A Cat Memoir

Puss

Once upon a time, I used to love cats.  I dreamed about owning a cat and in my eighth year she showed up in my grandparents' basement, a surprise Christmas gift for me.   Puss.  At various times she was also called "Booze" or "Puce."  Don't ask why.  She was the queen of cats - gracious, sweet and affectionate.  I loved her with all my heart!  Good old Puss was a gray tabby without any real distinctive markings, but she was the best cat in the world and so generous with her love.  Puss died while I was in college and was succeeded by Tabby, who was a blight upon my cat-loving soul.   Tabby would lurk in the basement and attack my ankles with fiendish delight.  Was it then that the ardor for cats began to cool?

I went off to college and shortly after graduation got married. Many catless years ensued, which my mom thoughtfully filled with teeny cats for display.  I was delighted with the many different varieties of cats she found and each time she sent one or more, happily found a place for them in my growing collection (see below).  

November

Fast forward to the year we had twins.  The twins arrived in May, we started homeschooling in September, and on my birthday in November, we added another living creature to the mix, November the cat.  I thought we'd call her "Novie," but that was rejected.  Kris had the great idea of calling her "Ember," but that was neglected.  November she stayed.  I had sort of a love-hate relationship with November (probably the only kind of relationship that was possible with her).  She was quite verbal, always answered when you called her name, loved her food, but my goodness, she could be unpredictably mean.  We learned that you could only pet her for so long - if you overstayed your welcome, she'd bite the hand that pet her.  If you reached to pet her in a certain way - chomp.  She was exceedingly anti-social with guests.  As soon as November heard the sound of a car door slamming shut outside, she'd run for cover upstairs.  If you tried to pick her up - scratch.  One day, I realized that the mystique was gone.  That day coincided with the fact that November had FLEAS.  I tried, oh I tried, to get rid of the little offenders.  I bought flea repellent and sprayed it all over.  I combed her with a flea comb everyday and dumped the fleas into a solution of Murphy's Oil Soap.  Nothing helped. Finally, I put an ad in the paper thinking somebody else would love to have our flea-ridden cat - I just couldn't handle it anymore.  We'd give her away. Almost right away, someone called.  I answered and the man said without preamble "You still got that cat?  When can I come and get her?"  Well, of all the nerve!!!!  Did he think that we were going to give her away to just ANYONE?   Hmmm...I guess I didn't want to get rid of her after all.  We discovered that the source of the fleas was in the unfinished basement where we'd been having her spend her nights.  No basement, no fleas.  November had experienced a reprieve.

We moved from Indiana to Minnesota and she almost didn't make it with us.  She freaked out when the movers came and found a hiding place between floor joists where we couldn't reach her.  Moving day arrived.  We put out tempting treats, we cajoled.  The car was packed and ready to go and we had a long drive in front of us.  The very real possibility of having to leave her behind loomed over our heads.  At the very last moment, she relented and allowed herself to be captured.  Another reprieve.  

Years later we were facing another move and we were going to be homeless for one week.  What would we do with November?  She hadn't become any more endearing over the years and it seemed that the time had come to give her up to someone else.  I put an ad in the paper.  Someone called right away and she seemed nice enough over the phone.  We made arrangements and it was settled...until the day when she was going to pick November up.   I cried all morning and faced the obvious truth - I couldn't let her go!  I tried to call the young woman who wanted November, but couldn't get a hold of her.   When she arrived with her little kennel, I cried some more and apologized about a dozen times "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...". Another reprieve.  

Luna

The day came when the vet told us that she had some sort of cancer in her cheek.  By this time, she was about 15 years old and her quality of life had been absolutely ruined by the acquisition of a dog in our household.  While once she was queen over the entire expanse, her territory had been reduced to a mere pittance as she tried to find refuge from our rambunctious puppy.  There were no more reprieves.  We said our goodbyes and let her go at last.  Ironically, we had to say our goodbyes to the dog about a year later and for the first time in a long time, we were petless.  If it had been up to me, we would still be in that happy state (how soulless I have become!), but we yielded to the longings of others in the house and acquired Luna, a petite gray cat. Luna is a perfectly agreeable cat, but she and I have never really bonded.  Now that her favorite person has moved out, she pays more attention to me, but in a somewhat demanding way.  Sigh. What bothers me is the lack of sweetness in my heart for this harmless little creature.  I used to love cats...what happened?   I think the truth of it is that my first cat spoiled me - I am still looking for Puss, who was a true companion and soul comforter.  

