garden, I was betrayed to the Jews in a garden, and I
was crucified in a garden.</i>
<i><br /><br />
'See on My face the spittle I received in order to restore to you the
life I once breathed into you. See there the marks of the blows I
received in order to refashion your warped nature in My image. On My
back see the marks of the scourging I endured to remove the burden of
sin that weighs upon your back. See My hands, nailed firmly to a tree,
for you who once wickedly stretched out your hand to a tree.</i>
<i><br /><br />
'I slept on the cross and a sword pierced My side for you who slept in
paradise and brought forth Eve from your side. My side has healed the
pain in yours. My sleep will rouse you from your sleep in hell. The
sword that pierced Me has sheathed the sword that was turned against
you.</i>
<i><br /><br />
'Rise, let us leave this place. The enemy led you out of the earthly
paradise. I will not restore you to that paradise, but I will enthrone
you in heaven. I forbade you the tree that was only a symbol of life,
but see, I who am life itself am now one with you."</i>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-75568231950891317552012-02-21T02:14:00.000-05:002012-02-21T02:14:03.933-05:00Hosanna<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> "But do not forget this
one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years,
and a thousand years are like a day.
The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand
slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish,
but everyone to come to repentance." 2 Peter 3:8-9 (NIV)</i></div>
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Long ago, in a place far away, there was a church that broke my heart. Its people were wounded and wary. They tentatively gathered every Sunday morning with their emotional backs to the wall and arms folded across their chests.<br />
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The posture of protection.
Generations of them. Generations.<br />
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They went about the business of living and trying to love with hearts numbed by years of hurt. They built walls to keep out the stranger, the different, the unknown, and longed for the good old days when everyone knew everyone else. Surely it was safe back then.<br />
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They wrapped themselves in memories warmer than their realities. Incomplete memories that glossed over the bad times in favor of the good. They told themselves, "in secrecy and denial is our strength."<br />
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But they still hurt.
With every critical word, the pain showed through. And so I knelt in the quiet of a dark and empty sanctuary and prayed, "How long, O Lord? How long before their hearts hear the words from Your heart, the Word that proclaimed to the world Your love? How long before they throw off their threadbare quilts and accept the warmth and healing in the robes You offer? How long?"<br />
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One day I heard a song. A song that gave me vision. A vision of what those people would look like with their arms open wide to receive the love and healing He promised. And I longed to sing <i>that</i> song in <i>that</i> place with <i>those</i> people.<br />
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<i>"Hear the sound of hearts returning to You</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>We turn to You</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In your Kingdom, broken lives are made new, </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>You make us new</i></div>
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But that time did not come. The prayer remained unanswered. "How long, O Lord?" I despaired. And then the day came that we moved out from that place to another, and then another. Moved without seeing the answer.
Moved without singing the song. Distance and time blunted my prayers. Yet I waited.<br />
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When I had almost forgotten, a small, gentle breeze began blowing. I heard short stories from the church that broke my heart. Stories of praise, celebration, confession, and healing. I was encouraged.<br />
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<i>"Hope is stirring, hearts are yearning for You</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>We yearn for You" </i></div>
<br />
Could it be...?<br />
<br />
Sunday morning I stood in a different church and sang familiar words, those words that spoke to me so long ago, I had almost forgotten the song. I stood among different people who embraced the words<i>. And so did I.</i> This new church broke my heart. But the tears were tears of gratitude. A still small voice within asked, "Can it be? Is this the answer?"<br />
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Someday we will <i>ALL</i> stand together and sing the song. In a new place. Where all the tears will be wiped away. Where all things will be new. Someday.<br />
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Today, today my heart rejoices in answered prayer.<br />
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<i> "Hosanna, Hosanna!" </i></div>
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<br />JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-81177683928771465642012-01-21T15:27:00.000-05:002012-01-21T15:27:08.236-05:00Friday Night LightsI scrambled to the highest spot on the rock that I could find and waited. The clouds were amassing across the sky in beautiful patterns and the air was warm. It had been another mild, sunny day in January. No snow.<br />
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Yesterday, while walking in a neighbor's pasture, we stumbled over emerging sprigs of bluebonnet. Bluebonnet: my home state flower. This will be our first bluebonnet spring, together, in Texas in 28 years. Before we set out on the journey that took us far away from all we knew and loved, I never thought much about spring, or bluebonnets. In those 28 years of exile, of Yankee winters and snow blanketed landscapes, the humble blue and cream wildflowers became enshrined in our memories, a colorful icon for all that was home.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Spring, 2009)</i></span></div>
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Before Dad died, we paid a visit to his hometown of Ennis, smack dab in the middle of bluebonnet country. We went to the cemetery where his family was buried and stopped to take a picture of the humble rent house he had brought his new bride to in 1946. They didn't live there very long. Grandfather offered him a job in Houston, and they moved into a new house built by my uncle's contractor father-in-law. The same house that welcomed me and my baby sister into the world. The same house my baby sister and I sold after Dad's death 61 years later.<br />
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I scanned the sky. Beautiful cloud formations against the deep blue. Cream and blue, the color of bluebonnets.
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The rocks at my feet photographed white as the sun set. White like snow. The dead leaves on the drought starved tree shone golden.<br />
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A wind stirred as the sun slipped behind the horizon. Just for a moment, a quiet. cool breeze.<br />
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Friday night lights.<br />
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And all the while, as I waited for the revelation, for the sun to touch down on that brushy rim, a song played in my mind:<br />
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<i>"Glorious, my eyes have the seen the glory of the Lord</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Glorious, He stands above the rulers of the Earth"</i></div>
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<i>Glorious, glorious</i></div>
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<i>Lord you are glorious!"</i></div>
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<i>Paul Baloche, "Glorious" </i></div>
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<br />JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-55311904356079973202011-10-25T03:47:00.000-04:002011-11-28T10:22:42.035-05:00Vessels that Bloom Beauty<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"May all your wanderings this weekend, good friends,
make all the dark spaces into
vessels
that bloom beauty."
