Reject Rejection in Favor of God's Favor

The minister yesterday was stressing that the righteous have favor with God.  "You even have favor when you are not feeling particularly blessed," he emphasized. He cited Joseph's troubles: Joseph was blessed to be his father's favorite, but in his brothers' rejection of him, he was sold into slavery.   Yet Joseph had favor with Potiphar.  Even after he had been falsely accused and cast into prison, he had favor with the keeper of the prison.  Then he languished in prison waiting for the butler, whose dream Joseph rightly interpreted, to remember him to Pharaoh. Finally that happened, and circumstances led to Joseph being second in command in all of Egypt.

The Bible is full of promises to the righteous.  We may have down days when we don't feel blessed, but truth be told, we still have the favor of God.  Psalms 1:3, speaking of the righteous, says, "He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth fruit in its season, whose leaf also shall not wither, and whatever he does shall prosper."

Have you ever had something come out right, when you had little hope that it would? Many times I have toiled over a meal, worrying about it's outcome, and yet things seemed to right themselves, with everyone enjoying the food and complimenting the cook! That was God's favor!

When I look back, I know it was God's favor that granted me my husband, and later my family.  It was his favor that none of the children went astray and are strong Christians today.  When Howard went into the ministry mid-career, we still had three of our six children at home to educate on a minister's salary.  One by one we watched as God provided for them.

Trevor just happened to walk into his school's financial aid office and noticed they were having trouble with a computer program.  He knew the program, offered help, was hired, eventually becoming Financial Aid Director, which led to his career with the Department of Education.  God's favor.

Our daughter, Amy, was enrolled in a state college, and we were about to incur considerable education costs, when she fell in love that summer, married that winter, and went to nursing school nearby, most of which was covered by her scholarships.  Again, God's favor.

The youngest, Jamie, was awarded the prestigious National Merit Scholarship, paying all costs and even letting him study abroad his junior year.  And it was God's favor that kept him that year in France, granting him favor with the people (they thought he was French), a part-time teaching job, safety in travel and sustaining him in a serious bout of illness and  many bouts of homesickness.

Look for God's favor in your life.  You are sure to see it if you just acknowledge it.

Flower Power

 Someone mentioned recently that she gets flowers every week when she buys groceries.  I always notice the floral displays when I shop, but it seemed like a splurge for quickly fading beauty, so I always resisted them.  But today, they had bouquets of roses of every shade at a very small price.  I was admiring them and noticed they were further marked down to half off, now that Mother's Day has passed.  I couldn't resist this time.  I bought a half-dozen coral colored beauties with glossy green leaves gathered into a bouquet with a spray of baby's breath.

They are gorgeous and spirit lifting!  I searched around at home and found just the right vase that echoes their lovely hue.  It's like something alive in the room, warm and glowing in the lamp light.  Well, with the packet of floral preservative included, they will look that way a little longer.  I wondered what was in the stuff, so I did a little reading about it.

The preservative contains sugar, for food, citric acid to facilitate hydration, and an anti-bacterial agent to keep bacteria from clogging up the stem and cutting off the water.  The article I read said that the packet usually does  not contain enough of the mixture for the amount of water most vases hold, so the solution is weakened, and you might end up having just enough sugar to promote bacterial growth, and not enough anti-bacterial stuff to kill it.  In that case, you'd be better off with just clear water.  Who knew?

Somehow that struck a parallel of spiritual life to me.  We are like a flower, one of God's wonderful creation.  We need spiritual food, or the Word, and the hydration of the Holy Spirit for life and beauty.  We also need an anti-bacterial agent to keep sin from clogging up our spiritual connection to the Water of Life.  This agent is the blood of Jesus, the remission for sins.

I found that water molecules stick together, and as they evaporate, they are pulled upward into the flower petals, keeping them fresh and beautiful.  The right amount of acidity makes them stick together even more. Reminds me of the unifying power of the Holy Spirit, and the scripture, "Forsake not the assembling of yourselves together," Hebrews 10:25.

If the gospel is watered down, like the too-weak solution, it is almost worse than no gospel at all, with just enough sugar to let sin grow, and not enough anti-bacterial power to resist it.  Evidently, some manufacturers of floral preservative think consumers don't know any better, and they get by with providing a too-small packet and too little product to save a few cents.  This results in dirty, smelly water and short-lived flowers.  A lesson on dead churches and superficial Christianity.

Out to Eat

 The park and the garden were beautiful.  We had finished our picnic and were now dawdling in the welcome warm sun by the fish pools.  I was getting a little tired, and the lovely concrete bench carved with angels was hard, nontheless.  "Howard, sit with your back next to me," I suggested to my husband, then I leaned back on him when he did.  Wow! This was comfortable!  I could sit here all day! The benevolent sun was warming us into indolence as we watched the hypnotic koi lazily swimming about, occasionally darting for a stray insect or some indefinable food underneath the water.

Spring was just coming to the gardens, the budding trees and branches mostly bare, but showing a promise of beauty, like a gangly 12-year-old who had not yet filled out, but whose face and features held a trace of womanliness.  The soft greens that hinted of leaves and the violet of the red bud trees added to the pastel of the blue sky, faded a little today with wisps of clouds veiling its brightness.  We just couldn't let this day go by without taking our sandwiches to the park; yesterday was a brilliant blue, but the winds were a little too sharp for an outing.  And tomorrow promised sun.

