iron acres

Friday Night Lights

2012-01-21T15:27:00.000-05:00

I 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.

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.

(Spring, 2009)

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.

I scanned the sky. Beautiful cloud formations against the deep blue. Cream and blue, the color of bluebonnets.

The rocks at my feet photographed white as the sun set. White like snow. The dead leaves on the drought starved tree shone golden.

A wind stirred as the sun slipped behind the horizon. Just for a moment, a quiet. cool breeze.

Friday night lights.

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:

"Glorious, my eyes have the seen the glory of the Lord

Glorious, He stands above the rulers of the Earth"

Glorious, glorious

Lord you are glorious!"

Paul Baloche, "Glorious"

Vessels that Bloom Beauty

2011-10-25T03:47:00.000-04:00

"May all your wanderings this weekend, good friends,make all the dark spaces intovesselsthat bloom beauty."Ann Voskamp

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We briefly laughed through our senior yearbook, watched Sara chase disbelieving cows, and visited a delightful garden and event center nearby.

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.

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.

In the process she has learned how to make her dark spaces into vessels.

Vessels that bloom beauty.

Counting with the Community of Gratitude:
324. friendship that survives the drought of time together
325. color
326. blooms
327. well tended gardens
328. well tended hearts
329. time to sit in silence
330. time to share
331. Sara's bounding love
332. God's grace
333. a cool breeze
334. a beautiful weekend
335. weekend words
336. vessels
337. beauty
338. laughter
339. acceptance
340. migrating monarchs
341. walking the pasture
342. the gifts we are to each other
343. memories
344. the road ahead

Texas Engine-uity

2011-10-01T10:10:00.000-04:00

Those 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.

Those recessed headlamps....the iconic round rear window....that mythical logo....the stuff of dreams and legends,the Ford Thunderbird.But wait a minute. Those aren't typical appointments of such a grand vehicle. Those are...cable ties holding up the license plate!!Cable ties!!?? Really?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!

In the clouds

2011-09-12T07:29:00.000-04:00

My head was in the clouds--both figuratively and literally...

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!

And so my head was in the clouds.

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.

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.

Isn't she sweet?

There was a a lot to do during those precious days--early evening walks in the rain,

a tour of the secret neighborhood paths (there be barking dogs there!),

tea parties with iced tea and powdered donuts,

and glorious clouds above us.

We collected leaves. . .and memories.

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.

And what a sorrow at parting.

The time went by so fast. We had just turned around and were boarding a plane again for home.

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.

_______________

A prayer for our grandchildren, from Bob Hostetler:

"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)"

Where Hope Grows

2011-08-03T10:55:00.001-04:00

I 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.

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.

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.

The cowbirds that stopped in every morning last summer looking for breakfast are somewhere else these mornings.

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.

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.

But this was different. More than anything it was the words that drew me. "Where hope grows."

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."

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.

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.

I need hope like that clay needs rain.

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?

"What is important is seldom urgent and what is urgent is seldom important."
Dwight D. Eisenhower

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 is 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.

Clear them away to make my heart a place "where living hope grows."

"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)

Coming Home

2011-07-27T09:43:00.003-04:00

(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...)

It is called a common dayflower (Commelina) because its bloom lasts that long.

Only a day.

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.

They made me "homesick".

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.

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.

And always will.

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."

They are as beautiful as the flower that blooms in the dust,

and as warm as a Texas sunset.

When Least Expected

2011-06-09T15:49:00.002-04:00

When 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.

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.

I waited too, gathering courage from each day the leaves remained green.

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.

The weeks ran into months.

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.

Last week the first bud opened.

A few days later there was another,

then a third. There are four more buds to go.

It's a phalaenopsis or moth orchid, and from this angle, the blossoms look like moths in flight.

They make my heart take flight.

They remind me that there is wisdom in the counsel of a good friend,

and that good things are often formed in the dark.

Good things that bring forth joy when least expected.

All my life

2011-06-07T10:01:00.020-04:00

I have given thanks all my life. . . before meals. It was a habit drilled into me by my parents. I'm learning to give thanks in all my life. In each ordinary moment. Because in that ordinary moment is the opportunity to feel God's grace.

The opportunity to know His presence all around me. All around everyone. . . and everything.

The opportunity to be still enough to feel His loving caress. . .

in the warmth of a sunrise,

the coolness of rain,

the delicate fragrance of the dog rose,

the shy beauty of lily of the valley,

the happy face of oxeye,

the glory of a blooming rhododendron,

the magnificence of sunset.

Counting thanks with the Community of Gratitude in
309. the smell of rain
310. the first splatters against the window
311. a sudden cool breeze
312. the rumble of thunder
313. the flash of lightning
314. the whistle of wind through the screen
315. the whir of a ceiling fan on a sultry summer day
316. sunrise
317. sunset
318. the fragrance of dog roses
319. the sight of clumps of white peppering idle fields
320. the shy lily of the valley bowing their heads
321. the morning quiet of a household still slumbering
322. the time to sit and listen
323. the solo song of a nearby bird

Let No Vandalism of Avarice or Neglect

2011-05-28T10:29:00.004-04:00

"Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect,

no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations

that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic."
General Logan - May 5, 1868

"A people that values its privileges above its principles soon loses both." Dwight D. Eisenhower

-------

Putting skin on the idea: watch this remembrance of what a father's sacrifice meant to the family back home, by Karen Spears Zacharias.

Golden

2011-05-25T08:14:00.008-04:00

Sometimes 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.

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.

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.

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.

I love this part of the morning.

It was all over in a matter of minutes. Capturing the movements of the sun teaches you the brevity of the moment. She who hesitates misses the glory.

The images live on in my mind. That glorious sun. That beauty. My heart is still full.

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.

It is golden.

Something for the Soul and Something for the Stomach

2011-05-21T11:28:00.000-04:00

The 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.

Something for the soul,

El Cielo de Canarias / Canary sky - Tenerife from Daniel López on Vimeo.

and something for the stomach, Crockpot Chicken Pie.

Have a lovely weekend.

Dancing and Counting

2011-05-20T14:41:00.000-04:00

Our 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?

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.

We arrived just in time to catch a rare appearance of blue sky.

An hour and a half later, we emerged from the doctor's office to an all too familiar sight.

I watched the buildings go by through the blur of rain. And I began to see the beauty there.

Rain is a soft lens that capriciously subtracts some details while highlighting others.

Color, form, movement caught by blurred brush strokes from the sky above, the wind around, the earth beneath.

We arrived home during a brief respite. The earth waited in hushed expectation as the clouds held off only a moment or two,

then pummeled the soaked ground and fragile flowers again and again.

It was then I knew what I could do. I could dance in the rain.

Dancing faces you towards Heaven, whichever direction you turn. Terri Guillemets 

Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness has never danced in the rain. Author Unknown

And so I did.

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

And in so doing, I practiced...becoming an athlete...of God.

I continue practicing with the community of gratitude by counting thanks for:
275. rain
276. getting there safely
277. getting home safely
278. time spent with my Dear Professor
279. his firm hands on the wheel
280. lunch on the road
281. blurred lens
282. seeing the old familiar in a new way
283. unexpected sunshine
284. unexpected beauty
285. dancing in the rain
286. His grace always there
287. everyday moments of awe
288. acceptance and the heart change it brings
289. a glimpse of the "shaping of achievement"
290. "satisfaction of spirit"
291. strength in weakness

To the Dandelion

2011-05-14T14:48:00.001-04:00

How like a prodigal doth nature seem,
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!
Thou teachest me to deem
More sacredly of every human heart,
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
Did we but pay the love we owe,
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look
On all these living pages of God's book.

James Russell Lowell, excerpt from "To the Dandelion"

To My Children

2011-05-07T16:31:00.002-04:00

You three brave souls.

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.

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.

I read these words before any of you were born, and tried to live by them:

"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 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.

Many more.

You enlarged not only my waist, but also the borders of my heart. It is a priceless treasure to be your Mom.

And now there is a fourth brave soul that has joined your company, one who has made my firstborn a husband and father,

and me a grandmother. Four times!

Thank you for holding his heart well, and sharing yours with us.

Love you all lots,

Bright Wings

2011-04-27T12:44:00.003-04:00

This is my life.

Some days are a blur moving past the car window. Rushing to appointments, meeting deadlines, just trying to get it all done.

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.

The pity parties.

Sometimes, I just long for some sunshine, some warmth upon my face.

But at the end of each day, I am called to the leaving. And the promise of the renewing.

The promise that the darkness will not have dominion because the Light has conquered it.

My life is but a fragile web, woven with moments of skill, moments of incompetence, moments of brilliant beauty.

And moments of longing. To be known. And loved as I am.

And to love. Holding nothing back.

Gerald Manley Hopkins wrote in "God's Grandeur":

"And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings."

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.

"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

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.

When I glimpse this glory, His glory, and the joy that cannot be taken away,

my heart takes bright wings!

Can You Hear Them?

2011-04-24T15:04:00.000-04:00

The bells of Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris, France

This is your personal invitation to join the celebration...it's never too late! Read this.

Company of Courage

2011-04-07T07:00:00.003-04:00

I 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.

But I did.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I know. I was one of the left behind, too many times to count.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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 refine, not define us. Onward to a new awareness of the fragility of those around us, the power of our words to wield life. Or death.

We moved together toward recognizing that each desire of our heart drives us to Him who alone can satisfy our hunger.

In Christ alone, my hope is found.

And peace.

There, in the company of courage, I went where I did not want to go, said goodbye to old friends, and found peace.

Peace with the past. Peace with the future. Because of Christ. . .and the company of courage.

My counting with the company of courage and community of gratitude
241. grocery store bulletin boards
242. courageous old friend
243. courageous new friend
244. hunger
245. desiring truth
246. radio interviews
247. Made to Crave
248. divine appointments
249. saying goodbye
250. hugs
251. late nighters
252. comfortable rooms
253. homemade hummus and guacamole
254. peanut butter m&ms
255. safety in numbers
256. a heartfelt thank you
257. resolution
258. a willing heart
259. making peace with the past
260. words of life

Learning Delight

2011-03-30T16:02:00.002-04:00

“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)

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.

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.

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,

lost in rapture at plastic toys at the farm store,

trying on cowboy hats,

sharing Tic Tacs with brothers,

being excited about our new marbles,

on the floor playing,

having a tea party with peanut butter m&ms,

wiggling in the seats during the church service, finding disguises in unlikely places.

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.

My grandchildren teach me. . . how to be a child. . . of God.

We teach them God's fear, and they teach us His delight!
________________

My naming of one thousand gifts--
214. My Dear Professor's graciousness in granting me time away from packing to keep a promise
215. Safe travel both ways in an elderly vehicle
216. Beautiful weather
217. Music to pass the hours
218. Time to listen to God's heart
219. Remembering the good places to stop for fuel
220. Successfully navigating DC
221. Telling bedtime stories
222. Prayers for Lady Gaga to sing songs for Jesus
223. Hugs
224. Swings
225. "Mimi" Ryder guns
226. Brushing teeth on the go
227. Marbles
228. Finding miniature doggies at the dollar store
229. Small spoons in tiny teacups
230. Tiny tea sets
231. Tea parties
232. Watching a mother and daughter wash dishes together
233. Hearing my name called out in love and excitement
234. Learning about the water cycle from a 6 year old genius
235. Watching my son with his children
236. A 2 year old masseur armed with diaper wipes
237. Flowering trees
238. Sprittle number 4 growing in Beautiful Mommy's tummy
239. Sharing a book with a dear daughter-in-love
240. Being asked to stay longer

A Lifetime's Not Too Long

2011-03-07T00:01:00.118-05:00

She has played many roles--wife, mother, foster parent, janitor's wife, church pianist, church secretary, choir director, prayer partner, pastor's wife, grandmother, teacher.

I have known her best simply as friend.

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.

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 guess(!) 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.

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.

Packing up the dreams God planted

In the fertile soil of you
I can't believe the hopes He's granted
Means a chapter of your life is through

The evidence of true friendship is that it never ends. It is an invisible connection that endures all things and can be picked up right where it left off, regardless of the number of intervening years.

But we'll keep you close as always
It won't even seem you've gone
'Cause our hearts in big and small ways
Will keep the love that keeps us strong

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."

And friends are friends forever
If the Lord's the Lord of them
And a friend will not say never
'Cause the welcome will not end
Though it's hard to let you go
In the Father's hands we know
That a lifetime's not too long
To live as friends

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.

And with the faith and love God's given
Springing from the hope we know
We will pray the joy you live in
Is the strength that now you show

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.

We'll keep you close as always
It won't even seem you've gone
'Cause our hearts in big and small ways
Will keep the love that keeps us strong

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.

The "laying down your life for the other" kind.

