Last night we arrived home from our trip around Texas at about 11:00. I have a lot to say about it, but no time at the moment, so I thought I'd save the details for later and just post a list I made in my journal on the drive between Glen Rose and Fredericksburg on the second day. It's not a comprehensive list, of course, but it captured the moment.
Things I Like:
Roadtrips
Worship music
Cedar shrubs
New journals
Pardise Lost (the book)
Guest/Rest houses
New leaves in March
Misty weather
Flowering Kale
Roadtrips
Clear glass mugs with hearts on them
Twisting my hair
Wordy Gurdys
My family
Glen Rose
Visiting
Roadtrips
German food
Feeling clean
Words from God
Well-loved corduroy pillows
And did I mention Roadtrips???
One interesting sign we saw along the way:
"Rattlesnake vaccination...$17"
Maybe more about the trip tomorrow.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Just a Boring Old Post
I so wish my labels were different, more appropriate, and more exciting, but it seems like it would take so long to redo them. Humph. I'll think on it.
If I were going to label this post, for example, I might label it "boring." It might not be more exciting, but it sure would be appropriate.
If I were going to label this post, for example, I might label it "boring." It might not be more exciting, but it sure would be appropriate.
Leaving, Stuffing, Packing, and Things of that Nature
Writing a blog is similar to eating carrots- You can't figure out why you want to, but there is definitely an attraction with addictive properties.
Tomorrow we are leaving on a four day/three night family reunion/pleasure trip involving free/blessedly cheap lodging and hopefully beautiful weather/bluebonnets in the Glen Rose/Houston/San Antonio area. Consequently, today is a flurry of phone calls, laundry, packing, and confusion on the part of the flakier members of the family, i.e., me. It's only a four day weekend, and it's going to be great fun, I just feel like something has sneaked up on me from behind like a mean dog. A little bit. Tomorrow it will all be good. I love travelling around Texas and enjoying the benefit of Dad's exploratory nature.
Yesterday I was at the Crowes' longer than usual due to transportation details, so aside from reading to Bron, I tried to be of use to Deb in the organizing/packing that's been going on like crazy around their house. Well, not "like" crazy. Crazy. Our family hasn't moved since I was 2, and certainly not overseas, so it's pretty mind boggling to witness a family of 8 doing this. Deb is very courageous.
She sent me to the boy's room, where I took everything they owned, pretty much, and stashed it in separate boxes, baskets, and little crates to be sorted. I felt a bit like the Grinch, in a nice sort of way,...
"the Grinch, very nimbly, stuffed all the bags, one by one up the chimbley." "And the one speck...that he left in the house was a crumb that was even too small for a mouse." !
I don't know how much it actually helped, but at least it looked sort of productive :) I love to separate and organize, though you may not be able to tell by the looks of my closet...Or my packing methods this morning when I was trying to get ready for our trip. It's much easier to pack other people's stuff because you aren't emotionally attached to it.
When I pack, I generally feel the pressure to make all the decisions about everything I will wear, use, read, and do during the time I'm gone. And guess what everyone else on the trip will forget so that I can supply them with it later. So the last few times I've packed for anything, buckling under the pressure, I just threw my stuff in a bag in a shocking 45 minutes (a real record!) and headed recklessly for the door. It's kind of scary, but rather liberating at the same time. So far I haven't left any necessary items, although I have missed one or two good opportunities to mother my friends by neglecting to bring an extra pair of pj pants. In any case, I would rather be at the Crowes' house messing with their stuff or doing the dishes than trying pack my bag for a family reunion.
Tomorrow we are leaving on a four day/three night family reunion/pleasure trip involving free/blessedly cheap lodging and hopefully beautiful weather/bluebonnets in the Glen Rose/Houston/San Antonio area. Consequently, today is a flurry of phone calls, laundry, packing, and confusion on the part of the flakier members of the family, i.e., me. It's only a four day weekend, and it's going to be great fun, I just feel like something has sneaked up on me from behind like a mean dog. A little bit. Tomorrow it will all be good. I love travelling around Texas and enjoying the benefit of Dad's exploratory nature.
Yesterday I was at the Crowes' longer than usual due to transportation details, so aside from reading to Bron, I tried to be of use to Deb in the organizing/packing that's been going on like crazy around their house. Well, not "like" crazy. Crazy. Our family hasn't moved since I was 2, and certainly not overseas, so it's pretty mind boggling to witness a family of 8 doing this. Deb is very courageous.
She sent me to the boy's room, where I took everything they owned, pretty much, and stashed it in separate boxes, baskets, and little crates to be sorted. I felt a bit like the Grinch, in a nice sort of way,...
"the Grinch, very nimbly, stuffed all the bags, one by one up the chimbley." "And the one speck...that he left in the house was a crumb that was even too small for a mouse." !
I don't know how much it actually helped, but at least it looked sort of productive :) I love to separate and organize, though you may not be able to tell by the looks of my closet...Or my packing methods this morning when I was trying to get ready for our trip. It's much easier to pack other people's stuff because you aren't emotionally attached to it.
When I pack, I generally feel the pressure to make all the decisions about everything I will wear, use, read, and do during the time I'm gone. And guess what everyone else on the trip will forget so that I can supply them with it later. So the last few times I've packed for anything, buckling under the pressure, I just threw my stuff in a bag in a shocking 45 minutes (a real record!) and headed recklessly for the door. It's kind of scary, but rather liberating at the same time. So far I haven't left any necessary items, although I have missed one or two good opportunities to mother my friends by neglecting to bring an extra pair of pj pants. In any case, I would rather be at the Crowes' house messing with their stuff or doing the dishes than trying pack my bag for a family reunion.
Monday, March 24, 2008
A Happy, Non-Rainy Easter
Not much time to post before an early (self-imposed) bedtime...but we had a very happy, very non-rainy, friends-and-family Easter yesterday! I thought it was going to rain, but God is full of surprises :) For Easter dinner we went to Uncle Doug and Aunt Robin's. Grammie and Paw Paw came, and Cameron came, and we had a lovely lasagna dinner at a beautiful table set with blue dishes and yellow flowers on a white cloth. Frisbee afterwards. Crazy Cousin Catherine in Curly Neon Green Wig. Ethan toting a basket stuffed with chocolate filled eggs. Then we went home and looked at Connor's missions trip pictures happily retreived from a troublesome memory card and heard a little about Cameron's missions trip from him, and then Kate and Flic came by and showed us missions trip Utah pictures as well. And we had tea. And visited more. And more. And then everyone was gone and it was just about time for bed. Happy Easter! The End.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Being Real
You might get tired of this subject, but I'm afraid you'll have to get used to it!
