Being a Sunday school teacher teaches me more than those in my class. God always seems to prepare a lesson for what I need each week.
Last week, our topic was doubt (Chapter 10 of Committed But Flawed by Cec Murphey). I began to read through the chapter right after I received my latest rejection of a piece of work I felt had real promise.
It's easy to let doubt creep in when you're discouraged. When you are a writer, you have to continually step out and offer your work and be ready to hear "no thanks"--a lot. It doesn't make it easier to know that. Sometimes a written piece is offered multiple times--5, 10, 20, 30--before it finds publication. When you get discouraged, you want to stop after 2 or 3.
Our scripture verse this week led us to King Jehoash who went to Elisha just as the prophet was about to die. Elisha had the King shoot an arrow out the window and told him that represented the victory God would give him. Then he told the king to take the rest of the arrows and strike them on the ground. The kind did so--3 times.
Elisha got angry. "Why only three times? You should have struck them five or six times more."
It turned out that each strike would be a victory and King Jehoash could have won many more times if he had struck with his arrows again and again instead of stopping so soon.
There may not be a direct correlation--I don't consider editors or agents the enemy--but if I quit offering my writing after only 2 or 3 tries, I will never know the victory God has in store.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
The Path to the Patch
The path to Grandma's strawberry patch (see previous blog) was always an adventure. We had to pass the field where Mr. Sully kept his bull.
I never saw the bull but I knew it was huge and had big horns. It was mean, too. It booted one of the neighborhood teenagers right over the barbed wire fence once. I didn't see that either but I knew all these things were true. My mother told me so.
There was an opening in the fence where the barbed wire and fence posts were weakened and falling over. The wires hung near enought to the ground that a little girl--an adventursome little girl--just might be able to step over them. This was the spot where we had to be very quiet. We didn't want the bull to know there was a hole in the fence. He might come charging through at us and who knows what would happen then.
The mystery, the tingle of fear, all made the trip down the path to the strawberry patch that much more exciting--the fruit that much sweeter.
Today, after five kids and knowing my mother's parenting tactics better, I think the bull story was just that. It was made up to keep me from venturing back to the strawberry patch on my own...I think...I never could be sure with Mom.
I never saw the bull but I knew it was huge and had big horns. It was mean, too. It booted one of the neighborhood teenagers right over the barbed wire fence once. I didn't see that either but I knew all these things were true. My mother told me so.
There was an opening in the fence where the barbed wire and fence posts were weakened and falling over. The wires hung near enought to the ground that a little girl--an adventursome little girl--just might be able to step over them. This was the spot where we had to be very quiet. We didn't want the bull to know there was a hole in the fence. He might come charging through at us and who knows what would happen then.
The mystery, the tingle of fear, all made the trip down the path to the strawberry patch that much more exciting--the fruit that much sweeter.
Today, after five kids and knowing my mother's parenting tactics better, I think the bull story was just that. It was made up to keep me from venturing back to the strawberry patch on my own...I think...I never could be sure with Mom.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Grandma's Strawberry Patch
It's getting closer to strawberry season around here. Just the thought of biting into a big red freshly picked berry, its sweet-tart juice running down my chin, begins to make my mouth water. We have plenty of U Pick 'Em places around here. The plants are neatly arranged in rows of mounded soil that's been covered with anti-weed plastic and mulched with straw to keep you from getting too dirty if you kneel to pick your berries.
Those fields are nice but my favorite field of strawberries when I was a kid was one my grandmother planted just before she died. Our house was right next to their farm--actually it was on a piece of land my grandfather had given my father. My bedroom window looked over fields that eventually were overgrown with weeds since my grandfather no longer worked the farm. The skyline of Cleveland rose in the distance, almost as though it were growing from my grandfather's fields.
I'm not sure what led my mother to my grandmother's patch of strawberries. It was quite a walk back to where she had planted it. Perhaps she was out wandering, taking a break from her two young children, when she discovered it. I think I was about 5 or 6 when she first took me back there.
We walked along a path where the weeds didn't grow through the shale that formed a smooth surface to tred upon. The weeds were tall--towering over my head--but I wasn't afraid. One hand was in my mother's hand and the other held my own little basket for my strawberries.
Even though the patch had been neglected for many years, the strawberries yielded a bumper crop. Some of the berries were so large, they filled the palm of my hand. Mom and I would pick and eat. She taught me that nothing was sweeter or tastier than the fruit fresh from the plant.
I don't remember my grandmother. She died when I was two. Her legacy lived on in that field. Somehow I had that connection to her through the strawberry picking. She gave my mother and I a great gift through that strawberry patch. It was our secret place. Mom never told anyone where she got the wonderful berries that made her strawberry jam so tasty.