Though it's hard to let you go
In the Father's hands we know
That a lifetime's not too long
To live as friends

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,

Jesus,

and the memory of standing arm in arm, singing with Michael and Amy and the others in attendance,

"No a lifetime's not too long to live as friends"*

(*Friends are Friends Forever, by Michael W Smith)

My counting with the Community of One Thousand Gifts:

190. my dear friend
191. 20 years of sharing a brain

192. radio station giveaway

193. perseverance

194. a charged cell phone

195. acting on impulse

196. an answered question

197. shared experiences

198. memories evoked by music

199. difficulties that forge bonds

200. laughter

201. joy

202. time together

203. a beautiful theatre
204. beautiful music
205. a testimony of real friendship
206. worshipping together
207. the child sitting next to me singing "Mighty to Save" with great gusto

208. a successful, talented man who is compassionate and humble

209. green rooms

210. generosity
211. finding my way to Pittsburgh and back without getting seriously lost

212. an offering of talent back to its Creator in praise
213. agape

Hind's Feet

2011-02-27T15:08:00.001-05:00

We chase each other,
laughing like lovers playing hide and seek.
He scatters graces and I lift praises,
going round and round in the joyous dance.
The music transforms my awkward feet
and I begin to understand the words
that captured my heart so long ago:
"He makes my feet like hind's feet
and causes me to walk upon my high places."

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.

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:

the white carpet gleaming with frost diamonds;

the rising sun scattering darkness;

the heat branded roof;

the gentle hand driving;

the warmth of a heater;

a visor shading my eyes from the blinding light;

cold etchings on the windshield.

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.

I watched the sun, a brilliant circle hiding behind trees on the way home, then clouds as it vanished over the horizon.

The sun.

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.

I long to walk there more often.

My counting with the community of One Thousand Gifts:
171. Hannah Hurnard's Hinds Feet on High Places
172. the quiet cold
173. waiting
174. our youngest
175. my warm mug of hot chocolate
176. childlike awe
177. my camera's eye
178. frost diamonds
179. the rising sun
180. warmth of a heater
181. a visor's shade from the blinding light
182. cold windshield etchings
183. my Dear Professor's kindness
184. sun behind trees
185. sun behind clouds
186. an ordinary day
187. learning to dance
188. "hinds feet"
189. Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts

My First Love

2011-02-12T13:43:00.004-05:00

There 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.

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.

My first love.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The most beautiful palomino gelding I have ever known. And my first love.

Update: If you love horses, or children, or both, you must listen to these stories about special horses and children who help each other heal. Or visit the web home of Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch.

Silver mornings

2011-02-01T06:56:00.003-05:00

On this day, when the sun rises golden behind grey clouds,

when diamond glint scatters through snow,

and frozen breath stifles words.

All the world is still.

May we take a moment this day to feel the still, the quiet?

May we listen for the silver in the morning.

Tilted

2011-01-04T13:50:00.000-05:00

At the beginning of December I purchased a devotional book, Watch for the Light. I wanted to spend the entire month reflecting on the wonder that is the Incarnation. But I didn't. I let the moments slip away. And that treasure trove of life words sat on the coffee table, unopened.

Yesterday, when the earth's orbit was closest to the sun, but because we are tilted away it was bitterly cold, I picked up the book and read.

I had been tilted away from the Son as well.

It was a sermon, no, a conversation recorded 30 years ago by a Catholic priest in a small Nicaraguan town. The dialogue goes back and forth between the words of the Bible and the words of the individuals who make up the small congregation. I have always dismissed the story of the Wise Men's journey as an aside, an unimportant appendage to the story of the Babe in the manger. I should have known better. I should have known.

There are no unimportant words in the Bible.

"in the days of Herod the king. . .

came wise men from the East"

"He was born into tyranny."
I was born into tyranny, too; tyranny of the urgent, tyranny of my selfish appetites, tyranny of my fears. I understand tyranny all too well, bound in bad habits I am incapable of changing. But I am in denial of it all.

"When Herod the king heard this, he was very troubled"

"He came to liberate", to cast off the chains of tyranny. My chains bind just as surely as the chains of evil government or poverty or ignorance or disease.

"Afterwards, being warned in a dream that they should not

return to where Herod was, they returned to their country

by another way."

"He submitted to persecution."
And so do all who join His cause. All powers that be live in fear; the fear of losing control. They grasp. They persecute. They use any means necessary to preserve their power. And they hate the liberator and all who dare align themselves with him.

In the midst of the reading, my comfortable home was transformed into that bare space where the conversation took place. And the bare space where He was born. I was transformed into one of "them".

He became one of them, and I see myself in what He became. I am one of them as well. Our tyrants and chains bear different names, but they beat us down and bind us up with equal power.

And the Babe came to free us all.

This day that we are closest to the Son, yet tilted away.

He came-- to free us all!

All Here

2011-01-02T23:54:00.003-05:00

The New Year crept in on wet feet, swathed in mist and darkness and silence.

My soul relishes the silence.

I don't make New Year's resolutions. And yet, this year, I am resolved. I am resolved to be all here. In each moment that passes.

“Time is a relentless river and it rages on, respecter of no one.

And the only way to slow time is this: Enter fully into the current moment and the stream of time slows — slows — with the weight of a soul’s full attention.

We slow the torrent by being all here." Ann Voskamp

Oh, I am sure there will be moments in which I will be swept away, gasping for breath, down the river of life. I never learned to swim, and deep waters terrify. But I am also sure that there will be many more moments of stillness as I watch the graces flow around me, those same graces that swirl around all the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. I will rejoice, both in the bitter and the sweet, for that is the stuff of life. And I will find courage in enduring the difficulty, for "suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope." (Romans 5:4 ESV)

Curious, isn't it, that suffering can produce hope?

Next New Year's Eve, I want to stand in the quiet, at the ending that is another beginning, and reflect on the hope and the grace I have experienced.

Because I was all here.

When My Heart Finds Christmas, Part 2: A Christmas Carol

2010-12-24T04:13:00.008-05:00

I've been rehearsing for Christmas for most of my life.

It began in junior high school when I joined the choir, then continued in high school, college, and beyond. The seasons were defined by rehearsal and performance. And I loved every minute of it. Well, maybe with the exception of the 30 minutes our church choir director decided to try to teach these non dancing Baptist feet to do some choreography on the risers.

My feet won.

It just isn't Christmas without music. In all those years of rehearsal and performance I've sung everything from Handel to calypso to contemporary Christian and back again. But there is one song that stands out among all the rest. One song that touched my heart with the reality of "That Night."

That night in all of Heaven there wasn't a sound
As God and the angels watched the Earth.
For there, in a stable the Father's only Son
Chose to give Himself through human birth.
And when the cry of a baby pierced the universe
Once for all, men were shown their worth.

And the heavens exploded, with music everywhere.
And the angels spilled over heaven's edge and filled the air.
And the Father rejoiced, for He did not lose His Son,
But He gained to Himself forever those who'd come.

I can still hear the music that taught my heart the joy of that night, and reminds me every Christmas of my worth.

And the heavens exploded, with music everywhere.
And the angels spilled over heaven's edge and filled the air.
And the Father rejoiced, for He did not lose His Son,
But He gained to Himself forever those who'd come.

When My Heart Finds Christmas, Part 1: Great Expectations

2010-12-24T03:39:00.001-05:00

This is the home in which I celebrated 27 Christmases. The picture was taken after a rare winter snowfall 2 years after I was born. The house still stands, but the trees in the front yard have all been replaced after too many insects, hurricane winds, and lightening strikes took their toll.

Mom and Dad are gone, too, but their memories linger on my life like Dad's shadow on the bottom of the picture.

They taught me that Christmas was about innocence, childhood, wonder, joy, hope.

And extravagant giving.

My Mother loved Christmas more than any other time of year. She enjoyed the decorating, the baking, and the planning of magnificent surprises. For Mother, Christmas was the magical season when all wishes came true, and she and Dad did their best, on a limited budget, to make that happen for their two daughters.

If the tree was less than perfect, and in those days they were, Dad would take a drill and some extra branches and fill in what nature left out. We always had a magnificent tree. Mother would direct the decoration from the couch.

First, Dad carefully strung the lights around the tree, then my sister and I hung the ornaments evenly and symmetrically. Finally, Dad would lift one of us toward the top to place the star. We took turns for this honor, with names duly recorded on the box that safely held that star the other 11 months of the year.

Christmas Eve we would read the story from Luke, and then hop in bed for a restless, sleepless night. After many unsuccessful trips to Mom and Dad's bedroom (has Santa come yet?), we were filled with delight when they finally gave up the idea of any sleep themselves, turned on the lights and stood back in their own delight as two little girls stampeded into the living room to see what Santa had brought. At 4:00am in the morning!

Our stockings were simple--two of Dad's clean socks. Somehow we never noticed they bulged with an assortment of whole nuts out of the seasonal nut bowl from which they were hung. There was ribbon candy too, and an occasional tangerine. But that was just "window dressing." Our real attention was on the tree, both the "Santa" toys and the beautifully wrapped bounty beyond.

I think it was the expectation of what surprise awaited us rather than what we actually received that caused those sleepless Christmas Eves because, looking back now, the one thing I remember most is the one thing I habitually asked for but never found, a horse. A real horse. Like Trigger or Silver. I knew it would never happen, but that didn't keep me from hoping. After all, Christmas was about magic and wonder and dreams coming true.

I feel as though I am just now beginning to understand the deeper magic of Christmas. I find myself lost in the wonder of God's dream coming true in a Bethlehem manger. It is there I find anew the innocence, wonder, joy, hope.

And extravagant giving.

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son..."

Mission Impossible

2010-11-29T22:23:00.001-05:00

She knew it would not be easy. She had tried before, on many occasions, never with success. But this time, this time would be different. She would somehow manage the impossible.

It took planning, lots of planning. And coordination of schedules. And secrecy. Up until the last minute, she was afraid of failure. There were too many details that could go wrong. And yet, she pulled it off without a hitch. This mission impossible, this Thanksgiving surprise.

I am still reeling from the shock. And feeling so very grateful for

smiley cookies,

the airplane that brought our Principessa home,

the van that safely carried the Sprittles and their Mommy and Daddy to visit,

wild Indians stomping through the house in a mini school pageant recreated,

the voices of grandchildren,

the turkey that defrosted in time,

"feathers" of gratitude,

being together,

happy meal toys,

tiny arms around my neck,

hugs and kisses,

storytime,

yawns

angel wings on lampshade,

legos,

silly sunglasses,

self portraits,

a scavenger hunt for Mommo,

a coonskin cap,

balloons and a floor vent,

Sprittle sleepover,

noodle necklaces,

hand-me-down bling,

blond hair + blue eyes + blue fleece pullovers,

Christmas displays,

hallways and self propelled trucks,

eating out,

a light dusting of snow Saturday morning,

a successful surprise,

the mission impossible made possible,

the love and graciousness that accomplished it.

A wonderful Thanksgiving.

"Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow; Praise Him, all creatures here below;

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."

The Joy of Naming

2010-11-23T03:15:00.004-05:00

It has been a year since I began the naming of gifts, encouraged by a new friend on the internet. A year to name a thousand. 52 Mondays to stop and think and list the moments of grace that make up each 24 hours.

My mind turns to a photo essay from the early 1990s in which a journalist sought to picture average families from around the world, surrounded by their possessions. Included were statistics -- numbers that spoke of life expectancy, infant mortality, energy use.

Each picture spoke a thousand words and more about living conditions and treasures.

But I sit in my comfortable home on my comfortable couch with the world at my fingertips and can't think of a thing for which to be grateful. In 3 days a holiday of gratitude will be upon us and I can't think of one thing I haven't already mentioned in 128 entries. I know there are many, but the mind refuses to focus.

Only 128 in 52 weeks.

I can name other things effortlessly -- the error, the less than perfect, the negative. But I stumble and stutter to name the gifts. The graces.

The treasures. And there are so many.

What seemed so simple is indeed profound. In my silence, I discover my need to see, to hear, to NAME.

Or, perhaps, the seeing and hearing rise from the naming.

Dare I try again?

I name:

preparing a Thanksgiving meal for my family,

sitting down to a meal together,

conversation around the table,

memories of past Thanksgivings,

the sunrise that dispels the dark,

the moon that lights the night,

the electricity that powers our well and the oven,

the smell and feel of a good book,

time to be alone and think,

the realization of my poverty,

the joy of naming.

"But the love of the Lord remains forever with those who fear him." Psalm 103:17 NLT

Life Lines

2010-11-15T14:56:00.002-05:00

She told the story of threads woven in love. Delicate, lone strands that became strong together in the twisting and the crossing and the pressing. She spoke of how friendship had been her lifeline, how we three had held her from harm. Then she gave the gift as a reminder of hope and help and healing.

A colorful strand woven in love, ends seared by fire to hold it together.

When he could no longer live alone, he came to us. In early December, bags packed hurriedly with just what was needed. He left behind 60 years of memories, his friends, his church, his life. And in his remaining seven months he battled unfamiliar cold, loss of independence, a failing body and mind.