"The Velveteen Rabbit," by Margery Williams Bianco, just oozes with truth about "being real," finding worth in being rather than doing.
When you are "real" in front of God, you are just a small, helpless being compared to an infinitely powerful God, with no accomplishments or titles to commend you to Him. But for some reason, He loves you.
You try to matter on the outside, until you find out that all along, what God's been looking at is the inside!
It would seem that that is what this story is all about.
"There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really quite splendid...
He was naturally shy, and being made only of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him. The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon everybody else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real...the Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn't know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself, and he understood that sawdust was quite out of date and should never be mentioned in modern circles...
'What is real?' asked the Rabbit one day...'Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick out handle?' 'Real isn't how you're made,' said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.' 'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit. 'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt...'
The Rabbit sighed...He longed to become real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him...
When he heard [the boy say he was Real], he was happy...almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart that it almost burst. And into his boot button eyes, that had long ago lost their polish, there came a look of wisdom and beauty, so that even Nana noticed it the next morning when she picked him up...
The Boy...loved him so hard he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded...he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because...when you are Real, shabbiness doesn't matter."
And you know the rest. The boy fell ill, and the rabbit had to be burned along with all his other toys, but the fairy came along and took him away to become truly Real, not only to the Boy anymore, but Real as a living, breathing Rabbit, for everyone to see.
"Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day." 2 Cor. 4:16
"Listen, I tell you a mystery: we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed-- in a flash, in teh twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the last trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will all be changed."
2 Cor. 15:52
"The Velveteen Rabbit," by Margery Williams Bianco, just oozes with truth about "being real," finding worth in being rather than doing.
When you are "real" in front of God, you are just a small, helpless being compared to an infinitely powerful God, with no accomplishments or titles to commend you to Him. But for some reason, He loves you.
You try to matter on the outside, until you find out that all along, what God's been looking at is the inside!
It would seem that that is what this story is all about.
"There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really quite splendid...
He was naturally shy, and being made only of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him. The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon everybody else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real...the Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn't know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself, and he understood that sawdust was quite out of date and should never be mentioned in modern circles...
'What is real?' asked the Rabbit one day...'Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick out handle?' 'Real isn't how you're made,' said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.' 'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit. 'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt...'
The Rabbit sighed...He longed to become real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him...
When he heard [the boy say he was Real], he was happy...almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart that it almost burst. And into his boot button eyes, that had long ago lost their polish, there came a look of wisdom and beauty, so that even Nana noticed it the next morning when she picked him up...
The Boy...loved him so hard he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded...he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because...when you are Real, shabbiness doesn't matter."
And you know the rest. The boy fell ill, and the rabbit had to be burned along with all his other toys, but the fairy came along and took him away to become truly Real, not only to the Boy anymore, but Real as a living, breathing Rabbit, for everyone to see.
"Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day." 2 Cor. 4:16
"Listen, I tell you a mystery: we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed-- in a flash, in teh twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the last trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will all be changed."
2 Cor. 15:52
Satisfaction and Worth and the Meaning of it All
Satisfied.
That's what I feel like, on all but the most uncharted reaches of heart and soul. It's a pleasant feeling...one that is not necessarily rare, but rather, elusive. Always escaping me just when I think I have it locked tight, like Hoodini.
I'm satisfied with getting to blog at the end of a busy day; it's really a miracle to just get to write...write...write. People get killed for writing what they want to in some countries. I'm satisfied with the weather. Spring. Extreme fluorescent green leafiness in the upper sections of forests hereabouts.
I'm still happy and cozy and satisfied inside from having out-of-town visitors for afternoon cookies and coffee on a Saturday. John and Cindy, some long-time friends who live a few hours away, stopped in to visit while seeing other friends in the area.
This morning when they called, I was vacuuming, and stopped to answer the phone. The cheery voice on the other end told me that she was "Aunt Cindy," but I heard "Aunt Wendy." Thinking I was on the phone with my Aunt in New York whom I haven't seen (or heard, mind you) in forever, I chatted with her wonderingly, trying to imagine why she was calling, and then why she wanted to talk with Mom instead of Dad first. Only after my Mom's short while of confusion on the phone did I find out that it was Aunt Cindy! And to think! I was the one who affectionately dubbed her that in a post graduation thank you note! Well, it was good to see them again. They brought Butcher Shoppe cookies for us, and we sat drinking coffee and iced tea in the living room while we dicussed our lives, the people we know, and some politics. I'm satisfied.
This morning I really wasn't all that satisfied. The tide had gone out a little, though I was by no means depressed. But I sat on the couch for the longest time, marvelling that it was really Saturday this time (every day this week I've thought it was Saturday!) and trying in vain to will my feet onto the floor. They wouldn't go. Coffee in teacup, cold bagel, banana, head massage from Mom. And then I got up, but felt a little crazed by the sight of more dishes. AGH! I revolt. I rebel. I will us bark bits for plates and drink from wildflower buds. I will buy protein powder and live on shakes forever so that we can forget the whole horrible business of cooking...forever! No more soap, no more suds. No more hot water. Stuff the sink with fake flowers. I can't take it any more. So much as another smudgy teaspoon and I will pack up and move to the funny farm!
But no. Dishes must be done. Life must go on. Floors must be vacuumed, rugs shaken out, laundry changed, and three lasagnas made (and consequential dishes properly disinfected). It wasn't so bad. The work wasn't hard. I really do like to cook. But a consistant presence of undending housechores has driven me to search for meaning in the monotony. Today is just another progression in the process.
I went into housecleaning slightly grumpy and on the verge of spilling some verbal sewage...not raw sewage, exactly, but certainly not purified! But I remembered the verse God brought to mind the other night when I went to Him after a long day. It was from 1 Peter 3, where it says,
"But let your beauty be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight."
The individual chores are not that grueling in themselves. But when my life seems to be a progression of menial jobs and pursuits, I start hearing a voice inside that says, "Well, if you don't like this, what do you think it's going to be like in ten or twenty years when you have a house, a husband, and kids of your own..." Well, that puts an ugly blight on my dearest wish, and that is when I have to rise up and ask honestly, "Where is my sense of worth coming from?"
