Emeline

This is Emeline Ottaway Kemp, my great, great grandmother   If the photograph told the whole story, I would say that this was a severe woman, not given to frills or finery.  She seems to have no softness to her, all hard edges with an uncompromising glare.  She looks somewhat masculine and unfriendly, a no-nonsense kind of gal.  She probably had a switch and knew how to use it to good effect.

But that's not really fair, is it?  One photograph, one moment in time and space.  Early photographers didn't have the options that we have now; there were no massive photoshoots in which you could choose the best 100 out of 1000 shots.  It was a one-shot deal and you'd better sit still and for heaven's sake, don't smile!

Digging a little deeper into Emeline's life, I find that she was born in Smarden, England in 1832.  She was the oldest of six children (3 girls, 3 boys) born to John and Sarah (Sally) Ottaway.  Her parents came to Stockbridge, New York, in 1849 when Emeline was a mere slip of a girl, seventeen years old.  One year later, 18-year-old Emeline was joined in matrimony with Stephen Kemp, who was a worldly 29 years old and who also originally hailed from England (Kent).  These two lovebirds got busy and had 11 children, 6 of whom survived to adulthood:  Ada, Alice, Cynthia Rose, Annie, Nettie and George.  Here's the happy family around 1885 when Emeline would have been about 53:

 Back row (standing): Ada, George and Alice.  Front row: Annie, Cynthia Rosalia, Stephen, Emeline and Nettie.  Nettie was my great grandmother - quite a looker, I think, and a real fashion plate.  More on her in another blog, I guess.

So dear Emeline married at 18, bore 11 children, five of whom died young. The only one of those five that we know about is Abbie, born in 1871, died in 1872 when Emeline was 40 years old. Interestingly, little Abbie was born just one year after Emeline's youngest sister, Abbie, died at age seventeen.  Emeline shifted from one continent to another one year before marrying and then moved halfway across the U.S. to Wisconsin (Koshkonong) six years after marrying.  She died in 1907 at the age of 75, predeceasing her older husband by two years.

I wish I'd known Emeline - I'm sure there's much more to her story than these two photos can show us.  I'd like to think that in spite of the severe look to her face that she knew joy, as well as sorrow.

What do you do while you're waiting?

We had gone on a hike, the four of us.  The two young ones stopped to make their mark in the sandstone, while the older ones walked on ahead, having already made their mark by producing 6 sandstone carvers.  Eventually the tired one said, "Let's stop and wait for them - I don't want to end up on the other side of the nature center so that it takes forever for us to find each other again."  This was an agreeable suggestion to the other one and so we found some tree stumps that looked as if they had been cut down just to provide homely chairs for the weary.  The waiting began.  

Waiting for something will give you a good indication of your level of patience.  What do you do? One of us began to get restless with a desire to move on.  The other one gathered some fallen leaves and made a little order out of the chaos, imposing design in the wilderness.  Four leaves, four corners, nice and tidy.  But neither of us were content just to sit and do nothing.  

I read a book once about Corrie Ten Boom's silent years, written by the woman who took care of her for those years.  Corrie had a stroke that left her somewhat immobile and unable to speak.  This went on for 5 years until her death.  Five whole years...it staggers the mind.  Were those wasted years?   No, according to the author.  Corrie somehow managed to impart something of value during those silent years.  She waited with grace and patience for the day of deliverance, knowing that Jesus would not have left here here unless He still had work for her to do.  Corrie's assistant was deeply ministered to by her during these years of service.  Corrie Ten Boom knew how to wait.  

I am impatient.  I don't like waiting for anything, especially when the actual time of waiting is unknown (the "are-we-there-yet" mentality).  But when it comes down to it, we cannot avoid waiting. The only question that remains is what we will do with it.  I don't think waiting always means standing still - I think it's okay to keep moving while waiting.  I think it's okay to seek to be productive while waiting.  The key to good waiting is bearing up under it patiently without complaint, being confident that God's timing is perfect.