The fields are gone. Suburbia encroached until all the farmland around us yielded houses. Here and there tucked in a "secret" little corner is a small field and a sign, "U Pick 'Em." Each year I go and pick. The berries aren't nearly as large or sweet--but then my hand is bigger and my memories sweeter.
Those fields are nice but my favorite field of strawberries when I was a kid was one my grandmother planted just before she died. Our house was right next to their farm--actually it was on a piece of land my grandfather had given my father. My bedroom window looked over fields that eventually were overgrown with weeds since my grandfather no longer worked the farm. The skyline of Cleveland rose in the distance, almost as though it were growing from my grandfather's fields.
I'm not sure what led my mother to my grandmother's patch of strawberries. It was quite a walk back to where she had planted it. Perhaps she was out wandering, taking a break from her two young children, when she discovered it. I think I was about 5 or 6 when she first took me back there.
We walked along a path where the weeds didn't grow through the shale that formed a smooth surface to tred upon. The weeds were tall--towering over my head--but I wasn't afraid. One hand was in my mother's hand and the other held my own little basket for my strawberries.
Even though the patch had been neglected for many years, the strawberries yielded a bumper crop. Some of the berries were so large, they filled the palm of my hand. Mom and I would pick and eat. She taught me that nothing was sweeter or tastier than the fruit fresh from the plant.
I don't remember my grandmother. She died when I was two. Her legacy lived on in that field. Somehow I had that connection to her through the strawberry picking. She gave my mother and I a great gift through that strawberry patch. It was our secret place. Mom never told anyone where she got the wonderful berries that made her strawberry jam so tasty.
The fields are gone. Suburbia encroached until all the farmland around us yielded houses. Here and there tucked in a "secret" little corner is a small field and a sign, "U Pick 'Em." Each year I go and pick. The berries aren't nearly as large or sweet--but then my hand is bigger and my memories sweeter.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Star Wars
Tonight is date night for us. Every Friday night that we are free, Bob and I have set aside to go and see a movie. We consider it a good year when we've been able to watch the Academy Awards and are familiar with their choices for best movie. That means the nominees haven't been more than PG13.
Star Wars is our only choice for a movie tonight. It's showing on 7 of the 24 screens in the Cinemark we frequent. All the rest of the showings are either movies we've seen or would never consider seeing.
So, I guess we stand in the crowds and sit elbow to elbow with all the others who have followed this unprecedented journey of sci-fi that George Lucas has taken us on. My boys were pretty young when the first movies came out. Their grandmother bought them all the figures and the ships. I have them in a shoe box and keep vowing to mount them in a shadow box and give them as Christmas gifts--some year.
This prequel is supposed to answer all the questions. I'm not sure what all the question are but I'll watch for the answers. I guess the one burning question I have is, what is "the force"? Is it a reference to God? If it can be used for good or evil, I think not.
Whatever the answers, it is an exciting series to watch and admire for all its computer generated effects--and I'll get my popcorn fix--buttered, of course.
This would be the place to say, "the force be with you," but I'd rather say, "God be with you."
Star Wars is our only choice for a movie tonight. It's showing on 7 of the 24 screens in the Cinemark we frequent. All the rest of the showings are either movies we've seen or would never consider seeing.
So, I guess we stand in the crowds and sit elbow to elbow with all the others who have followed this unprecedented journey of sci-fi that George Lucas has taken us on. My boys were pretty young when the first movies came out. Their grandmother bought them all the figures and the ships. I have them in a shoe box and keep vowing to mount them in a shadow box and give them as Christmas gifts--some year.
This prequel is supposed to answer all the questions. I'm not sure what all the question are but I'll watch for the answers. I guess the one burning question I have is, what is "the force"? Is it a reference to God? If it can be used for good or evil, I think not.
Whatever the answers, it is an exciting series to watch and admire for all its computer generated effects--and I'll get my popcorn fix--buttered, of course.
This would be the place to say, "the force be with you," but I'd rather say, "God be with you."
Monday, May 16, 2005
The Potato Pastor
Yesterday we had to say goodbye to our pastor of three years. For some reason, God has called him to move on to another church in Kansas. Maybe it's because of his farming experience. You see before he was a pastor, he was a potato farmer.
God had a reason for that as well. He learned a lot of lessons toiling in the soil to raise potatoes, fighting against the weather and the other things that can damage a crop. He used all that experience to create his own parables to teach about Jesus and Chrisian living.