Ann Voskamp </i></div>
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She had a cat named Pyewacket and a wounded heart. Her house was just a block or two from our elementary school, and we sometimes walked home together part of the way. She never spoke about the pain, how her father just disappeared one day, how her mother sought solace in smoke, a bottle, and an endless line of boyfriends. Even if she had, I wouldn't have understood. Three little girls left fatherless.<br />
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We did understand the fun we had in girl scouts all through junior high and beyond when it was no longer "cool" to wear your uniform to school. Her older sister "dropped out" and moved away, her younger sister moved in with family friends, and she and her mom moved to an apartment. I taught her how to drive a stick shift Renault, the same little car that a classmate totaled by ramming it with a huge American car. She says that accident taught her early that automobiles were deadly weapons.<br />
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We became fans of Peter, Paul and Mary, and spent many a weekend listening to their albums, trying to wrap our fingers around the chords and our voices around the harmonies. I always admired her independence and intelligence, her wacky sense of humor, her vulnerability and her strength. I never saw the darkness in which she walked, the fear that was her constant companion. The emptiness. The longing for safety and love.<br />
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We lost track of each other after high school. I visited her and another friend once while they were away at a junior college, and envied the year she spent with a German family. She was a free spirit, stretching her wings in Europe, and I was stuck at home, a college commuter.<br />
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Last weekend we got together again. She was as beautiful as she was in high school decades ago. As we shared our journeys, I became aware of how much of her story I had never known, of how miraculous was her resilient soul. She was accompanied by a little dachshund named Sara. Loving, independent, brave, compassionate Sara. Just like her human friend.<br />
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We briefly laughed through our senior yearbook, watched Sara chase disbelieving cows, and visited a delightful garden and event center nearby.<br />
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We both love flowers, and she brought some from her garden. That gift still makes me smile when I pass by the table they adorn. <br />
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She has seen so much more than I, much more of the bad, and survived with sensitivity and humor, turning the hurting into healing by working with foster kids who have outgrown the "system", tending them as carefully and lovingly as she tends her garden.<br />
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In the process she has learned how to make her dark spaces into vessels.<br />
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Vessels that bloom beauty.<br />
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<center><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i242.photobucket.com/albums/ff162/annvoskamp/multitudesonmondaysbutton2-1.jpg" /></a> </div>
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<i>Counting with the Community of Gratitude: </i><br />
<i>324. friendship that survives the drought of time together</i><br />
<i>325. color</i><br />
<i>326. blooms</i><br />
<i>327. well tended gardens</i><br />
<i>328. well tended hearts</i><br />
<i>329. time to sit in silence</i><br />
<i>330. time to share</i><br />
<i>331. Sara's bounding love</i><br />
<i>332. God's grace</i><br />
<i>333. a cool breeze</i><br />
<i>334. a beautiful weekend</i><br />
<i>335. weekend words</i><br />
<i>336. vessels</i><br />
<i>337. beauty</i><br />
<i>338. laughter</i><br />
<i>339. acceptance</i><br />
<i>340. migrating monarchs</i><br />
<i>341. walking the pasture</i><br />
<i>342. the gifts we are to each other</i><br />
<i>343. memories</i><br />
<i>344. the road ahead</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-43894701788897741872011-10-01T10:10:00.000-04:002011-10-01T10:10:12.151-04:00Texas Engine-uityThose of us of a certain age fell in love the first time we gazed at its shiny chrome. And now that we are older, a lucky few are living the dream.<br><br>
Those recessed headlamps....
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the iconic round rear window....
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that mythical logo....
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the stuff of dreams and legends,
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the Ford Thunderbird.
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But wait a minute. Those aren't typical appointments of such a grand vehicle. Those are...cable ties holding up the license plate!!
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Cable ties!!?? Really?
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Sam, our auto critic and resident gearhead, says it's back to the drawing board. But he gives it a 4 paws rating for engine-uity!
JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-75410051428273409622011-09-12T07:29:00.000-04:002011-09-12T07:29:08.060-04:00In the cloudsMy head was in the clouds--both figuratively and literally...<br />
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Actually, all of me was (along with all of Principessa and my Dear Professor). After the packing and the unpacking, the driving cross country, and the settling in, we were bound for Sprittles territory!<br />
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And so my head was in the clouds.</div>
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The Preacher (our eldest son and Daddy to the Sprittles), accompanied by Matt Matt (who has grown too big too fast), picked us up at the airport for the hour something drive to the Sprittle house. Miz Feebs called at least 3 times for an update on our progress. The last time, Daddy said she was standing in the front window anxiously awaiting our arrival with big brother and Beautiful Mommy.</div>
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When we finally walked into the house, Miz Feebs and her big brother Drew jumped out of hiding in the living room to surprise us. Their youngest sibling, 3 month old Anna, had greeted us at the door. She's our new Sprittle on the block.<br />
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Isn't she sweet?<br />
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There was a a lot to do during those precious days--early evening walks in the rain,<br />
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a tour of the secret neighborhood paths (there be barking dogs there!),<br />
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tea parties with iced tea and powdered donuts,<br />
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and glorious clouds above us.<br />
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We collected leaves. . .and memories. <br />
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How precious are grandchildren! What a blessing and privilege to be
given the responsibility of loving them. What a thrill to have their
arms encircle your neck with their love. <br />
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And what a sorrow at parting.<br />
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The time went by so fast. We had just turned around and were boarding a plane again for home.<br />
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If home is truly where the heart is, mine is somewhere in North Carolina, enjoying a walk in the heat of a summer evening with 4 precious babies who will be grown too soon.<br />
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<i>A prayer for our grandchildren, from <a href="http://bobhostetler.blogspot.com/2011/09/prayer-of-thomas-aquinas-for-my.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+BobHostetlersPrayerBlog+%28Bob+Hostetler%27s+Prayer+Blog%29">Bob Hostetler:</a></i><br />
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<i>"Grant to my grandchildren your grace, most merciful Jesus, that it may be with them and in them now and to the end of their lives. Grant that they may always desire and will those things that are most acceptable and most dear to you. Let your will be theirs, and let their will ever follow yours and agree perfectly with it. Let their willing and not-willing be in complete unison with your will, and let them not be able to will anything but what you will, nor will not what you will not, in Jesus’ name, amen.