I battled as well, to love him well: to help him along those last few steps, to care for him, to honor him. In spite of the inconvenience, the lack of sleep, the raging emotions, our relationship grew.

In the twisting, and the crossing, and the pressing.

She arrived on the scene when I was four years old. I didn't like sharing my spotlight. Or my bedroom. Or my toys. I tied her to a tree when we played cowboys and Indians, ignored her pleas to play games together, and slammed the door on her toe. It was an accident she won't let me forget.

We laugh and talk like never before, sisters who have discovered each other many years after birth. Perhaps we needed distance, space, experience. And a shared inherited love for gadgets (and a perky Cheekywawa named Spike.)

We sift our early days together now, looking for patterns, for reasons, for explanations. We find them together. And we find new perspectives and understanding of ourselves and each other.

In the twisting, and the crossing, and the pressing.

The lines of love that hold us together are formed in the difficulties of life. Our strength comes from the searing, painful events that melt our hearts into one.

The eternal, purifying Fire, molding us into His image.

Today, I am grateful for--

stories that stir life in me,

the opportunity and heartbreak of caretaking an aging parent,

a close relationship with my sister,

forgiveness,

my granddaughter's tears of love when I leave,

my Dear Professor's chronic fatigue that both frustrates and offers opportunities to dispense grace through service,

the endless dirty dishes that offer endless opportunities to think about and pray for the ones who created them,

sorrows that bind us together, enlarge us, and teach us compassion.

For Friends

2010-11-01T01:18:00.002-04:00

I open wide and swallow hard, like a baby bird with it's first meal. Her words go down smoothly and leave me feeling warm inside. A lasting warmth.

I read them again. And again. She writes about a need, something neglected, and what brings her life every bit as much as breathing fresh air.

We are separated by miles and years and citizenship, but we are the same. The same eternal flame burns in our hearts and leads our path; the same yearning for justice, for love, for truth, and for beauty.

She points the way toward finding all that, and more.

In Him.

In a life spent breathing in the holy gift of a whole God, and breathing out His praises. A life spent turning and pouring and searching for the eternal abundance of the everyday.

A grace hunt.

"He's there!", she says, and she is as right as the spring rains that fall on our familiar fields.

Today I lift my voice in thanks for friends

who write words full of the Living Word, who encourage, who hold my feet to the path,

who weep with me, who laugh with me, who smile,

who listen, who ask, who walk with me awhile,

who offer grace, who show forth His beauty, who share His gifts,

who seek His kingdom, who speak His Truth, who yearn for His appearing,

who pray for me and and with me and love me just as I am.

I thank you all.

"As for the saints who are in the land, they are the glorious ones in whom is all my delight." Psalm 16:3 NIV

I delight in and thank Him for each one of you glorious ones.

Under a western Pennsylvania moon

2010-10-20T22:16:00.001-04:00

Under a western Pennsylvania moon, a young man and a young woman fell in love. As they were falling, they shared their dreams.

She: "Long ago I saved the picture of a house from a magazine. I dreamed of living in that house one day."

He: "Long ago I saved the picture of a house from a magazine. And I, too, dreamed of living in that house one day."

They knew it was true love when they compared their pictures . . . of the same white farmhouse with wraparound porch from the same magazine.

So, they got married and started life together on some acreage on a tree shaded country lane in the middle of western Pennsylvania. They contacted the magazine to see if it were possible to find the plans to their dream home.

Yes, it was.

So they built it, as all dreams are built, with blood, sweat, and some tears. When they were finished they started a family.

And built a barn.

And planted an apple orchard, with long straight rows of branches reaching to the sky.

They built another barn, and started selling knickknacks and geegaws and doohickeys made by local artisans. They began harvesting apples and pressing their own cider.

The people started coming for the knickknacks and geegaws and doohickeys and preserves and apples and apple cider.

And they oo-ed and ah-ed in wonder and delight at the beauty they saw in the realized dream. They brought their children to see the beauty and watch the apples being pressed into sweet golden liquid. They ate apple blossoms (a nutty, caramel-ly, apple-ly treat) and drove away with full tummies and warm hearts.

And that man and that woman, now ten years older, tuck their 3 children into bed after a long day's work together, and marvel at the dream come true that was shared while falling

under a western Pennsylvania moon.

(note: Emmett's Orchard is a real place built from a real dream.)

When the chaos gets to me

2010-10-17T16:10:00.000-04:00

I find this truth self-evident, that life is too short not to have fun. But sometimes, in spite of my positive attitude, the chaos wears me down. At those times, these words ground me.

The Trip to Ashtabula

2010-10-16T10:21:00.001-04:00

A mother, a daughter, and four friends set out one day in the rain. Their objective was a jewelry store in Ashtabula. What they found was that, and much more.

We were in some ways a "band of the ring", our quest being to deliver my engagement ring to a jeweller for repair. The band had worn through after 34 years of loving my Dear Professor, our 3 children and 3 grandchildren. (And being on the finger of a goat, chicken, horse, llama, duck, goose, bee farmer for 17 of those years hadn't helped. A farmer's hands do get a workout.)

Thnking about it now, I suppose our friendships had worn a bit as well. Life's busyness had prevented us from getting together for some time.

The rain lifted quickly and we found ourselves in sunshine, driving past rows and rows of fall leaves at the peak of color. The skies were glorious blue with dramatic, low hanging clouds.

(Wait, was that Treebeard?)

Curiously, it was after we completed our quest that the adventure began: four women,

Lake Erie,

one big ship, (or was it a barge?)

one small lighthouse,

four covered bridges, one of which is the the lo-o-o-o-o-o-ongest in the world,

no Clint Eastwood, but one surprise family farm winery and cafe as the sun began to set.

Good food, good conversation, good company, all contributed to a long but refreshing day. Our band was strengthened in the journey, in the reconnecting, in the beauty.

A mother, a daughter, and four friends set out one day in the rain. Their objective was a jewelry store in Ashtabula. What they found was that, and much more -- each other.

(and after this friend returned from a day's internet fast, she found iron acres linked in a post on aperture and light at High Calling! It was the assignment on aperture that gave me the inspiration to write "Such a Place of Wonder.")

Such a place of wonder

2010-10-13T09:56:00.004-04:00

Saturday morning at sunrise...a solitary Canada goose calling for its mate...and me, standing in the brush, listening, watching, taking a picture of the sunrise over a pond and a pile of earth left from strip mining coal.

Such a place of wonder on such a pile of rubble, just off the interstate behind the factory outlet mall.

I drove around the pond, taking picture after picture, watching the mist float over the water like smoke over mirror. The water so still, reflecting sky and light.

Reflecting my need.

For quiet.

For stillness.

For reflection.

Such a place of wonder on such a pile of rubble.

I stayed there for some time, welcoming the water of cleansing and the mist of calming as they floated over my mind, my heart.

I left with hope for what God was doing in my life.

Such a place of wonder on such a pile of rubble.

Fall Leaves and Winter follows

2010-10-12T03:19:00.001-04:00

When we moved north of the Mason Dixon line in 1983, my dear Professor and I did not know what to expect. We had both known only two seasons in Texas, hot and hotter, and most of the trees in both of our necks of the woods, even though separated by 500+ miles, were green all year long.

Imagine our surprise that first October in Syracuse. Three year old Principessa, five year old Preacher and I collected as many of the leafy jewel colors that we could find to share them with "Granny" back in Houston. When cleaning out Dad's house last fall I found an old manila envelope with pictures of our first yankee home and a few of those leaves still pressed in wax paper.

The dreary gray days have already begun here in the Frozen North, along with the lengthening shadows. The sun now sets to the south side of our road. The nights are cooler.

I first noticed the leaves falling sometime in September. They were few and green as they danced in the wind.

Last week they were burnished by the setting sun.

Today I lunched in the park surrounded by greens, reds, and golds.

As I drove home from work, clouds formed and lightening flashed.

But the jewels shone brighter still.

And the last of the summer flowers laughed in the wind,

as fall leaves and winter follows.

Choices

2010-10-10T12:41:00.000-04:00

What choices are ruling your day? I made one that made all the difference. You can read about it here.

Burnt in the fire of love

2010-09-26T13:26:00.002-04:00

She spoke truthful words aimed at healing but they shattered, wounding many. And now, with broken heart she asks, was the love wasted? I reply in words from a greater heart than mine, "no, love is never wasted."

We held our breath in the silence of a sacred moment as the words sank deep into our marrow.

Love is never wasted.

The greatest command is to love. Just that. Because to love, to reach beyond, is to lay everything aside. Everything. Outcome included.

Love is never wasted.

But time is. All the time. Wasted on distraction, wasted on hoarding, wasted on pretense, wasted on everything but love.

And in the meantime, we lost souls and saved souls cry out for what God's Only can give to us and through us.

"What the world longs for from the Christian faith is the witness of men and women daring enough to be different, humble enough to make mistakes, wild enough to be burnt in the fire of love, real enough to make others see how unreal they are." Brennan Manning, from Souvenirs of Solitude

May we be daring enough, humble enough, wild enough and real enough today.

The Beauty that Awaits

2010-09-25T11:02:00.001-04:00

We played peekaboo all the way to work, her peeking above and through the clouds, me weaving the car around the curves and up and down hills. I wanted so badly to stop and take her picture, but I restrained myself, choosing instead to get to work on time. But a few hundred feet from my destination, on a slight rise that is the grocery store parking lot just above where I work, I stopped to admire her.

And take a few pictures.

The tall, modern vapor light could not be avoided, and I begrudgingly allowed him in the picture. But her natural light and the skirting clouds far outshone his spare, no nonsense outline.

The last moments of darkness laying on the hills below her revealed two distinct pictures: the serene trees crowning the cemetery to the left and the crane rising from the naked, machine scraped landscape to the right. I wonder what the neighbors are thinking?

As the days grow shorter, my drive to work affords wondrous views of the sun awakening and scattering the dark above fields of grass and grain. The urge to record the changing colors and shadow is overwhelming.

This day I was fortunate to have a moment to stop. And look. And allow the beauty to flood my soul.

May your soul be filled this day with the beauty that awaits.

"Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul." John Muir

The King and I

2010-09-19T00:56:00.001-04:00

Lions stalk me.

It's true. In Texas and in the Frozen North, and even Europe.

Lions stalk me.

The first was Elsa the lioness in the film, Born Free, the story of Joy and George Adamson and their Kenyan rehabilitation center. I decided then and there that I would move to Kenya just like Joy and George. I was born and raised in Texas, I could do big, dry and hot. And poisonous snakes if I HAD to!

Lions are majestic, awesome, dignified, glorious, noble, fearful.

And sort of dangerously cuddly.

When higher education called, I laid aside the African dream and picked up drama and english. Not exactly the perfect training for pulling thorns from a lion's paw in the wilds of Africa. Then I met my Dear Professor and there was no contest.

But the lions are patient.

As my Dear Professor and I strolled hand in hand down the Montrose end of Westheimer one sunny Houston Saturday, they found me once again. It seemed safe enough. Major artists and artisans displayed their wares at a street fair. As we passed the local NBC affiliate interviewing participants on camera, I felt him watching me. And then I saw him. The lion, nestled under the shade of an awning, called.

It was a painting by an up and coming Houston artist, Jim Rabby. I had just recently read CS Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia, and was captivated by this rendering of Aslan. The rich paint strokes were layered so thickly I could almost hear him breathe. I longed to take him home with us, but this new bride felt awkward asking her groom for such a costly painting. I took a picture. A faded picture that does not do justice to the richness of color and those extravagant brush strokes.

I said goodbye, never dreaming that we would meet again.

A year later we attended a party given by a friend's cousin. I could not believe my eyes as my feet crossed their threshold. Through the crowd I caught a glimpse of something in the den, in an exalted place above the mantle.

It was Rabby's lion. What a joy to see him again! He had stalked me from the far eastern end of Westheimer to the far western end. All the way across Houston.

Lions stalk me.

Three summers ago my Dear Professor and I chaperoned a student group tour of Europe. We traced the Reformation movement through Germany, England, and Switzerland. There were also a few side trips to France and Austria. It was a sobering time as the lectures recounted the clash of politics, tradition, and faith and the price paid by the faithful. In Lucerne, we met the Dying Lion. It is a granite monument to the Swiss Guards massacred while protecting French royalty during that country's bloody revolution. Mark Twain said it was "the most mournful and moving piece of stone in the world."

I found myself agreeing with Mr. Twain. As I gazed upon this lion I couldn't help but recall Aslan at the great stone table. And the deeper magic CS Lewis wrote of in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Lions stalk me. The dead and the living.

Last year a dear friend found a magnificent lion at the National Zoo. There is something about her photograph that continues to haunt me. Perhaps it's the sorrowful nature hidden within his royal bearing and fearful countenance.

(my rendering of Jessica's Aslan, with her permission)

Yes, lions stalk me. And I see in their courage, beauty, power, soulfulness, fearfulness a pale shadow of the true image of the all powerful Lion of Judah, who continues to stalk my heart.