One of our children's Sunday school classes filed by him individually, each handing him a potato as a going away gift. It was a tension breaker. Everyone was reining in emotions and a little light humor was just the thing that was needed. It also said, "We'll remember you and your stories."
I'm going to miss the 'potato parables'. They reminded me of Jesus and his parables and the great lessons of life our savior wants us to learn.
God had a reason for that as well. He learned a lot of lessons toiling in the soil to raise potatoes, fighting against the weather and the other things that can damage a crop. He used all that experience to create his own parables to teach about Jesus and Chrisian living.
One of our children's Sunday school classes filed by him individually, each handing him a potato as a going away gift. It was a tension breaker. Everyone was reining in emotions and a little light humor was just the thing that was needed. It also said, "We'll remember you and your stories."
I'm going to miss the 'potato parables'. They reminded me of Jesus and his parables and the great lessons of life our savior wants us to learn.
Monday, May 09, 2005
My Little Landscapers
Two years ago, I planted a bed of tulips near the side door of the house. It's in a spot that I can protect with a "scarecrow" that chases the deer. (The scarecrow is a motion detector that sends a spurt of water shooting out when something moves across its field of sensitivity--works pretty good on meter readers too). Last spring I had a glorious display of color that lasted about six weeks.
This year I anxiously awaited a double blessing since I figured the bulbs would have multiplied. I set the scarecrow out early to be sure the deer wouldn't eat the tasty little buds as the tulips developed. To my dismay, I saw very little evidence of tulip greens poking through the soil. I couldn't believe that so many would not have come back.
Last week as I began to get intimately involved with the yard work, pulling weeds and digging around behind bushes, I found splashes of color in hidden places--under the deck, behind the rhododendrons, between the pine trees. Obviously, the chipmunks and/or the squirrels had decided to move my tulips. I thought about moving them back to where I felt they belonged, but my little landscapers would probably just move them again and I hate to make more work for them. After all, they have all those holes to dig and mulch to scrape into piles--not to mention climbing up the bird feeder to clean out the seed and suet. Their work is never done.
This year I anxiously awaited a double blessing since I figured the bulbs would have multiplied. I set the scarecrow out early to be sure the deer wouldn't eat the tasty little buds as the tulips developed. To my dismay, I saw very little evidence of tulip greens poking through the soil. I couldn't believe that so many would not have come back.
Last week as I began to get intimately involved with the yard work, pulling weeds and digging around behind bushes, I found splashes of color in hidden places--under the deck, behind the rhododendrons, between the pine trees. Obviously, the chipmunks and/or the squirrels had decided to move my tulips. I thought about moving them back to where I felt they belonged, but my little landscapers would probably just move them again and I hate to make more work for them. After all, they have all those holes to dig and mulch to scrape into piles--not to mention climbing up the bird feeder to clean out the seed and suet. Their work is never done.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Asphalt Garden
The snow has finally melted, the weather warmed, and the call of the garden has been heard. Unfortunately that call is the sound of the weeds growing faster than the grass that was given its first dose of fertilizer.
I have spent a couple of nice days this week wrestling weeds from the soil and breaking up the matted mulch that's had a ton of snow laying on it from our record breaking winter. Needless to say this endeavor plays havoc with muscles and, though I try not to complain too much, I do manage a few groans and moans.
My cheerful husband--who hires out his part of the yardwork (the mowing) to the landscapers--said that if it was beginning to get to me, he had an easy solution. How sweet, I thought, he was going to suggest we have the landscapers do the flower beds as well.
When we moved into our new home, I had a lot less on my plate that needed doing and ambitiously suggested larger flower beds and a good sized pond that I was only too delighted to take care of as my summer hobby. I wouldn't take him up on a suggestion to give my work to a landscaper, but I would let him suggest it--just to hear his words of comfort.
"What's your suggestion," I asked innocently enough, looking at him through those trusting eyes of love.
"Asphalt--the whole yard in green asphalt."
I should have expected it.
I have spent a couple of nice days this week wrestling weeds from the soil and breaking up the matted mulch that's had a ton of snow laying on it from our record breaking winter. Needless to say this endeavor plays havoc with muscles and, though I try not to complain too much, I do manage a few groans and moans.
My cheerful husband--who hires out his part of the yardwork (the mowing) to the landscapers--said that if it was beginning to get to me, he had an easy solution. How sweet, I thought, he was going to suggest we have the landscapers do the flower beds as well.
When we moved into our new home, I had a lot less on my plate that needed doing and ambitiously suggested larger flower beds and a good sized pond that I was only too delighted to take care of as my summer hobby. I wouldn't take him up on a suggestion to give my work to a landscaper, but I would let him suggest it--just to hear his words of comfort.