Our world (at least this part of it) is trained from infancy to perform and produce like little isolated factories. We can't be still; that's lazy. That's vacation. If we don't work in the professional world, we stay at home, perhaps feeling foolish or guilty. And/or we strive to produce, to succeed academically, cultivate skills, develop hobbies, make ourselves beautiful...
With Solomon, I have to ask, what's the point? My first impulsive answer: I want to be worth something. I want to count. I want to last. I need to make my mark. Where? On a sphere of dust tilting towards the fire?
"Is it not from the Lord of hosts that people toil for fire, and nations grow weary for nothing? For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea." Habakkuk 2:14-15
I strive to finish my list each day, but if I do happen to finish it, I feel emptier than ever. I go to bed asking, "Will anyone love me? Will anyone listen to me? Am I beautiful? My family thanked me for my hard work. They enjoyed supper, or cake, or whatever it was. They admired the shirt I made with my own two hands. But after that transient twinge of pleasure at their words, was there anything but silence inside me? Besides that haunting ache?
This isn't a pity party, but rather a cry for my generation, for the world aroudn me. Self pity doesn't live here any more, but Hope.
Because, after all, Jesus isn't planning to come back and take us to heaven to do chores with Him, is He? He didn't sacrifice his life to get himself a bunch of little factories, did He? His own words in John 14 were that "I will come back and take you with me, that you may be with me where I am." He doesn't long to see us perform for Him or produce anything. He yearns to BE with us. Visit. Like today, with John and Cindy. Come close. Like Ethan on Mommy's lap. Why does Ethan cling to Mom constantly, insisting, wailing, for hugs and kisses every time she leaves the house, begging her to "come and be with me"? We laugh at him, but I confess that I've longed for the same thing myself. Over and over. But you have to grow up, of course. You have to be mature and join the "real world." But truly, what is more real, than standing stripped of all works, talents, riches,and skills, to look into a friend's eyes and know there is acceptance there? To know that down deep, where you know you are a blind, speechless beggar, there is something valuble to God? Of great worth? Something that God is supremely satisfied with, though we may never understand why at all. What would it be like to live like that, knowing that?
When I go to my "secret place" with God, I find healing and rest. That night when I was feeling so worthless, I looked in the mirror and was disgusted and afraid. When I was in His presence, though He hardly said a word to me, that ugly shell fell away. In fact, when I looked in the mirror again, I saw a different person. Someone who is worthy and lovely in His eyes.
I know that the chores are inescapable. As I said, they are not that bad in themselves. It's just the constant drive to accomplish that wears me down. But in the secret place of the Almighty God, I am sheltered. Under the shadow of His wing, I truly live, a free being, loving and being loved constantly.
This morning, somewhere in the midst of the bad attitude I remembered how much God loves a gentle spirit, so I started looking to Him again. And I finished vacuuming, shook the rugs, and had a bit of lunch. Then I started making the lasagnas, browning a third of the ground beef in one pan and two thirds in a bigger pan to be split later. It sizzled away to the accompaniment of the music I'd put on. I measured the mozzerella into two bowls like the meat, tasting along the way (just to make sure nothing's wrong with it!) Tumping the cottage cheese containers into the pile, I left gravity to do its work while I stirred the meat. On it went, and a kind of happiness...a satisfaction...grew in me as I worked, feeling God so close at hand. It's true that there is a lot of work that must be done in this world, but what truly defines me is His invisible loving presence. The only place to get worth for my life is from Him!
By the time I was stacking the containers of fresh lasagna filling and going to hunt refridgerator space, I was almost loath to leave the warm atmosphere of the kitchen, where God seemed to be resting with me, quite satisfied.
That's what I feel like, on all but the most uncharted reaches of heart and soul. It's a pleasant feeling...one that is not necessarily rare, but rather, elusive. Always escaping me just when I think I have it locked tight, like Hoodini.
I'm satisfied with getting to blog at the end of a busy day; it's really a miracle to just get to write...write...write. People get killed for writing what they want to in some countries. I'm satisfied with the weather. Spring. Extreme fluorescent green leafiness in the upper sections of forests hereabouts.
I'm still happy and cozy and satisfied inside from having out-of-town visitors for afternoon cookies and coffee on a Saturday. John and Cindy, some long-time friends who live a few hours away, stopped in to visit while seeing other friends in the area.
This morning when they called, I was vacuuming, and stopped to answer the phone. The cheery voice on the other end told me that she was "Aunt Cindy," but I heard "Aunt Wendy." Thinking I was on the phone with my Aunt in New York whom I haven't seen (or heard, mind you) in forever, I chatted with her wonderingly, trying to imagine why she was calling, and then why she wanted to talk with Mom instead of Dad first. Only after my Mom's short while of confusion on the phone did I find out that it was Aunt Cindy! And to think! I was the one who affectionately dubbed her that in a post graduation thank you note! Well, it was good to see them again. They brought Butcher Shoppe cookies for us, and we sat drinking coffee and iced tea in the living room while we dicussed our lives, the people we know, and some politics. I'm satisfied.
This morning I really wasn't all that satisfied. The tide had gone out a little, though I was by no means depressed. But I sat on the couch for the longest time, marvelling that it was really Saturday this time (every day this week I've thought it was Saturday!) and trying in vain to will my feet onto the floor. They wouldn't go. Coffee in teacup, cold bagel, banana, head massage from Mom. And then I got up, but felt a little crazed by the sight of more dishes. AGH! I revolt. I rebel. I will us bark bits for plates and drink from wildflower buds. I will buy protein powder and live on shakes forever so that we can forget the whole horrible business of cooking...forever! No more soap, no more suds. No more hot water. Stuff the sink with fake flowers. I can't take it any more. So much as another smudgy teaspoon and I will pack up and move to the funny farm!
But no. Dishes must be done. Life must go on. Floors must be vacuumed, rugs shaken out, laundry changed, and three lasagnas made (and consequential dishes properly disinfected). It wasn't so bad. The work wasn't hard. I really do like to cook. But a consistant presence of undending housechores has driven me to search for meaning in the monotony. Today is just another progression in the process.