Cats are connoisseurs of comfort. 

James Herriot

Bobblehead

Remember when bobbleheads became a thing?  I'm trying to imagine the first person pitching that as a product.  I would definitely have been the one at the table shaking my head saying, "It'll never sell."  That's why I'm not invited to those types of meetings.  Someone else gave the go-ahead and pretty soon, bobbleheads abounded while everyone tried to ride the tide of this weird trend for as long as it would last. Even Martin Luther had a bobblehead!  [a funny aside - every time I try to type the word "bobblehead," it comes out as "booblehead," which I then have to erase and fix.  Tee hee.]  Thanks to our having a good connection with the Minnesota Twins, we ended up with quite a few Twins' bobbleheads. Somehow Pete became the Keeper of the Bobbleheads and then in a bloodless coup, he also became the de facto owner of them.  This is, I think, an oldest child thing - there's probably even something biblical about it, or at least he'd like to think so.  My favorite of his collection is the Hermann the German bobblehead.  Three cheers for New Ulm!


And now, the stunning revelation:  in a strange turn of events, I've become a bobblehead myself.  Yes, it's true.  This is a consequence of not always hearing what people are saying to me, especially in loud places like restaurants.  The bobble is a handy maneuver which allows you to give the impression that you heard what was said and are definitely tracking the conversation.  Here's how it works:

Other person:  The other day I mumble mumble and it is so mumble mumble in the morning...(and so on)
Me:  Bobble, bobble.

If the person is smiling and generally looking pleased with the world, I'll accompany the bobble with a smile.  If they look worried, the bobble will take on a concerned-looking aspect.  The only time the bobble doesn't work, and those of you who are clever will have already figured this part out, is when the other person asks an actual question requiring words as a response.  It may surprise you to learn that many questions don't require words as a response, for example:

Other person:  Mumble, mumble, mumblety mumble...do you know what I mean?
Me: bobble, bobble.
Other person (perfectly satisfied): mumble more mumble...

If someone looks rather aghast or confused after I've issued a non-committal bobble, this is my cue that I've completely missed something important and, well, bobbled it.

On that note, I'll just be bobble, bobble, bobbling along.

He who has ears to hear, let him hear.

Matthew 11:15

Discoveries

I've discovered that I don't like writing fiction.  At 58 years of age, it feels good to have settled that issue at last.  I've also discovered that I'm not a very disciplined writer.  I've been adding the item "Blog post" once a week to my Daytimer for the last several weeks, but have steadfastly ignored it, ensuring that the item doesn't get the coveted check mark and stares at me accusingly, reminding me of my inadequacy. 

On the plus side, I've discovered that inspiration strikes without warning and fills my heart with words that must be said.  When I picked up the little doll from the last post, I had no idea what to write.  I toyed with the idea of a fiction piece, but stalled out several times in the intersection and had to pull over to regroup.  I started typing and the next thing you know, I'm going full steam ahead on a full tank of gas.  I have no illusions that I'm writing in any way that is laudable among literary types, but there's a satisfaction in following a trail to the end (try to keep up with the dizzying number of metaphors being tossed around). 

The last discovery: I'm a confusing collection of contradictions.  I want people to read what I write (thus the public blog), but it makes me feel vulnerable.  I used to share my posts on FB occasionally, but it always seemed like a risky level of exposure.  And I really want people to like what I write but have to struggle with retaining a humble perspective if a word of praise comes my way.  Remember the writer played by Greg Kinnear in "You've Got Mail?"  He meets someone at a party who is familiar with his column and tells him something flattering about it.  Kinnear's character immediately leans in with a funny combination of false humility and begging to hear more, along the lines of "aw shucks" and "Oh, did you really like it?"  It's funny because it''s so real.  That would be me.

I'll continue to use photographs as writing prompts and see where it leads me.  Each time I write, I am exploring new territory like one of the explorers of old.  It is always a time of discovery.

Search me, O God, and know my heart;
Try me and know my anxious thoughts;

And see if there be any hurtful way in me,
And lead me in the everlasting way.