And yours.

Holding

2010-08-21T21:20:00.000-04:00

I passed through fields of silk

and lace

and gold;

Chased the clouds,

and watched the sun unfold transparent gauze of light.

I drank it in.

And as the blanket, cool, descended on my skin,

I bowed in thanks again

for this small glimpse of Him Who gave a voice to stars

and holds me in His hand.

(For an old friend who is holding on, seeing the beauty in the midst of heaviness)

Questions

2010-08-10T06:34:00.000-04:00

He is our first grandchild. Beautiful, sweet, intelligent. Lover of Hotwheels and Legos.

As he reaches for a crayon he asks, "what does a question mark look like?" I respond, tracing imaginary curves in the air, then absentmindedly ask why.

"I'm drawing a question mark."

I return to my magazine. A few moments of silence pass. Then his response leaps back into my consciousness.

"I'm drawing a question mark."

I approach the crayon and paper strewn table, his hands are still busy at work. Now it's my turn to ask.

"Why are you drawing a question mark?" He is too busy to answer now, head bowed in creative concentration. Minutes pass. In the fullness of time he finishes, and proudly displays his work, a large window box filled with living question marks.

"How beautiful! Tell me about your drawing."

He smiles, takes a big breath, and begins his presentation. When he is done, he pauses for my response.

I am speechless.

Hidden in the colored waxy lines on paper is the whole of life. Simple curves that speak volumes, glimmers of thoughts to come.

"And what do you do with the questions?" His curiosity has encouraged mine.

"You eat them and they become part of your mind. And grow into bigger questions."

He is 5 years wise.

What questions will he eat in the years to come? What answers will he find?

For now, I draw him to me in a holy hug as the Fisherman did so long ago.

"For such is the kingdom of heaven."

Happy Little House

2010-08-02T00:01:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time there was a happy little house that lived near a big city.

(photo of the happy little house courtesy of Principessa)

It had a happy front door,

A happy flowered rug,

a happy back yard, and a happy coffee table.

In this happy little house lived Princepessa,

her two happy cats, (only one would sit still for his portrait, the other is a bit shy.)

and a happy little dog name Lucy (and her happy human friend.)

(photo of Lucy courtesy of her human friend)

The happy little house was so happy that soon after Principessa moved in, it arranged for a fireworks display. All over the neighborhood skies that night, the happy little houses oohed and ahhed over the brilliant colors.

Principessa oohed and ahhed too. (But not her unhappy little cats who were hiding under the bed. "Too many noises!" they meowed)

The unhappy little cats were soon happy again when the fireworks stopped. The happy little houses in the happy little neighborhood were happy it had rained before the noisy night and kept their happy little roofs safe.

But of all the happy little houses in that happy little neighborhood, this was the happiest of them all, because Principessa, her happy little cats, the happy little dog named Lucy (and her human friend) had come to stay.

The End.

What Mother Never Knew

2010-07-30T00:01:00.008-04:00

Mother never knew that she was beautiful.

But she was.

Mother never knew that she was loved.

But she was.

Mother did know the movies. That was how my family celebrated holidays, we went to the movies.

Perhaps they were an escape for a shy and awkward girl whose Daddy loved her dearly, and whose mother was, I believe, jealous. Mother spent her entire life longing for the approbation of her Mother that was lavished instead on her older brother. It created a deep ache in her soul that nothing could soothe, not even the love of an adoring husband.

When my uncle died, Grandmother mourned for him as if he had been her only child. Mom mourned the death of her father, then her brother, and finally, the prospect of ever knowing the love of her own mother.

Perhaps it was this deep longing that made her more accessible for others in pain. I tried to avoid going grocery shopping with her, because, sooner or later, someone would meet us in an aisle, and, sensing sanctuary in a stranger, begin unburdening their grief.

There between the tomatoes and the lettuces they let down their stories of disappointment, anger, sadness as Mom listened attentively, compassionately, and I squirmed.

With older eyes I look back on those moments and see wonder, beauty, and sacrament. The love and compassion Mom longed for from Grandmother was poured out with abandon on common stranger. She gave unselfishly what she desired to receive, and blessed many.

This small, insecure woman of sorrow was a giant of love. Deep inside, Mother was more beautiful than any of her favorite film stars. And she touched just as many hearts.

In the produce aisle.

Undercover

2010-07-25T01:01:00.000-04:00

I type slowly, quietly, in fear of rousing the one in the dark nearby. His breathing is steady and heavy. When I was younger, I raised the ire of my parents by reading comic books by flashlight after bedtime.

But there is a far more serious danger lurking here. . .

the Mafinator, aka Soggy Bottom Boy

And so I type, laptop hidden under the covers to avoid awakening the littlest Sprittle in the crib nearby. Each time he stirs, I freeze like a rabbit, heart racing. Will the softly glowing monitor leak through the fabric and bounce blinding light off my bifocals and into his darkened corner?

Or, perhaps the better question would be, why on earth am I hiding under the covers to write a blog post? Have I fallen into the depths of net addiction depravity? Is it really THAT important to send an email while visiting my precious Sprittles in their new home?

All I know is a few days ago I received an "anonymous" call inviting me to "come visit and sleep in my new bunny room and take us to the pool."

And so, after 3 weeks of living on the road, I repacked my suitcase (and swimsuit) and headed for a bunny room in North Carolina. Any grandmother not willing to respond in like manner to such a phone call is not worth her weight in fruity tic tacs.

Perhaps I am in good company. Perhaps all over the world tonight there are other grandmothers, purses laden with candy for the grandkids, typing furtively under the covers.

Or maybe it's just me. Alone, insane and delusional from too many miles in too short a time.

Would someone please call 911?

If It's Monday . . .

2010-07-19T12:14:00.001-04:00

If it's Monday, it must be time to go home. I am travel weary. The last 3 weeks have gone by much too quickly, but I am grateful for each day. This year's pilgrimage to the homeland is almost over.

I can neither count the miles nor the memories, they are both many. But all are good because He is good, and was present in them all:

The sun and sand and the Sprittles,

seagull at the water's edge,

footprints,

the wonder of water,

the reunion of sisters,

outting of the old

inning of the new, in so many ways,

wildflowers along the road, so beautiful against the summer sky,

dragonflies,

a meal with new friends, night swimming and shooting stars, conversation with loved ones,

being there, and coming home.

Stone on Stone

2010-07-05T17:03:00.002-04:00

Two on one, one on two. That's how a fieldstone wall is built.

No chink or mortar, just the stone,

stacked one on two, two on one.

The stones first pushed by ancient glaciers rolling over land

now raised again by horses' strain, by farmer's plow and hand.

Stacked one on two, two on one.

Two on one, one on two. That's how a fieldstone wall is built.

No chink or mortar, just the stone,

stacked one on two, two on one.

Grateful for

#77 the flow of words

#78 the flow of years

#79 the flow of love

#80 the flow of tears

#81 the melting glaciers in my heart

#82 the stones unearthed, each has its part

#83 the love that guides

#84 the love that holds

#85 the love that binds

#86 the love that molds

A Promise Kept

2010-06-14T14:11:00.002-04:00

We've had our share of rain this spring, and it keeps falling. But for me, this rainy Monday is a day to rejoice.

A day of thanksgiving.

Last fall, our water well line had to be replaced. They cut a deep trench in the earth running 1000 feet from the well to our home. The trench was roughly backfilled, and a promise made to return in the spring, after the ground had settled, to smooth out the ugly welting scar left behind.

Spring turned to summer, leaving the promise unmet. Phone calls were made. No response. Hope gave way to frustration, despair. And then...

When hope had run dry, he appeared to fulfill his promise. The grinding, tamping, machine left bare, smooth brown in its wake. Soon scattered seed will cover the brown with green again.

Gentle rain began to fall as he worked the ground. I took time to stand in the wet and watch its glory fall from the gutter,

scattering transparent pearls upon the roses,

the leaves,

the lavender,

and quenching the earth's thirst.

A promise kept, refreshing as a gentle rain.

#66 a promise kept
#67 hope restored
#68 smoothed earth
#69 gentle rain
#70 transparent pearls
#71 roses
#72 raindrops falling from the gutter
#73 the promise of green
#74 healing of scars
#75 quenching of thirst
#76 refreshing

Are You Ready?

2010-06-12T12:29:00.001-04:00

It's a place of quiet and beauty.

A place where earth and sky,

the now, and the not yet, all meet.

A place where immortality and mortality hold hands.

A sacred place on a windy knoll, guarded by silent cyprus sentinels.

Few go there willingly; some, out of duty or sorrow.

But I, I go there to reflect;

to enjoy the shade, the stillness, the clouds,

and wonder . . .at the question dangling on every blade of grass:

"No one knows the day or the hour. Are you ready?"

Pennsylvania Chainsaw Massacre

2010-06-01T11:46:00.002-04:00

The endless, droning buzz began at daybreak. I pulled the pillow around my ears in an attempt to muffle the annoying sound. It was pointless. Finally at 6AM I gave in and climbed out of bed, only to discover that my across-the-street-neighbor was at it again.

A sudden horror gripped me as I remembered the last time I had heard that unmistakable sound. . .
It was a beautiful autumnal day in the neighborhood. Blue skies. White fluffy clouds. A balmy, lazy Sunday in the Frozen North. Sitting at the computer, I noticed a distinct buzzing begin. It went on, and ON, and ON. I glanced out the window. Our chainsaw wielding across-the-street-neighbor was hard at work on a huge pine tree near the road.

I returned to the computer, shaking my head in wonder at why anyone would chose to kill a perfectly good tree. Trees are a majestic thing of beauty. The unrelenting nature of the Texas sun teaches you the importance of the shade they provide.

For a few moments I considered grabbing some plastic cable ties and binding myself to the besieged tree in an act of solidarity with that helpless giver of shade. My reverie was interrupted by sudden silence. The silence was quickly followed by a loud crack, the swooshing sound of branches falling, then more quiet.

An ominous quiet.

The kind of quiet that falls when all your electricity goes out. I rushed to the window a second time. Terror seized me as I beheld the sight of a pine tree precariously balanced across the power lines that run along the guilty neighbor's side of the street.

I kicked myself for not grabbing the cable ties when I had my chance, bowed my head in a few moments of silence for the tree, then grabbed my camera and parked myself under the shade of an old apple tree in our front yard. I patted the trunk assuringly, "You have nothing to fear on this side of the street my old friend."

From this perspective, I chronicled the ensuing events.

It wasn't too long before the first of many power and cable company trucks made its appearance. The first power representative seemed to be there just to confirm the fact that there was a tree on the lines, and hear first hand the sordid details of how it came to be there.

He left, and was followed by a brave man with a cherry picker mounted on the back of his utility truck.

The cherry picker guy ceremoniously donned his gear, mounted the bucket, and carefully raised himself to the place where tree and wire met. He cut a few branches, ceremoniously removed his gear, and drove off.

For the next two hours numerous vehicles came...

saw...

and left.

Hours later, the tree was removed and the power restored, leaving me with two lingering lessons: never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line (name that film), and never underestimate the power of a western PA neighbor with a chainsaw in his hand.

Remembering

2010-05-31T00:01:00.001-04:00

"Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others."

Cicero

My Daddy was not a Medal of Honor winner like Audie Murphy, nor the survivor of a North Vietnamese prison camp like Jeremiah Denton. The closest he came to real action in WWII was the night a fleet of warships moved through the Panama canal where he was stationed as an Ensign in the Navy. He said everyone was issued a rifle and told to be at high alert as the big ships silently slid through the locks on their way to a showdown with the Japanese Navy in the Pacific. He was given leave a week or so before the rest of his shipmates because his mother lay dying in his hometown. He walked through the gate just moments after she had joined my Grandfather in eternity.

"A people that values its privileges above its principles soon loses both."

Dwight D. Eisenhower

No, my Daddy did not have medals to show for his service to his country, but he kept the ships repaired and ready for those who did. A simple duty, but a necessary one. He is buried in the Veteran's Cemetery in my hometown, the place to which he moved to marry, start a family, and work to build a future for Mom, my baby sister, and me.

It's important to remember the cost of our freedom. It's important to remember the sacrifice of so many brave men and women throughout our country's history. It's important to remember those who currently serve.

In re-membering, we join them, and stand united with them in purpose and resolve. All of us together.

If we chose not to remember, we fall apart, just like other civilizations before us:

"In the end, more than they wanted freedom, they wanted security. They wanted a comfortable life, and they lost it all -- security, comfort, and freedom. When ... the freedom they wished for was freedom from responsibility, then Athens ceased to be free." Sir Edward Gibbon

"The things that will destroy America are prosperity at any price, peace at any price, safety first instead of duty first, the love of soft living and the get rich quick theory of life." Teddy Roosevelt

Gathering the Glory

2010-05-29T20:15:00.001-04:00

I jumped out of bed and looked toward the window. The view was distorted by partially closed blinds. Something didn't look right. I drew closer and separated the thin slats with my fingers. A heavy fog had descended. I threw on some clothes and grabbed my camera.