I went into housecleaning slightly grumpy and on the verge of spilling some verbal sewage...not raw sewage, exactly, but certainly not purified! But I remembered the verse God brought to mind the other night when I went to Him after a long day. It was from 1 Peter 3, where it says,
"But let your beauty be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight."
The individual chores are not that grueling in themselves. But when my life seems to be a progression of menial jobs and pursuits, I start hearing a voice inside that says, "Well, if you don't like this, what do you think it's going to be like in ten or twenty years when you have a house, a husband, and kids of your own..." Well, that puts an ugly blight on my dearest wish, and that is when I have to rise up and ask honestly, "Where is my sense of worth coming from?"
Our world (at least this part of it) is trained from infancy to perform and produce like little isolated factories. We can't be still; that's lazy. That's vacation. If we don't work in the professional world, we stay at home, perhaps feeling foolish or guilty. And/or we strive to produce, to succeed academically, cultivate skills, develop hobbies, make ourselves beautiful...
With Solomon, I have to ask, what's the point? My first impulsive answer: I want to be worth something. I want to count. I want to last. I need to make my mark. Where? On a sphere of dust tilting towards the fire?
"Is it not from the Lord of hosts that people toil for fire, and nations grow weary for nothing? For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea." Habakkuk 2:14-15
I strive to finish my list each day, but if I do happen to finish it, I feel emptier than ever. I go to bed asking, "Will anyone love me? Will anyone listen to me? Am I beautiful? My family thanked me for my hard work. They enjoyed supper, or cake, or whatever it was. They admired the shirt I made with my own two hands. But after that transient twinge of pleasure at their words, was there anything but silence inside me? Besides that haunting ache?
This isn't a pity party, but rather a cry for my generation, for the world aroudn me. Self pity doesn't live here any more, but Hope.
Because, after all, Jesus isn't planning to come back and take us to heaven to do chores with Him, is He? He didn't sacrifice his life to get himself a bunch of little factories, did He? His own words in John 14 were that "I will come back and take you with me, that you may be with me where I am." He doesn't long to see us perform for Him or produce anything. He yearns to BE with us. Visit. Like today, with John and Cindy. Come close. Like Ethan on Mommy's lap. Why does Ethan cling to Mom constantly, insisting, wailing, for hugs and kisses every time she leaves the house, begging her to "come and be with me"? We laugh at him, but I confess that I've longed for the same thing myself. Over and over. But you have to grow up, of course. You have to be mature and join the "real world." But truly, what is more real, than standing stripped of all works, talents, riches,and skills, to look into a friend's eyes and know there is acceptance there? To know that down deep, where you know you are a blind, speechless beggar, there is something valuble to God? Of great worth? Something that God is supremely satisfied with, though we may never understand why at all. What would it be like to live like that, knowing that?
When I go to my "secret place" with God, I find healing and rest. That night when I was feeling so worthless, I looked in the mirror and was disgusted and afraid. When I was in His presence, though He hardly said a word to me, that ugly shell fell away. In fact, when I looked in the mirror again, I saw a different person. Someone who is worthy and lovely in His eyes.
I know that the chores are inescapable. As I said, they are not that bad in themselves. It's just the constant drive to accomplish that wears me down. But in the secret place of the Almighty God, I am sheltered. Under the shadow of His wing, I truly live, a free being, loving and being loved constantly.
This morning, somewhere in the midst of the bad attitude I remembered how much God loves a gentle spirit, so I started looking to Him again. And I finished vacuuming, shook the rugs, and had a bit of lunch. Then I started making the lasagnas, browning a third of the ground beef in one pan and two thirds in a bigger pan to be split later. It sizzled away to the accompaniment of the music I'd put on. I measured the mozzerella into two bowls like the meat, tasting along the way (just to make sure nothing's wrong with it!) Tumping the cottage cheese containers into the pile, I left gravity to do its work while I stirred the meat. On it went, and a kind of happiness...a satisfaction...grew in me as I worked, feeling God so close at hand. It's true that there is a lot of work that must be done in this world, but what truly defines me is His invisible loving presence. The only place to get worth for my life is from Him!
By the time I was stacking the containers of fresh lasagna filling and going to hunt refridgerator space, I was almost loath to leave the warm atmosphere of the kitchen, where God seemed to be resting with me, quite satisfied.
Friday, March 21, 2008
A Great Friday
It's another birthday today!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MATTIE KATE! My little sister turned twelve at 5:59 this morning, before any of us were up to wish her birthday wishes. But that's Kate...always ahead and on top of it :) She's getting more beautiful every day. Today she gets her ears pierced-- a long anticipated treat. It wasn't too hard to think of a birthday gift this year :)
Mattie and Mom are out shopping and getting, um, punctured...and Dad and I have been grocery shopping and adorning the the vicinity with balloons and light blue streamers. I went shopping with Dad since we needed strawberries for the birthday cake, and a lot of other things. It was only fitting that I make the birthday cake, since she made one for me last month. Only this year SHE gets the heart shaped strawberry cake! It was her request. At the moment, the cake is cooling its pinkness on racks in the kitchen, and heavenly strawberry wafts are invading my nostrils. The cake fell, as usual, but at least it smells delicious!
It's also Good Friday...a great Friday, in fact. I'm thankful to my Lord for life and breath and His consuming love. Easter came so early this year, and right with Mattie's birthday, that I haven't really prepared for Easter or thought about it much. But it's like Mom says, I've been loving Him every day.
I've been reading Paradise Lost aloud to myself (slowly but surely!), and these words seem to be apt Easter preperation. They are words like what Christ might have said to the Father in heaven when He put Himself forward to save mankind:
"Behold me then, me for him, life for life
I offer, let thine anger fall;
Accout me man; I for his sake will leave
Thy bosom, and this glorie next to thee
Freely put off, for him lastly die
Well pleas'd, on me let Death wreck all his rage;
Under his gloomie power I shall not long
Lie vanquisht; thou hast given me to possess
Life in myself forever, by thee I live...
Thou wilt not leave me in the loathsom grave...
But I shall rise Victorious, and subdue
My Vanquisher, spoild of his vanted spoile..."
Yes!
"His words here ended, but his meek aspect
Silent yet spake, and breath'd immortal love
To mortal men..."