"What's your suggestion," I asked innocently enough, looking at him through those trusting eyes of love.
"Asphalt--the whole yard in green asphalt."
I should have expected it.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
God's in the Writing
I've been struggling with a character in the novel I'm working on. He's young and grows marijuana for medicinal purposes on a small piece of land my protagonist (a 70 year old pickle entrepreneur) owns. It's gonna get them both in trouble but I didn't want it impossible for them to get out of--thus the medicinal use.
The problem I had was finding a condition or disease that wasn't entirely dibilitating or fatal and would allow Tommy to continue on to, hopefully, my second book as a main character, partnering in the pickle business.
I went to my sister-in-law, the nurse, and she came up with a few ideas. Nothing struck a chord with me though so I started a little search and surf on the web. "Chronic pain sufferer" kept coming up as someone who might consider marijuana as a means of relief. Then I got the recent issue of Woman's Day in the mail and started paging through it as I was eating lunch.
I turned one page, and a title jumped out at me: Living in Agony. It was all about a woman who suddenly became dibilitated with chronic pain that had no apparent cause and how she learned to live with it (without the use of marijuana). It can very easily apply to my character after he has to give up the marijuana because of the legal problems and the pain doesn't have to be so dibilitating (or fatal) that he can't show up in the second book.
God's in the writing. There's no denying it when the pieces--the answers--come together like that. Now if I could get Him to work on the contracts....
The problem I had was finding a condition or disease that wasn't entirely dibilitating or fatal and would allow Tommy to continue on to, hopefully, my second book as a main character, partnering in the pickle business.
I went to my sister-in-law, the nurse, and she came up with a few ideas. Nothing struck a chord with me though so I started a little search and surf on the web. "Chronic pain sufferer" kept coming up as someone who might consider marijuana as a means of relief. Then I got the recent issue of Woman's Day in the mail and started paging through it as I was eating lunch.
I turned one page, and a title jumped out at me: Living in Agony. It was all about a woman who suddenly became dibilitated with chronic pain that had no apparent cause and how she learned to live with it (without the use of marijuana). It can very easily apply to my character after he has to give up the marijuana because of the legal problems and the pain doesn't have to be so dibilitating (or fatal) that he can't show up in the second book.
God's in the writing. There's no denying it when the pieces--the answers--come together like that. Now if I could get Him to work on the contracts....
Monday, May 02, 2005
Shamrock Roots
About five years ago, my son bought me a shamrock. It was a birthday gift. I have a St. Pat's birthday. I've had shamrocks in the past but I've managed to kill them off within a year. This one is different though.
It has large triangular segments to each leaf and blooms a couple of times throughout the year with delicate white flowers. It sits in the dining area of my kitchen where it gets bright light--when the sun chooses to shine in Cleveland. I fertilize it once a year with some ferilizer I bought for the orchid I managed to kill (I do much better with cheap houseplants). I can always tell when it needs water because it droops down to the countertop. The trouble is I don't always know when to stop watering.
The plant has been drowned a couple of times and, while we've been away, has completely dried out. This last trip, I came home to find the leaves all curled and brown and laying over the sides of the ceramic pitcher it's planted in. When I pulled all the dead stuff off, all that was left were a couple of tiny new shoots poking up from the soil.
Sunday, as we ate breakfast, I glanced at the pitcher on the counter. To my amazement, there were three strong shoots with leaves beginning to open, rising abover the rim of the pitcher. The plant was resurrecting itself!
This is not the first time this plant has performed it's miracle of resurrection. I can't help but wonder where it gets its strength. Perhaps it has really strong roots--kind of like people who have been through the worst of times and find the strength to pick up and go on. People whose roots are deeply imbedded in their faith are very much like my shamrock.
It has large triangular segments to each leaf and blooms a couple of times throughout the year with delicate white flowers. It sits in the dining area of my kitchen where it gets bright light--when the sun chooses to shine in Cleveland. I fertilize it once a year with some ferilizer I bought for the orchid I managed to kill (I do much better with cheap houseplants). I can always tell when it needs water because it droops down to the countertop. The trouble is I don't always know when to stop watering.
The plant has been drowned a couple of times and, while we've been away, has completely dried out. This last trip, I came home to find the leaves all curled and brown and laying over the sides of the ceramic pitcher it's planted in. When I pulled all the dead stuff off, all that was left were a couple of tiny new shoots poking up from the soil.
Sunday, as we ate breakfast, I glanced at the pitcher on the counter. To my amazement, there were three strong shoots with leaves beginning to open, rising abover the rim of the pitcher. The plant was resurrecting itself!