The two older ones eventually moved onward in trail ahead, having left the design of their waiting on the path for the next travelers to see.  When we got back to the car, the sandstone carvers were there. The waiting was over.

But if we hope for what we do not see, 

we wait for it with patience.

Romans 8:25

The Dew on Mount Hermon

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When you see dew, do you think of people dwelling together in unity?  King David did.

Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity...it is like the dew of Hermon descending upon the mountains of Zion.

What on earth made David think of people dwelling together in unity when he observed the dew?


Dew is gathered together from the unseen moisture in the air when the humidity is high and then the temperature drops to a certain point. The conditions have to be just right; normally all that stuff just evaporates and we don't see it.

Dew usually comes in the morning, after the dark of night and the cool temperatures of the evening.

Dew refreshes the earth, quenches thirsty plants.

Dew is beautiful; it reflects the light.

Dew falls; it descends, it must go lower.

When God's people dwell together in unity, we are gathered together under just the right conditions.  The unseen Spirit draws us together to form a cloud of witnesses, a rain of refreshing, each drop a small church, as it were, with its own parched ground to fall upon. It is only when we live among the dark and cold of unbelief around us, that we coalesce and appear as the light of day, reflecting the True Light.  God makes us beautiful to a world that craves beauty; He makes us water to a thirsty world; He makes us fall onto the unrighteous in a glory of humbling.  Just as Jesus descended from heaven to humble Himself as a man, so we must go ever lower in imitation of Him, and in submission to His will.

And when we refuse to assemble together as His people, or when we squabble and fight, all that heavenly dew just evaporates.  No one will see it and no one will care.

And let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds, not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another and all the more as you see the day drawing near.  

1 Corinthians 10:24-25

Blessay

I've been thinking about the word "blog," which of course is a condensing of the words "web log." When I think of a log, I think of Star Trek: "Captain's Log, Stardate blah blah blah..."  A log is a factual report, which is more likely to contain longitude and latitude than it is to contain mental meanderings.  In fact, here's the definition I found for log: an official record of events during the voyage of a ship or aircraft.  I'm not sure the essays that I write bear much resemblance to a "log," so I've decided to coin a new phrase: "Blessay."  I had to cheat a little bit to get there, because it actually should be a condensing of the words "web essay," but "bessay" isn't nearly as euphonious as "blessay," which carries with it the connotation of a blessing in essay form.  So, I took three words and shoved them together: "web log essay."  Besides, I do like the idea of a log being in some way a record of a journey, even if there's nothing much "official" about it.  

When I started this blog - er - blessay - my stated intention was to combine thoughts about photography with thoughts about life.  That sort of ran its course and eventually got stuck on a sandbar somewhere.  I haven't been very disciplined about learning and practicing good photography for over a year.  And I found that I was hampered by the idea of having to have a photograph upon which to base my thoughts, although I have to admit it was sometimes a good way to jump start creative thinking.  Recently, I decided to making writing a "blessay" a weekly discipline, a weekly adventure.  I might still use a photograph as inspiration for a topic, but I might just as well just let myself go where my thoughts for the day lead me.  Ultimately, I still want to go "Further Up and Further In."  

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me and know my anxious thoughts.  See if there be any hurtful way in me and lead me in the everlasting way."  

Psalm 139: 23-24

Don't Worry, Be Happy

There's no doubt about it: worrying is completely illogical.  As the Good Book says, "Which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?" So, why is it so common?  Why is it so hard to stop?  I've contemplated this a lot over the years.  As a Christian I have often been ashamed by how much I worry and fret.  I've confessed it as sin, accepted it as a weakness that God knew about when He chose me, and prayed that He would give me the peace that passes understanding. Along with David, I have prayed,  "Search me O God, and know my heart; try me and know my anxious thoughts; see if there be any hurtful way in me and lead me in the everlasting way."  But did I really mean it?