(Based on a prayer by Thomas Aquinas)"
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</center>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-4341603204139013052011-08-03T10:55:00.001-04:002011-08-03T11:36:17.369-04:00Where Hope GrowsI peer over the headboard that was already old when I was using it as a hobby horse so many years ago, and through the window screen to the rain gauge. It's brand new, and has yet to be baptized in heaven's bounty. Too dry. Too hot.<br />
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It is so dry that we are using drip lines to give long drinks to the live oaks around the house. The trees are hardy, but they have been tested through too many dry summers. <br />
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The pond is empty and cracked. In Texas, you call a pond a pond if it has fish in it, and a tank if your livestock drink out of it. Nothing is swimming or drinking out of ours.<br />
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The cowbirds that stopped in every morning last summer looking for breakfast are somewhere else these mornings.<br />
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The chaos caused by too many boxes in too tiny a house is easing a bit. There are more and more oases of space as the boxes are emptied and places created for the contents.<br />
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A few days ago I was walking through a store and my eye was caught by a decorative box in the shape of a book. Curious that, as the bane of my existence right now are the boxes of my and my Dear Professor's books still waiting for a home.<br />
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But this was different. More than anything it was the words that drew me. "Where hope grows."<br />
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I carried it with me as my daughter looked at chairs and my sister-in-law hunted rocker cushions, and the words echoed in my heart, "where hope grows." <br />
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Hope needs a place, a place to be, a place to grow, every bit as much as those books in boxes. Every bit as much as my Dear Professor and I need a place to be and to grow.<br />
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I am a plant uprooted, torn from 20 years of soil fertilized and watered by loving hands, and hardened by grey Pennsylvania winters. I am transplanted in Texas gumbo clay parched by the sun. <br />
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I need hope like that clay needs rain. <br />
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The train whistle blows and the coyotes howl, and my heart howls for hope. How can any of us live without it? My heart is such a tiny space, so quickly cluttered. Is there room for the important, or has it been squeezed out by the urgent?<br />
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<i>"What is important is seldom urgent and what is urgent is seldom important." <br />
Dwight D. Eisenhower</i></div>
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As we approached the checkout counter, I put the box back on the shelf. The box was just a reminder. A love note from the heart of the One who <i>is</i> hope. I don't need another box. I just need to let go of the unpacking and the chaos and the worry and the "what ifs". Clear them away to make room for hope.<br />
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Clear them away to make my heart a place "where <i>living</i> <i>hope</i> grows."<br />
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<i>"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade." 1 Peter 1:3-4 (NIV)</i></div>
JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-90137739176605132562011-07-27T09:43:00.003-04:002011-07-27T11:06:04.594-04:00Coming Home<i>(In the packing and the leaving, the traveling and the arriving, the family wedding and the birthday, and the connecting and the settling, I have been too long from this space. So long, in fact, that blogger changed the editing interface and I had to relearn how to post! Oh, the stories I have to tell...)</i><br />
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It is called a common dayflower (Commelina) because its bloom lasts that long.<br />
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Only a day.<br />
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</i>But that day is long enough to give me hope and welcome me back home after 28 years of wandering. It is a curious thing to return to a place that is home, and yet is so unfamiliar. A few weeks ago, I looked up from the unpacking to browse my pictures and realized they were all Pennsylvania skies and fields.<br />
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They made me "homesick". <br />
<br />
Twenty-eight years is a long time. The dream of return, the dream that seemed as far away as the place of dreaming, has become a reality. The lush green and frozen white of Pennsylvania and New York have been replaced by the drought dust and brutal heat of a Texas summer.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5981352672/" title="P1960060 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1960060" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6148/5981352672_d732f5a255.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5980834923/" title="P1960226 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1960226" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6133/5980834923_4860e8fb05.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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But the friends we made in those years of exile, the friends who loved us, welcomed us as family when ours was so far away, and laughed and cried with us, still dwell in our hearts.<br />
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And always will.<br />
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They are Tolkien's "gold that does not glitter", the intentional wanderers, "the old that is strong (and) does not wither", the "deep roots. . .not reached by the frost."<br />
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They are as beautiful as the flower that blooms in the dust,<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5980821787/" title="P1960512 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1960512" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6126/5980821787_48a5e2583f.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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and as warm as a Texas sunset.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5980796743/" title="P1960319 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1960319" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6027/5980796743_568bfd9973.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5944586793/" title="sunset at old glory ranch by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="sunset at old glory ranch" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6127/5944586793_a49c04cb80.jpg" width="500" /></a></center> <br />
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<br />JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-54283935629743905152011-06-09T15:49:00.002-04:002011-06-14T13:51:57.265-04:00When Least ExpectedWhen snow was falling and ice was on the ground, I took it home, a green plant with beautiful flowers. It was a grocery store special. Given my history with living things (our three children and the cat excepted), my hopes were not high that it would live to see the spring. But it was cold and frozen and grey that night, and my heart cried out for something beautiful, something alive. <br />
<br />
The price was right and I took it home, carefully sheltering it with a plastic bag as we rushed through the cold of that winter night twice, from the store to the car, then car to home. It was placed on the green marble lazy susan in the middle of the kitchen table. The blooms continued to grace the table for some time, then, one by one, they fell and were gone. I cut back the bloom spike once it had dried and shriveled into grey. The green leaves remained. Waiting. Breathing in the dark under the mulch, absorbing food and water, and preparing for what was to come.<br />
<br />
I waited too, gathering courage from each day the leaves remained green. <br />
<br />
Along the way I sought advice from a friend whose orchids I had photographed a few years ago. They decorated her piano and windowsill. I followed her instructions as best I could, trying desperately not to under or over water the plant.<br />
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<br />
<br />
The weeks ran into months. <br />
<br />
Spring slowly crept in as the snow withdrew from the landscape. Snowdrops appeared followed by dandelions, then the grass shot up. I can't remember when the new spike appeared, I do remember how happily I greeted it, watching as it stretched toward the light, then started budding. <br />
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Last week the first bud opened. <br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5816001726/" title="P1940824 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1940824" height="375" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3397/5816001726_18b76deaec.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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A few days later there was another,<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5816002366/" title="P1940924 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1940924" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2039/5816002366_3145f80ab7.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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then a third. There are four more buds to go. <br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5816002582/" title="P1950010 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1950010" height="375" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3152/5816002582_005a349055.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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It's a phalaenopsis or moth orchid, and from this angle, the blossoms look like moths in flight.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5815435559/" title="P1940994 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1940994" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5182/5815435559_1d2707769b.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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They make my heart take flight. <br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5816005420/" title="P1940926 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1940926" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2228/5816005420_8398cc500c.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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They remind me that there is wisdom in the counsel of a good friend, <br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5816004398/" title="P1940972 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1940972" height="500" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5030/5816004398_cbe0453d64.jpg" width="375" /></a></center><br />