Psalm 139-23-34

Living Dolls

The petite doll fit nicely into my hand.  I contemplated it, wondering why I still had the thing.  What is it about stuff that grabs hold of us so?  A little bit of wood had been cut, shaped, sanded and painted with a face and suddenly a dead plant had taken on personality and demanded to be clothed.  If you pick up a stick in the woods and carry it around for a while, it doesn't cost a lot of sentimental currency to cast it away.  But just let your hands invest in it with time and tools, with thought and purpose, and voila, a worthless stick becomes something with value.  Add imagination into the mix, and your stick has a name and you may animate her for your entertainment, giving her words, movement and a story.  But no amount of imagination will make her real or put thoughts into her head.  She has no life to live, no story to tell apart from the one I tell for her.  Still, I could not cast her away.  Why not? It's a stick, for goodness sake!   No matter, she won't be thrown out on my watch.

My thoughts turned to God.  He took a bit of inanimate dirt and clay, fashioned it to reflect Himself, gave it a face, a soul and life.  The dry bones assembled and walked.  He bestowed upon His creation the ability to think and talk.  The very minute the dirt man was animated, he began to have a story.  God imparted value, a living, eternal value to that bit of dirt.  He gave him a name, a beautiful garden in which to live, a purpose, and then He completed the whole package by designing and animating another one to do the work of cultivating and taking dominion with him.  This one had a different pronoun: she.  They fit together perfectly.  He set down these two living dolls in the house He had made for them and gave them one rule, only one boundary.  We all know what happened after that.  "You had one job!"  This business of creation is apparently a risky one. 

And then I thought about having children.  Two little cells collide and voila!  God lets us participate in this risky beautiful business of creation.  The very minute those two cells collide to form one new life, it has a story and a purpose.  He or she has living, eternal value, a face and a soul.  This is no silly painted stick, people.  It's a miracle!  Granted, it's a miracle that will require a lot of time and attention, not to mention a great deal of self-sacrifice, but once begun, the miracle has a story to live.  And we are casting away millions of these stories, these little miracles, on our watch.  Something that is whole is being ripped apart; something living is being killed.  And we all know it. 

I will tell you a secret: I, too, have done this terrible thing.  I cast away someone eternal as if it were a stick I picked up in the woods.  I snuffed out a story on the very first page.  My imagination was small, my fears were large, the lies were appealing, and the crime seemed victimless.

I put the doll back down, a very poor substitute for the real thing.  But no matter, she won't be thrown out on my watch.

For you formed my inward parts;

You knitted me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.

My frame was not hidden from you,

when I was being made in secret,

intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed substance;

in your book were written, every one of them,

the days that were formed for me,

when as yet there was none of them.

Psalm 139:13-16

Loretta

Up until I took this photo, I thought this little thing was a snail - and I've had it for probably 20 years or more.  Funny how you can own something and never really have looked at it. This was a gift from a friend who lives in Poland, but I think she bought it when she was doing a short-term missions project in Yugoslavia (back when it was Yugoslavia).  Does this explain the "YU" on the back?  The reptilian neck and the patterns on the skin are what convinced me that this was no snail.  With the fashionable flowered hat and the pretty blue sunglasses, I'll go even further and postulate that this is a female snake.  As to why she's rolled up in such a fashion or why her skin is so flat, your guess is as good as mine.  I shall call her Loretta.

If you turn Loretta upside down, you see the letters "PKS," and it is here that my imagination is captured.  Somewhere in Yugoslavia, the artisan PKS carefully crafted this whimsical little snake out of clay, rolled it up, made the tiny hat and sunglasses and then with a brush, painted on various colors of glaze and fired it up in a kiln.  How old was PKS when she did this?  Was PKS a man?  Was the making of trinkets like this a big part of PKS's income?  The day came when Loretta was finished: fired, cooled and ready to go.  She sat out in a stall with many others just like her while tourists went by, barely giving her a glance.  An American named Lisa stopped at the shop, looking for something to bring home and give to one of her supporters.  She spoke to PKS in halting Serbian, picking up Loretta, who at that time was not covered with the grime and dust of years (let's use the word "patina" instead - so artsy!).  "How much?"  Not one to haggle, she paid PKS the asking price and brought Loretta back to the United States with her.  And now, through Loretta, I have this thin, trailing connection to Yugoslavia, to an artist there, whose hands have traveled the world.  PKS, I salute you!

Do you see a man skilled in his work?
He will stand before kings;

He will not stand before obscure men.