Being tried by God has been like a scourging, in a way. Pain has been involved.  Loss and limitation have come to call.   Having recently re-read the book Hinds Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard, I have appreciated anew this allegorical story that seems uncannily like a telling of my life.  The two sisters "Sorrow" and "Suffering" have been holding my hands, taking me, little Much Afraid, on this journey.  And like Much Afraid, I am regularly harassed and bullied by Craven Fear and Self-Pity.

But in the last couple of months, something surprising has happened.  I came to the end of my worry rope and surrendered it all.  I laid my body on the altar and said, "It's yours - do what you must to make me more like You."  When Craven Fear shows his ugly face and taunts me, I know what to say. When Self-Pity starts whimpering, I choose not to listen.  This does not mean that they no longer harass me; indeed, there are regular skirmishes, and I am still weak and vulnerable.  But to all the dreadful scenarios they parade before me, I say, "It's true, those things could happen.  But my Sovereign Leader is incapable of making mistakes, so if they do, it's all a part of His perfect love for me.  He knows what I need."  And there, at last, is peace.

"But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, 

will he not more clothe you, O you of little faith?"  

Matthew 6:30

Who Made the Lantana?

Is there anything we can create that is half so beautiful as this lovely lantana?  

We fool ourselves if we think any of our art as original.  

We are only imitators at best.

Look, ye, upon this tiny riot of color, and marvel.

Every good thing bestowed
and every perfect gift
comes down from the Father of lights
with whom there is no variation
or shifting shadow.
James 1:17

Lavender

Isn't lavender gorgeous?  I took this photo in Moscow, Idaho, where the stuff was growing carelessly in absolute heaps, as if it were a particularly prolific weed.  I've tried growing it, but it seems to sense my potential for neglect and simply refuses to cooperate.  The difference between reality and what happens in my mind's eye is often quite stark.  I've done the most amazing things in my mind as I've planned extensive herb and flower gardens in which I harvest and dry things, extract essential oils, make home remedies from wildflowers and weeds, create healing tinctures and teas.  Every time I read something about that, it sets my mind in motion, but the motion seems to stop there.  Because I can't grow lavender.  Not only that, but I've discovered that thinking about work is considerably easier than actually working.  And I can't grow lavender.  You know what?  That's absurd.  I'm taking the Lavender Challenge.  This is the year that I shall overcome the blackness of my thumb!  I will have fields of lavender, bushels and bushels of the stuff.  I shall become the Lavender Queen!   I'll start my own business selling lavender essential oil, lavender scented soap (homemade of course), lavender infused hot chocolate, lavender mosquito spray, everything lavender!!

And now you know how my mind's eye works.  It doesn't take much for me to get carried away.  I think I'll stop now, mostly because (forgive me for repeating myself) I just can't grow lavender.  Sigh.

Cool update: I wrote this a year ago but never published it.  Last summer I successfully grew lavender!

These two photos represent pretty much my whole lavender crop, but I consider it a fine start. And here's something else cool;  I did a little research about lavender in the Bible and came up with this:

Lavender is often mentioned in the Bible, not by the name lavender but rather by the name used at that time, spikenard. In the gospel of Luke the writer reports: "Then took Mary a pound of ointment of spikenard, very costly, and anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped his feet with her hair; and the house was filled with the odor of the ointment."

The name "lavender" is a definite upgrade from "spikenard," in my opinion.  Apparently the Romans had something to do with that:

The Greeks and the Romans bathed in lavender scented water and it was from the Latin word "lavo" meaning "to wash" that the herb took its name.

At any rate,  the Lavender Challenge has been met!  Can lavender infused hot chocolate be far behind?  I'm going to catch up with my mind's eye yet, you'll see...

For the beauty of the earth

For the triumph of the skies

For the love which from our birth

Over and around us lies

Lord of all, to Thee we raise

This our hymn of grateful praise!