The women slurped spaghetti, made with peppers, mushrooms, sausage, tomatoes. The women bunched together in the small living room. The women testified to the Lord's goodness in their lives. The women laughed. The women held a baby or two. The women sorrowed over a breast cancer in the room. The women prayed with hands touching her. The women hugged. The women connected in the kitchen before saying goodbye.

The toddler girl felt my hair as I carried her around. Her name was Taneisha or "Nana". Beautiful child!

I came home. My son and I prayed. My husband and I talked.

The glow lingers, and I still tug.

Here's a good word from this morning for this life:

When I said, 'My foot is slipping,'
your love, O Lord, supported me.
When anxiety was great wtihin me,
your consolation brought joy to my soul.
Psalm 94:18-19

I was so lonely for my son yesterday! I was so worried for him!

The women at the Thursday evening faith group speak about releasing your children to God: every day, release the anxiety which can grip you, let go, He can handle their issues. I understand to an extent, but I still want to defend them from the mountain lions which stalk.

Today I will try to be less wary, though, and more confident.

I've been in the throes of decision regarding school for Cody next year. I was offered a chance at teaching Creative Writing and Language Arts at an area private Christian school, geared for homeschool children. Yet in further thought, prayer, consultation, I realize that this school could not accomodate Cody and would most likely end in a negative experience. We've investigated the school before for him. I still remember the wave of concern visible over the administrator's face when I told him about the autism diagnosis. Although Cody is mild, yet he still would need some grace provided in the form of patience and love and time. He doesn't fit in the candle holder there.

Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a Christian school who could make room for all types of children? In Little Rock when I looked, there was one that had an outlook like this. However, the slots were full.

As it is, another plan is in place for Cody for next year, which includes a few public school hours and some tutoring in math and an emphasis on Social Studies and English at home. One door closes, some will open.

With the Virginia Tech specter in our minds these days, I pray that children who don't quite fit in will not be even more ostracized due to a fear or distrust issue. Protect our special children, please Lord! They need a full scoop of directed love, mercy, grace. Amen.

Laughing Song
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by,
When the air does laugh with our merry wit
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing Ha, Ha, He;

When the painted birds laugh in the shade
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,
Come live & be merry and join with me
To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, Ha, He.

William Blake

This week has caused a need for a laughing song. William Blake writes in his Songs of Innocence and Experience about the division within us : the reality of innocence blurbing out within a reality of experience and its grief and pain. There's both. We retreat again and again within us to a longing of a world without guns, to a place where there's laughing, and childhood awareness of joy. We need it now and always. We need a song about laughter, although we know the song of tears too.

May the hope of a future lessened burden of grief somehow land upon those who are deeply grieving over the loss of innocence which can never be erased from their experience. Amen.

This is a calf who lost his mother quickly. Are you my mother? he asks Cody.

Bo refuses to get involved, remembering the last time he chased some cows, he got whooped. He sits and watches the yummy testicles fly. Disgusting!

Cody "turned" / took on a big worried Mamma Cow with his stick and won! She was coming right at him all alone by the corral as she tried to return to her calf. We were all watching him, wondering, if he would be the one to turn and run. But, he didn't; he faced her and inched his way towards manhood that day there on the farm, working cattle like the men (and teenage girls).

A check for the granddaughter cowpoke

Someone earned her keep at the bi-annual cattle drive! It was important to look glamorous as well while filling the blackfoot vaccine and pouring the blue wormer on the cattle's back.

spring break in the Ozarks

Around this time, as we pull into my parent's lane after a 3.5 hour drive, we are exhausted but exhilerated. The sounds and the smells of the fresh country swamp our weary city senses, and we always roll our window down, no matter the weather, to let it engulf us and declare us: Hillbillies once more! Yeehaw!

Here are the kids; the daughter insists that it's high time for the not-so-little brother to learn how to do his time at the gate.

The daffodils to the left were planted by my great-grandmother Vietta, a beautiful woman who once was engulfed by the beauty of this land too.

A Lady Reposeth

Gifts

The question of purpose likes to fling itself full-force into one's face periodically. It especially likes to choose a time when the weather has swung into bleak coldness as it did in our area this week. I've been a scurrying figure, holding on to a tree,trunk,stump,branch,twig until late Thursday, I felt a snap, and I was hurtling through space. (Btw, I've always felt so much like a Virginia Woolf character when this happens. I can't even read her books at times because of that connection I feel to some of her people.)


The question of purpose, of connection, of non-random plans was at my throat again due to some prompting that happened at a couple of groups I attended on Thursday. It had been building too. I sat catatonically afterwards on my red couch with my husband peering at me in concern. "What's wrong?" he asked. "You couldn't understand," I said. And the intense questions became mixed with marital issues until I had to get away and collapse unhappily and troubled to sleep. He didn't know what to do.


The morning, cold, came, and I could barely function. I was confused and within the fog. My husband left early for a men's group from church, and I asked him to have them pray for us. Later an online Bible study prompted me to read a chapter in John which held the verse: "I am the light of the world. Those who follow me will never live in darkness." I held it to my forehead and cried and prayed for the light to remain in me and to shine forth, despite the night of confusion. He is our constant help, the Bible says repeatedly, in time of trouble.


The question of purpose had stared me down, mocking that it was even a possibility, taunting me by saying that my life was just a series of random events which had only the meaning given to it by a personally subjective method. I had found out on Thursday night that even women who had no belief in God/Christ, even many of them had a strong sense of their purpose, of corresponding things which reaffirmed their identity and activity. After this group, I went to a faith group where lovely emphatic black women were saying parallel things but in the beautiful language of faith, with conviction and empowerment, and hope and love. Coupling the belief with a belief in a caring Deity, I knew they held the best possibility, the most light.


Meanwhile, my sense of these things had increasingly decreased. My belief in transcendence, in God's design, had been skiing down the mountain towards the fall-off cliff. Yes, He allows me to swerve and stay safe, yet I've gotten closer by some habits of unbelief and skepticism. That night, I felt like I had plunged off, because I felt that I really had no sense of control in how to believe in these things. I just didn't much.


The day went by, my husband brought me flowers, and we went out to a movie, and we were close. I finally told him bits of pieces of some of my load. He seemed to take the time to listen. That part was helping me. He was kind and caring, a gift.


Then, on Saturday, I went to a local folk festival with a friend. During the lunch break, we talked about some things, and I shared with her some of my confusion on the question of purpose and correspondence of things for that purpose. I shared that I had a hard time believing in that in a highminded way, but I wish that I could. She shared her view and questions, and then she told me that she thought I had a purpose of guiding others, of touching others in a unique way, of being a friend that's needed in other's lives. I have a habit of shrinking back and not receiving these things, which I did, shrink. But, I thanked her and remembered a few instances where I have been necessary to others. Of course, I know that I'm necessary to my children, but aren't all mothers? Nature requires it. Why do I minimize things?