What lay beneath the damp and dew?

Tall grass bowing under the weight of tiny water droplets.

The first blush of summer. A beautiful pink rose.

The skeletons of last summer's Queen Anne's lace were closed curiously tight. They had been open in yesterday's sun.

And then something else caught my eye.

Something fragile, something beautiful.

A tiny engineering marvel. A spider web. Adorned with pearls of hydrogen and oxygen in just the right combination to define its symmetry.

And miraculously, one drop, larger than the others, hovered in the middle.

My camera forces me out into the world to discover the unknown, the ignored, the steady streams of glory still radiating from their Creator. Still breathing, still yearning for what was lost in that first garden, and promised in the last.

I yearn with them too.

And in the yearning, in between the now and the not yet, I want to gather as much of the Glory as I can.

Whistle While You Work

2010-05-19T10:31:00.001-04:00

I think I've told you about finding your way in the Frozen North. How people around this particular geographical area never move. How several generations of families all live next door to each other. How difficult it is to break into such a close, small town, closed society.

All the above is the reason street signs are so few and far between (when you've lived somewhere for 17 bajillion generations you don't need no stinkin' street signs.), and driving directions are sketchy at best--"we-e-elll, you go down to the corner by the old tree and make a right. At the first church you turn left. Then keep goin' awhile 'til you come to the corner where the BP used to be and take another left."

I think you get the idea. Even the GPS gal/guy would have trouble finding their way here. And don't get me started about the detours put up in the summer when PennDOT rolls out every crane, roller, jackhammer, cement mixer, grader, ton of asphalt, and construction worker in the state to don orange safety vests, grab a cone or two, dig up every major road, and cause traffic jams from here to Timbuktu. (*deep cleansing breath*, thank you for listening.)

But what I haven't told you about is the BIG SECRET, the real reason directions are so vague and roads are so hard to navigate in the summer. (They don't need roadblocks in the winter, Mother Nature spreads snow and ice for free.)

It's a conspiracy to keep us from finding out what REALLY is hidden in the hills, hollers, and abandoned mine shafts of western PA. Lean in a little closer to the monitor and I'll tell you, but this is highly confidential. If you breathe a word, my Dear Professor and I will have to enter the witness protection program.

The secret is a place, a BIG place, in a HUGE abandoned limestone mine. A place so wrapped in secrecy and security that even Jack Bauer, on a good day, couldn't break into it. A place to which, it is rumored, Vice President Cheney was whisked away during the initial chaos of 9/11. It's called. . . Iron Mountain.

For the last 19 years I have heard rumors of people "working in the mines", doing "highly classified" government work, but that's all anyone would say. It's so classified, when I Googled for driving directions, I was led to the end of a dirt road at the back of a state wildlife preserve in the opposite direction.

How on earth was a common home engineer and former accidental corporate terrorist allowed access to this place? Undercover, attending an employee health fair as the representative of a local physical therapy office. But, believe me, I was vetted. A month before the event, "They" required information--my social security number, maiden name, date of birth, place of birth, blood type, shoe size and name and birthdays of all our children. Okay, I may have exaggerated. A little. "They" didn't ask for my shoe size.

My truck was searched for pirated VHS movies, and I was given a "guest id" that had to be swiped by the guard at the gate on entry and exit. Camera and cellphone were surrendered before gaining access to "the mines", so photographic proof of this event is very limited.

But the intel I garned is HUGE. HUGE, I tell ya.

Are you ready for this? When Disney announces a reissue of beloved films from the Disney Vault, it's coming from an abandoned limestone mine in the wilds of western PA. Who knows what other valuables are kept in that ten mile, underground, climate controlled fortress. Maybe even Unca Walt himself. "Their" lips are sealed.

But beyond all the secrecy, what I found most disturbing was glancing down at my "guest id" late in the day and discovering it was red. . .and inscribed with a big capital "V"!!!!

That, and the thought of Cheney, Snow White, the Seven Dwarves, and Bambi frolicking together underground.

Out of focus

2010-05-18T18:51:00.000-04:00

It's not just me, it's the weather. Yes, my prescription lenses do need an adjustment, but it's more than that. Everything up here in the Frozen North is dripping and has been dripping for too many days. Once upon a time, what seems like an eternity ago, we were enjoying beautiful, sun-kissed days.

Days that were so warm, the tall spring grass was dry enough to mow.

Robins scanned the lawn for nesting twigs and frolicked on the fence.

But that was then. Today we're all wet.

And cold, damp and dreary.

And out of focus.

Spring Cleaning

2010-05-18T15:10:00.001-04:00

Please bear with us as we slap on a new coat of paint and move the furniture around for spring cleaning. A few bits are out of place right now, but that should be fixed shortly.

In the meantime, feel free to take a look at some previous posts. But don't stay too long, or we'll put you to work!

The day after Mother's Day

2010-05-10T03:00:00.001-04:00

I can't tell you how long I've looked for it. Everywhere I've gone I've wondered. Could this be the day I find out? How will I know?

I've taken test after test and each one is inconclusive--they always say something different. But now, finally, I've found it for sure.

And what is IT, you may ask?

My own peculiar gift. My reason for being on this planet. My life's mission.

And this is it. Replacing the toilet paper roll. But how does one come to the conclusion that their life meaning is wrapped on a round tube of cardboard?

Well, there is a lot of reflection involved, and personality tests do help to some degree. But ultimately, good old fashioned perspicuity helps. A lot. Pay attention to the little things you end up doing everywhere you go. Sooner or later the sheer volume of repetition will turn on the old light bulb, figuratively speaking. But then, replacing the light bulb just might be YOUR vocation.

I found mine by realizing no matter where I go, at work, at play, visiting the neigbors, at Walmart--I always end up replacing the toilet paper roll. And so I bow to my cosmic assignment with humility. It is my destiny.

Either that or the toilet paper fairies have it in for me.

Zen Garden, Country Style

2010-04-29T20:35:00.002-04:00

The fruit of fall

2010-04-25T01:25:00.001-04:00

For days they held me prisoner to their fragrance and fragile beauty. The apple blossoms seemed neverending. Friday morning the sunrise revealed their brilliance through the light frost from the night before.

I thought they would last forever.

White and pink against the blue. And the frenzied humming of busy bees.

Night came. The sun rose and brought with it a light rain. As the rain fell, so also the petals.

First one, then another, and then another cascaded to the ground below.

Perfumed clusters of white lay silent..

They shed their beauty upon mud, metal, asphalt, grass. Whatever lay beneath.

A profusion of surrender.

Lending their fragrance to all they touched.

Soon it will all be over, just a memory of spring.

A memory that will live on in the sweet, red fruit of fall.

Lilacs for Laurel

2010-04-20T21:59:00.000-04:00

It was the time of blooms when she came to us. Her name had been waiting for her, victorious one, long before she was born. As she was placed in her Daddy's arms, her cries subsided into quiet contentment.

Her big brother, born in the heat of summer 22 months before, tightly held his blanket and sucked his thumb as he gazed in wonder at her newness.

She would become a lover of kittens, Strawberry Shortcake and the New Kids on the Block. And then, almost overnight, she herself bloomed.

Has it really been 30 years since that day we first held you?

You will always be our victorious one, our beautiful little girl, our joy, our beloved, spreading everywhere His fragrance.

Happy Birthday, Laurel.

"But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of him." 2 Corinthians 2:14

A dream of Texas in the Spring

2010-04-19T15:03:00.000-04:00

Up here in the Frozen North, winter is a defiant child who refuses to go to bed. We had experienced a wonderful 2 weeks of spring weather and a glorious Easter profuse with blossom burdened flowering trees and bushes. And then. . .

Saturday I shivered as the cold rain drizzled, and pulled the covers over my eyes as the snow flurries appeared followed by tiny hailstones.

And then I dreamed. A dream of Texas in the Spring.

Yes, Texas heat in the height of summer can be as tough and unrelenting as the Rangers and cowboys who made the state famous, but in the Spring...

In the Spring we have mild, cool days and beautiful bluebonnets,

indian blanket, paintbrush,

winecups, primrose, prairie verbena.

All in unimaginable profusion.

And the perfume that hangs on the air IS the air. Each Spring, the beauty of the bluebonnets lifts its siren call to young and old, "come, rest, enjoy."

I smile thinking of Texas in the Spring and awake to the visitation of Jack Frost on the windshield, his icy calling card spread out on the lawns and fields. It will vanish with the rising of the noonday sun.

But in Texas, in Texas the bluebonnets fill every creature with awe.

Even the cows.

This is where I want to live

2010-04-08T07:13:00.000-04:00

This is where I want to live.

In a robin egg blue house nestled in the bloom of spring.

With songbirds singing at the cream colored windows and rainbow explosions at my feet.

The air is filled with exotic perfumes of cherry,

and Japanese magnolia,

and daffodil.

A soft carpet of green covers the ground and the skies are endless blue and cotton white.

It's a place where warm, orange sunsets bathe the horizon,

roads are lined with flowering trees

and forest ponds are magical.

There is no winter here,

nor weeds, nor allergies.

This is where I want to live.

I almost missed it

2010-03-21T03:20:00.001-04:00

I almost missed it. My mind was focused on the numbing routine of leaving for work and returning home, and I almost missed it. And so, when I finally found camera in hand and light in the sky, I was relieved to see it still there.

Each of the last 19 springs it has been there. The snowdrops. The first bloom of spring. To the side of my neighbor's steps, a few years after her steps have gone, they live on.

They rise from warmed earth and dead leaves, drawing their color from melting snow and emerging life. They make me smile.

Fragile drops of green and white make me smile. And know for certain that "now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun."

And these tiny blooms.

Definitely the Patent Leathers

2010-03-17T00:32:00.000-04:00

As a child she would sift the newspapers for the comic pages and hunker down in front of the radio to hear an announcer read the funnies. It was her favorite part of Sundays, along with her Daddy's from scratch pancakes with lots of margarine and syrup, and a milk chaser.

That love of colored images held her imagination into her elementary school years. She could now read the words herself, and she envied the neighbor boy, an only child, whose parents were wealthy enough to afford a subscription to the Walt Disney comic books. She would lovingly read the volumes at his house and think how privileged he was.

One strip in particular caught her eye, "The Adventures of Mary Jane and Sniffles." Mary Jane had long blond hair, and wore a red and white smock accessorized by shiny, buckled, black patent leathers. The black patent leathers may have been another character's, but for certain, Sniffles was her little mouse friend. Mary Jane would utter the incantation, "Magic words of poof poof piffles, make me just as small as Sniffles." and be transformed instantly to a mouse size version of herself. Various events of peril and hilarity naturally ensued, all ending with Mary Jane resuming her normal stature.

Whether it was the shoes, the blond hair, or the outlandish adventures that drew her to that particular comic, she did not know, until one fateful evening, sixty or so years later, as she prepared dinner with her signature finishing touch...cheese.

"Cheese, glorious cheese, " she sang to herself, her mouth watering in anticipation of the creamy dairy goodness. And then her mind was flooded with memories--the shoes, the hair, the MOUSE!. She was startled by the sudden rush of images so long ago forgotten.

And then she pondered.

Why this fascination with cheese? Had she identified at an impressionable age with a rodent? The relationship of the tiny mouse with the beautiful golden girl in the shiny, black, patent leathers certainly knew complications. It was interspecie, cross cultural, bizarre. Did the comic writers intend to foister the belief that to be a mouse was better than to be a little human?

Too many questions, the cheese was getting cold. "No", she spoke aloud to herself, "it was the blond hair...the red dress..."

Definitely the patent leathers. Definitely.

In the Shadow of Mordor

2010-03-15T23:27:00.000-04:00

In the shadow of Mordor, there is a wall between two houses. In the middle of the wall is a door. For a time it has been shut and barred against the cold. Frozen in winter chill. Admitting no one.

But the time is changing.

A river of blue runs through the clouds. The faint green smell of growing things hangs in the morning mist like a dream before waking. The earth heaves with the rhythms of temperature and light..

And life.

Hush! Can you hear? The turn of brass, the sigh of hinge. Could it be the door opens...

hesitantly, ever so slightly?

Could it be Spring lies just beyond?

First, an apology...then a celebration

2010-02-27T15:38:00.001-05:00

After a long, exhausting day for both of us, my Dear Professor and I retired early. So early, in fact, that we missed the stranded motorist who came calling for help. I don't know when their car broke down in front of our field. I only know that this morning at 7am, as my Dear Professor was leaving for a breakfast meeting, we found tracks in the knee deep snow, leading up to the front porch...

and this.

I approached the car to see if the driver was still there, but they were gone, leaving this note on the windshield for the state trooper.

And so, whomever you may be, we offer our profound apology, and hope you didn't have to go too far to find help.