-John Milton
Mattie and Mom are out shopping and getting, um, punctured...and Dad and I have been grocery shopping and adorning the the vicinity with balloons and light blue streamers. I went shopping with Dad since we needed strawberries for the birthday cake, and a lot of other things. It was only fitting that I make the birthday cake, since she made one for me last month. Only this year SHE gets the heart shaped strawberry cake! It was her request. At the moment, the cake is cooling its pinkness on racks in the kitchen, and heavenly strawberry wafts are invading my nostrils. The cake fell, as usual, but at least it smells delicious!
It's also Good Friday...a great Friday, in fact. I'm thankful to my Lord for life and breath and His consuming love. Easter came so early this year, and right with Mattie's birthday, that I haven't really prepared for Easter or thought about it much. But it's like Mom says, I've been loving Him every day.
I've been reading Paradise Lost aloud to myself (slowly but surely!), and these words seem to be apt Easter preperation. They are words like what Christ might have said to the Father in heaven when He put Himself forward to save mankind:
"Behold me then, me for him, life for life
I offer, let thine anger fall;
Accout me man; I for his sake will leave
Thy bosom, and this glorie next to thee
Freely put off, for him lastly die
Well pleas'd, on me let Death wreck all his rage;
Under his gloomie power I shall not long
Lie vanquisht; thou hast given me to possess
Life in myself forever, by thee I live...
Thou wilt not leave me in the loathsom grave...
But I shall rise Victorious, and subdue
My Vanquisher, spoild of his vanted spoile..."
Yes!
"His words here ended, but his meek aspect
Silent yet spake, and breath'd immortal love
To mortal men..."
-John Milton
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Being Chicken
I just finished de-boning a chicken, and I must say, it was a disgusting thing to do. (de-boning it, not finishing!) It isn't the first chicken I've de-boned (in fact, I did one yesterday, too), and I'm sure there will be many more in the future, but that doesn't make me feel any better. It's one of the grossest things in the world, right up there with actually cleaning out a chicken, which is grosser by far. Well, there are a great many grosser things in the world, I guess, just not in my world. Which probably tells you that #1, I am a wimp; #2, my world is quite small; and #3, this person is not ready for missionary life in Africa or some other wilds. Right. I'm not :) That's why I'm going to Ukraine first :) Not that they don't do worse things to the chickens in Ukraine...
No, really, de-boning a chicken is not that big of a deal. As I plunged my hands into those gobs of slimy yellow fat and felt the brown stringy bits oozing through my fingers, saw the ghoulish knobby ends of the bones...I thought back to missions trips to Tamazunchale, Mexico back in my chicken hating days. Not only did I dislike cleaning, cooking, or de-boning them, the very idea of eating chicken repulsed me as well! (I think that came about shortly after we butchered our own chickens, which seems understandable.) Unfortunately for me then, but fortunately for now, I had to suck it up and get over it because chicken was the main dish most of the time. Somewhere between the last Tamaz. trip (March 2004) and the trip to Hong Kong (July 2005), I got over it big time. I wonder what it would be like going back to Mexico now, so ready to engage with the chicken and all with a fearless heart :) It's easier to relate to people when you can relate to their food.
Connor is in Mexico right now, getting all the chicken he can manage, besides working like a beast, leading worship for devos, clapping his hands to pieces in worship services, and having the time of his life. I envy him, but it's good that I'm here. Those short, intense missions trips changed me so drastically, concerning the chicken factor and so many other things. Not only am I happy to eat chicken now, I voluntarily cook and de-bone it...and yes, I will someday butcher it if I have to!
The best way to do gross things is to simply plunge in. Revel in the noisome oozings. And if that's simply not possible (like when cleaning up throw up, for example), there's always the bigger picture to look at. Chicken de-boning does not need to define me, it can simply be filed away as an exotic sensory experience while I get on with life.
No, really, de-boning a chicken is not that big of a deal. As I plunged my hands into those gobs of slimy yellow fat and felt the brown stringy bits oozing through my fingers, saw the ghoulish knobby ends of the bones...I thought back to missions trips to Tamazunchale, Mexico back in my chicken hating days. Not only did I dislike cleaning, cooking, or de-boning them, the very idea of eating chicken repulsed me as well! (I think that came about shortly after we butchered our own chickens, which seems understandable.) Unfortunately for me then, but fortunately for now, I had to suck it up and get over it because chicken was the main dish most of the time. Somewhere between the last Tamaz. trip (March 2004) and the trip to Hong Kong (July 2005), I got over it big time. I wonder what it would be like going back to Mexico now, so ready to engage with the chicken and all with a fearless heart :) It's easier to relate to people when you can relate to their food.
Connor is in Mexico right now, getting all the chicken he can manage, besides working like a beast, leading worship for devos, clapping his hands to pieces in worship services, and having the time of his life. I envy him, but it's good that I'm here. Those short, intense missions trips changed me so drastically, concerning the chicken factor and so many other things. Not only am I happy to eat chicken now, I voluntarily cook and de-bone it...and yes, I will someday butcher it if I have to!
The best way to do gross things is to simply plunge in. Revel in the noisome oozings. And if that's simply not possible (like when cleaning up throw up, for example), there's always the bigger picture to look at. Chicken de-boning does not need to define me, it can simply be filed away as an exotic sensory experience while I get on with life.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Full House
Wow, it's a windy day. the door keeps blowing open,and the little kids can't seem to shut it. It's especially blustery up on this hill at the Crowe's house. Mattie and I are babysitting while Deb and her sister have a "girl time." We have ten kids under eleven (since Ethan came to play)...aged approximately 10 mos, 1,2,3,4,5,5,7,9,and 10. Yikes! It's really not as crazy as it sounds, though, because they're all playing really well together. I think the more there are, the merrier. The most tedious babysitting jobs are the ones where there are one or two kids who need to constantly be entertained. These munchkins have plenty of imagination :) They're romping in the gusty weather, reading in cardboard boxes while eating mangoes (don't ask!), chewing teething biscuits...
There are lots of bottles, diapers, and dishes. It's amazing that Deb and her sister have gotten any packing at all done, but sure enough, there are boxes of books and clothes around. I can't believe they are really heading off to Ukraine in two months! Check out the update on their house and the work the construction team is doing at the site in my list of links below.
Someone's crying, Lord, kumbayah...
There are lots of bottles, diapers, and dishes. It's amazing that Deb and her sister have gotten any packing at all done, but sure enough, there are boxes of books and clothes around. I can't believe they are really heading off to Ukraine in two months! Check out the update on their house and the work the construction team is doing at the site in my list of links below.