The conversation helped me, though. As I ran this morning, I thought of it, and I thought of God's touch in my life. I always think of the positive things as gifts, and I'm always a grateful recipient. Yet, I stop there. I felt like God was telling me this morning to not stop, to understand the the connection between the giver and the gift. A gift cannot be random because it always issues from a giver; it always issues with a name on it: To Teri: a friend; To Teri: a talent; To Teri: a loving family; To Teri: food; To Teri: light. Therefore, a gift from a giver must logically involve a reason and most likely a purpose. A purpose to accept, like a gift.


I still feel like God wants me to continue and not stop there but, at some point, to understand more and fully accept my part within His purpose, regardless of whether that simply involves who I am now and what I'm involved with. Or, perhaps within something else down the road. I'm opening myself up to that. I prayed for more certainty and confidence again within that.


The light is shining more here in the middle of Missouri. Those dark times are telling. Several gifts for sight were given to me. I pray that we can all follow the light He intends for us to follow.








.

instrumentals

It is Monday morning, very early; I've been a bad blogger lately. My head is filled with tunes these days instead of words. I find myself going to my bed, opening my mandolin case and songbook, and working on "Arkansas Traveler" or "Irish Washer Woman" or "Black Mountain Rag". When I went to the Wednesday evening jamgroup, I was incited by the melodies once more. Thus last week's pattern was 1) picking, 2) penance; 1) picking, 2) penance. My picking was glorious; my penance was housework and time spent with family members. That was good, yet I must confess, my fingers wanted to be picking. My dad has bequeathed a hopeless, helpless life of taunt strings and melodic challenge.

Yet somehow a life was managed, and now it's a new week.

I found time to begin a wonderful new book called "The Yellow Wind" by David Grossman. Beautiful, lyrical, haunting, impactful ... and, I'm only on Chapter Two. Check out some excerpts at this site.

Oh hail the black and white Eye-Ball that rolls in its grassy socket!

Recently several of my friends have described their weekend to me. In short: soccer: soccer: soccer. Their kids have been wearing their league t-shirts around since kindergarten at least. Their refrigerators are full of age progressive magnet-backed photos of grimacing, grinning beckham-tots, clutching the ball, lest it rolls out of the boundary-frame. My friends always sound tired about the whole schedule, yet resolved in all-pursuit of collegiate scholarship (if it turns out that way) or at least resolved in keeping their child happy, healthy, and out of trouble. If anything can do that, it's soccer, they seem to think. A debatable theory, I think.

Nevertheless for myself, I'm quite thrilled that my kids are hopelessly inept at ball maneuverment. For one thing, I can't imagine all of those years of finding shinguards and socks. We were intensely stressed out those two and a half years our children found themselves mesmerized by the Eye-Ball (due to parental or peer pressure). One shinguard was always in an unlikely place like the freezer or feminine protection drawer. The mismatched socks were always dirty or vacationing. Often, I used my husband's dark work socks when I was in last second frenzy prior to leaving the house for a practice or game. I should have used his tie for a headband, I guess.

So while the soccer parents drive all over the city or state, I'm glad that we have Sundays for rest, or reading, or grandparents, or church. Saturday mornings are good for the farmer's market, or friend coffee, or home cleaning, or garage sales, or longer visits to farther away family. Or, just for relaxing around the yard, watching the new season's flowers sprout.

If my kids were athletic, given what I enjoy and prioritize now, I would only hope that if a black and white Eye-Ball happened to cross my path, I would kick it out of its boundaries and into the Missouri River, where it could travel to the Gulf, and then beyond to perhaps a castaway on an island, and he could give it a name to fulfill all of his deepest needs. The Eye-Ball would be happy again, but not in my weekend!

(nothing against any of you who have kids on a soccer team:)

Most Blessed of Women be Jael

Commemorates the song of Deborah. Jael acted with stealth as she gave Sisera, an enemy king, milk and not water. The music of seeming refuge lulled him to sleep in Jael's tent, where she offered hiding after a losing battle with prophetess-judge Deborah and army-leader Barak. When the king was fast asleep

"Her hand reached for the tent peg,
her right hand for the workman's hammer.
She struck Sisera, she crushed his head,
she shattered and pierced his temple.
At her feet he sank,
he fell; there he lay.
At her feet he sank, he fell;
where he sank, there he fell -- dead." (Judges 5:24-31)

The song rises with righteous entreaty in the final verses:

"So may all your enemies perish, O Lord!
But may they who love you be like the sun
When it rises in its strength."

In the book I'm reading now called "Army of Roses: Inside the World of Palestinian Women Suicide Bombers" by Barbara Victor, I'm introduced to modern day women just like Jael and Deborah. Fighters. Killers. Praisers of Allah and his allegiance to those who love him and do his bloody work.

And, I thought that such feminine militaristic zeal was a new thing. As long as there are religious warring men, there are religious warring women -- equal in life, death, and spiritual ambition for glory.

Photo: Ann Hermes, Columbia Missourian, March 18, 2007

Maya smiled and the world was calmed. That's how it felt last night, even in the back student section (thank you lovely student friend for the invite) when we watched her, in person, smile out over her latest enthralled audience. I'm sure the smile went over into the Gaza settlements and into the outposts in Nepal where children march with guns.

Okay, most likely, it didn't. People died today because of violence despite Maya's smile and grandmotherly advice and benevolent hope for humanity. Yet wouldn't one who died today wish for someone who cared, who spoke about caring, who used her time to be expressively hopefully about a better world, who marched her words outwards to spread the care? I would want that in my shocked and final suffering at the hands of hatred.

Maya was funny. She said that she was trying, trying to be a Christian now, but it's so hard. Sometimes, someone will come up, shake her hand, and announce that they're a Christian. To which she likes to respond incredulously, "Already?"

She received many laughs, many claps. I sat there moist-eyed, because I had started to feel like the world was sinking into the mire of hopeless conflict and subjugation. And, perhaps we are. But, if we ask for more from ourselves and each other, as Maya spoke about, a "rainbow in the clouds" can appear: promising hope for even us, for even Israel and Palestine, for even the disenfranchised in New Orleans, for even Iraq, for even around our own homes.

I'm quite glad that I was introduced to Maya Angelou only 12 years ago, despite the gaps in my biased education. She truly is an amazing torchbearer of human dignity. Below is a poem written by her on the subject, written and delivered for the 50th anniversary of the United Nations:

A Brave and Startling Truth By Maya Angelou

We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we learn
A brave and startling truth

And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms

When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn and scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil

When the rapacious storming of the churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze

When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse

When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Nor the Gardens of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled into delicious color
By Western sunsets

Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the Rising Sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world

When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines

When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.

No Rock

Nothing against the gorgeous state of Arkansas and the fine people there, but hallelujiah!, we are not moving to Little Rock. I'm embracing the trail here as I run it, the friends over coffee, the church parking lot, the cheery cardinal that swoops now by my window, the perennials that are peeking up from my soil. I can remain a "Show-Me" girl, and I am mighty pleased, and did I mention hugging all that Missouri offers, every flyin', flowin', rooted, spittin', twangin', show-offin' thing? (even Branson and Republicans!). One big bunch of love goin' on here for the best state and people in the country! Don't you agree??