Proverbs 22:29

Floating Cats

Floating Cats I

Cats appear to float
A slight breeze keeps them moving
They make me happy.

Floating Cats II

For weeks at a time
I don't see them, these 5 little cats
And then, an invisible current of air
Swirls around, moves them gently
And as peripheral vision catches it,
I give them my undivided attention.
This little bit of whimsy and beauty
Makes me happy.

Floating Cats III

They sat in a box, neglected and broken,
My mom couldn't throw them away.
Their silent mews to me were spoken-
I tell you I heard them that day!

I rescued them with a bit of string
I set things all aright.
To balance them was a tricky thing,
But eventually they took flight

And when in airy stillness they float
I blow and make them dance
A simple pleasure, a quiet note,
My life has been enhanced.

God’s in His heaven,

All’s right with the world.

Robert Browning

Writing Prompts - The Korean Artifact

Wow - only 2 blog posts in 2016...you'd think I don't really like to write.  It turns out that I enjoy writing, but only when it comes to letters, notes and journals.  Kris has been encouraging me to write more - he has this idea that I should write a book, but I'm not sure I've got it in me.  So this year, I'm going to do something a little different with this blog (like actually write in it - that would be different).  I'm going to take photos of everyday objects in my life and use them as writing prompts.  It might be a fiction piece, it might be poetry, or it might be reminiscences of how that object came to be in my life.  Ideally, I'd be doing this weekly, but keep in mind that if I only do 3 in 2017, it will be more than I did in 2016.  Let us begin...

He had looked everywhere for this little treasure.  In fact, it had been his one defining obsession since Jack died and left him with so many questions.  He'd known it had existed - he'd been with Jack in South Korea when they had been following a lead on a case and it had mysteriously appeared in Jack's bag after a long train trip.  At the time, Jack had been surprisingly cagey, examining it furtively and then pocketing it without much explanation.  When Doug had questioned him about it, he'd shrugged and said it was a gift from a secret admirer and they'd laughed it off.  Shortly before Jack was killed, however, he mentioned it in an email to Doug, saying,

"Remember that little gift from my secret admirer in South Korea?  I've been doing some research and it appears that it may be quite valuable, or at least valuable to certain people.  It has unusual properties, quite fascinating.  Someone has contacted me via third party about acquiring it, but I'm not sure I'm ready to part with it yet.  I'd like to explore its capabilities some more before I let it go.  I'll show it to you the next time we have a case together.  Until then, I'll probably err on the side of caution and keep it hidden."

Three days later, Jack was found dead in an alley nearly 10 miles from his home.  He'd been tortured and then shot.  Doug was certain that the Korean artifact was key to solving Jack's murder and he was even more certain that the killer had not gotten it.  That was 8 months ago.  Jack had not made it easy to find this tiny casket; it had been well hidden indeed.  Following hunches, cryptic notes, half-baked guesses, and running into a myriad of dead ends, Doug had finally tracked it down, in an old ratty gym bag stuffed in a locker somewhere.  Doug set it down on his old, scratched desk, and realized upon closer inspection that with a little manipulation, the top was removable.  He looked inside.

-----

Me, again.  I feel pretty "meh" about that entry, but it's a start.  I received this little trinket many years ago from my brother-in-law who used to travel to far-off places for his job.  I think it came from Korea, but couldn't testify to it in a court of law with any certainty.

Behold, you desire truth in the inward parts,

And in the hidden part You will make me to know wisdom.

Psalm 51:6

Random

3-5-16

This is a blog post.  This is a blog post written by someone who, at the moment, has nothing to say.  Sometimes I wonder if my brain is just becoming more dull by the year.   Anyway, since I don't have a particular subject upon which to philosophize or pontificate, I'll just list some random thoughts.

1.  Trump.  No.  Just no.

2.  John Bunyan. I'm reading his spiritual autobiography (Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners) and I'm not sure I've ever seen such tortured mental anguish over perceived, but not actual, sin.  He went for a long time thinking he had committed the unpardonable sin and every time he tried to apply God's grace in the situation, he found ways to justify the fact that he had, indeed, committed it.  He was the master of introspection, that's for sure - makes me look like a rank amateur.  

3.  Kris just turned 55.  Here he is as a little boy:

What a cutie!  So now we are both eligible for the senior discount at most restaurants.  This seems odd, but oh well.