Last weekend I drove down to North Carolina to celebrate Bee's 4th birthday and have some quality time with the Sprittles. I was told by Beautiful Mommy that Bee took approximately 45 minutes to make up her mind on what theme the party would have. She finally decided on a princess theme for the second year in a row. While Beautiful Mommy and The Preacher were decorating and wrapping gifts, I kept the honoree and her attendants busy upstairs until the formal announcement that they could come down.

Our Princess thoroughly enjoyed her bippity boppity boo birthday cake,

and the love and admiration of all present, including her big bro Boo.

Baby Blues enjoyed trying to get a hold of Mommo's camera.

After the festivities were over, we were treated to a fashion show. Bee has a very sophisticated style as you can see in her choice of Land's End bathing suit, Dora the Explorer garden gloves, and Hawaiian flower sunglasses.

But my favorite part was directing her in a short film.

Grandchildren are the best!

Spicking Picksburgese

2010-02-18T03:38:00.000-05:00

Prior to moving to the Frozen North, I assumed all yankees spoke with the same sharp accent, except of course for New Englanders, who are a group unto themselves, ye-yah.

I was wrong.

We have had the good fortune to sample the unique peculiarities of speech that define central New York and western Pennsylvania. Let me give you a simple example:

First person plural pronoun: Texan = y'all, New Yorkan = youse guys, Pennsylvanian = y'uns.

The first New Yorkan "youse guys" I ever heard was from the tooth challenged lips of a subway motorman. My first experience with the Pennsylvanian version was from a waitress in a restaurant. It took me a little bit to understand what the waitress was talking about.

Pennsylvania has both Texas and New York beat when it comes to renaming the days of the week:

1. Stillerday -- any day the Picksburg Stillers are playing football. This day is distinguished from the others by the wearing of special clothing with numbers and names of Hawaiian people on the back and the menacing waving of yellow and black bath towels.

2. Walmartday -- also accompanied by ceremonial garb, usually involving sweatpants.

3. Roadconstructionday -- can be up to 3 months long in the summer--and you thought Alaska had the longest days!

4. Turkeyday (not to be confused with Turkey Day in November or Turkey season in the fall).

5. Deerday

6. Snowday -- which has seemed to come around in rapid succession this winter. Snowdays dictate a two hour delay to the start of school or, on rare occasions, actual school and business closings.

(road in front of Iron Acres one recent snowday)

7. Hoe-icicleday. Hoe-icicleday is extremely important if you own a business and have minimal liability coverage. Temperature fluctuations can create some incredibly long and jagged spears on roof edges, the stuff of Stephen King's dreams.

Down the road a little way from our neck of western Pennsylvania is the metropolis of Picksburg. Picksburg has a vocabulary all its own.

For example: I went donton (downtown) tuh (to) watch thuh (the) Stillers (Steelers) game.
or -- I wuz (was) expectin' (expecting) company so I went don cellur (down into the basement) to red up (make the basement ready) thuh (the) place.

I could go on, but I think you get the pitcher.

Family Portraits

2010-02-17T12:22:00.000-05:00

Our move to the Frozen North had many happy consequences, one in particular being the necessity of photographically chronicling the lives of our children for the grandparents back in Texas. We have a slew (that's Texan for a big bunch) of family portraits over the years, from professional to, ahem, less professional.

My Dad taught me early in life the joys of using a timer with your camera. It provides such wonderful informal family shots. Plus, you eliminate the trauma and chaos involved with getting young children dressed up and driving halfway around the country to the portrait studio, where you wait for what seems like hours as you attempt to keep the children 1)humored, 2)unwrinkled, 3)busy, and 4)fed.

It's just so much easier to pop it on the kids as you fall out of the car in your church clothes on Sunday, "Hey, why don't we get some pictures before lunch"?

We did this only once, with the following result. I think it is my favorite family picture.

Considering I wasn't sure I was going to be in the frame, I think mine looked pretty good. My Dear Professor had other things on his mind, like eating lunch. Major lesson for this photographer: fuller stomachs = better attitudes, especially important for the men in the picture.

Principessa always takes good pictures, in this case I think she was daydreaming of the New Kids on the Block.

The Preacher, our firstborn, managed to shine even with a haircut given by his Mom.

But for the life of me, I will never understand what was going through The Dreamer's mind.

It was then I knew he really loved me

2010-02-14T00:01:00.062-05:00

He grew up in the hot south Texas sun. Jeans and books were all he ever wanted for Christmas. And a Willy Mays autographed baseball. Summers found him digging post holes in the hard caleche and stringing barbed wire. The air felt like the inside of an oven. His only relief was the shade of a pickup truck. It was in that shade that he had his epiphany one scorching Texas summer day, dust in his lungs and sweat trickling into his eyes.

He would get a college degree so he could earn a living with his mind instead of his hands.

His Daddy went along with the idea, taking the risk all Daddies do--that their sons will return home once the dream loses its glow. But the dream shone brighter in the lights and excitement of the big city. Daddy would have to be satisfied that he came back for holidays and family events. One man's dream burned up in the kindling of another's.

When I met him, he was practicing law as a trial attorney in Houston. His hands were smooth, and his mind was brilliant. I think I fell in love with his mind first. His closet was filled with suits, and one pair of jeans he used for jogging in the humid Houston weather.

We got married, which made both of our parents happy, and started our journey through life together. We bought a house, I went back to finish college, and we had 2 children, first a boy, and then a girl 22 months later. Three or four times a year we would drive back down to south Texas to visit his family. Seven years into our life together, he had another epiphany.

He would go back to college for a PhD so he could earn his living by teaching instead of pleading cases.

We moved north, crossing first the Red River, and then the Mason Dixon Line on our way to New York. Our luggage bore the extra weight of a newfangled home computer. The next summer we had our third child. Our "little yankee."

We acclimated ourselves to snow and cold, and I typed the endless drafts and edits of his dissertation. During those seven years I had an epiphany.

I would live in the country and have the horse of my dreams.

He graduated and we moved southwesterly into Pennsylvania, to a little farm not too far from town and the college where he would teach.

One sticky, hot June day in western Pennsylvania he donned his old jeans, a worn dress shirt, and a pair of work gloves to gather hay from our field. The next week he spent with some hired hands digging post holes and stringing wire to fence in the new horse.

He had laid down his post hole digger in Texas only to take it up again in Pennsylvania.

For me.

It was then I knew he really loved me.

"Through the years as the fire starts to mellow
Burning lines through the book of our lives
Though the binding cracks, and the pages start to yellow
I'll be in love with you
I'll be in love with you" Dan Fogelberg, "Longer"

Passing on the love...

2010-02-05T03:43:00.003-05:00

A few days short of a year ago I began my foray into blogging. I have not looked back (except to weed out some of my beginning posts that didn't age well!) In the early days I would check the stats daily to see if anyone was (tap!tap!) out there. But that's not really why I put fingers to keyboard. I do hope to share some encouragement and laughter with the world, but I also want to record memories for my family. (while I can still remember them!)

My dear friend and gifted blogger, Jezamama, has generously chosen Iron Acres for two awards (blush!)-- Superior Scribbler and Beautiful Blogger. With those awards go certain responsibilities. The fun part is sharing with you some of my favorite blogs. (I would list Jez's blog in both categories, but someone else did it already.)

Superior Scribblers:
1. Must link to the author and the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
2. Must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.
3. Must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!
4. Must post these rules on his/her blog.
5. Must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.(the fun part!)

My five nominees for Superior Scribbler are:
A Picure a Day and Chronicles of a Country Girl--Kate has an eye for using textures, her photography is beautiful, and you will find yourself addicted to a daily dose of George!

Crepes of Wrath-- You'll visit for the name and stay for the recipes and gorgeous pictures. Sydney is a young thing, just recently married. She gives me hope for her generation.

Sprinkles--I met L last summer. She hails from New York and has been chronicling her life in Texas online since 2004. L has an incredible sense of humor and we share a love of old movies. And she sort of likes Barry Manilow. (read, "is his numero uno fan!")

BlogU--Annie offers wisdom in navigating the treacherous waters of html. She is generous with her knowledge, and able to explain the wizardry of widgets and templates in terms this newbie can understand.

A Holy Experience -- Ann Voskamp weaves the everyday experiences of a farmer's wife and homeschool mom in words of beauty and significance. She has a profound gift for seeing eternity in the ordinary and sharing Truth.

Beautiful Blogger:
1. Thank the person who nominated you for this award. (Thank you, Jezamama!)
2. Copy the award and place it on your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you for this award.
4. Tell us 7 interesting things about yourself.

--My Dad was an amateur magician, and I helped out as his assistant a few times. (sans spandex and fishnet hose)

--I was an early member of a Christian drama group that performed at the Alley Theatre in Houston.

--I wrote, recorded, and performed songs as part of a Christian singing group in the 70s.

--I enjoy making soap, cheese, and bread. From scratch. With fresh goat milk!

--I can carry on a conversation using song titles alone. It's a curse.

--During my "Russian" period I read every novel and short story written by Leo Tolstoy. I do love me some Leo Tolstoy.

--I play a mean guitar and wail on the drums in Rock Band 2. Just ask Unca Dave, the ultimate gamer. It's the only video game I can best him at, at least for now. (love ya, Unca Dave!)

5. Nominate 7 bloggers.
6. Post links to the 7 blogs nominated.

Meme'sCorner--Meme is an 80something "beginner" blogger with more awards than you can shake a stick at. Her posts are a wonderful window into both today and yesterday.

The French Factrice --vintage postcards and blog buttons, oh my!

Faith Barista-- "because some days you need a double shot of faith!"

Lemon Verbena Lady --whether you pronounce it with or without the "h", this herb's for you.

My Square Foot Garden--fun and informative for gardening in small spaces.

Quiet Life--Donna writes about her family, her faith, and photography. My three loves as well.

White Linen-- beautiful pictures and beautiful music. *sigh*

I hope I did ya proud, Jezamana! And thank you again for your encouragement. Hugs.

How We Spent Our Christmas Vacation (for Aunt Mellie)

2010-02-05T00:00:00.006-05:00

In our family, you know you've arrived when you end up on Aunt Mellie's email list. She is one plugged-in, techno savvy, tree swinging, deep sea fishing, 80something lady. I wish we lived closer so we could visit more often.

Aunt Mellie expressed some interest in more Sprittle pictures from Christmas. I chronicled a little about our family fun here. But one can NEVER have too many Spritlepics! (Proceed at your own risk.)

Our wee one, Baby Blues, celebrated his first birthday December 26th.

A second after that picture was taken, he was down on the floor threatening to demolish the Lego pirate ship of which his older brother, Boo, was so proud. (That's his first mate, Bee, celebrating with him. I think Dad was taking a nap after helping with the construction. The contents listed more pieces than there are dollar signs in the current US debt!)

Everyone participated in our first annual cookie decorating contest, Bee,

Boo,

and Baby Blues, who may not have had the fine motor skills to decorate, but was more than happy to help "clean up."

We had some fun time outside in the milder North Carolina weather,

an impromptu rock band session with Unca Dave and Bee sharing the drum solo, (I haven't a clue who that old lady is with the gray hair. Oh, wait--that's me!)

and Baby Blues' stirring rendition of "Jingle Bells."

And that's how we spent our Christmas vacation!

(Pictures and iPhone courtesy of Aunt Weezer. Mommo was too busy having fun with the Sprittles to take pictures!)

My Dear Professor's Birthday Cake

2010-01-28T01:51:00.000-05:00

My Dear Professor's favorite cake is called Cake in the Pan. Don't ask me where the name came from. All I know is that a certain new bride accepted the "from scratch" recipe almost as solemnly as she uttered her wedding vows. It took me at least 10 years to master the secret of the icing--I think I copied the amount of milk down wrong!

It is a very rich combination of chocolate cake with chocolate fudge icing. The secret to its gooey deliciousness is to pour the topping over the warm cake just before the fudge begins to harden.

Here's the recipe:

MeMom's Cake in a Pan

Cake
2 1/2 c sugar
1 c shortening
1/4 tsp salt
2 eggs
2 tsp soda
1 tsp vanilla
2 1/2 c flour
1/3 c cocoa
1 c buttermilk
1 c boiling water.

Cream shortening with sugar, salt, eggs, soda. Add
cocoa. Add remaing ingredients, mixing in boling water
last. Pour into 9x13 inch pan and bake at 325*F for 45
minutes to an hour. (test by sticking a toothpick in the
middle. If the toothpick comes out clean, it is done.)

Icing
1/4 c cocoa
2 c sugar
2/3 c milk
1/2 c butter
1/4 tsp salt
tsp butter flavored vanilla

Melt butter in a saucepan on medium heat. Add sugar.
cocoa, salt. Add milk (I have used 1/4c to 1/3c
buttermilk or evaporated milk) Bring to a boil, stirring
constantly. Boil gently 2 minutes, or until it begins to
thicken. Remove from heat and beat in the vanilla.
Pour over warm cake.