:)

Friendly fiddlers

The shrieking fiddle boys on Friday nights are especially cute and courteous. Not only did they brush off our windshields, they shoveled an individual path to our snow-covered cars after the jam, during a snowstorm. I like them. However, another venue seems to be necessary for me to hear myself play the meek mandolin.

Fortunately, a couple of men at church were in my bluegrass class. And, they're flexible workers which means they can come to my house in the late afternoon beginning this week. They both have musical backgrounds apart from their beginning instruments, and I trust them, although the BTK man was from church too.

Nonetheless, I'm quite excited about a smaller group, where we can diverge from fiddle tunes which split the air. And, I can improve my hypocritical musical contributions too. I'll still play from time to time with the little boys on their various instruments (mainly fiddle, but occassionally they pull out a jaw harp, a harmonica, and an old mandolin). I'm sure one day they will be famous, and I'll rue the day that they gave me a headache.

Candlelight

This entire week has been one of early risings (well, okay, not one morning!) in order to embrace the quiet of the morning because.... I have a new writing project which envisions a novel or a book of sorts. It's just ... all my life, I've desired and then procrastinated, desired, procrastinated. I even want to deny my actions towards this end even now, even here. The confession is hard because in some ways I'm ashamed. The shame voices of "as if!", an untoward ego ("as if!"), the echo of false starts ("as if!"), crescendo as I state. However, I can't help it. The decision has been made to myself, that I shall undergo a writing project: a book attempt. Why not? I have that English degree (as if that matters!), and, most importantly, as I, girl of about 13, kicked around in the cow lot one hot summer Ozarkian day, all glazed over from one of my numerous reads, I knew that I desired wholeheartedly to lead words into some sort of order, for some sort of reason, for some sort of joy.

Therefore, I confess and hope and arise early.

Crocus Gratitude

Yes, that's right -- the first flowers in my garden -- bursting forth from underneath the cold wind, ice, sleet, tornadoes and singing praise to the heavens. I'm so thankful for these little, loyal blossoms, hope bells of renewal and beauty.

As I was walking the block back from my running ending point a little while ago, I consciously yielded myself. I practiced this much while taking a small group where we studied Beth Moore's "Fruits of the Spirit". Many mornings, I forget or do so hurriedly. It felt good in the crisp air, on the quiet streets, with the geese flapping on in the distant sky, to relax my intensity and to be enfolded.

It feels like there's a new purpose brewing in my life, and I want to be surrendered to the will outside of my own. It truly doesn't take long for us to invite his fuller presence into us each morning. I need to do this more regularly, practicing the conscious act of releasing.

I went to the library yesterday to understand the Middle East, particularly one facet. As part of the stack of books I got, there's one I'm beginning called, "We just want to live here" which is a correspondence between two teenagers in Jerusalem. One is an Arab and one a Jew. Quite readable and a good primer on the perspectives of the youth on the hostilities between the two groups.

The Jewish teen recounts the story of MLK to the Arab girl, as a demonstration on how the two groups can get along without violence, through nonviolence. She wishes that she wouldn't have to worry about going to the mall without getting blown up. The Arab girl wishes that the children around her wouldn't have to live with the sights of guns and tanks and soldiers everywhere in the land which used to be their own. She wishes that she could have equal opportunity for education and work.

It's a wonderful small book. I hope to understand better the striving and the hope for peace among the youth, which we as adults are responsible for pursuing, I believe.

It's quite bizarre to me.

As American Christians, we can talk about the suffering that we don't cause, such as the AIDS epidemic in Africa; or the lack of good clean water in the Sahara; or the lack of food and work in some parts of El Salvadore; or the tsunami rebuilding in Indonesia. My recent Samaritan's Purse Prayer Point magazine showcased such the world in need. I read it and felt sorrow for the unfortunate and gladness at the offering of hope through Christ which is given through necessary outreach work. Some of which I donate money towards.

Yet, I'm confused about our noncommittal quietness concerning Iraq where today a female suicide bomber blew herself up, along with 40 other people, mainly students, at a university. Between 34 and 52 thousand Iraqi civilians have died since we began the removal of Saddam Hussein with the replacement of democracy. The Christian groups I belong to rarely speak of these citizens. There just seems to be a resignation to the fact that if you're caught in the crossfires of a war, it's unfortunate. An unfortunate price one might have to pay for being under such a dictator, or being born in a land with extreme cultural ancient tensions between the different religious groups there. My parents would probably justify it by saying that God is reaping judgment upon these people for their sins.

I guess that means everyone that suffers in the Samaritan Purse booklet is reaping God's judgment too? Perhaps those children in Liberia who step on a land mine inadvertently deserve it?

I'm quite tired of the resignation or the judgment. And, as a Christian, I'm extremely concerned for the people who are dying in the pot that we've also boiled.

What should I do, God?

When she was walking somewhere, a "kid" came up to her and said he wanted to get together with her.
"So I took off my hood and said, 'Do you still want to date me?' And, he said, 'Yeah.' It don't matter if you got gray hair these days!" We laughed at her exasperation with the youth not leaving a granny with grey dreadlocks alone on the inner sidewalks of our town.

And then, she began talking about her heartbreak with a 42 year old son who has hardened his heart against God. She even wrote him a poem, which she pulled out of her nearby purse. The rhyme scheme was predictably abab, abab, all throughout. The matching words were predictable. Yet it was tight (the old meaning of this word): a powerful invocation for the prodigal son broadcasted through an adept writer mom's heart and fingertips. She's using her creativity to call out. I was quite impressed with the entire poem which is published in a high quality anthology in heaven, I'm sure. This mother is beautiful, beautiful.

I had many bluegrass jammers (or slammers as this is a beginning squawking group) in my living room the other night. My daughter's old boyfriend, the one who caused me high-point grief at times but has proven to be a constant concerned friend to her, sat beside me on my red couch and picked along with us.

"We've got ourselves a rocker here!" I said in introduction to the others there. The two squawkin' fiddle boys looked envious at his genre. The rocker tried to show off to them a couple of times which got him a string-deadening hand from me. He's been yelled at by me before; he obediently grinned and silenced himself. Isn't that where we want all potential in-laws when they approach through our own children? Amen, amen.

:)

Last night, my daughter and I went out for dinner and then to the movie "Pan's Labryinth" at the independent film house here in town. It was enjoyable, quipping before the movie, hearing about her boyfriend, talking fashion and people. Like old times, our similar faces liking one another (harder than love at times). We saw her old Contemporary Thought teacher whose class she dropped during her renegade period. We saw a student co-editor in one of her current journalism classes. We saw random people and things to comment upon. I bought her popcorn and cream soda. And, then we snuggled into the old chairs as the cute-boy-movie-host rattled hither and forth as he described the upcoming films. The lights went down, and we began to hear Spanish and we began to read along even after the initial terrible image mangled our vision. As the film went on, the fantasy was fantastical, the reality abject, and we held on until the final image connected the first. And, a lullaby was hummed, and a girl twirled in new clothes. If you haven't seen it, consider it. The guerrila war aspects are worth enduring for the transcendence in the storyline, although the weightier of the two will become apparent. But, we must know both parts.