Someone's crying, Lord, kumbayah...
Monday, March 17, 2008
Words of Comfort
Oh dear. It's been a long while since I blogged, and even now I don't know what to say. If you wanted to read something charming and witty, then you'll have to go elsewhere :)
Sometimes I miss Jesus so bad it hurts. I miss Him, I miss seeing His face, because it gets so blurred and disfigured in my mind sometimes. I miss Him in other people, when I'm separated from them. In 1 Thessalonians, Paul said that he was praying earnestly day and night that he would be reunited with his friends. "For what is our hope, our joy, or the crown in which we will glory in His presence when He comes? Is it not you?" Separation is sometimes physical, sometimes not. I can see my friends and talk to them without really "being" with them in spirit.
I've been thinking about the banquet table of the Lord. I'm longing for His table, where I'll truly belong...
Where the "least of these" will be the greatest. (Luke 9:48)
Those who mourn will be comforted. (Matt. 5:4)
Tears will be wiped away. (Rev. 7:17)
There will be no more crying and no more pain. (Rev. 21:4)
No more darkened glass. (1Cor. 13:12)
He is a dwelling place for all generations. (Ps. 90:1)
All mountains will be raised up, all valleys be made low. (Is. 40:4)
Jesus will have his rightful place. (Rev. 12:10)
When He comes, He will come with a shout. (1 Thess. 4:16)
We will sit with Him on His throne. (Rev. 3:21)
We will be with Him where He is. (John 14:3)
Death will be swallowed up in victory. (1 Cor. 15:54)
We will all be changed. (1 Cor. 15:51)
He will delviver us. (2 Cor. 1:10)
We will be caught up together to be with Him. (1 Thess. 4:17)
He will reward us. (Heb. 11:6)
He will give us grace. (1 Pet. 1:13)
He will declare before our accusers how much He really loves us. (Rev. 3:9)
We will be with Him forever. (1 Thess. 4:17)
"Therefore comfort one another with these words...He who testifies to these things says 'Yes, I am coming soon.' Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God's people. Amen." (1 Thess. 4:18, Rev. 22:20-21)
Sometimes I miss Jesus so bad it hurts. I miss Him, I miss seeing His face, because it gets so blurred and disfigured in my mind sometimes. I miss Him in other people, when I'm separated from them. In 1 Thessalonians, Paul said that he was praying earnestly day and night that he would be reunited with his friends. "For what is our hope, our joy, or the crown in which we will glory in His presence when He comes? Is it not you?" Separation is sometimes physical, sometimes not. I can see my friends and talk to them without really "being" with them in spirit.
I've been thinking about the banquet table of the Lord. I'm longing for His table, where I'll truly belong...
Where the "least of these" will be the greatest. (Luke 9:48)
Those who mourn will be comforted. (Matt. 5:4)
Tears will be wiped away. (Rev. 7:17)
There will be no more crying and no more pain. (Rev. 21:4)
No more darkened glass. (1Cor. 13:12)
He is a dwelling place for all generations. (Ps. 90:1)
All mountains will be raised up, all valleys be made low. (Is. 40:4)
Jesus will have his rightful place. (Rev. 12:10)
When He comes, He will come with a shout. (1 Thess. 4:16)
We will sit with Him on His throne. (Rev. 3:21)
We will be with Him where He is. (John 14:3)
Death will be swallowed up in victory. (1 Cor. 15:54)
We will all be changed. (1 Cor. 15:51)
He will delviver us. (2 Cor. 1:10)
We will be caught up together to be with Him. (1 Thess. 4:17)
He will reward us. (Heb. 11:6)
He will give us grace. (1 Pet. 1:13)
He will declare before our accusers how much He really loves us. (Rev. 3:9)
We will be with Him forever. (1 Thess. 4:17)
"Therefore comfort one another with these words...He who testifies to these things says 'Yes, I am coming soon.' Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God's people. Amen." (1 Thess. 4:18, Rev. 22:20-21)
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Rainy Days
Call it strange, but a few hours ago I was dismayed to discover that the sun had actually come out after at least a day and a half of foggy drippiness. I love the sweet comfort of a rainy day. The world seems to slow down to rest under the shelter of close, damp clouds. When the sun comes out, it's as if it's saying, "All right, everybody up, we've got to get back with it!"
I love being home on a rainy day. This morning and yesterday morning I got treated to a nice long reading-in-the-chair time with Ethan. I'd forgotten how much I missed reading to him until he came to me after breakfast with his large puppy dog eyes and moping mile-long lashes and said, "Cassie, will you read a book to me?" I melted. It's like Mom says to him..."Get those eyes under control!"
I was delighted to read to him, because since I've been working I haven't gotten to do that. I had just had coffee with Mom and then breakfast, and it was already late and I hadn't showered yet, but all I wanted to do was stop and read. So we did. It was wet and quiet out, which brought the delightful sensation of being outside of time. We read about Sir Roland and the Knights of the Silver Shield (Sir Roland is so my favorite!) and then about What's His Face who fought the Minataur, and some other books. When we finally finished the stories, I wanted to rock him, and to my delight, he consented. It's only too clear to me that when I come back from Ukraine, he probably won't want me to rock him any more. And he may be able to read on his own. So I held him close, all cuddled in a fuzzy blanket, and rocked away with all my might. I wanted it to go on forever, but that wasn't to be. Soon enough, he was lifting up his head and asking, "Cassie, will you get me a drink of water?" "But I don't want to let you go," I protested. "But I'm thirsty," was the matter-of-fact reply. Nothing to argue with. Forced cuddling isn't that nice, anyway, so I didn't push it.
Today we read Moomintroll, Mymble, and Little My (the best kids' book barring Dr. Seuss!) and The Great Corgiville Kidnapping and P.J. Funnybunny and A Time to Keep (a book about seasons done in sweet watercolors by Tasha Tudor). But no cuddling today.
No matter how much laundry or dishes or cares there may be at home, I can't help but love it here. Like Mom says, it's a little monastery, and I know it's God's gift to me in this season of my life.
I love being home on a rainy day. This morning and yesterday morning I got treated to a nice long reading-in-the-chair time with Ethan. I'd forgotten how much I missed reading to him until he came to me after breakfast with his large puppy dog eyes and moping mile-long lashes and said, "Cassie, will you read a book to me?" I melted. It's like Mom says to him..."Get those eyes under control!"