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and that good things are often formed in the dark.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5816003262/" title="P1950037 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1950037" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2412/5816003262_ec0a2ccba3.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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Good things that bring forth joy when least expected.<br />
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<br />
<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5815434681/" title="P1940968 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1940968" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5035/5815434681_d7629efd06.jpg" width="500" /></a></center>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-23397355547853623412011-06-07T10:01:00.020-04:002011-06-08T09:50:03.003-04:00All my lifeI have given thanks all my life. . . before meals. It was a habit drilled into me by my parents. I'm learning to give thanks <i>in </i>all my life. In each ordinary moment. Because in that ordinary moment is the opportunity to feel God's grace.<br />
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The opportunity to know His presence all around me. All around everyone. . . and everything. <br />
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The opportunity to be still enough to feel His loving caress. . .<br />
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in the warmth of a sunrise,<br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5758247374/" title="P1940076 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1940076" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2702/5758247374_e92ecd118c.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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the coolness of rain,<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5726350751/" title="rain12 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="rain12" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2313/5726350751_5ed9ef61fc.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/4692278454/" title="P1760003 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1760003" height="375" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4069/4692278454_76673dfef7.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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the delicate fragrance of the dog rose,<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5808454108/" title="P1940705 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1940705" height="375" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3201/5808454108_7f52f893f4.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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the shy beauty of lily of the valley,<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5758241216/" title="P1930806 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1930806" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2165/5758241216_85d41b6104.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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the happy face of oxeye,<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5807891437/" title="P1940727 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1940727" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2263/5807891437_9b5876c87d.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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the glory of a blooming rhododendron,<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5808470586/" title="P1940772 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1940772" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5198/5808470586_8a8e4faf5a.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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the magnificence of sunset.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/2062692685/" title="Pennsylvania sunset by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="Pennsylvania sunset" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2416/2062692685_ea095d7613.jpg" width="500" /></a></center> <br />
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<center><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i242.photobucket.com/albums/ff162/annvoskamp/multitudesonmondaysbutton2-1.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: center;"></div></center><br />
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<i>Counting thanks with the Community of Gratitude in</i><br />
<i>309. the smell of rain</i><br />
<i>310. the first splatters against the window </i><br />
<i>311. a sudden cool breeze</i><br />
<i>312. the rumble of thunder</i><br />
<i> 313. the flash of lightning</i><br />
<i>314. the whistle of wind through the screen</i><br />
<i>315. the whir of a ceiling fan on a sultry summer day</i><br />
<i>316. sunrise</i><br />
<i> 317. sunset</i><br />
<i> 318. the fragrance of dog roses</i><br />
<i>319. the sight of clumps of white peppering idle fields</i><br />
<i>320. the shy lily of the valley bowing their heads</i><br />
<i>321. the morning quiet of a household still slumbering</i><br />
<i>322. the time to sit and listen</i><br />
<i>323. the solo song of a nearby bird</i>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-16955591883263256892011-05-28T10:29:00.004-04:002011-05-28T21:33:44.090-04:00Let No Vandalism of Avarice or Neglect<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5767767699/" title="graves by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5029/5767767699_dfdce18d58.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="graves"></a><br />
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<i>"Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, <br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5767767409/" title="unknown by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3081/5767767409_d29984affb.jpg" width="500" height="389" alt="unknown"></a><br />
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no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5768311790/" title="blossoms by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2328/5768311790_d597ca8ae3.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="blossoms"></a><br />
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that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic." <br />
General Logan - May 5, 1868</i><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5763925618/" title="P1940156 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3436/5763925618_558f30e479.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="P1940156"></a><br />
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<i> "A people that values its privileges above its principles soon loses both." Dwight D. Eisenhower</i><br />
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</center><br />
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Putting skin on the idea: watch <a href="http://www.c-spanvideo.org/program/Mama">this remembrance</a> of what a father's sacrifice meant to the family back home, by Karen Spears Zacharias.JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-25447828144418660922011-05-25T08:14:00.008-04:002011-05-25T11:20:27.154-04:00GoldenSometimes I get so frustrated. What I see through the lens falls short, woefully short, of what I see with my eyes. My camera's viewfinder is just too limited. <br />
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Early this morning I noticed a wave of fog had quickly moved in over the field outside my window. I grabbed my camera and ran out the back door. I was immediately greeted by the sight of a rising sun peeking through trees across the road. The subtle rays swathed in mist were glorious. The light was golden.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5757764063/" title="P1940083 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5263/5757764063_d527d8d349.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="P1940083"></a></center><br />
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My shutter clicked away. Then I would stop and look. Then take a few more pictures. But the camera just could not keep up with what I saw with my own eyes. The lens wasn't big enough to take in the entire scene. And I couldn't stand any farther back to get it all.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5758306088/" title="P1940061 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5143/5758306088_ca30b6f1af.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="P1940061"></a></center><br />
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So I turned my attention in the other direction, toward that field that had drawn me out to the morning cold and damp in the first place. The fog had dissipated somewhat, and the sun's warmth was falling on part of the field.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5757704997/" title="P1940093 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5024/5757704997_0e62a8914b.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="P1940093"></a></center><br />
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I love this part of the morning.<br />
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It was all over in a matter of minutes. Capturing the movements of the sun teaches you the brevity of the moment. <i> She who hesitates misses the glory. </i> <br />
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The images live on in my mind. That glorious sun. That beauty. My heart is still full. <br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5758247374/" title="P1940076 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2702/5758247374_e92ecd118c.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="P1940076"></a></center><br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5758246780/" title="Golden by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2349/5758246780_a6c16dff7c.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Golden"></a></center><br />
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Yes, the viewfinder is limited. But it can immortalize the fractions of a second of a moment. That fraction is so rich, so full, that it is enough, gloriously enough.<br />
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It is golden.<br />
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<center><a href="http://threefromhereandthere.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://photos.smugmug.com/photos/943819222_XFgtH-O.jpg"/></a></center>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-24278486886547773932011-05-21T11:28:00.000-04:002011-05-21T11:28:04.719-04:00Something for the Soul and Something for the StomachThe sun (!) warmed my skin as I walked from the back door to the car this morning. That glorious sun. I just wanted to stand there, close my eyes, and absorb the warmth. It's days like this that will make me recall western PA with fondness, days like this and dear friends. And sharing good things.<br />
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Something for the soul, <br />
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<center><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/23205323?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" width="480" height="270" frameborder="0"></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/23205323">El Cielo de Canarias / Canary sky - Tenerife</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/elcielodecanarias">Daniel López</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p></center><br />