I have used olive oil as the shortening, but if you want the full heart stopping, artery clogging effect, use butter instead. Need I even say there is no substitute for butter in the icing?

The ultimate flourish, of course, would be a dollop of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream on the side, but that will have to wait until we're down in Texas next summer.

Happy Birthday, Darlin'.

Leaning into Light

2010-01-24T00:01:00.007-05:00

I noticed it early this evening. The fading sunlight lingered on the horizon just a moment. The dark of night held its breath a second longer.

Before Christmas we were leaning into the dark. Now we, all of us, are leaning into the light. Our spinning blue orb's axis is tilting toward the sun.

Toward the sun and away from the darkness. Toward the spring and away from the winter.

Toward the Truth and away from the Lie.

I heard in Addison's Walk a bird sing clear
This year the summer will come true this year, this year
Winds will not strip the blossom from the apple trees this year,
nor want of rain destroy the peas
This year time's nature will no more defeat you
nor all its promised moments in their passing cheat you
This time they will not lead you round and back
to Autumn one year older by the well worn track
This year, this year, as all these flowers foretell
we shall escape the circle and undo the spell
Often deceived yet open once again your heart

quick, quick, quick, quick,
the gates are drawn apart.

CS Lewis, "What the Bird Said Early in the Year"

Caught Up

2010-01-22T00:01:00.002-05:00

(written October, 2009)

The leaves are falling as he takes his leave...our Wanderer, our Dreamer. The youngest of three, off to seek his fortune and future in the big city. His mother is conflicted...happy to see him go, sad to say goodbye. She holds her breath and her tears behind a smile, a wave.

An ending and a beginning.

The house seems quieter. Still. Her heart feels empty...and full. Her prayers are passionate. "Protect him", "Hold him", "Help him find his way."

A mother's hopes dash on the bow as he disappears from her sight. The launch is painful, but necessary.

We cannot control our children's futures. That is between them, their choices, and the God who pursues their hearts as He pursues ours. We can only love them and let them go.

May our wanderer choose well. . .and stop wandering long enough to be caught up in his Creator's everlasting arms.

The Frozen North

2010-01-21T22:35:00.000-05:00

This is why I call the particular area of the country in which we currently reside the Frozen North. While our friends and family in the sunny southwest (Texas!) are enjoying temps in the 60s and 70s, this is what we are experiencing at Iron Acres.

After a few days of moderate temperatures (20-40 degrees F) referred to as the annual January thaw, and a day of blinding sunshine, the snow seems to be receding.

But this can still be found on my car in the morning,

or on the ground bordering our driveway,

along the highway at high noon,

or on the roof of a neighbor's house,

a church,

or in the local park.

(That mound in the middle hides a fountain.)

Yes, I realize that there are places more northerly and frigid than western PA, but for a body born and raised in Houston, Texas, this is as cold as I ever want to get.

Anyone for popsicles?

From the hidden...the edge...the tear...

2010-01-18T11:34:00.000-05:00

In silence and solitude it waits. . .there in the dark, in the hidden.

Time is an endless burden that grows heavier.

Longing and despair meet. Nothing.

Then, almost imperceptibly, a small tearing along the edges.

Something that can wait no more pushes toward the light.

As it pushes, the tear grows.

Color appears. Then more waiting.

The color grows, a form begins to take shape.

A glimpse of what is to come.

The waiting is over.

Beauty emerges from the hidden...the dark... the longing... the despair...the edges...the tear.

With a full heart I offer my thanks to God for

54. the waiting alone in the dark
55. the tearing along the edges
56. the painful pushing
57. the form that appears
58. the beauty that is revealed
59. the Christmas cactus that blooms in the dark of winter
60. contemplation
61. His strength in my weakness
62. unexpected gifts
63. unexpected joy
64. hidden life
65. simple things

Gratitude Journal: #41-53

2010-01-11T15:45:00.003-05:00

I try to journal regularly, emphasis on the word try. I am not always successful. There are large gaps in time. But the words that do make it to paper are treasured. Snapshots of who I was, who I am becoming.

Reminders of God's grace.

Notes from books I've read. Words that transform my thinking and my heart...

and bridge the gaps to where I am now. Encouragers. I am grateful for

#41
time spent journaling,

#42
thoughts of God and God life,

#43
still being able to read my writing, most of the time!

#44
the sustenance of life giving words from wise men and women in books,

"to grow in grace means to utilize more and more grace to live by until everything we do is assisted by grace." Dallas Willard

#45
and in blogs: Jezamama, Ann

#46
a beautiful sampler stitched by the prayerful and loving hands of a friend,

#47
searching for truth with my Dear Professor in late night conversations,

#48
a Father God who actively seeks my heart, even when I hide in distraction,

#49
the camera lens that urges me to see God's beauty in hidden places,

#50
a shoveled sidewalk,

#51
a cold morning with an ice free windshield,

#52
snow that blankets the bare ground with white brilliance,

#53
the promise of life in the silence of winter.

I look forward to chronicling God's one thousand gifts (and more!) in this new year. Number them with me and others here.

The Mystery of the Missing Toilet Paper, with apologies to Jezamama

2010-01-11T00:01:00.005-05:00

When I was in 4th grade, the prevailing achievement, at least for us girls, was to read every volume in the Nancy Drew mystery series. I thrilled at each adventure that found Nancy at the mercy of a riddle, from The Secret of the Old Clock(the very first book) to The Clue in the Old Stagecoach.(the last one I read, not the last of the series.)

There were more, and all sorts of contemporary spin offs, but I loved the old dust jacketed blue books about a fearless young girl whose curiosity and concern led her through danger and dilemma to success and solution. All done without a hint of impropriety.

And so, when my dear friend Jezamama recently posted about the mysterious disappearance of a rather large quantity of toilet paper, I dusted off my old Nancy Drew magnifying glass, hopped in our blue Taurus (sadly, they no longer make roadsters) and was on the case.

Imagine my surprise and chagrin when I finally located the perp. Actually, I stumbled upon it quite accidentally. We were in North Carolina celebrating Christmas with our family and the Sprittles when I cast my glance upon the stairs where I espied this:

We immediately rounded up all the usual suspects. Baby Blues (aka Colonel Mustard) was the first to be excused. How could HE do anything that heinous? Just look at those baby blues, that dirty face, that soulful stare...

Next, we questioned Boo, but he had an alibi. He had been sitting at the kitchen table with me, eating Christmas cookies.

Boo does love his Christmas cookies!

That led us to (dun dun duh!) the real culprit, Bee. Under the weight of all 16 layers of Lipsmackers, her mouth struggled to deny the deed. And she asked for her lawyer.

But the evidence was overwhelming. Besides, only a guilty 3 year old asks for a lawyer.

And it was HER doll. Her fingerprints were all over the crime scene.

So this grandmother offers her apologies to Jezamama for the missing toilet paper.

And a Scott tissue coupon or two.

I can't help but feel that somewhere, in River Heights, an aging, octogenarian girl sleuth is smiling. Happy 80th, Nancy!

Never Wear White

2010-01-09T11:35:00.000-05:00

There is an old rule handed down through generations.

A rule unquestioningly obeyed by those who fear the wrath of fashion mavens.

Never wear white after Labor Day.

But, no one told the clouds

or the frozen streams of January.

No one told the snowflakes

or the hay bales, lonely and forgotten in the field

No one told the roads

or the trees

Which leads me to believe...

that perhaps there are some rules...

some silly, man made rules...

that are made to be broken...

At least by God.

Thirty-four Years On

2009-12-20T02:31:00.001-05:00

At one point, he told me he felt like a yo-yo. I had stopped, then resumed, then stopped, then resumed dating him 2 or 3 times. I think he asked me to marry him just to get it over with.

I made him wait 3 days for my answer while I consulted the urim and thumim (according to ancient Hebrew theology), fasted, prayed, and ran through every conceivable reason why I shouldn't say yes.

I think it was his patience in waiting that finally won me over.

And so, much to the delight of our parents and friends, and in spite of having second thoughts the night before ("are you out of your mind? You don't really know this man!"), my Dear Professor and I found ourselves standing in front of the altar of Houston's First Baptist Church on December 20, 1975, me in my mother's wedding dress, he in a rented black tux, saying "wherever you go, I shall go" and pledging our troth for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. Inside his wedding band I had the jeweler inscribe Hosea 2:19-20. Some friends sang the words in a song I had composed for another's wedding 2 years before, "I betroth thee unto me forever, in loving kindness forever."

Writing that song had made me aware of an ache inside, an ache to be known and loved deeply. And now, standing in that place I had known all my life, I cried . . . for the beauty, the joy, the holiness of that moment.

Yes, in these 34 years together there have been other moments I am not proud of. Moments of selfishness, anger, hurt, missing each other. I think a good marriage is like a good pair of jeans. It takes the wear and tear of everyday life and laundering to make them soft, comfortable, and fit.

And lots of talking. "Keep talking, from the talking comes the love."

And Jesus. He is the source of love that can overcome our selfishness and brokenness. I don't know how other couples manage without Him at the center, drawing their hearts to Him and through Him into the other.

I almost gave up on him. When our children were young and he was preoccupied with his career, I decided one day I had had enough. I'd take the kids and move back in with my parents until I had sorted out my life. The next thought sobered me up--it wouldn't work, my parents would send me right back to him!

I'm glad I didn't listen to the voice of anger that day. I'm glad we stuck together through the difficult times. What we have now is worth it all.

If I had it all to do over again . . . I wouldn't make him wait 3 days.

Happy Anniversary, my Truth Seeker, my Atticus Finch, my Braveheart, my Darcy, my Dearest Professor.

"Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!''

Robert Browning

A light frost and full heart

2009-12-19T14:03:00.001-05:00

We awoke Thursday morning to a light frost after a very cold night. It takes longer to get going on cold mornings--from the exercise of will to abandon warm covers to the piling on of coat and scarf and glove. Then, finally, the scraping of ice off the windshield.

As I walked around the front of my vehicle I paused just short of the driver side door and held my breath.

The frost had left a perfect present on my windshield. I grabbed my camera instead of the ice scrapper.

Such an extravagant array of beauty. Can you see the tiny florets?

Normally the snowflakes are so dense I carelessly sweep them away, unaware of the beauty, the intricate patterns I am wasting. They ARE unique! Each one bearing a distinct image stamped by temperature, altitude, the hand of their Creator.

On my left, the new day's sun peeked from behind branches and window frost.

On my right, a tiny snowflake played hide and seek amongst the ice fractrals. Do you see it?

"Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." Henry David Thoreau

And sometimes, sometimes it can be found on our windshield.

Where there is dark, light!

2009-11-30T01:52:00.005-05:00

As we begin the journey into the darkest part of the year, I find myself recounting the flashes of light over the last 11 months...

31. Last January's snow,

32. Spring in all her glory,

33. The Texas sun beating down on a day of fun with Principessa and her friend Ashley,

34. Time spent with family in Texas,

35. A birthday tour of Texas wine country with my sister iPodite,

36. Sunrise over a North Carolina beach shared with our Sprittles,

37. The late summer sky,

38. A still pool and late summer's flowers,

39. The quiet of a beloved retreating place,

40. A glorious moon at daybreak.

For these glimpses of light and life, and more, I am grateful.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned. Isaiah 9:2 (NIV)

Won't you join me as I join others in the impossible--the recounting of those "countless gifts of love" at the gratitude community?

Christmas Crazy

2009-11-28T11:53:00.002-05:00

We always knew when Mom was getting in the Christmas spirit. She had a phrase she would use, always spoken with joy and anticipation. And a smile.

"My yingles are yingling!"

We don't know where it came from (Mom was a dyed in the wool Southern Baptist teetotaler which means she knew nothing about the Yeungling beer that is so popular with local college students in the Frozen North), but that phrase has become a tradition among the women in our family, a code to indicate we are shifting into Christmas overdrive. Our dear Principessa sent me an email the day before Thanksgiving with the title, "yingles", and an included picture of her little Christmas tree all decorated and ready for the season.

The "yingles" kick all other sorts of family traditions into motion--decorating, shopping for gifts, serious baking of goodies. Sometimes they also initiate a little craziness. This was the year for crazy.

Let me explain something important here. I hate shopping. I'd rather have a root canal without benefit of anesthetic than go shopping. I also hate crowds. I'm a closet hermit. Given that, what on earth would cause a normally sane person to jump into the Black Friday madness? I blame it on Principessa. She spotted an Old Navy ad for a free Lego Rock Band game for early shoppers who spent at least $20.

I have already chronicled my introduction to Rock Band here, and my love of gadgets here, so need I say more? Fortunately, my local Old Navy opened at 10pm Thanksgiving night. Principessa's opened at 3am Friday morning. I think I got a better deal.

I showed up at the mall at 8:30pm after having tucked my Dear Professor at the computer with the Texas-A&M football game blaring. As I sat in the my car in the dark, intent on each move toward the door, I kept asking myself the same questions over and over, "Are you CRAZY?????????" "What on EARTH are you doing here??"