Life is knowing the parts, I suppose.

My guitar class today at the parent homeschool co-op was wild. Several guitars of the eight students appeared ill-tuned, and fighting this at the beginning took a while. In the meantime, one kid aspired to Clapton, and the other one who talks, talked and talked. The others "warmed up" and the discordance floated down through the hallway. It was fun, however, as well to conduct the sound once I got back into the room. We controlled our way into two or three songs, and those kids like to sing too. I think we'll be a hit at the recital in April!

That was last week, prior to the ice and snowfall again here in Missouri. It was an interesting trip. It was miraculous to be on the beach in the warmth. It was intriguing to walk along the Playa del Carmen avenue with the calling vendors and the Canadians and Europeans and South Americans, everyone babbling their languages. It was enlightening and sad to see the poverty in the Mexican countryside. It was interesting to see the ancient ruins and to contemplate the Mayan spiritual expression through temples, writings, sacrifices, attention. The spiritual consciousness being universal. I wondered if a Mayan woman wished that there were no rites, no consciousness to abide by, more freedom for the spirit. Did she think that way? Did she walk on the same path I stood on, wondering similar things? She probably worried for her children. She probably cared about her relations with others. She knew she was getting older.

As we were flying over Louisville, KY, on the return trip, I looked down and the city was beautiful, sparkly; the curvaceous Ohio river outlined the lights, the markers of abundance. We landed in St. Louis and the smell was good; the water could be chugged without severity (as we experienced down South). We took our tan skin into the freezing long term parking lot and reunited with our auto. We drove home, and I wondered if the futile quest for perfection would resume again in our daily lives.
But, for a little while, my 15 year commited husband and I were able to break from it, and to enjoy one another apart from it. That was essential and good.

It was a bit regrettably cruel, I suppose. My friend, who is originally from southern California, and I met at six this morning, when the whippin' wind chill was below 0, and the temp was in the single digits. We were too layered to run gracefully, looking like those Antartica scientists who are not to be understood by anyone. Plus, we had to hurdle or skid over ice patches in the road, barely preserving our aging hips from a fall in the dark, dark, bitterness of this morning, which mocked global warming, and reprimanded us for being out of our beds, away from snuggly husbands, who still had their lazy forms prostrate.

As the wind snapped against our cheeks, I told her that I couldn't run next week as we will be on the sunny beach in Mexico for our fifteenth anniversary. She was not happy for me. Running partners are the most honest people anywhere. The elements just require it.

:).

Letting go is seldom easy ~~ whether it's letting go of our children, our parents, or our childhood feelings. But jast as the root systems of plants often have to be divided for healthy growth to continue, the different generations within a family may have to pull apart for a while for each to find its own healthy identity.

Life's Journeys According to Mister Rogers: Things to Remember Along the Way. Fred Rogers

A wing

It's lovely and quiet at 3:06 in the morning. The wind is terribly cold outside.

I went to church tonight and found a spot on the last row on the second level. It's a good perch to watch people, to scout out my sixtysomething good friend and her husband. It's a comfort to see them: her blood pressure, his heart are functioning. She's still alive and spunky to affirm her life and me, which she's quite good at, without judgment or the righteous discernment. She bears with me, and she says it's reciprocal. A blessing. She blesses others too, seems to have a wing that she spreads outward, and we all know she's a safe retreat from cold wind. Once afer a terrible teaching day at high school, when the students failed to separate fiction from historical accuracy, when the other teachers grouped together, and I felt on the outside, I called her. "What are you doing?" An indirect scream for help. "Going into a department store to shop. What's going on? I can meet you." And she came over near the high school, my sweet reminder of women who cared, a Christ-abider who abided, and we had coffee, and she confirmed my identity in Love. She's one person who knows my thin tatters of being a human but can also recognize a royal robe on a beloved child. She picked me up to follow my daughter to the emergency room. She's prayed much for me. I'm quite blessed to have her in my life, like others whom she quiety nourishes.

Tears of gratitude.

Soon I need to sleep. We have a busy week ahead. We have a decisive week ahead as my husband must determine which of three offered jobs he will take. I'm wondering if we'll stay here. I'm wondering if my friend can still be part of my weekly tangible life.

I pray for courage and clarity

"And why do we have all these troubles? Because they done gone and ate that apple?"

I'm still smiling at the excellent question and attitude she displayed along with it tonight with her reddish black cornrows glistening and her eightmonth belly projecting. The apple is what our weighty grief balances upon? The rebellion of two who communed with God in the best possible world, the Garden of Eden, caused this pain and suffering? It's all so ludicrous in a way, unbelievable, mythical despite the literal-reading demands of my earlier congretation. It's a question that once made me lose my faith (with help from Twain in "Letters to Mother Earth").

It's a question I still wrangle with and am more comfortable with the evidence of damage: corruption, death, sickness, terror, envy, anger, shame: more comfortable seeing the results than analyzing the components of the scenario from which it issued. My Genesis "willing suspension of disbelief" is set into action, although it is craziness to believe in it. I've heard the literal belief in the Adam and Eve story called backwoods. Primitive. Ignorant. So forth.

So be it. If it launches me correctly into what appears to be the truth of faith, then I'll believe it somehow with humility.

The truth of faith was there again tonight in the circle of women. Those who can state still, stated it. Those who can listen now, listened (there I sat). Those who can question, questioned with a gesture.

The clear visionaries and discerners told us about the truth of faith. I began to get a hope again in my heart that I can want a fuller presence again; that I will allow it. The top comes off and the pitcher pours something warm like chai tea to flood to the toes. Renewal of the mind ... who is your god ... being silent ... giving up others to His work ... support. All those words, morsels of juicy steak, began to become nutrition again to a daughter who picks at her food, quite preoccupied with minimizing, minimizing, minimizing, to make up for a lack and to create one. May you lay out your long table of delectables, Lord, within my Spirit again. Amen.

The doomsday clock in our homeschool kitchen reflects the fact that my son has few minutes until I punish by dire consequence of no gaming. The public school children are out gallavanting and sleeping and watching Disney channel (due to the ice), yet here he is writing a poem, rewriting, having a mother tell him why learning is important for him. Sigh. Will it click? Or, will the clock tick? Aiiiiii ... !

In MLK's "I Have a Dream" speech, the crescendoing content of the rhetoric always causes me to sniffle a bit and pause while I'm going over it with Cody. It's just the most beautiful speech ever written by man, I believe. And, the courage and the fight for justice ... always brings out the idealist in me, and it makes me sniffle and happy that good can prevail over wrong. You can hear it and see it at this site:.

We had school today, even though the holiday, in which we paid homage to MLK, Cody ate a cupcake, and I sniffled. We also read about El Cid, health safety tips in hot weather (dreamy!), did penmanship, and the everpresent division. Perhaps there was more. I'm not sure.