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and something for the stomach, <a href="http://ironacresrecipes.blogspot.com/2011/05/crockpot-chicken-pot-pie.html">Crockpot Chicken Pie</a>.<br />
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Have a lovely weekend.JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-3949825283262027252011-05-20T14:41:00.000-04:002011-05-20T14:41:06.257-04:00Dancing and CountingOur winter of never ending snow gave way this year to a spring of unrelenting rain. As I listen to the thunder booming and rain splattering, I think of my family in Texas in the midst of a drought. It's a strange, helpless feeling to be overwhelmed by so much, and wish for less, when you see others in the midst of great need, desiring more. There's a sense of guilt that arises. And the questions. Why me? What should I do? What can I do? <br />
<br />
We set off in the rain Tuesday morning to venture into Pittsburgh for an appointment. I love the country, but the city has its own beauty. Especially in the rain.<br />
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We arrived just in time to catch a rare appearance of blue sky.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5738174067/" title="P1930170 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1930170" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2593/5738174067_104bef6f2c.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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An hour and a half later, we emerged from the doctor's office to an all too familiar sight.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5738174957/" title="P1930202 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1930202" height="375" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3416/5738174957_c2f972fd6f.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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I watched the buildings go by through the blur of rain. And I began to see the beauty there.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5738184605/" title="P1930192 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1930192" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5229/5738184605_c850133d53.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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Rain is a soft lens that capriciously subtracts some details while highlighting others.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5738173119/" title="P1930196 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1930196" height="398" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3194/5738173119_4e101d347f.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5738173017/" title="P1930181 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1930181" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2803/5738173017_85afc02f9d.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5738722960/" title="P1930207 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1930207" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2276/5738722960_150a96b5a9.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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Color, form, movement caught by blurred brush strokes from the sky above, the wind around, the earth beneath.<br />
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We arrived home during a brief respite. The earth waited in hushed expectation as the clouds held off only a moment or two,<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5738172695/" title="May flowers and showers by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="May flowers and showers" height="500" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2088/5738172695_15626209a7.jpg" width="375" /></a></center><br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5738172431/" title="P1930227 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1930227" height="365" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3077/5738172431_289da2f2e5.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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then pummeled the soaked ground and fragile flowers again and again.<br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5738172057/" title="P1930298 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1930298" height="396" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3535/5738172057_7f82cdfb8e.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5738722374/" title="P1930293 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1930293" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5305/5738722374_e7e48e2ba8.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
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It was then I knew what I could do. I could dance in the rain.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Dancing faces you towards Heaven, whichever direction you turn. Terri Guillemets </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness has never danced in the rain. Author Unknown </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And so I did.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> I believe that we learn by practice. Whether it means to learn to dance by practicing dancing or to learn to live by practicing living.... In each it is the performance of a dedicated precise set of acts, physical or intellectual, from which comes shape of achievement, a sense of one's being, a satisfaction of spirit. One becomes in some area an athlete of God. Martha Graham</i></div><br />
And in so doing, I practiced...becoming an athlete...of God.<br />
<br />
<center><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i242.photobucket.com/albums/ff162/annvoskamp/multitudesonmondaysbutton2-1.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: center;"></div></center><br />
<br />
I continue practicing with the community of gratitude by counting thanks for:<br />
275. rain<br />
276. getting there safely<br />
277. getting home safely<br />
278. time spent with my Dear Professor<br />
279. his firm hands on the wheel<br />
280. lunch on the road<br />
281. blurred lens<br />
282. seeing the old familiar in a new way<br />
283. unexpected sunshine<br />
284. unexpected beauty<br />
285. dancing in the rain<br />
286. His grace always there<br />
287. everyday moments of awe<br />
288. acceptance and the heart change it brings<br />
289. a glimpse of the "shaping of achievement"<br />
290. "satisfaction of spirit"<br />
291. strength in weaknessJAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-90112758628563522002011-05-14T14:48:00.001-04:002011-05-16T08:16:21.827-04:00To the Dandelion<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5716896999/" title="P1920972 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1920972" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2140/5716896999_4d10143262.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5717459988/" title="P1920964 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1920964" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2512/5717459988_849b04376a.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5716846355/" title="P1920988 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1920988" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2755/5716846355_3574b7b06f.jpg" width="500" /></a></center><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">How like a prodigal doth nature seem,<br />
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!<br />
Thou teachest me to deem<br />
More sacredly of every human heart,<br />
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam<br />
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,<br />
Did we but pay the love we owe,<br />
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look<br />
On all these living pages of God's book.<br />
<br />
James Russell Lowell, excerpt from "To the Dandelion"</span></i></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.iheartfaces.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3xLHDhb-4Ie_eCQLhYH7sQCeQrFU3vBz-xJ9retALO-eNS5lpxztQK0OIX9lD9gRlYe9Jia6dhJPsory-MJZjFvVaij2Y3KDQTFblXvPocoM5MSCK6zBdxQttfkllmco3oIBQmnZhzQ/s200/I-Heart-Faces-button.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-43047489508263096082011-05-07T16:31:00.002-04:002011-09-17T00:45:34.001-04:00To My Children<div style="text-align: center;">
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You three brave souls.</div>
<br />
<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/6154310653/" title="ph-10053 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6172/6154310653_ff85cd5ecd.jpg" width="339" height="500" alt="ph-10053"></a></center>
<br />
<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/3443800302/" title="ph-10053 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="ph-10053" height="500" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3319/3443800302_8d96053c09.jpg" width="339" /></a></center><br />
<br />
You three brave souls made me a Mother. I know, it wasn't easy for any of us, but we survived. We all grew into it together, through the bumps, the broken bones, the meatloaf surprise, the tears and the laughter. <br />
<br />
My biggest regret is working harder on molding your behavior than listening to your hearts. My biggest comfort is knowing you love me in spite of that.<br />
<br />
I read these words before any of you were born, and tried to live by them:<br />
<br />
<i>"My child is a temporary trust from God. He is 'mine' only in the sense that God entrusted me to love him, to discipline him, to train him. He was not given so that I might boast about his good points any more than I should be ashamed of his failures. I am temporarily watching over the development of another human being who rightly belongs to God, and whose destiny will be ultimately decided between him and God alone.</i>"<br />
<br />
I cannot imagine what God was thinking when He entrusted you to my care. I do know you all have given me many more opportunities to boast than to be ashamed. <br />
<br />
Many more.<br />
<br />
You enlarged not only my waist, but also the borders of my heart. It is a priceless treasure to be your Mom. <br />
<br />
And now there is a fourth brave soul that has joined your company, one who has made my firstborn a husband and father, <br />
<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5696629195/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="38287_1477917864731_1137292446_31383531_3050589_n by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="38287_1477917864731_1137292446_31383531_3050589_n" height="463" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2491/5696629195_e95a511c01.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
<br />
and me a grandmother. Four times!<br /><br>
<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/4851703596/" title="Nuhouse Sprits by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4078/4851703596_0c6629b6cc.jpg" width="500" height="322" alt="Nuhouse Sprits"></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/6057466958/" title="anna by ironacres, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6080/6057466958_4851250f8a.jpg" width="230" height="248" alt="anna"></a></center>
<br />
Thank you for holding his heart well, and sharing yours with us.<br />
<br />