This is not the first time this plant has performed it's miracle of resurrection. I can't help but wonder where it gets its strength. Perhaps it has really strong roots--kind of like people who have been through the worst of times and find the strength to pick up and go on. People whose roots are deeply imbedded in their faith are very much like my shamrock.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Teenaged Memories
Saturday morning is time for breakfast at our favorite spot--The Diner. It's a little New York style place with vinyl seated booths and music piped in from the 60s--my kind of music.
This morning they were playing "Put Your Head On My Shoulder," a tune that was popular a bit before I met my husband. It brought back memories of someone else. I remembered dancing to that song with him. We couldn't have been more than 15 or 16. He was my first kiss. The boyish face, the big grin, the eyes that crinkled when he was teasing--all belonged to a young teenager. I never saw the man that he became until a few years ago.
My brother shattered the teenage memory. We were at my nephew's graduation and my brother brought a middle-aged, graying man with a slight pounch over to meet me.
"Know who this is?" he asked. I stared at the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses. There was no way I was going to guess.
"Here," the fellow said, "let me take these off." He removed the hat to expose more grayed hair. Then he removed the glasses. Still no sign of recognition.
"You don't remember, do you?" my brother egged me on. Little brothers are like that no matter how old they are.
The man before me suddenly broke into a grin and his eyes crinkled with that teasing look.
"Oh, my gosh, Tom!" I hugged him. But as I stepped back to look at him again, I wondered. What was he seeing? A middle-aged woman whose hair was lighter because she covers the gray, with a few more pounds that the skinny girl who needed meat on her bones and a face that sagged a bit from years of weather and, well....years.
This morning I remembered the boy. It was a nice memory. It also made me happy I chose my husband to grow old with.
This morning they were playing "Put Your Head On My Shoulder," a tune that was popular a bit before I met my husband. It brought back memories of someone else. I remembered dancing to that song with him. We couldn't have been more than 15 or 16. He was my first kiss. The boyish face, the big grin, the eyes that crinkled when he was teasing--all belonged to a young teenager. I never saw the man that he became until a few years ago.
My brother shattered the teenage memory. We were at my nephew's graduation and my brother brought a middle-aged, graying man with a slight pounch over to meet me.
"Know who this is?" he asked. I stared at the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses. There was no way I was going to guess.
"Here," the fellow said, "let me take these off." He removed the hat to expose more grayed hair. Then he removed the glasses. Still no sign of recognition.
"You don't remember, do you?" my brother egged me on. Little brothers are like that no matter how old they are.
The man before me suddenly broke into a grin and his eyes crinkled with that teasing look.
"Oh, my gosh, Tom!" I hugged him. But as I stepped back to look at him again, I wondered. What was he seeing? A middle-aged woman whose hair was lighter because she covers the gray, with a few more pounds that the skinny girl who needed meat on her bones and a face that sagged a bit from years of weather and, well....years.
This morning I remembered the boy. It was a nice memory. It also made me happy I chose my husband to grow old with.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
The Mothers-in-law
Two of my friends are about to join the infamous and much aligned group called mothers-in-law. One's son is marrying the other's daughter. Knowing the two families, I have every confidence that it will be a great blending of two families.
Mothers-in-law are often greatly maligned and become the target of bad jokes, psychoanalysis, and movie plots. (This week, I believe, Jane Fonda becomes the Monster-in-law to Jay Lo at the cinema.) Perhaps some deserve it but I have a feeling most do not.
The announcement of the engagement of my friend's children, brought to mind two wonderful women we met on a cruise once. They called themselves "the mothers-in-law"--one's son had married the other's daughter. They were from England and could have been the ship's entertainment for an evening. They were hilarious. Their husbands didn't like to travel. So once a year, the two of them would leave their spouses to fend for themselves and go off together for an adventure somewhere else in the world.
They said they were great mothers-in-law because they wanted nothing more than their children to be happy together so that their travel adventures could continue.
But then, after more thought, they concluded that it didn't matter. Even if the marriage didn't work out, they'd stay together as mothers-in-law.
Mothers-in-law are often greatly maligned and become the target of bad jokes, psychoanalysis, and movie plots. (This week, I believe, Jane Fonda becomes the Monster-in-law to Jay Lo at the cinema.) Perhaps some deserve it but I have a feeling most do not.
The announcement of the engagement of my friend's children, brought to mind two wonderful women we met on a cruise once. They called themselves "the mothers-in-law"--one's son had married the other's daughter. They were from England and could have been the ship's entertainment for an evening. They were hilarious. Their husbands didn't like to travel. So once a year, the two of them would leave their spouses to fend for themselves and go off together for an adventure somewhere else in the world.