4.  Polaroid.  Ruth and I found a charming set of cards that were styled to look like old Polaroid shots, which got us thinking that we could do that ourselves.  Here are a couple of our efforts:

Ruth's

Mine

That's all for now, folks!

Messy

I didn't have much interest in keeping my room clean when I was growing up.  When we were young, Saturdays were the day we had to clean our rooms and I will admit that I gave as little effort to this as possible.  If I could stuff it under the bed, hide it in a closet, cram it into a drawer or in other creative ways hide my mess, that's what I did.  When I finally got my own room down the basement, the rules had become much more relaxed (i.e. we wore our parents down) and I could could neglect cleanliness to my heart's content.  You could say my parents gave me over to my slovenly tendencies.  I used to have a photo of my room from this period of time, which demonstrates the point, but I couldn't find it, so I'll have to use one of the top of my desk.  Just multiply the disarray on the desk and you'll have a good idea of what my room looked like.

I threw my dirty clothes on a heap in the corner on the tiled floor and occasionally put some of them in the washing machine.  One day, I decided I should pick all of them up to put them in the wash and found that at the bottom of the pile, some bugs had been happily eating away at my underwear.  This had an amazingly motivating effect on me.  Suddenly I had a reason to care about where I put my clothes.  This was exactly what Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle might have ordered for me, if she'd been consulted on my case.  My habits improved a little.  The next transformation occurred when I moved into an apartment during my college years.  During the interview for the apartment (currently inhabited by two other college students), my prospective roommates asked me about my general attitude toward cleanliness - it turned out that this was an important factor in the decision.  I assured them that I was quite neat (oh, the deceit of it all) and when they chose me to live there, I felt bound to keep up my end of the bargain.  Somewhere along the line, I realized that it was much more pleasant to live in a clean apartment, in spite of the draconian rules about cleaning out the tub after every use and wiping down the kitchen counter after making a meal.  My own room stayed rather rumpled, but I was in earnest about making sure my roommates had no reason to regret picking me.  

And so it has continued over the years, small moments of graceful transformation.  I will never be fastidiously neat, but I can no longer enjoy living in a mess.  The work involved in sanctifying my home has become less of a burden and more of a blessing.  

How very like what God does in our lives when He begins to sanctify our souls.  There's no hiding our mess from Him.  First, He illuminates our sin for us by allowing us to wallow in it; He gives us over to it and in His grace lets us truly taste the bitterness of our choices.  In a series of small graces, He transforms us over time, giving us hearts that long for righteousness and despise sin.  He is at work in us giving us the will to please Him and the ability to do the work that pleases Him.  He starts with messy souls, declares us clean in Christ, and then sets about making us clean indeed, teaching us how to keep our spiritual house clean and giving us joy in the process.  

 For I am confident of this very thing, 

that He who began a good work in you 

will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.

Philippians 1:6

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!

Reminiscing

Thinking back...21 years ago I was in the hospital lying flat on my back recovering from a C-section and suffering spinal headaches that were excruciating.  My newborn twins were preemies, so tiny and entangled with tubes and wires that it was a major enterprise to try and hold them.   My other two boys were at home and I wondered if they felt abandoned by me.

I asked my doctor how long the spinal headaches would last and he speculated that they could last up to a year or more.  "But the anesthesiologist told me that they'd probably not last more than a week!"  "That's because it was his needle," was the cold reply. He left and I collapsed in a frenzy of angry tears.  When the nurses came in to figure out what was going on, I told them what the doctor had said.  "Oh," they said, "We call him 'Dr. Doom.'  He's always saying things like that."  "Well, I'd like to punch him in the stomach!" I said with a great deal of feeling. Somehow this made all of us laugh.  It was such an unlikely sentiment coming from someone like me that I'm still rather shocked that I said it.  It tells something about the extremity of my emotions at the time.

Alone in my bed, still fretful and disturbed, I turned my anger on God.  How did He expect me to take care of my four children, including these two little ones, if I couldn't even sit up without having a hammer pounding in my skull.  It was untenable!!  Slowly, His presence infiltrated my overwrought heart and I began to remember His amazing love.  It dawned on me that He wouldn't give me these children without making a way for me to care for them.  "I will never fail you nor forsake you."  "I will never fail you nor forsake you."   Never!!!  Ever!!!  