Love you all lots,<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</span></i></span>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-31752363005311890082011-04-27T12:44:00.003-04:002011-04-27T13:01:40.174-04:00Bright WingsThis is my life. <br />
<br />
Some days are a blur moving past the car window. Rushing to appointments, meeting deadlines, just trying to get it all done.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5073993591/" title="P1870735 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1870735" height="375" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4153/5073993591_24a8d21938.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And when my body is pushed as far as it can go, there are the days of exhaustion and sadness. The asking of questions. The answers that never come.<br />
<br />
The pity parties.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5074562942/" title="P1870435 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1870435" height="375" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4003/5074562942_62b2acf655.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
Sometimes, I just long for some sunshine, some warmth upon my face.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/4912400500/" title="P1830804 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1830804" height="393" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4076/4912400500_a79b7bb95d.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
But at the end of each day, I am called to the leaving. And the promise of the renewing.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5178997195/" title="P1890405 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1890405" height="375" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1303/5178997195_77e9d2fc2f.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
The promise that the darkness will not have dominion because the Light has conquered it.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5000703280/" title="P1840376 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1840376" height="375" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4150/5000703280_03fb76d8a6.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My life is but a fragile web, woven with moments of skill, moments of incompetence, moments of brilliant beauty.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/4650486290/" title="P1740400 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1740400" height="375" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4066/4650486290_6d99fc19dc.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
And moments of longing. To be known. And loved as I am. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/4465583311/" title="P1650858 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1650858" height="375" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2732/4465583311_9272538b37.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
And to love. Holding nothing back.<br />
<br />
Gerald Manley Hopkins wrote in "God's Grandeur":<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"And for all this, nature is never spent;</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And though the last lights off the black West went</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Because the Holy Ghost over the bent</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings."</i></div><br />
Nature is never spent, and neither am I. Because, in the midst of the longing, He is longing with me. He is holding this flailing child close to his speared breast, whispering, "I know you." Whispering, "I love you." Whispering.<br />
<br />
<i>"A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world. So with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy." John 16:21-22</i><br />
<br />
Something is moving inside me, being formed and transformed in the rushing, in the pity parties, in the longing. In the darkness. A new life.<i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5643434738/" title="fallen stars by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="fallen stars" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5306/5643434738_163af23d91.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
When I glimpse this glory, His glory, and the joy that cannot be taken away,<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>my heart takes bright wings!</i></div>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-40274976553802882702011-04-24T15:04:00.000-04:002011-04-24T15:04:07.584-04:00Can You Hear Them?<center></center><center></center><center></center><center><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" data="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377" height="300" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="400"> <param name="flashvars" value="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=2964dc6126&photo_id=2603325021"></param><param name="movie" value="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377"></param><param name="bgcolor" value="#000000"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377" bgcolor="#000000" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=2964dc6126&photo_id=2603325021" height="300" width="400"></embed></object></center><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>The bells of Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris, France</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is your personal invitation to join the celebration...it's never too late! Read <a href="http://91-1.blogspot.com/2011/04/all-around-earth-all-day-long.html">this</a>.</span><i> </i></span></div>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-25006468628273834052011-04-07T07:00:00.003-04:002011-04-07T16:16:41.189-04:00Company of CourageI stumbled upon the announcement on the grocery store bulletin board. Lysa TerKeurst, in person, Spring Women's Conference. It was the same bulletin board on which I had skeptically placed flyers many times before for events held at our former church. Now, I found myself reading the words I was convinced no one ever would.<br />
<br />
But I did.<br />
<br />
I normally head for the hills when I hear the words "women" and "conference" used together. I suppose it's conditioning from too many years of listening to too many unimportant words at such events. <br />
<br />
But this was different. I had been introduced to Lysa's voice on the radio while driving to work one morning. Her words were substantial, filled with truth. Life giving truth that stirred my heart. I longed to hear more.<br />
<br />
There was one obstacle. The conference was to be held at our former church, the one we left six years ago. I had only been there once since, for a friend's memorial service. It was a place filled with many memories of serving, teaching, leading, following, sitting together in the pew. One of my most cherished memories is just sitting next to my Dear Professor, his arm around my shoulders while we waited for the service to begin.<br />
<br />
There are other memories too. Memories of misunderstanding, injustice, anger, accusation, fear. And betrayal. We left when my heart broke under the weight of it all. Yes, there are hypocrites in any church, but there are also the walking wounded, those whose fragile hearts have not been safely handled. Those who stand with their back to the wall, arms crossed, waiting, hoping. I still weep for them there. Leaving a church is like leaving a marriage. Grief and recrimination follow. Those left behind feel abandoned, can't understand, and all too often find the wrong meaning on their own.<br />
<br />
I know. I was one of the left behind, too many times to count.<br />
<br />
I struggled with indecision. I wanted to hear the words of truth, I did not want to go where they would be spoken. So I looked for courage in companionship. I invited a friend, and she invited her cousin. There is safety in numbers.<br />
<br />
It was a divine appointment for us three. We spent the night between sessions at a local motel, sharing our stories, our questions, our wounds, our healing, our snacks, and very little sleep!<br />
<br />
I sat with my two sisters and listened to nourishing words. Words of encouragement, shared sorrow, surprising strength. But it was more than just words. Behind them was the power that holds the world and us together. <br />
<br />
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<br />
Not new truths, but a new awareness of our heart's need for them. We emerged stronger, more resolute, nourished by words. Words of life. The company of courage.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5597176613/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="P1920061 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1920061" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5190/5597176613_2bd41b51ee.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
We vowed to quit marching fruitlessly around our mountains, to abandon the beaten paths of defeat, regret, fear, and head onward to a new place where God is our portion, our enabler, our strength for the challenges of each new day. The challenges that are meant to <i>re</i>fine, not <i>de</i>fine us. Onward to a new awareness of the fragility of those around us, the power of our words to wield life<i>. </i>Or<i> death</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />
We moved together toward recognizing that each desire of our heart drives us to Him who alone can satisfy our hunger.<br />
<br />
In Christ alone, my <i>hope</i> is found.<br />
<br />
And peace.<br />
<br />
There, in the company of courage, I went where I did not want to go, said goodbye to old friends, and found peace.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5597285521/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="P1920055 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1920055" height="409" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5061/5597285521_527d5487ee.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Peace with the past. Peace with the future. Because of Christ. . .and the company of courage.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>My counting with the company of courage and community of gratitude</i><br />
<i>241. grocery store bulletin boards</i><br />
<i>242. courageous old friend</i><br />
<i>243. courageous new friend</i><br />
<i>244. hunger</i><br />
<i>245. desiring truth</i><br />
<i>246. radio interviews</i><br />
<i>247. Made to Crave</i><br />
<i>248. divine appointments</i><br />
<i>249. saying goodbye</i><br />
<i>250. hugs</i><br />
<i>251. late nighters</i><br />
<i>252. comfortable rooms</i><br />
<i>253. homemade hummus and guacamole</i><br />
<i>254. peanut butter m&ms</i><br />
<i>255. safety in numbers</i><br />
<i>256. a heartfelt thank you</i><br />
<i>257. resolution</i><br />
<i>258. a willing heart </i><br />
<i>259. making peace with the past</i><br />
<i>260. words of life</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i242.photobucket.com/albums/ff162/annvoskamp/multitudesonmondaysbutton2-1.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-55634834271752975242011-03-30T16:02:00.002-04:002011-04-03T09:16:30.800-04:00Learning Delight<i> “A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical encore. Heaven may encore the bird who laid an egg.” GK Chesterton (See Part IV “The Ethics of Elfland” in Orthodoxy)</i><br />
<br />