They said they were great mothers-in-law because they wanted nothing more than their children to be happy together so that their travel adventures could continue.
But then, after more thought, they concluded that it didn't matter. Even if the marriage didn't work out, they'd stay together as mothers-in-law.
Friday, April 15, 2005
The Pit of the Stomach
It sits on the counter in the kitchen. All it needs is postage and it will be on its way to an agent. It's lurking there just waiting for me to pick it up and lug it to the post office. It's dangerous. It contains hopes and dreams that could be dashed in the SASE that's enclosed. Am I ready to steel myself for that?
The old fears return to squelch the enthusiasm, the excitement, the exhileration of the new found story I have created. Is it good enough? No. Never. There is always more to do. I could reread and rewrite a hundred times and still find something I'm not satisfied with.
What is it I fear? I've been rejected before. Somehow this is different. I've grown more fond of this character who has brought me joy each day, caused me to laugh, and caused me to cry. I fear I might not have done her justice.
In the pit of my stomach I feel that gnawing that clutches my inner being and gives a yank each time I go to pick up the 9 X 12 brown envelope that is all addressed and ready to go. All it needs is postage. I'll try again.
The old fears return to squelch the enthusiasm, the excitement, the exhileration of the new found story I have created. Is it good enough? No. Never. There is always more to do. I could reread and rewrite a hundred times and still find something I'm not satisfied with.
What is it I fear? I've been rejected before. Somehow this is different. I've grown more fond of this character who has brought me joy each day, caused me to laugh, and caused me to cry. I fear I might not have done her justice.
In the pit of my stomach I feel that gnawing that clutches my inner being and gives a yank each time I go to pick up the 9 X 12 brown envelope that is all addressed and ready to go. All it needs is postage. I'll try again.
Friday, April 08, 2005
New Life
While I know I do a lot of complaining about winter--the snow, the cold, the gray skies--I realize that without winter to compare it with, spring would not be as significant as it is. This morning the sun is shining and the few warm days we've had have brought out the daffodils. The buds on the trees are ready to burst open with the new life within them. What a change it is from winter where everything looks dead.
We have friends who moved to Ohio from California. They were both born and raised in California. The first early spring in their new home was disappointing because, as she walked through the yard, Janette thought the bushes were dead. She was going to call the landscaper to have all the azaleas pulled out and the dogwood tree cut down. It took some time to convince her that they were just dormant and would blossom into glorious color in a few weeks. (I don't think she trusted us at first because we told her husband he had to oil his snow shovel before he used it.) In a few weeks they had a hedge of color in their back yard and a dogwood tree full of pure white blossoms.
Spring always reminds me of the new life we find in Christ. Someone can appear to be as dead in sin as one of those bushes but when Christ enters their life, His promise bursts forth into glorious bloom.
We have friends who moved to Ohio from California. They were both born and raised in California. The first early spring in their new home was disappointing because, as she walked through the yard, Janette thought the bushes were dead. She was going to call the landscaper to have all the azaleas pulled out and the dogwood tree cut down. It took some time to convince her that they were just dormant and would blossom into glorious color in a few weeks. (I don't think she trusted us at first because we told her husband he had to oil his snow shovel before he used it.) In a few weeks they had a hedge of color in their back yard and a dogwood tree full of pure white blossoms.
Spring always reminds me of the new life we find in Christ. Someone can appear to be as dead in sin as one of those bushes but when Christ enters their life, His promise bursts forth into glorious bloom.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
E.L. Doctorow
Last night I had the privilege of hearing E. L. Doctorow read from one of his latest works thanks to the generosity of a friend who is also a manager for our county library. His words are like eating rich choloclate cake for dessert. You want to savor each one and let them play in the imagination.
After answering a few questions. he ended his time with us by giving us his feelings about the use of the library. It went something like this:
A drivers license gives you the opportunity to explore your state and the surrounding area.
A passport gives you the opportunity to explore the world.
A library card gives you the opportunity to explore the universe.
While it seemed clever but not terribly deep at the time, after contemplating his statement, I came to realize that what he was emphasizing was the importance of words--the importance of books and their influence on the minds that read them. What a sense of responsibilty that should give writers when putting pen to paper.
After answering a few questions. he ended his time with us by giving us his feelings about the use of the library. It went something like this:
A drivers license gives you the opportunity to explore your state and the surrounding area.
A passport gives you the opportunity to explore the world.
A library card gives you the opportunity to explore the universe.