No wonder the psalmists often reminisced, as it were, about God's faithfulness in the past and His promises for the future.  Sometimes in the midst of the storm, it's good medicine to remember sunny skies and rainbows.  

The headaches disappeared shortly after I left the hospital.  (Coincidence? I think not!).   And now those two babies that got such a shaky start in life are strong and healthy young men who are on their own journey with God and faithful in the assembling together of the saints.    

He did not fail nor forsake me then; He will not do so now; He will not ever fail me or forsake me in the future.  

Reminiscing.

Doodle

When I was young and obliged to sit through church services, I would pass the time during sermons by doodling.  One of my earliest doodles was to draw an outline of my hand and fill it in with hundreds of little jelly bean-type shapes. Hey, it kept my hands busy and my mind focused, often even on the sermon, believe to or not.

Doodling became a habit of mine.  I doodled my way through phone conversations, classes, meetings, seminars...anytime when I was a captive audience, so to speak.  I doodled in the margins of my notes, on napkins, on bulletins, on scraps of paper, sometimes even on my skin.  Naturally, these little meaningless scribblings weren't permanent or noteworthy; they certainly weren't what one could consider art...or were they? 

I just discovered that there's a thriving art form out there based on DOODLING!  Be still, my doodling heart!  It's called Zentangle and I've suddenly found a home for my aimless and wandering pen.  Doodling with a purpose. Ahh...I'm on my home planet on this one. A wild idea just occurred to me. Jesus stooped and wrote something on the ground with his finger in John 8. People love to speculate about what He was writing, but what if He was just doodling?  Doodling while the people chewed over the words, "He who is without sin, cast the first stone."  Doodling while the Holy Spirit did His convicting work on their hearts. Doodling in the dirt while exposing the dirt in people's souls. Don't worry; I'm not going to place a lot of weight on that somewhat absurd speculation, but it makes me smile.

So here are my first two Zentangles.

A Little Bit of Gray Hair...

Yesterday I was raising little children.  Today I qualify for the senior discount at the grocery store.  Yesterday I could tote a young child around with one arm and carry a couple loads of groceries with the other.  Today, a little bit of shoveling causes my arms to ache and I must ask for help with carrying things.  It's breathtaking what can happen in such a short time.  Although many women my age are dying the gray out of their hair, I've decided to embrace it.  I wish I could say that this is symbolic of embracing the aging process, but I have to admit that it's mostly because I'm lazy and cheap.  In truth, I sometimes envy the youthful look of those who turn back time by putting the color back in their hair.  I didn't realize how much I took that youthfulness for granted until I began losing it.  

"But though our outer man is decaying, 

yet our inner man is being renewed day by day.  

For momentary light affliction is producing in us 

an eternal weight of glory far beyond comparison 

while we look not at the things which are seen, 

but at the things which are not seen.  

For the things which are seen are temporal, 

but the things which are unseen are eternal."

1 Corinthians 4:16-18

So it appears that my vision needs adjusting.  I see gray hair, but I need to see instead the daily inner renewal.  When my focus is on aches and pains, I need to put on a different lens and see the eternal weight of glory that those afflictions are producing.  I've always been near-sighted.  It's time to become far-sighted.

Remembrance

This candle was made with flowers from the memorial service after my sister died.  It pains me sometimes to observe how little I think about her now, how I need things like this candle to jog my memory and bring her back to me.  It doesn't seem right that she should pass away not only from this life, but also from my thoughts.  I remember you, my sister!

How quickly we forget.   If only we could remember every single person, every single event, every conversation, every book read, every movie seen, every disturbing image, every harsh word, every rancorous argument, every grief, every pain...sound good to you?  Me neither. Our limited memories are no doubt a blessing from God.  He knows that there are some things that are better forgotten and the sooner, the better.  

Yet, we are to be careful and disciplined about our memories: careful not to forget that which is important, and disciplined in our bringing those things to remembrance.  God had to tell His people over and over and over again not to forget what He did when He brought them out of Egypt.  He memorialized it with food and ritual in the Passover supper.  Memorials were built at his command to commemorate important events.  Jesus instituted the Lord's Supper to observe as a remembrance because we so easily forget those things that should not ever be forgotten.  We need reminders, substantive memorials.  We need the bread and the wine, the ritual food that nourishes our souls and jogs our memories.

I remember You, my Lord!

And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, 

he broke it and gave it to them, saying,

 “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

Luke 22:19