I haven't been out of the house for four days! The ice isn't impairing me as much as my mental approach to the ice. It's as if my house is perched upon an icy slope high above Lake Lucerne, and if I go outside I might slide into the cold lake which I remember from the summer stopover in Switzerland. And, then Missouri might not even be a reality and I will be flailing my arms and panicing in the cold water and not doing the H.E.L.P float in cold water (which is like a cannonball posture) which Cody read about today in his health book. Ah, too many scary things out there, and I've got lots of songs and duties to perform here in the home.

I do have an appointment, though in a couple of hours to deliver some food to a family whose mother is dying. I need a cause like this to free me into the elements. If I slide into a ditch, I will get out and hoof my roast on over, because they live only perhaps a couple of miles from me.

It's snowing lovely flakes outside now. Isn't this what winter is all about: being secluded, resting up, accepting the mixture of harsh and sublime. Being in a stupor, eating too much, spatting with the husband some. Life in January in the Midwest. It's quite normal.:)

The news burst out tonight that the two Missouri boys had been found, even the one missing for four years! It is wonderful; my thoughts wandered many times to him and the sad mystery and his suffering parents. Now, he's found, along with the other innocent child who was snatched. Thank God!

There's been tiptiptapping all day on the skylights as the "wintery mix" descends, presses. Unfortunately, a bag of tulip bulbs went unplanted, I see, and now the ground is frozen again.

Life has been quite musical lately for me. Every Wednesday night (and some Friday nights), I pack my notebook of songs and mandolin and travel within a two mile radius (it seems that my area of town is an epi-center for bluegrass musicians unbeknownst to me before!) to an unknown man's house where I gather in the circle of unknown men. And, we uncase together, and take our turns to choose a song and perform a break if we're daring, or good enough. I'm not good enough, but I am daring and try fumbling along in a solo from time to time during the session.

The dynamics are quite rewarding within the group. I'm conditioned by women's groups where we link, connect, introduce, and reveal. Here, I just sit mostly silently within the men who quip their occassional one-liners, but are basically there to be submerged in the unity of the melody. No introductions are ever garnered. It's both aloof and all-inclusive.

Wednesday, I sat by an attentive man who let me try out his mandolin. He murmured encouragement after my song choices and breaks. It was nice but unnecessary. The week before, I sat by a clawhammer banjoist who must not believe in drycleaning frequently. My. I missed the women then.

On Thursday nights, I go to my women's group down town in a rougher part, where the women are transparent about rough lives which God has led them from: prostitution drugs gangs pregnancy divorce addictions caring for children. We cry and hold hands standing afterwards for prayer; even if we're strangers, we hug goodbye. The Lord is thick within, making everyone intimate and trusting.

Then during the days, we school. Cody grows grows grows! He is very interested in a woman being the president of the United States one day. He's very interested in Hiroshima. We're having a Knight's festival at our home next Friday, if this tiptiptapping will ever stop.

The daughter slides around, learning, growing, somehow she'll be okay. The husband tries to figure out a huge career decision which would cause us to move or stay.

Tiptiptapping, tiptiptapping, tiptiptapping, always motion, always sound; life mixes and descends to coat us in newness, experience

Happy New Year!

Let the cleansing of bad, unhealthy habits begin again! I must admit, I must start anew myself.

Sugar
For over two months, I kicked my unwholesome addiction to sugar with excellent results (five pound weight loss, better mental clarity, less emotional ups and downs). It was one of those healthy worth-it experiences. All the evil sugary foods were replaced by those with nutritional content which had been placed to the side. Fruits, vegetables, milk, nuts never tasted so good. I felt healthier than I've ever felt before.

Immediately post-Halloween, I succumbed to several Butterfingers ... and then, slowly with moderation, but surely, I began to intake more sugar again. The crescendo began around my son's 12th birthday party (did you see the picture of that cookie cake? Mmmmmm...). Then around Christmas time, I began eating whatever I wanted, thinking of the purging to come on January 1st.

Now, it's January 1st, and I'm excited to resume back to life without sugar. For me, it's a much better life physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I would be stupid to not go back to it.

The cleansing feels good, too. Christmas, to me, bah humbug, can get so overridden with junk of much kind. I like the minimal season that's approaching, and one that readies us for the flourish of Spring. We'll have Valentine's Day when the stores try to overwhelm us with red and pink, the chocolate, the due-to-us emotional sugary rewards. But, for the most part, the months will be quiet and preparatory for a warmer time, another spiritual season which we can approach stripped down and dependent once more upon the better Sustenance. Plus, those coming bathing suit days .... ah!

If you are wanting to take out sugar from your diet, I would suggest joining the kicksugar yahoo group at kicksugar@yahoo.com There's excellent advice and support from these people who put this together. If you want support from me, just let me know, and we can be accountable to one another.

Take care, and let the new healthier year begin!

It's raining tonight and one wonders about slick roads out there. However, one must trust.

Scrapbooking is one of those uneasy concepts that floats out there in womanworld these days. About ten years ago, I feigned an interest as I nicely went to someone's product party. From that point forward, a set of chalks and a few stamps lived politely in a bag in one of my back closets. Since that time, I've heard many exclamatory remarks about the hobby; I've witnessed children pressed in between pages, between stickers and stamps and little metal doodads ~~ all looking cute and preserved and playful simultaneously. Yet even though I strolled down the paper aisle looking wistfully at the beautiful designs, I never desired to put all the far-flung flambuoyant pieces together for a bona fide scrapbook. It was too confusing and frivolous, and, I don't know ... womanworldish with a checkbook earmarked for silly escape.

Plus what would hours of focusing on little papers cause me to miss out on in the other bigger world? Too much, I thought.

That was then; this is now, and I've got a pile of little papers and cute frames and styrofoam letters and puffy stickers to dwell upon. "On Walden Pond" may never thoroughly be read. I may never get that Master's degree program. Someone else will step up in women's ministry at church. I've got some piecing to do. It's a woman's prerogative! The debit card was swiped tonight at Michael's Hobby and Craft stores!

Next to my piles of purchased paraphenalia, I have stacks of photos of my adorable daughter. There she is being held on Long Beach in Gloucester, Massachusetts; her yellow yarn poncho and hat brightening the gloom of the early March day; her dad looking curiously at her appearance in a poor student's life. There she and I are arm-in-arm in myriad poses throughout the years, smiling, clinging to one another, as we're a bit both adrift but happy together. Several show her friends, her costumes in plays, her artwork at our kitchen table, her grinning grandparents holding her tightly. Then there are the braces during middle school, and the friends during junior high, and the laughing cousins at the farm. Here she's on a cliff with our church's youth group, scaling Colorado. I'm there too, spending all possible time with the lovely girl who's given me much joy in my life.

The real Scrapbookers keep every little program or menu or item marking an event. To be legitimate (in case a real Scrapbooker comes to scrutinize), I dig through the box in my closet and find little notes my daughter has written me. Cards I've written her. We certainly expressed lots of hearts and xoxoxos. Her scrawl begins to change over time. When I can't stand it any longer, my husband comes to check on me, and I get sympathy and tissues.