While it seemed clever but not terribly deep at the time, after contemplating his statement, I came to realize that what he was emphasizing was the importance of words--the importance of books and their influence on the minds that read them. What a sense of responsibilty that should give writers when putting pen to paper.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Daddy Hair
"I'm gonna be a daddy," our three year old grandson, Tyler, announced as he strolled into the restaurant to meet us for lunch.
I immediately looked to my daughter-in-law. Was he making an announcement? Were we going to add to the growing list of grandchildren? A grandmother is always looking for another.
"You can thank your son for that idea," Lori said. "Ron told him that when he got hair on his chest he would be a daddy. The other day day he noticed he had hair on his legs and he figured that was good enough--he could be a daddy."
"Well if we shaved the hair on his legs, does that mean he could be a mommy?" I asked. To her credit, Lori politely asked me not to plant that idea in his head.
I immediately looked to my daughter-in-law. Was he making an announcement? Were we going to add to the growing list of grandchildren? A grandmother is always looking for another.
"You can thank your son for that idea," Lori said. "Ron told him that when he got hair on his chest he would be a daddy. The other day day he noticed he had hair on his legs and he figured that was good enough--he could be a daddy."
"Well if we shaved the hair on his legs, does that mean he could be a mommy?" I asked. To her credit, Lori politely asked me not to plant that idea in his head.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Feathery Welcome
It's finally spring and the birds are building their nests. I watched a little one trying to stuff long strings of curly dried grasses into the bottle birdhouse on the side of our house. We have hung birdhouses through out the yard hoping to avoid a disaster from the past.
One year, we had a lovely half-basket of artificial flowers that I hung on the door. (I was trying to keep up with all the neighbors who always seem to decorate for every season. I've quit since then.) As the weather got warmer and the time for little birds to hatch arrived, we heard little peeps coming from the front of the house. We assumed the robin that always returned to the front evergreen had hatched another brood of little robins.
Prom night arrived. Our daughter looked absolutely lovely in a beautiful lacey cream dress. Nervously we awaited the arrival of her date. The doorbell announced that he was at the front door and I eagerly opened it to greet him. The motion of the door opening spilled a brood of baby birds onto the foyer floor. Until that moment they had obviously been enjoying their comfy nest in my basket of flowers.
My daughter watched in horror and her date stood bewildered as I scurried around trying to put the birds back in the nest. After the corsage pining and picture taking, everyone decided that using the side door would be best.
The birds were there until they were able to fly. Once they abandoned the nest I took it down. It was the last time I ever hung anything on the front door in the spring no matter how good the neighbors decorations looked.
One year, we had a lovely half-basket of artificial flowers that I hung on the door. (I was trying to keep up with all the neighbors who always seem to decorate for every season. I've quit since then.) As the weather got warmer and the time for little birds to hatch arrived, we heard little peeps coming from the front of the house. We assumed the robin that always returned to the front evergreen had hatched another brood of little robins.
Prom night arrived. Our daughter looked absolutely lovely in a beautiful lacey cream dress. Nervously we awaited the arrival of her date. The doorbell announced that he was at the front door and I eagerly opened it to greet him. The motion of the door opening spilled a brood of baby birds onto the foyer floor. Until that moment they had obviously been enjoying their comfy nest in my basket of flowers.
My daughter watched in horror and her date stood bewildered as I scurried around trying to put the birds back in the nest. After the corsage pining and picture taking, everyone decided that using the side door would be best.
The birds were there until they were able to fly. Once they abandoned the nest I took it down. It was the last time I ever hung anything on the front door in the spring no matter how good the neighbors decorations looked.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Big Table
When you have a big table in the dining room it's such a shame to let it sit half empty. When we discovered we would only be five (instead of 12) for Easter dinner, we made some phone calls. We found a couple of our friends who were going to be alone because their kids couldn't make it home. We asked them to join us. (They've done the same for us when our kids couldn't make it home.)
While I was setting the table for tomorrow, I also happened to remember a neighbor who is by himself. I thought he probably went home to his mother's but Bob called anyway. You know, those little promptings from the Lord need to be followed. It turned out he was alone and didn't hesitate to take us up on the invitation.
Our "family" dinner has grown to 9: Bob and I, two kids, a grandchild, two friends, a neighbor and Jesus. He's always invited.
While I was setting the table for tomorrow, I also happened to remember a neighbor who is by himself. I thought he probably went home to his mother's but Bob called anyway. You know, those little promptings from the Lord need to be followed. It turned out he was alone and didn't hesitate to take us up on the invitation.
Our "family" dinner has grown to 9: Bob and I, two kids, a grandchild, two friends, a neighbor and Jesus. He's always invited.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
A Postmortem Audience?