At 9pm a few started lining up at the door and I grudgingly left the comfort of the car to take my place. I stood there in line with about a dozen people and listened to stories about bugs and cars and other shopping deals. I continued my internal mantra as I shuffled to keep warm. "I am NOT crazy! I am NOT crazy!!"

At 9:45pm a brave employee appeared bearing paper bracelets to claim the prize. The door opened promptly at 10pm, and we politely marched in. After 30 minutes inside the store, I emerged with some much needed clothing gifts for our youngest son, The Dreamer, the desire to get home and warm as quickly as possible, and a Lego Rock Band game. Last night Principessa and I enjoyed playing a couple of songs together via cell phone. Technology CAN help us reach out and touch.

But there were a few brief moments before the door opened late Thursday night that I wanted to turn to my fellow crazies in line and say, "I know where we can all get a free gift, any time of the year, and no standing in line or purchase is necessary. It's a really expensive gift. Free. It lasts forever, no batteries required, and never needs an upgrade."

"It's the gift of eternal life from God our Father through Jesus Christ His Son."

I wish I had. Now THAT would have been a real Christmas gift worth standing in line for.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2009-11-26T07:11:00.001-05:00

Gratitude Attitude

2009-11-02T00:01:00.054-05:00

Today's entry is a marked departure from the last. But then, life is full of surprises and complexity. If you're at all curious, come join me at 91-1 for an explanation of the above photo.

Rifles and hunters and deer, oh my!

2009-10-24T10:34:00.000-04:00

"The frost is on the pumpkin

the goose is getting fat.

Please put a penny in an old man's hat."

Don't you just love fall? It ushers in a jumble of family holidays: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Deer Season...

In this part of the Frozen North, Deer Season is a serious enough holiday that it rates a day off from school. That's because nothing spells family time like hunkering down together in the early morning cold and damp, clutching your high powered deer assault weapon and waiting for the first sign of Bambi's mom. Ahhhh, the smell of gunpowder...

Last year I actually purchased a deer license. Of course, nothing ever came of it because I don't have a rifle or a clue what to do with Bambi's mom after she lays lifeless at my feet. I just wanted to experience the thrill of looking through the Hunting and Trapping Digest with my fellow citizens.

If you are proficient in all sorts of weaponry you could probably hunt for something year round. People in the Frozen North take their right to bear arms seriously. That, and glow in the dark orange vests. (they're not just for construction workers anymore!)

Since we have fields around Iron Acres, I am well acquainted with hunters. A neighbor down the road once told me she caught one leaning against the backside of her house getting reading to pull the trigger on the deer that come to her backyard feeder. I take a certain delight in imagining her chasing off Rambo with her kitchen broom!

I understand the problem with deer overpopulation in Pennsylvania--they make messy speed bumps. I also understand the desire to take care of your family by putting some meat in the freezer.

What I don't like is being awakened in the wee hours of a fall morning by the sound of rapid gunfire close by, wondering if some overzealous newbie wielding a shiny, new, high-powered rifle whose potential trajectory can cover several miles has mistaken my geese, dog, or house for a deer!

Farm Memories: Drunk and Giving Birth

2009-10-22T13:38:00.001-04:00

The leaves are falling, the sun is setting sooner, the cold is settling in blankets of morning fog here in the Frozen North. The long winter nights give rise to memories of days gone by...

It was almost midnight and I was in the barn alone with my first goat about to give birth. Uh, let me make that perfectly clear. The goat was giving birth, not me.

I was well acquainted with the process firsthand from a human standpoint, having borne three children of my own "naturally". One would think that after the first time I would have insisted on heavy duty drugs and lots of them, but no-o-o-o, this was the seventies, gosh darn it, and the natural way was better for my babies. Thank you for listening...now where was I? Oh yes, the goat, not me, was about to give birth.

It was both thrilling and humbling that this particular goat, the herd queen, seemed to desire my presence. She was still hours from the event, but experiencing some discomfort and that wisdom of what is to come that animals are gifted with, when I heard a loud rustling sound out in the pasture.

Was it a pack of coyotes waiting to devour the helpless animal babies about to be born? I scanned the stall for something to use as a weapon to defend both doe and kid, but the ever present manure shovel was nowhere to be found. As my eyes stared into the blackness I began to see a human form. A male human form. My concern for the goat's safety shifted to concern for my own. (Where WAS that manure shovel?)

About twenty feet away from the maternity stall, a confused individual appeared from the middle of the fenced pasture, weaving toward the fenceline. He saw me in the light of the barn and asked, "Is this thing on?" (refering to the electric fence which at that moment just happened to be turned off.) I found myself wishing I could say, "Yes it is, and if you touch it both you and your unborn children and grandchildren will feel it." But all I managed was a startled "No", and watched him struggle through the wires and stumble on his way toward the road.

I drew a deep breath and turned my attention back to the mom to be. Marie bore twin kids that night without complication, and I became a genuine goat midwife.

But 17 years later, the question still remains. Where did our inebriated visitor come from? And where was he going? Behind the pasture was acres of woods, beyond the fence was a lonely country road.

I suppose that is just one of the "perks" of living in the country. One never knows who is going to stop by.

Another is horses running wild on the road, but that's a story for another day.

The Road to Winter

2009-10-10T11:12:00.001-04:00

The road to winter is paved with ripening cornfields...

foggy mornings...

beautiful sunrises...

chameleon leaves shedding summer's green.

The road to winter is paved with brilliant trees...

brooding skies...

red rose hips...

and leaf strewn streams.

The road to winter leads to home, cozy winter fires, warm family gatherings and time to dream...

Goodnight Moon

2009-10-08T02:04:00.000-04:00

The day began with a pale moon skirted by pink clouds...

... and a shy sunrise.

Down the road, a neighbor's ripening soybean field was changing colors along with the leaves.

The sun and blue sky was a welcome change from the typical gray of fall.

Yes, it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood. And the day's beauty continued with the lengthening shadows across the corn field.

And the setting sun...

...made way for the harvest moon.

Goodnight sky, goodnight leaves, goodnight soybeans, goodnight field, goodnight corn, goodnight farm, goodnight moon.

Saturday Sillies: Locust Theatre Presents -- The Princess Bride

2009-10-03T13:23:00.004-04:00

Thank you Rob Reiner and William Goldman for one of my favorite movies. Please forgive me for the liberties I am about to take with it...

Locust Theatre Presents "The Princess Bride"

"Has it got any sports in it?"

"Farm boy, get me that pitcher!"
"As you wish"

“Do you want me to send you back to where you were... unemployed... in GREENLAND?!”

“INCONCEIVABLE!”
“You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never to get involved in a land war in Asia. And only slightly less well known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!”

“Mawwage is what bwings us togwether today....”

"My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!!"

There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C. ... (before then couples hooked thumbs.) And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to great controversy...Well, this one left them all behind.

Gathering

2009-09-19T17:18:00.000-04:00

The cooler weather that signals fall's approach brought billows of fog to Iron Acres yesterday morning. The dew on this cobweb testifies that fall's friend, winter, will not be far behind.

On the way home from work, I spied busy farmers mowing fields and gathering in the last cutting of hay.

A neighbor's farm is experiencing an explosion in the poultry population. Mother hens are gathering their newly hatched chicks underneath them in barn and barnyard.

Honeybees and bumble bees are buzzing 'round the goldenrod, gathering nectar and pollen for winter food.

All too soon the blue sky will be robed in winter gray.

So I too am gathering...memories of precious Sprittles on sunny beaches, brilliant butterflies on flowering Texas sage, summer warmth and green, family times together. I'm wrapping them all in lavender wands to pull out on the bleak days ahead to remind me... of the spring to come.

Letting Go

2009-09-17T14:33:00.005-04:00

I will admit to being a pack rat, a habit I'm trying to change.

Stuff binds us.

Although I know there is more peace, more freedom with less, I still have a problem letting go, learning that it's the memory, not the thing itself, that is worth holding onto.

This was my ancestral home in Texas, a picture taken by my Dad, an amateur photographer, the year of the great snow in Houston (his shadow is in the bottom center of the photo.) It is the house Mom and Dad built as newlyweds, the home they held onto when times were hard, the place where they raised two independent, "cotton pickin' brats", (as Dad lovingly referred to my younger sister and myself) their shelter as they grew old together.

The garage in whose darkroom corner I watched pictures appear magically on photo paper is no longer there, a victim of a tree thrown by Ike's raging winds. Only a beaten, cracked concrete slab bears testimony that it once existed.

That, and my memory.

In the house, the closet, which my sister and I shared along with a tiny bedroom, bears dated penciled lines that grew with us. We discussed rescuing the molding, that family heirloom chronicling our lives, but we have so much already.

Rich memories of Dad returning from a weary day looking for a job, yet taking time to crawl on hands and knees from the living room to our bedroom, gently carrying the pretend cowgirls on their pretend horse.

The wonderful smell of fresh bread baking in the old O'Keefe and Merritt gas range in the kitchen. Mom was not a great cook, but she did some serious baking on that stove, especially at Christmas.

Oh, the Christmas mornings, meals around the small kitchen table, practical jokes, laughter, tears. Sights and sounds and smells rush back into my mind.

The fireplug we gingerly played on and around. No ordinary fireplug, it served as a cow for roping practice, a crow's nest from which to view new worlds to conquer, a place to sit and contemplate life.

Yesterday, at 3:30 in the afternoon, the deed to that house passed into the hands of someone else. This little house, our childhood ark, our legacy, was sold, the key turned in the old lock for the last time and surrendered to the new owner.

Perhaps they will make memories of their own, add several coats of new paint, repair old tile and flooring. Perhaps they will demolish the house and start all over.

I do know this, it was a great place to spend my childhood. A cup full of experience and love. Memories I will pass on to my children, and my children's children.

Memories too precious to let go.

(Thank you, Principessa, for the pictures of the magical fireplug and back door.)

Can You Feel It?

2009-09-10T08:01:00.005-04:00

Can you feel it? Fall is in the air. The ripening ears of corn stand in green soldier rows, almost ready for harvest. They're everywhere I look.

On the way home.

Across the road.

Along the Wendy's parking lot.

Their green and golden connect earth to the blue and white sky, and make me smile.

Fall is in the air. Can you feel it?

Sunset on Sky Watch Friday

2009-09-04T03:11:00.000-04:00

I don't remember seeing that many sunsets as a child. I think I was probably too busy burning up the last inches of daylight with play. I have more time now, more opportunity to watch the sun quench its golden blaze in the horizon.

In the last 18 years at Iron Acres, I've watched many a sunset from this window. Some are more spectacular than others. On this night, the sun's flames licked the side of our house, gazing at its own image in our windows as the clouds chased it down.

Caught in an act of vanity, like a self conscious child it tried to hide behind a tree. I had been standing in our field, so I turned back to watch the display on the window. Actually, I ran from the field toward the house to catch the sun before it escaped.

Perhaps I still am burning up the last few inches of daylight in play. Only this time out, it's hide and seek with the sun!

You can seek out more more glimpses of sun and sky from all over the planet here.

Barnstorming for Sky Watch Friday

2009-08-28T16:39:00.008-04:00

There is just something about a barn that shouts character and charm for me. Maybe it's the association with horses and sawdust, leather and weathered wood, or hay and grain. A barn is a feast for the senses.

I love living in the country and watching how the seasons stitch the hues of planting, cultivating and harvest together to form nature's own quilt out of reds, blues, yellows, greens.

The colors of the rainbow.

And in and around it all is the barn. My city childhood was often lost in dreams of playing in a barn loft, hiding in the hay, hearing the crunching sounds of a hungry horse meditatively chewing timothy hay below. We have a small barn here at Iron Acres. In the last 17 years it has known the joy of kidding, kittens, hatching peeps, escaped bunny corralling, and endless rounds of storing hay up for the winter and feeding it out until spring.

Our little barn is empty now, but the loft is still a wonderful place to hide...

...and to dream...

(for more pictures of dreamy skies from all over the earth, dream awhile at Sky Watch Friday.)

McConnell's Mill

2009-08-25T14:21:00.001-04:00

I love water,

I love sky,

and I love bright colors.

It's such a treat to find them all together (and an old mill, and a covered bridge, oh my!). My OR(off roading) BFF, her dog Kolby and I went on a little explore in the woods at McConnell's Mill yesterday. It was my first visit there, and it was awesome! Why I hadn't made it there sooner, I'll never know.

The water was still, the sky was blue, and we happened upon some kayakers.

They certainly make it look easy, and a lot of fun. But I was assured this is no course for beginners. Those still waters go over a dam and then grow very agitated.

And there are rocks. Lots of rocks. Mossy covered rocks, slippery stepping stones, huge boulders, rock caves. We marveled at the abundance of huge trees that had found a way to root themselves in and among those rocks.

It's a geological wonderland.

More glimpses to come.