I was delighted to read to him, because since I've been working I haven't gotten to do that. I had just had coffee with Mom and then breakfast, and it was already late and I hadn't showered yet, but all I wanted to do was stop and read. So we did. It was wet and quiet out, which brought the delightful sensation of being outside of time. We read about Sir Roland and the Knights of the Silver Shield (Sir Roland is so my favorite!) and then about What's His Face who fought the Minataur, and some other books. When we finally finished the stories, I wanted to rock him, and to my delight, he consented. It's only too clear to me that when I come back from Ukraine, he probably won't want me to rock him any more. And he may be able to read on his own. So I held him close, all cuddled in a fuzzy blanket, and rocked away with all my might. I wanted it to go on forever, but that wasn't to be. Soon enough, he was lifting up his head and asking, "Cassie, will you get me a drink of water?" "But I don't want to let you go," I protested. "But I'm thirsty," was the matter-of-fact reply. Nothing to argue with. Forced cuddling isn't that nice, anyway, so I didn't push it.
Today we read Moomintroll, Mymble, and Little My (the best kids' book barring Dr. Seuss!) and The Great Corgiville Kidnapping and P.J. Funnybunny and A Time to Keep (a book about seasons done in sweet watercolors by Tasha Tudor). But no cuddling today.
No matter how much laundry or dishes or cares there may be at home, I can't help but love it here. Like Mom says, it's a little monastery, and I know it's God's gift to me in this season of my life.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Learning How to Pray
What is this day?
Not mine to say
Not mine to plan or do-
All my works and prayers are ashes
Without love, and without You.
Jesus, all my strivings
Have melted by Your fire
I die in bliss inside Your blaze,
Fainting in the force of Your desire
No prayer, no ritual could mean
More to such a haunted King.
The dross of all my driven prayers
Is cast away; for naught he cares,
But to hear my breathless breath
Echoing against His chest.
What is this day? Only a passing
Of the time from sun to sun,
In which I learn to hear the hearbeat
Of the Ravished, Holy Son.
Not mine to say
Not mine to plan or do-
All my works and prayers are ashes
Without love, and without You.
Jesus, all my strivings
Have melted by Your fire
I die in bliss inside Your blaze,
Fainting in the force of Your desire
No prayer, no ritual could mean
More to such a haunted King.
The dross of all my driven prayers
Is cast away; for naught he cares,
But to hear my breathless breath
Echoing against His chest.
What is this day? Only a passing
Of the time from sun to sun,
In which I learn to hear the hearbeat
Of the Ravished, Holy Son.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
A Word from Augustine
Look upon us, O Lord,
and let all the darkness of our souls
vanish before the beams of thy brightness.
Fill us with holy love,
and open to us the treasures of thy wisdom.
All our desire is known unto thee,
therefore perfect what thou hast begun,
and what thy Spirit has awakened us to ask in prayer.
We seek thy face,
turn thy face unto us and show us thy glory.
Then shall our longing be satisfied,
and our peace shall be perfect.
(Augustine, 354 - 430)
Isn't it a marvel that Christians 1600 years ago and more were having the same experiences of faith and love and Christ? When writings from over a thousand years ago resonate with our spirits today, you have to know it's not just made up. Our God is a dwelling place to all generations!
and let all the darkness of our souls
vanish before the beams of thy brightness.
Fill us with holy love,
and open to us the treasures of thy wisdom.
All our desire is known unto thee,
therefore perfect what thou hast begun,
and what thy Spirit has awakened us to ask in prayer.
We seek thy face,
turn thy face unto us and show us thy glory.
Then shall our longing be satisfied,
and our peace shall be perfect.
(Augustine, 354 - 430)
Isn't it a marvel that Christians 1600 years ago and more were having the same experiences of faith and love and Christ? When writings from over a thousand years ago resonate with our spirits today, you have to know it's not just made up. Our God is a dwelling place to all generations!
Spa Spectacles
Last night I had my first spa experience. Mattie and I were spending the night at the Bridges to keep Bailey, Josiah, and Emma company while their parents were out of town. Bailey had been researching facials, and she made us a mini spa in the living room. There was candlelight, oatmeal, cucumbers, chocolate, everything.
Mattie and Emma wanted to give me a makeover, first, so they powdered and brushed and poked at me for a little while. After a look in the mirror, I didn’t really notice that they’d actually made me over, but Mattie explained that she didn’t want to freak me out.
Poor Emma was the one who got freaked out. Bailey mixed up her yummy looking oatmeal/milk/strawberry concoction and laid Emma out on the floor with a headband around her face. Then she spread the goo. It smelled really good. But the stuff was COLD. So Emma giggled and wiggled and had various kinds of fits, while Bailey was tried to get her to calm down and have a spa moment. Mattie and I were rubbing her feet with aromatic peony lotion, music was playing…who wouldn’t have been relaxed? But I had to laugh, because I knew I’d be just like her when my turn came, and worse, if anyone was messing with my feet like that!
After Bailey rebuked my irreverent attitude (it being non-conducive to the general spa-mosphere we were trying to attain), I tried to shape up and enjoy the spa moment, but I couldn’t seem to shake old habits. I couldn’t help thinking that strawberries, milk, and oatmeal sound (and smell) an awful lot like dessert, and didn’t our Mommies always tell us NOT to get food all over our faces? I mean, here’s Emma, getting cold food smeared all over her face while she lays on her back on the floor with her eyes shut while two other people hold her by the feet. And Bailey wants her to relax!
So, it wasn’t really as bad as all that. In fact, it was so fun, that, once Emma had dried up and washed off, Mattie did it too. And then, we began talking about other kinds of facials, and Bailey’s wheels started turning, and in the end, we declared a state of emergency and the five of us jaunted off to Kroger and bought two cucumbers, a bottle of lemon juice, and a substantial supply of chocolate. (Josiah was only along as body guard/innocent non-interested bystander; he wasn’t getting a facial).
While we stood in the candy aisle expostulating over the chocolate (why can’t everyone just like dark?) we thought about yogurt, too. I thought about yogurt. And said something about yogurt.
“Oh, I saw a recipe for a facial with yogurt in it,” Bailey said enthusiastically.