Upon my arrival a hoop and holler let out. Hugs were exchanged and then the requests began. "Can we play school? Can I tell you about the water cycle? Wead Mommo." Tiny feet made big noise on the living room floor as I was treated to dancing and skipping, twirling and tumbling. <br />
<br />
The Sprittles were happy to see me, and I was delighted to see them. It had been a long day of driving with unexpected delays. Road construction had stretched the typical 9 hours into 11. But now, in this room, surrounded by these lives, my heart was bursting at its seams. With joy.<br />
<br />
Grandchildren are a treasure. They are a blessing in our older years. They remind us that we are more than our wrinkles and weariness. In their presence we rediscover our child within,<br />
<br />
lost in rapture at plastic toys at the farm store, <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5574976150/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSC00350 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC00350" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5097/5574976150_5f6fd35e62.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
trying on cowboy hats,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5574975676/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSC00346 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC00346" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5133/5574975676_4b8f397f6f.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5574388911/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSC00348 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC00348" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5029/5574388911_34259af4e9.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
sharing Tic Tacs with brothers,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5574976310/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSC00352 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC00352" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5095/5574976310_f5644a2ff6.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
being excited about our new marbles,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5575009526/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="P1910875 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910875" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5177/5575009526_c077747d98.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5575010714/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="P1910879 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910879" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5061/5575010714_3ff168f5fa.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
on the floor playing, <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5575012486/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="P1910884 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910884" height="360" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5293/5575012486_ddf455a1de.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
having a tea party with peanut butter m&ms,<br />
<br />
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<br />
wiggling in the seats during the church service, finding disguises in unlikely places.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5574983262/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSC00397 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC00397" height="500" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5099/5574983262_3215ae5a0b.jpg" width="375" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My grandchildren teach me how to delight, in them, in life, in God. They inspire me to dance and laugh when the world is heavy on my shoulders. They help me rediscover awe in the processes of God's creation around me. They give love so easily.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5574983162/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSC00395 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="DSC00395" height="406" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5179/5574983162_2f2f410f01.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My grandchildren teach me. . . how to be a child. . . of God.<br />
<br />
We teach them God's fear, and they teach us His <i>delight!</i><br />
________________<br />
<br />
<i>My naming of one thousand gifts--</i><br />
<i>214. My Dear Professor's graciousness in granting me time away from packing to keep a promise</i><br />
<i>215. Safe travel both ways in an elderly vehicle</i><br />
<i>216. Beautiful weather</i><br />
<i>217. Music to pass the hours</i><br />
<i>218. Time to listen to God's heart</i><br />
<i>219. Remembering the good places to stop for fuel</i><br />
<i>220. Successfully navigating DC</i><br />
<i>221. Telling bedtime stories</i><br />
<i>222. Prayers for Lady Gaga to sing songs for Jesus</i><br />
<i>223. Hugs</i><br />
<i>224. Swings</i><br />
<i>225. "Mimi" Ryder guns</i><br />
<i>226. Brushing teeth on the go</i><br />
<i>227. Marbles</i><br />
<i>228. Finding miniature doggies at the dollar store</i><br />
<i>229. Small spoons in tiny teacups</i><br />
<i>230. Tiny tea sets</i><br />
<i>231. Tea parties</i><br />
<i>232. Watching a mother and daughter wash dishes together</i><br />
<i>233. Hearing my name called out in love and excitement</i><br />
<i>234. Learning about the water cycle from a 6 year old genius</i><br />
<i>235. Watching my son with his children</i><br />
<i>236. A 2 year old masseur armed with diaper wipes</i><br />
<i>237. Flowering trees</i><br />
<i>238. Sprittle number 4 growing in Beautiful Mommy's tummy</i><br />
<i>239. Sharing a book with a dear daughter-in-love</i><br />
<i>240. Being asked to stay longer</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i242.photobucket.com/albums/ff162/annvoskamp/multitudesonmondaysbutton2-1.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-21633473153218277482011-03-07T00:01:00.118-05:002011-03-11T21:14:59.030-05:00A Lifetime's Not Too Long<div style="text-align: left;">She has played many roles<i>-</i>-wife, mother, foster parent, janitor's wife, church pianist, church secretary, choir director, prayer partner, pastor's wife, grandmother, teacher.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have known her best simply as friend.<i> </i></div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was music that brought us together, and for a brief time, working in the same office. We call each other Thelma and Louise because of our shared innate ability to get into difficult situations together, none of which I will chronicle here. (You'll have to wait for that until after the statute of limitations expires.) We are notorious for sharing a brain that has a mind of its own and spends most of its time on vacation at exotic locales far away from the both of us. <i><br />
</i></div><br />
Thanks to a major confluence of events(or could it have been...God?!) involving a local radio talk show giveaway, my acting on an impulse, a charged cell phone, uncharacteristic patience and perseverance (I dialed...8 times?) and a <i>guess(!)</i> that was the right answer, I ended up with two free tickets to a concert Thursday night. My Dear Professor's chronic fatigue now prohibits long drives from home and attending late night events, and so the second ticket was offered to my dear friend.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5499716029/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="P1910297 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910297" height="390" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5178/5499716029_c22b56743e.jpg" width="520" /></a></div><br />
<br />
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<br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5500267416/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="194006_10150148900688582_156826998581_8120147_5857469_o by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="194006_10150148900688582_156826998581_8120147_5857469_o" height="345" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5057/5500267416_0edcf10e2e.jpg" width="520" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It was billed as the "2 Friends Tour". Michael W Smith and Amy Grant played together in the 80s when "Smitty" was the relatively unknown musical director/pianist for a young, rising star in Christian/contemporary music. They collaborated on several songs, but their careers and life choices caused a gradual, unintended separation.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Packing up the dreams God planted</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> In the fertile soil of you<br />
I can't believe the hopes He's granted<br />
Means a chapter of your life is through</i></div><br />
The evidence of true friendship is that it never ends. It is an invisible connection that <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20cor%2013:4-7&version=NIV">endures all things</a> and can be picked up right where it left off, regardless of the number of intervening years.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>But we'll keep you close as always<br />
It won't even seem you've gone<br />
'Cause our hearts in big and small ways<br />
Will keep the love that keeps us strong</i> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5500314816/" title="P1910360 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910360" height="345" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5056/5500314816_d8c612d491.jpg" width="520" /></a></div><br />
The lasting nature of Michael and Amy's friendship was revealed in one beautiful moment Thursday night. Amy was introducing a song Michael had written about the struggle he felt sending his daughter off to college. Amy connected with that struggle, and spoke about how difficult it was to sing with the raging emotions in a mother's heart. Michael said softly, "I've got your back." Amy stopped, and in a moment of heartfelt realization, turned to him and said, "You always have."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>And friends are friends forever<br />
If the Lord's the Lord of them<br />
And a friend will not say never<br />
'Cause the welcome will not end<br />
Though it's hard to let you go<br />
In the Father's hands we know<br />
That a lifetime's not too long<br />
To live as friends</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>It was not a coincidence that at that moment, in the Benedum Theater, I was standing next to my dear friend for the past 20 years. This was the first concert we had attended together, and will be the last we have opportunity for in western PA. In a few months, after 27 years in exile, my Dear Professor and I are packing up and moving back to our country of origin, Texas.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>And with the faith and love God's given<br />
Springing from the hope we know<br />
We will pray the joy you live in<br />
Is the strength that now you show</i></div><br />
If ever there was one (other than my Dear Professor) who has "had my back" these long years of exile in a strange place, it has been my dear friend.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>We'll keep you close as always<br />
It won't even seem you've gone<br />
'Cause our hearts in big and small ways<br />
Will keep the love that keeps us strong<br />
</i></div><br />
