Blackberry cobbler. That's what I smell. That's what I taste, in the back of my mouth, where a seed or two is still stuck between my molars.

I just pulled the cobbler from the oven. My cousin, Kim, and I made it as a reward for the team berry-picking efforts of the day. Dad rounded up the troops, armed with cut-off milk jugs and dressed in jeans to defer the thorns.

Kim is visiting from Tennessee, where there aren't many fire ants. And according to her, no ant bite like the one she got a few days ago while we were decorating for Connor's graduation party. It swelled to about two inches in diameter and got red and itchy, so naturally she was a little apprehensive about more ant encounters.

"It's no big deal," I told her, "All you have to worry about are a few berry briars, cows, snakes, wild hogs, mosquitoes, thistles, and cow pies." "Remind me why I'm doing this again?" she asked.

We reached the aluminum gate, which we had to climb over, and Ethan said, "Ladies go first, but they're not wearing skirts, so I'll just go." And he did. I only wear skirts twice a week or so, but apparently Ethan sees a difference.

The cows didn't appreciate our intrusion to their sunny pasture. In fact, when we made it down to the lower pasture, they silently followed us, creeping in around us with stealth unnerving in a beast of that size.

But then, I've always found cows unnerving, ever since I was old enough to lay awake listening to their far-off mooing at night when the windows of our old mobile home were open. Very freaky for a three year old, let me tell you. I had cow nightmares. But I've probably already shared that before.

But the creeping cows...they eyed us with contempt but did nothing really menacing. Mostly they disliked the dog, I think, who felt it his duty to chase them off if they got too close to his people.

The best berry spot was a patch of little bramble islands, each one full of dewberries (yes, I've been calling them blackberries, because they're so similar, but they're really dewberries. Just sweeter and closer to the ground.) So it was WWII in Japan all over again, with us hopping from one island to the next. That's a horrible thought, actually.

Nearly every "island" was situated around a thistle, which pricked much worse than a berry bramble. And wouldn't you know that the best berries were tucked right under the thistle leaves. I was down on my knees hunting out the berries, attacking almost, getting a sunburn, smooshing berries into the knees of a decent pair of jeans.

I'm very reluctant to go berry picking, because I know this is how it will be. Once I'm in, I can't seem to stop. I'll be the last to go, but probably the last to come home. Except Dad.

Finally, part of the crew headed back with most of the berries and Dad and I explored another pasture. We weren't going to pick anything, just check to see what there was. But there was that one bush...loaded with shiny berries...and we couldn't just let them rot. There was another patch, and another. But we soon we were wandering back home through the pastures, with me a little disoriented and Dad knowing just where we of course, thank goodness. Glad it wasn't just me and the skulking cows.

Kim and I made the cobbler, with berry patterned aprons on and everything. And seeing as there was that bit of extra crust, and a drizzle of berry juice, and a cookie sheet to bake it just to flaky perfection...we've been have a little preview snack before the real cobbler this evening. Hence the berry seeds behind my teeth. Amen.

Stir and Enjoy...My Life

"Just stir and enjoy."

Those are the words I saw this morning on the peanut butter lid as I was making my toast. It's the all natural kind of peanut butter that comes with an inch of oil on top that you need a concrete mixer to mix. When I use it I usually sprinkle a teaspoon of sugar on my toast just to "help the medicine go down."

But when I saw those words, I got tickled and had a little laugh to myself, as I'm prone to doing more and more lately, because I thought of how true the words seem to be for my life. I envision myself as a little pot of pudding and God as Himself, with a spoon. And every time the pudding seems to be settling and thickening up, he sticks His spoon in, stirs, scrapes the goo up off the bottom, takes a good lick, and...smiles.

I, to throw in a very different comparison, feel like a wet cat at the stirring, but the thought that God loves me enough not to let me settle into globby old pudding is really a relief. And I feel His enjoyment of me. I am glad because He is glad.

Stir and enjoy.

So, finals are over and I'm very satisfied with them. I'm done with Kilgore college, presumably forever, since I plan to transfer in the fall to Berea. Today was my first unschool day of the summer, and I spent it running, reading, and housecleaning, in that order.