“Sounds yummy,” I said. Bailey grimaced cutely at me.
“Cassie, you have to think…”
“Facially.” I agreed, shame-facedly. “I know. I’m trying. Why do these facials have to be made out of all the food I like?” After all, what kind of world is it when you pay good money for good yogurt once in a blue moon and it never even gets to your mouth? Well, in your mouth.
Well, we got back home safely and set up the “real” spa. Enter chocolate. Enter candles. Enter pretty acoustic music. Bailey made us a refreshing drink by putting a spritz of lemon juice and some cucumber slices in a pitcher of cool water, and Emma made up a veggie tray and laid out the chocolate. Then they laid me on the floor and Bailey doctored me up. I was determined to relax, despite the fact that my last external oatmeal experience was when Mom slathered me with cold oatmeal paste to sooth my raging chicken pox last year. Actually, in spite of the cold and gooiness and the slight tickling sensations going on in the foot region as Mattie and Emma stuck cotton between my toes, the whole thing was very pleasant. I must have been a regular spa spectacle. Pink oatmeal caked on my face, twin cucumber slices balanced precariously over my eye sockets, hair sticking in all directions. Bailey did a great job with the facial, and it smelled heavenly. Strawberries and oatmeal. Reminded me of birthday cake. And then, Bailey rubbed my head and Mattie and Emma massaged my hands. I was totally pampered out. When the oatmeal had dried, I washed it off, and sure enough, my face felt great.
We tried to do Bailey too, though we aren’t exactly pro’s like she is. :) But hopefully she got to enjoy the affect too. It was a fun, girly evening that I certainly won’t forget :)
Mattie and Emma wanted to give me a makeover, first, so they powdered and brushed and poked at me for a little while. After a look in the mirror, I didn’t really notice that they’d actually made me over, but Mattie explained that she didn’t want to freak me out.
Poor Emma was the one who got freaked out. Bailey mixed up her yummy looking oatmeal/milk/strawberry concoction and laid Emma out on the floor with a headband around her face. Then she spread the goo. It smelled really good. But the stuff was COLD. So Emma giggled and wiggled and had various kinds of fits, while Bailey was tried to get her to calm down and have a spa moment. Mattie and I were rubbing her feet with aromatic peony lotion, music was playing…who wouldn’t have been relaxed? But I had to laugh, because I knew I’d be just like her when my turn came, and worse, if anyone was messing with my feet like that!
After Bailey rebuked my irreverent attitude (it being non-conducive to the general spa-mosphere we were trying to attain), I tried to shape up and enjoy the spa moment, but I couldn’t seem to shake old habits. I couldn’t help thinking that strawberries, milk, and oatmeal sound (and smell) an awful lot like dessert, and didn’t our Mommies always tell us NOT to get food all over our faces? I mean, here’s Emma, getting cold food smeared all over her face while she lays on her back on the floor with her eyes shut while two other people hold her by the feet. And Bailey wants her to relax!
So, it wasn’t really as bad as all that. In fact, it was so fun, that, once Emma had dried up and washed off, Mattie did it too. And then, we began talking about other kinds of facials, and Bailey’s wheels started turning, and in the end, we declared a state of emergency and the five of us jaunted off to Kroger and bought two cucumbers, a bottle of lemon juice, and a substantial supply of chocolate. (Josiah was only along as body guard/innocent non-interested bystander; he wasn’t getting a facial).
While we stood in the candy aisle expostulating over the chocolate (why can’t everyone just like dark?) we thought about yogurt, too. I thought about yogurt. And said something about yogurt.
“Oh, I saw a recipe for a facial with yogurt in it,” Bailey said enthusiastically.
“Sounds yummy,” I said. Bailey grimaced cutely at me.
“Cassie, you have to think…”
“Facially.” I agreed, shame-facedly. “I know. I’m trying. Why do these facials have to be made out of all the food I like?” After all, what kind of world is it when you pay good money for good yogurt once in a blue moon and it never even gets to your mouth? Well, in your mouth.
Well, we got back home safely and set up the “real” spa. Enter chocolate. Enter candles. Enter pretty acoustic music. Bailey made us a refreshing drink by putting a spritz of lemon juice and some cucumber slices in a pitcher of cool water, and Emma made up a veggie tray and laid out the chocolate. Then they laid me on the floor and Bailey doctored me up. I was determined to relax, despite the fact that my last external oatmeal experience was when Mom slathered me with cold oatmeal paste to sooth my raging chicken pox last year. Actually, in spite of the cold and gooiness and the slight tickling sensations going on in the foot region as Mattie and Emma stuck cotton between my toes, the whole thing was very pleasant. I must have been a regular spa spectacle. Pink oatmeal caked on my face, twin cucumber slices balanced precariously over my eye sockets, hair sticking in all directions. Bailey did a great job with the facial, and it smelled heavenly. Strawberries and oatmeal. Reminded me of birthday cake. And then, Bailey rubbed my head and Mattie and Emma massaged my hands. I was totally pampered out. When the oatmeal had dried, I washed it off, and sure enough, my face felt great.
We tried to do Bailey too, though we aren’t exactly pro’s like she is. :) But hopefully she got to enjoy the affect too. It was a fun, girly evening that I certainly won’t forget :)
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The Most Patriotic Thing I've Ever Done
Today I voted for the first time! Yay! It was the most patriotic thing I've ever ever done. I loved it. I appreciate my dear country more for having actually taken part in its well being.
All the political palaver makes me want to puke, and I want to go bury my head in the sand like an ostrich to avoid the unpleasantness, but I recognize that debates are sometimes necessary, and the truth has to come out, even if it is with a lot of demoralizing garbage. At this point, I confess, I still rely on Dad's views because I haven't researched for myself. I've made my faith my own, but not my politics, yet :) But I will. The privilege and dignity of voting is great incentive to take up the responsibility with gusto.
Must go now...will write more sometime soon.
All the political palaver makes me want to puke, and I want to go bury my head in the sand like an ostrich to avoid the unpleasantness, but I recognize that debates are sometimes necessary, and the truth has to come out, even if it is with a lot of demoralizing garbage. At this point, I confess, I still rely on Dad's views because I haven't researched for myself. I've made my faith my own, but not my politics, yet :) But I will. The privilege and dignity of voting is great incentive to take up the responsibility with gusto.
Must go now...will write more sometime soon.
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