But the project will help me piece together what was and what can be held in a meaningful pattern of a beautiful child's life. Our babies are there for us to hold and nurture. They grow, we protect. they grow, we release. It's a life pattern. Surely we can all comply to the pattern.

I found a prayer the other day in a book which has helped me somewhat. If you have a strong-willed child, you might like it too. It goes like this:

"She's wonderful, strong, and spirited. Help her know her strengths. Help her learn to use her spirit in the right ways. Guide her with love. Help her to learn to use her energy wisely. You have the strength to raise this strong-willed child."

I'm looking forward to focusing on these small pieces of paper. I will try not to think about how the more experienced, crafty mom might concoct a multi-dimensioned symmetrical matching page. I'm sure there are a million more products to purchase to make the presentation more perfect. I'll just keep my eye on the smile of my little girl who has continued to smile as a teenager who will still smile as she becomes older. My role in the smile was monumental; even though she's forgotten now, the proof becomes irrefutable when a mother scrapbooks her memories.

I'm finally understanding the concept of scrapbooking!

Let the flower catalogues pour in. All the red, green, plastic hubalahoo of Christmas resides in its storage container as of yesterday afternoon. The house is cleansed; I can breathe easier; the wet cold soil feeds the tubers and bulbs without a thousandshoutingicons (yet).


Christmas is over, hallelujiah, and the season of rebirth approaches!

I'm not sure why I watched the video feed from CNN which showed the noose being placed around Saddam Hussein's neck. I feel sadness strain all through me. I dislike capital punishment, yet I'm sure the victims' families predominantly feel rightfully vindicated. The world is mixed with violence; we need the stories of good to flow upward to the surface. Yet we see Saddam, strained, quizzical, defiant, dead.

My Old Testament reading this morning reminds me that war, takeover, predominance is quite normal. Patterns of history follow the battle stories. Although God allowed the Israelites to defeat the battles to show His predominance as rightful God, I always cringe when the enemy tribes' children and women and elderly were slaughtered, as directed to Moses through Abba, Father. It always strains the "modern mind" to understand the ancient ways and the ways of establishment of One-God, mono-Theism, a Jealous Shepherd.

With the new order, Christ, we pacifists can have a hero, a non-political, non-marching figure of healing and love. It washes the old images into a cleansing flow. Yet with the "modern" strains of battle, predominance, violence, the Old Testament is strangely comforting in that it's a normal pattern which God Himself has gotten involved with. With the introduction of Jesus, however, shouldn't our reactions be different? Should we be so willing to vindicate?

Anyway, I'm sorry for the blood shed on both sides of the Saddam issue. The world creaks and groans with hope of redemption.

Little Twirler Grandma

My mother was nervous and dropped her baton at least three times during the Saturday night family talent show. It was the talking part, she kept saying afterwards, that had her nerves all in a bundle and fingers all a-fumble. But, she kept twirling and dropping while Dad kept repeating "Go Tell it On the Mountain" on his guitar. We all watched and ahhhed during the waist twirl or the half catch. She ended in true majorette form with her knee up and her baton crooked. Her earlier words had rendered us even more sentimental as she shyly spoke about how she treasured us, all of us. We cheered wildly afterwards. I have it on tape, but I think it's too sacred for YouTube.

:)

Hope you all had a Merry Christmas!!

My bones ache, my throat burns, and I've got baked treats to deliver and sundry other Christmas duties. I'm sipping on tea that my neighbor Chinese grandparents brought back from China. Their seven year old translator told my husband that "it's good for you." It's quite pretty tea, with white flowers floating on the yellowed liquid. Almost looks like chamomille, but I don't know and can't translate the Chinese writing on the can. I'm hoping it's magically healthy and makes my symptoms disappear.

My daughter's purse and keys lie nearby. She's sleeping on her brother's bunk. We baked a couple of nights ago and she's been staying, in transition, needing stability, yet always fighting for unlimited freedom. I'm glad she's here. I've been happy to hear that she's blessed her recently widowed stepgrandfather, who cries every time he calls me, by visiting him. Perhaps she is pulling out of those self-centered forces inside of her.

Cody has decided on his own to give some of his birthday money to the Salvation Army. Last night, I told him that I was chilled and he brought me a heater and stuck it right by my feet. Do you ever wonder which of your children will end up taking care of you when you get old? He's becoming a viable candidate!

I need to plan a dinner for Christmas day. My mother-in-law and companion will be joining us ... perhaps the widowed stepgrandfather who has no place to go and fights constant tears. I need the tea to work so that I can go to the grocery store with enthusiasm and vigor. I'm always reminded during times like this of how the grocery store is the hallmark of health. When you're sick, shopping for groceries seems to require as much energy as scaling Mount Hood and just as perilous. Being under the weather has always been good for me to be reminded of how others struggle for long terms and need help. I'm not even that sick, just inconvenienced for a bit.

On Friday, we leave for a couple of days to visit my parents. Supposedly, we're having a family talent show along with the traditional gift-giving. I'm revving up my video camera for my mother's act. I'm thinking that the YouTube title will be: Ozarkian Grandma Twirls in original Uniform to High School Sweetheart's Banjo Pickin'. I think the city folk will love it!

.

This brave cake was devoured by eight ravenous-for-sugar boys this past weekend. We thank God for a wonderful friendship year for Cody! Long-awaited, but faithfully granted.

Two little brothers once again. Different cute names, different types of haircuts. One set wore Wal-Mart brands; tonight's wore North Face. One set, down in the Ozarks a couple of months ago, brought a smoking grandmother who didn't play; these khakied kids' professor father hammed along with them. Two fiddler boys again. They all sounded awful, but they were cute and hopeful. They'll improve. Are they following me?

The jam session was less than a mile from my house and so, for once, I proclaimed my identity as a picker. Usually, down home, I'm known as (My Dad's Name)'s daughter, and I just follow along, proud, proud to be so because everyone likes him, and he's talented on multi-instruments, and he has twinkly eyes and deep dimples. He even has a Viking-like name which makes it more impressive to be (My Dad's Name)'s daughter. We enter the bluegrass court, and the respect hushes the warriors-muses and their maidens. Not really, but, you know, possibly.

So tonight in a basement, I, sole female, joined the group of boys and men and retrieved my mandolin and song/chord list. One fancy mandolinist barely paid attention to me after he saw that I only wanted to demonstrate backup. Going solo was too scary, and probably too accomplished at this point. The men were fairly quiet, an occassional quip in between selections, mainly lost in the tunes, burrowed, seeking a tap root within and without an essential chord progression, or pick-and-string-reaction -- it was this lostness which seemed quite familiar. Many days, a lost father, staring out the window, hands rolling, mind attuned far-far-away. These tunes are rather old, hearkening back to the Celtic days when we gathered under pavilions with our banners posted, or by our mud homes, outside under a bramble, perhaps, dreaming, finding.