I pray that she can say the same. All I know is that her friendship, her modeling of Jesus, her wise counsel, and her wicked sense of humor have been a place of safety for my heart. In being who she is, she has given me a living, breathing picture of true friendship. The kind that Jesus speaks of.<br />
<br />
The "laying down your life for the other" kind.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Though it's hard to let you go<br />
In the Father's hands we know<br />
That a lifetime's not too long<br />
To live as friends</i></div><br />
Though miles will now separate us, our hearts remain connected through our shared love of music, our awe of the One who is our true friend, <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Jesus,</div><br />
and the memory of standing arm in arm, singing with Michael and Amy and the others in attendance,<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_profilepage&v=gVF2NCBY0W4"><i>"No a lifetime's not too long to live as friends"*</i></a><i> </i><br />
<i><br />
(*Friends are Friends Forever, by Michael W Smith)<br />
</i><br />
<i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>My counting with the Community of One Thousand Gifts:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>190. my dear friend</i><br />
<i>191. 20 years of sharing a brain </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>192. radio station giveaway</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>193. perseverance</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>194. a charged cell phone</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>195. acting on impulse</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>196. an answered question</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>197. shared experiences</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>198. memories evoked by music</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>199. difficulties that forge bonds</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>200. laughter</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>201. joy</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>202. time together</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>203. a beautiful theatre</i><br />
<i>204. beautiful music</i><br />
<i>205. a testimony of real friendship</i><br />
<i>206. worshipping together</i><br />
<i>207. the child sitting next to me</i><i> singing "Mighty to Save" with great gusto </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>208. a successful, talented man who is compassionate and humble</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>209. green rooms </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>210. generosity</i><br />
<i>211. finding my way to Pittsburgh and back without getting seriously lost</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>21</i><i>2. an offering of talent back to its Creator in praise</i><br />
<i>213. agape</i><br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i242.photobucket.com/albums/ff162/annvoskamp/multitudesonmondaysbutton2-1.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-45964989770745620922011-02-27T15:08:00.001-05:002011-02-27T20:52:17.127-05:00Hind's Feet<i>We chase each other, <br />
laughing like lovers playing hide and seek. <br />
He scatters graces and I lift praises, <br />
going round and round in the joyous dance. <br />
The music transforms my awkward feet<br />
and I begin to understand the words <br />
that captured my heart so long ago:<br />
"He makes my feet like hind's feet<br />
and causes me to walk upon my high places."</i><br />
<br />
This morning I stood in the quiet cold waiting for our youngest to drive me to work. I could have spent the time fussing over the inconvenience of having my truck repaired, the additional expense and drain on our hemmorrhaging bank account. I could have fumed in irritation that he was taking so long. I could have allowed my mind to spiral out of control over a number of things over which it had no control. <br />
<br />
But I didn't. I placed my warm mug of hot chocolate on the roof of the vehicle and with childlike awe began fixing memories of the moment in my camera's eye:<br />
<br />
the white carpet gleaming with frost diamonds;<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5473444962/" title="P1910150 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910150" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5211/5473444962_f7d53c764d.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5473444602/" title="P1910147 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910147" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5214/5473444602_094b84c4d9.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
the rising sun scattering darkness;<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5472849263/" title="P1910142 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910142" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5177/5472849263_d66b0da6d4.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
the heat branded roof;<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5473447062/" title="P1910166 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910166" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5256/5473447062_07e078322e.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
the gentle hand driving;<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5473448248/" title="P1910172 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910172" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5212/5473448248_0acd3e16e5.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
the warmth of a heater;<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5472852789/" title="P1910171 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910171" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5176/5472852789_a5880bdba9.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
a visor shading my eyes from the blinding light;<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5472853403/" title="P1910173 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910173" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5180/5472853403_af8494e98e.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
cold etchings on the windshield.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5472852395/" title="P1910167 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910167" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5178/5472852395_27153a0b6d.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
Hours later, my Dear Professor's strong hand drove me home from work. I thanked him for that. I don't thank him enough for all he is and does. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5472853725/" title="P1910174 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910174" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5057/5472853725_b5f5526882.jpg" width="500" /></a> <br />
<br />
I watched the sun, a brilliant circle hiding behind trees on the way home, then clouds as it vanished over the horizon. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5472853989/" title="P1910176 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910176" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5019/5472853989_08dab2957f.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
The sun.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/5472854823/" title="P1910184 by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="P1910184" height="375" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5056/5472854823_d6404f28c1.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
It was an unusual day. A remarkable day. An ordinary day. The difference was the attitude. Instead of slogging through "one more 24", I spent it listening, looking, can I say dancing? Dancing on the high places with hinds feet. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">I long to walk there more often.<br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img src="http://i242.photobucket.com/albums/ff162/annvoskamp/multitudesonmondaysbutton2-1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
My counting with the community of One Thousand Gifts:<br />
171. Hannah Hurnard's <i>Hinds Feet on High Places</i><br />
172. the quiet cold<br />
173. waiting<br />
174. our youngest<br />
175. my warm mug of hot chocolate<br />
176. childlike awe<br />
177. my camera's eye<br />
178. frost diamonds<br />
179. the rising sun<br />
180. warmth of a heater<br />
181. a visor's shade from the blinding light<br />
182. cold windshield etchings<br />
183. my Dear Professor's kindness<br />
184. sun behind trees<br />
185. sun behind clouds<br />
186. an ordinary day<br />
187. learning to dance<br />
188. "hinds feet"<br />
189. Ann Voskamp's <i>One Thousand Gifts</i>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4277753360327992852.post-68433133186121149422011-02-12T13:43:00.004-05:002011-02-18T18:06:47.385-05:00My First LoveThere is an old photograph of us somewhere in Dad's cardboard treasure trove of pictures. I want to find it this summer when we go back to Texas. I can see the image clearly in my mind as I write. A moment of youth and sun and love, frozen in time on a piece of faded Kodak paper. <br />
<br />
I was so happy. He was so handsome--tall, muscular, golden. We were only with each other briefly, yet those moments together have yielded a lifetime of fond memories. <br />
<br />
My first love.<br />
<br />
Long before my Dear Professor journeyed from south Texas to practice law in my hometown on the Gulf Coast, there was another man in my life. His name was Sonny. <br />
<br />
I don't remember what attracted me first, his athletic Aryan build, or his eyes. I could get lost gazing into his deep brown eyes. He was the strong, silent type, the stuff of westerns. I felt safe with him, so I opened my heart, and he listened. <br />
<br />
And then, just as suddenly as he entered my life, he departed. I had felt it coming. There were times when we were together that he would stare off into the distance. Words were not necessary, I could see the longing in his eyes. I knew that what I had to offer was not enough.<br />
<br />
I never saw him again. But somewhere, somewhere there is that photograph. And in my heart, there are the memories. Memories of sun, and Saturdays, and Sonny.<br />
<br />
The most beautiful palomino gelding I have ever known. And my first love. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/3739088785/" title="horses by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="horses" height="375" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3456/3739088785_58d359b0d9.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Update: If you love horses, or children, or both, you must listen to <a href="http://www.focusonthefamily.com/popups/media_player.aspx?ShowPath=Focus%20on%20the%20Family%20Daily&broadcastDate=2011-02-17">these stories</a> about special horses and children who help each other heal. Or visit the web home of <a href="http://www.crystalpeaksyouthranch.org/">Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch</a>.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ironacres/3739159133/" title="horses by ironacres, on Flickr"><img alt="horses" height="375" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3523/3739159133_b9560d3a5d.jpg" width="500" /></a>JAS--http://www.blogger.com/profile/15433753963072113300noreply@blogger.com0