I've been at a writers conference for the past week. I was looking forward to sunny California but 4 out of 5 days it has rained. I think it affected my brain function. As I surveyed the list of workshops, my eyes caught one titled "Writing for the Postmortem Audience." I blinked twice and read it again but it stayed the same.
A postmortem audience? What is a postmortem audience? Is it one full of dead people? Is it an audience of coroners? Morticians? Forensic scientists? The questions bounced around in my head for the afternoon and the next day. Even though my mind was beginning to go into overload mode with all the information being crammed in, the question would still surface. What is a postmortem audience?
When the world of critiques, workshops, keynotes, and networking slowed a bit, I got out my notebook with the scheduled workshops list and looked again. Writing for the Postmortem Audience was right there. Or was it? The fog lifted a bit. I think the sun may have even peeked through for a moment. It wasn't "postmortem" it was "postmodern"!
Oh...
What's a postmodern audience?
A postmortem audience? What is a postmortem audience? Is it one full of dead people? Is it an audience of coroners? Morticians? Forensic scientists? The questions bounced around in my head for the afternoon and the next day. Even though my mind was beginning to go into overload mode with all the information being crammed in, the question would still surface. What is a postmortem audience?
When the world of critiques, workshops, keynotes, and networking slowed a bit, I got out my notebook with the scheduled workshops list and looked again. Writing for the Postmortem Audience was right there. Or was it? The fog lifted a bit. I think the sun may have even peeked through for a moment. It wasn't "postmortem" it was "postmodern"!
Oh...
What's a postmodern audience?
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Here Come the Buzzards!
Forget the groundhogs. Here come the buzzards! While Pete and Chuck may warn us on February 2 that spring is another six weeks away, the buzzards of Hinckley, Ohio, promise us that spring is only a few days away.
Every March 15, the buzzards return to roost in Hinckley. It's a big deal--pancake breakfast, costumed buzzard watchers, lots of media coverage. The buzzards never fail to disappoint. Usually around 8 a.m. someone spots the big birds circling overhead and those of us still plagued by snow and cold give a huge sigh of relief.
Spring will come. The buzzards did.
Every March 15, the buzzards return to roost in Hinckley. It's a big deal--pancake breakfast, costumed buzzard watchers, lots of media coverage. The buzzards never fail to disappoint. Usually around 8 a.m. someone spots the big birds circling overhead and those of us still plagued by snow and cold give a huge sigh of relief.
Spring will come. The buzzards did.
Monday, March 14, 2005
A Groom's Surprise
Every Saturday morning that is free finds us at our favorite breakfast spot. It's kind of a retro place, New York-ish, and plays great 60s music. We are there so much, we know most of the staff by name and they know how we like our coffee and eggs.
Last Saturday, we sat in a booth behind a father and daughter who were discussing her wedding plans. Dad and Mom must have been divorced and the bride must have been on her own for a while because she was talking about what she was paying for as she described her plans. The talk moved to plans for the groom's house. She was redecorating--new carpet, drapes, etc. I'm sure there were a few things going out that he's going to miss.
Then they moved on to talking about the groom's dog. "Well," she said, "I figure that if I take him to the groomers once a month that should help with the dog hair and smell." I hope the groom isn't a big "love me, love my dog" guy. There's a big surprise awaiting him if he is.
She's young. She'll learn, I hope. Trouble is, nowadays too many newlyweds are unwilling to learn. Divorce isn't seen in the same light as generations ago. It is more an option for a new start in life--like moving on to a new job or a new house. Relationships need work as badly as a dog needs grooming. I hope they'll pay attention to the needs of their relationship at least once a month. Maybe that trip to PetSmart could be a reminder to "love smart" as well.
Last Saturday, we sat in a booth behind a father and daughter who were discussing her wedding plans. Dad and Mom must have been divorced and the bride must have been on her own for a while because she was talking about what she was paying for as she described her plans. The talk moved to plans for the groom's house. She was redecorating--new carpet, drapes, etc. I'm sure there were a few things going out that he's going to miss.
Then they moved on to talking about the groom's dog. "Well," she said, "I figure that if I take him to the groomers once a month that should help with the dog hair and smell." I hope the groom isn't a big "love me, love my dog" guy. There's a big surprise awaiting him if he is.
She's young. She'll learn, I hope. Trouble is, nowadays too many newlyweds are unwilling to learn. Divorce isn't seen in the same light as generations ago. It is more an option for a new start in life--like moving on to a new job or a new house. Relationships need work as badly as a dog needs grooming. I hope they'll pay attention to the needs of their relationship at least once a month. Maybe that trip to PetSmart could be a reminder to "love smart" as well.
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