An hour and a half went by, and my hand resembled an arthritic sufferer at the end. I've not chopped that much before.

We, strangers, at first, were bonded by the unwinding of melodic twine. I didn't notice too much that I was the only woman. For me, that is a good sign that I'll most likely return and resume a place beside the squawking boys who follow me down the lane, appearing from the land , the green hills of yesteryear, that never die. No more a rank stranger.

To the remaining men I called, "Goodbye, boys!" And they said, "Come back again!"

Outside the stars winked in time and bid me adieu, too, as I carried my case to the car.

Danger: if your friend is a blogger, your picture may be posted. Well, perhaps these two will never know that they are worldwide now.

These are special friends who deserve posting. We met up on Friday for a long lunch and then on Sunday for a long brunch to celebrate the visit of the tall one from her new home in North Carolina. We touched upon our touchstone memories that draw old friends closer and which always come up during times together. We laughed and wondered how we could be friends with such gifts (at least I did) as each other. But then I think of our different exploits and know that God, and they, have cemented me into their meaningful and fun experiences. This never ceases to amaze. Love is good!

My Iowan friend, the one who was the early tangible proof of God's care for me during my reconnection to faith nine years ago, just called. She brought me to tears, reminding me of how she viewed my maternal relationship to my daughter. The current disappointment always burrows into me, making me feel like a failure. I release and understand it, but it floats down into my spirit at times, and I nurse my losses and inability to do anything.

She was adamant that I did everything possible. She reminded me of how much time and devotion I gave to that girl. Together, my daughter and I drew comments of the bond we seemed to share. One woman approached us at McDonald's and said we were beautiful to watch together. There was love, good exchange, appropriate maternal nursing and giving. I can be confident that I did my best and tried hard.

Now, there's still absence and lingering hurt and deep disappointment. I feel robbed. I feel like I didn't know or do the best. I know the reasons, the forces that I can't control, the requirement that she learns this way, no other will do. Yet, there's grief.

However, my friend is still the tangible proof of God's care, as she crochets and prays for us on the rows of her current yarn project, up there in Iowa where they've since moved. She's a mother, guided by Mary and Jesus, who knows that the process and the questions can be painful. That the best we can do is lift it up for the ultimate care and deliverance. Blessed reassurance.

I've had one of those weeks of wrestling and straying. I hate to admit this when everyone else seems quite perfect and good. It adds to my stack of what's unenjoyable about being human, about being myself. (In the utility room, I hear two of our cats fighting/wrestling. The young one, Jeremy, must assert his prowess over the older female. Cat fights, inner tension, sin nature vs. new creature, all rolls over each other, growling until separated, until noticed and divided.)

Desires have led me into the roll and tumble where claws and teeth grip at me to submit to them. I have allowed that power to make me fearful that nothing can intervene, that I will become under the power, and the valuable will become swatted into a roaring flame. It truly feels that powerful, like the bobcat versus the house-kitten. Does everyone else wrestle as much or am I just less faithful, more flawed? I hear stories that I'm not alone, yet it's always a lonely thing which some never mention, or no one asks in a comfortable setting.

The weekend sided more with the attack against the pull, though. I went to a church service which retained a sacred space just for me (and others needing it), endowing me with injections of necessary imagery. Words poured forth from a chosen speaker about a light appearing out of the darkness, coming into the world so that those who believe would not be empowered by darkness but would be upheld by the light, would become part of the light. I closed my eyes and let it fill me, a hope and longing, and then a certainty that I was still maintained and described by the light which was and is found in the Savior. The babe born, the babe slain, the babe risen. I can attach my whole being to these and find mystery, reality, power, and redemption.

This morning, I read of Joshua and Caleb and how they believed wholeheartedly. It gives me a prayer and a hope as well. Within me, the tussle still happens, yet it is calmer, more subdued, put into its place as I refocus on what I'm maintained and described by. Peace is offered to us only by submission. May we learn to submit instantly the inner turmoil and allow the light to permeate as is promised. Amen.

Shhhh.... the boys are in bed as my fingers lightly tip-tap on the keyboard. If they begin to suspect and appear under the doorframe which leads to the sleeping places, they will be self-righteous. Cody will exclaim and wake up all the cats and the Dad, and I will be a loser, one who backs-stabs the principle of our new rule which I wrangled out of the males last night.

The new rule is to turn off all technology after eight o'clock p.m.

The time to enforce appeared decisively last night. At bedtime, I read Cody a story from his Bible about Jesus caring for his disciples by washing their feet at the last supper. In a profound text-to-world connection, Cody commented, eyes a-glaze, that no one takes care of others in the wilderness of Runescape (the computer game that he had stopped playing minutes before). Cute, yet ... A rightful lurching spirit inside of me lurched, and I left to conference immediately with the Big Male.

"I'm sick and tired of everyone staring at screens around here!"

He paused the action in his old-hit show to give me an incredulous look: "Huh?"

"Yes, I feel lonely and disconnected, and I know way too much about Britney Spears and George, Sr., crying about George W. We don't talk any more!! Ever!!"

"What are you talking about? Yes, we do! We spent fifteen minutes yesterday after lunch! ... It's just I get tired and need to unwind." He was frantically thinking of ways to preserve his unwholesome wholesome addiction to reruns of Little House on the Prairie. He just loves to focus on Laura and Mary instead of me.

After some more irrational emotional outbursts, we finally decided to ban technology after 8 p.m. as an experiment. And, tonight, it was wonderful, warm, interactive. We played a game, I read a National Geographic article to Cody for fun, and he played, as of old, with his multiple marbles. During his Bible story reading time, he was glazed over for sleep and seemed much less wired.

Therefore, with every tip-tap, I'm looking for a shadow. Wondering if they'll find out.

Please don't tell. :)

I'm signing off now. Afterall, Jesus didn't blog about the Last Supper, now did He?

The big snow worries the kitten, although you can see behind him signs of his earlier play. "Let me in; this stuff is cold!" I did, but now he's out again in it. The early western sky this morning sits atop the blue house at the front of our cul-de-sac. Last night around midnight I trudged solitarily past it toward home, carrying a heavy laptop and work files. My husband's stubborn trip up from Arkansas left him stranded at the top of our street. You would think he could've chosen some mountainous ravine to slide into, but he chose our street, right in the middle, thankfully. It was wonderful and peaceful to be out alone at night in the 12 inch snow.

Earlier in the day, I earned the Elements! Warm bread and red wine were handed to me through the door by my cardiac-risky neighbor whose drive I shoveled. Now I can better understand Apostle Paul's spirit of service. I was quite pleased with the exchange!

I blame this little lady for my overpowering sugar tendencies.

Mmmmm.... they were all delicious. She's a wonderful baker (and mother)!

A Thanksgiving tradition:
Everyone was sore the next day, except for the spectator dog.

The feud between Harold and William set it off. Right before their medieval battle, a fireful, fearful flash streaked in the sky. It was a bad omen for Harold as he fought for the English throne. He was killed in battle and William the Conqueror, from Normandy no less, became victorious and was crowned! Yeah for the Normans (so saith some of them)!