And I thought a lot. Not about what I was doing, unfortunately. I realized that taste-testing is not the brightest way to find out whether the liquid in a spray bottle is water or not. I was 99% sure it was either peroxide or water, and since Mom sometimes uses peroxide as mouth wash, I knew it wouldn't kill me.

After a hasty thoughtless squirt in the mouth, I remembered the 1% possibility of it being some extremely toxic chemical. But of course it was too late and I'm not dead yet. The strange taste, I decided, must be that of stale peroxide. And with an optimistic laugh I applied it liberally to the sink, the toilet, and the tub, and scrubbed away. Just wait. It'll end up being some kind of liquid super-glue, and tomorrow my mouth will be stuck shut and someone will be stranded on the toilet. Ha.

Today I ran for thirty minutes and came home flaming red, having worked up an admirable sweat and stench. The sweat and stench I was proud of. The redness of face I was not. Too much like embarrassment.

Running is stretching me. Not just my legs, but my mind, my heart, my faith, my will. I began sneaking out of the house to run because I was ashamed to let even my family members see me attempt something I've failed at consistently, mostly in the willpower department. And I didn't want them to see me all red and soaked. And I wanted it to be just between me and God at first. Him stirring the pudding and smiling. Me running. And smiling.

I am half way through a seven week plan which, if all continues to go well and I don't get heat stroke, will have me running a modest three miles in somewhere under a modest 30 minutes and, more importantly, confidently grinning at passersby from an unashamed, crimson-hued face.

For the first time I'm liking running, because it seems to be an allegory of life, that I do over and over. I practice living. Practice fighting the good fight. Practice grinning instead of flinching when people drive by. I know they don't care if I'm red or not; it's me learning not to
care.

That guy who just went by in a black PT Cruiser, he doesn't know my story. And you don't know his, a voice whispers. He has no idea how far I've come or how far I'm going, and I don't know anything about him except that he looks middle-aged-ish and I think he's wearing a black suit. And I will never see him again. Phew.

Stir and enjoy, folks, stir and enjoy.

The Room

There is a place of love
Where not even questions go
Behind the stained-glass window of my heart
Into the sanctuary
World-wisdom hesitates
At the door; turns and leaves,
Silenced by a sight of profound intimacy
Doubt enters, only to incinerate
Paranoia passes into recognition
Of the Expert Lover
Sin is laved from me
By the blood of His own heart
The spinning world outside
Knows nothing of this knowing
I, in turn, am for a moment weaned
From its portfolio of counterfeits
In the place of love
Where not even questions go

I find
That You are no stranger to me
That Your LOVE
Has become my nature
That this PLACE
Has become my portion
That YOU
Have become my desire
That my HEART
Will continue to seek You
All
The days
Of my life
And I will dwell
In the House of the Lord
Forever.

I don't know what to think, because this was supposed to be one poem, but it acts like two. Same thought, two different expressions. It starts in hopeful timidity and explanation and crescendos into confident truth. And maybe I'll leave it this way, because I feel that the movement signifies a sudden change that comes over our lives much as it happened in this poem.

A Little Exuberation

Oh happy day! Math class is finally complete. A complete success. A final completed. A successful completion...Oh I'm happy.

I was the last person to leave the room this morning after two solid hours of math final. My concern toward the end was not so much that I couldn't do the work as that I wouldn't finish in time. But it worked out just right. Just as everything about this class miraculously has, even after long travail. It is so satisfying to stand at the top of the hill and gaze over the long trail winding through forests, valleys and morasses and know that I've finished. And not only finished, but finished well, with a sigh of contentment and not of resignation. I've learned what I came here to learn.

Yes, it's just one class. Please bear with me as I exuberate, if that non-Webster approved word can be allowed. All semester, algebra class has been a picture to me of my race on earth, the perseverence, the trust, the everyday miracles. So it's no wonder that the day of the final would feel like heaven. But lest you think I rely on works to get me through, know that working though algebra has in itself been all God's grace! Through faith I kept trying...but I know God was the one "doing!" Even in math.