Halley's comet was therefore documented in a tapestry depicting the two foes. Scientists later were able to use this to help measure the frequency of the 76 year repetitive orbit.

From that point on, Cody had a million questions, and we researched. And, coincidentally, Astronomy day was orbiting unawares until I saw a notice regarding a lecture at an area high school's planetarium. It was on meteorite impacts in Missouri. And, we hustled and bustled over there late one evening to hear how we are not immune to devastating hits here in the middle of the U.S. A big geologist scientist huffed and puffed and told us so. We also saw the missives which had been dropped or drilled out. Then, the planetarium owner/teacher lit it up and we were staring at the seven sisters, and the evil eye of Medusa, and Pegasus.

Cody was happy to hear that Venus could be seen with the naked eye here in a couple of weeks. He loved the word naked. Yes, in your southwest sky, look for the bright star which is quite the lovely planet, Venus.

And now in the latest National Geographic, we see that the feature of the spread is on Saturn. There's even a pull out map!

Homeschooling has no rivals, me happily thinks. And, so, here on this Thanksgiving week, I am happy for all the syncronism that just happens when it comes to learning.

Yeah for William the Conqueror!

The sermon this weekend was outstanding; I take back what I said about my pastor's irrelevant sermons ~~ I could certainly relate to this one. We often lean on rickety stools for relief from our pressures / desires (and thus the pastor leaned upon one) instead of the firm seating upon which our Lord provides. This firm seat has no other problems surrounding it that could cause us to crash down. I need to go to the sturdy more often than the shaky.

He also commented that trying, trying, trying isn't enough to overcome our genetic spiritual weakness, our sin nature. Only trusting in grace, and not our own efforts, will work.

Ah, often I set myself on fire for not trying hard enough. I forget about grace which will help me, guide me, uphold me. Trying is important, yet perfectionism is impossible which is what I often seem to judge myself by.

Afterwards, an elder banjo picker from my bluegrass weekly class stopped me and asked if we could get together to play some time. Others will too. I think the music migration from the south to the north is occurring. Heehaw! Us'ns are pickin'&grinnin' in the city!

I wonder if this is the season's last floral bouquet? Anyway, I'm thankful for their tenacious blooms. God made mums for melancholy.

Cody strikes his muscular Viking pose with the yummy non-yeast Viking bread that he helped make. It was delicious dipped in herbal oil. I wonder if the Vikings did that too? They probably dipped it in the blood of the Franks ... aiii!

The foreign language public school teacher came out and shook my hand today when Cody hopped in the car after his class. She praised his efforts, and I could tell that she was proud of him as a student, despite some earlier difficulties. I'm proud too which is why I'm unabashedly sharing! He received a B+ for his class grade. Yeah!

My daughter's grandmother died earlier this morning of the cancer. It's all sad. I'm glad that I was able to say goodbye to her. My daughter is naturally extremely sad.

The elections ... wow! They're over. A calm is settling. The old pattern of change in the House and Senate happened during a president's second term. We'll see. Missouri here surprised me with its vote on several issues. Cody had thousands of political questions as we went to the polls, lit a candle yesterday for God's favor, and followed the coverage. All learning experiences.

I'm wresting with a huge country ham for a bookclub dinner tomorrow evening here at my home. I have a thousand things to do before approximately 16 women come over. Must stop blogging then!

The thought of "mailbox by mailbox" keeps me going in the morning when I want to extend my course a bit farther. It's easy for me to get near the end of my run and feel as if quitting is completely due me. My mind and body begin working together so that when my feet go past the designated mailbox, I'm slumping, holding my side, leaning over, and walking slowly the short distance home.

However, these days, the idea of persevering through the process of discipline is enough to motivate me to try another mailbox. Anne Lamott expresses the idea in her wonderful writing book called "Bird by Bird" which talks about setting short-focused goals to help move you on a longer path. Don't think of the whole novel, think about the next paragraph.

I can apply this idea in much in my life! Here are a few for fun:

church service by church service ==> at times, I just want to skip the whole irrelevant relevant sermon my pastor preaches, yet I know its helped me before, and I know the discipline of going to church is a small act of worship.

tea bag by tea bag ==> I have way too many boxes of tea on my stove. Some boxes I've dipped into for at least five years now!

chapter by chapter ==> when I'm stuck wallowing in the lovely abstraction of a Thomas Merton book (and put it down to never return because I want to be stuck there without closure in the loveliness), I know there are a few more chapters from which I can learn from if I keep going.

lesson by lesson ==> at times, it's delightful, other times excrutiating ... the homeschool life can be both, and I need to keep planning and believing in the choice for my son.

beef by beef ==> we have about one package of beef left from my parent's farm: it is neck bones. Do I really wish to see this project to its final end??

political ad by political ad ==> November 7th cometh! I'm grateful for the political process and its deadline!

toilet paper roll by toilet paper roll ==> is it possible to create a mammothly big roll which lasts at least a week?!

forgiveness by forgiveness ==> okay, I'll try better.

kiss by kiss ==> an essential gesture to the loved one, even when it doesn't cross your mind for days!

pie by pie ==> that thought makes me happy.

Do you have any by-ies to keep you going? Please share if so!

Two different recent conversations caused me to think of the following wonderful poem, which means that I must post, must post. Enjoy!


THE PULLEY
by: George Herbert (1593-1632)

WHEN God at first made Man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by--
Let us (said He) pour on him all we can;
Let the world's riches, which dispersèd lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way,
Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said He)
Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.

She was frail, small, shrunken upon her wheelchair. But her intelligent large eyes lifted as she saw me enter through the front door. The hospice nurse was wheeling her into a much needed shower, after an hour of her stubborn (il)logic refusing to yield to the cleaning process, the lack of control over small things.

We grabbed hands, hugged, and I kissed her cheek. She then looked at me and said, "Thank you. Sometimes a person doesn't use the chance to say 'thank you' and then they feel guilty, and time passes." And, I told her it had been an honor to know her and that she had been a good mother, grandmother, mother-in-law. A good and faithful servant that God would reward soon. She smiled and cried and was wheeled away.

Her husband related the deterioration struggles to me, and he wept, tired, bone tired.

After her shower, she came back fatigued, barely able to speak, and I rolled her light brown, graying hair for her..

We've had ambivalent feelings about one another in the past. Sixteen years ago, she was my mother-in-law, a complicated relationship bound by the complexities of her son's deep issues combined with my upbringing, and the clash and pain and the ending, all exaggerated perhaps by her (yet, when does a mother stop caring?). However, she proved herself helpful and caring and faithful in regards to her granddaughter. These last years, we have dialogued and prayed more than ever to figure out what we can do to love and work together for her.

The cancer will take over before too long. She watched me with her big, sad eyes, curlers all on her head, as I left. One final look perhaps before she peers over the edge and goes.

I was glad to have been accepted by her at the end. She is a noble person who will be missed. May God grant her serenity and comfort as she departs.