"Look, someone's got our place," I had said to my husband when we first entered the park.  A man dressed nattily in a business suit sat erect and preoccupied with papers spread out before him at a round table underneath an arbor.  Maybe a salesman needing a brief retreat during this noon time, I thought.  "It looks too sunny anyway," I consoled myself as we continued along the path.  The first time we had eaten there, the overgrowth was actually stultifying with its denseness, but in the fall, with the leaves thinning, it had been about right for our take-out lunch.

We veered from the path and took a shortcut across the sparsely greening grass to our destination: a gazebo, new last year, outfitted comfortably with side-by-side gliders, an octagonal picnic table, and benches encircling the walls.  Egg-salad sandwiches with little pickles, iced tea, chips and snack cakes were a feast in this setting.  All too soon, we were ambling our way back to the car.  The arbor, empty by this time, would have been perfect with its dappled sunlight, I noticed as we passed it.  Our gazebo, beautiful to look at, was shaded and a little cool within.  But now soaking up the sun leaning back-to-back was a perfect way to get warm.  Shaking off our sleepiness, we headed home for a nap.  

To Be Forewarned is to be Forearmed

There is a popular television commercial in which a person gets a preview of their day, showing the glitches, disasters and irritation ahead of them.  After being forewarned of everything from daughter rolling her eyes at mom's wardrobe advice, to having a flat tire and the elevator being out, the subject, glass in hand, says calmly, "It's a good thing I had  my orange juice!"

I thought about that as the visiting missionary was speaking at church Sunday evening.  After telling us about his ministry and after his young daughter sang a tender little song followed by a solo from his wife, the speaker said he wanted to give a short lesson on prayer. He started by saying that while there are many different types of prayer, he wanted to focus on three.

There is the prayer of desperation, the kind many of us are used to praying.  When something goes wrong, we quickly call on God to HELP us! David prayed this kind of prayer often.  In Psalm 64:1, he prays, "Hear my voice O God, in my prayer: preserve my life from fear of the enemy."  And in Psalm 61, he beseeches, "Hear my cry, O God, attend unto my prayer."  We have no trouble calling out to God in times of desperation.

Then there is the prayer of perspiration, one of hard work and perseverance.  But we are promised: "He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall, but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint," Isaiah 40:29-31.

Jesus was praying like this when in Luke 22:44, it records, "And being in agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling to the ground."

"Guidelines for the prayer of preparation are given in Ephesians 6:10-18, when we are told to put on the whole armour of God.  This includes the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, shoes of the gospel, the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.

If we pray the   prayer of preparation at the beginning of our day, and are strengthened by prayers of perspiration, we may be less likely to pray in desperation, having been equipped against "the fiery darts of the wicked," or anything else life throws at us.  Kind of like drinking your orange  juice. 

True Value

 One of the most striking examples of devotion in the Bible is found in II Samuel 14:17. David and his men were holed up in a cave at Adullam, virtual prisoners as they had hid from enemy forces that were determined to kill David.  The Bible says in verse 15, "And David longed and said, 'Oh, that one would give me a drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem, which is by the gate." David was homesick.   Saul had been pursuing him relentlessly to kill him.  Even though David had been anointed to be king, that time had not yet come. He was probably thinking out loud and longing for a bit of home, not unlike any soldier on any battlefield today might say.

But his dutiful men heard him.   Their devotion and loyalty to their admired leader kept them alert to his every word or action.  He did not know they would pick up on his sigh of lament and do the unthinkable.  Verse 16 says, "And the three mighty men broke through the host of the Philistines and drew water out of the well of Bethlehem, which is by the gate, and took it and brought it to David."

David, a man of deep devotion to God, was  moved by this unexpected, selfless, heroic gesture.  Knowing the cost of what the water represented, he deemed it too precious, too priceless, to drink.  In an ultimate show of what it meant to him, the verse continues with the words, "nevertheless he would not drink thereof, but poured it out unto the Lord."

What would the men must have thought? They had risked their very lives for this token of devotion to their leader! They could only listen in humble awe as David lifted his voice in prayer as recorded in verse 17, "And he said, 'Be it far from me, O Lord, that I should do this: is not this the blood of the men that went in jeopardy of their lives?' therefore he would not drink it." As part of the ritual of Hebrew sacrifices, they never consumed the blood, but poured it out before God.  David was offering to the Lord this water which represented the lives of his men.

Another time, David wanted to buy a threshing floor to erect an altar to the Lord (II Samuel24:18). The owner, Araunah, offered to give it to David, along with oxen for the sacrifice and wood for the fire. But David insisted on paying for it.  He said, "Neither will I offer burnt offerings unto the Lord my God of that which cost me nothing."

Thoughtful gift givers keep their ears open, attuned to a dropped remark or casual mention of something liked or of interest to a dear one.  "How did you know I wanted that?" the recipient often exclaims in surprise.  Because someone was paying attention.  Can we do any less for the desires of our Lord, no matter the cost?

Hills and Valleys

 "We already have several special things planned to do," Kay, our daughter-in-law announced about the couple of days we were spending together in North Carolina.  The first thing they wanted to do was go to a small hamlet called Valle Crucis, a beautiful place of picturesque valleys, sparkling streams, and steeped in local history.  The area was named by a priest in the 1800's when he noticed two streams that crossed in a valley, forming a cross.

The first place we visited was a historic general store dating from 1883 whose slogan was "Everything for the living, coffins and caskets for the dying." A wall of post office boxes filled one corner; several locals collected their mail while we were there. A mammoth wood stove, adapted from a  pot-bellied one, sat om the center of the room where rockers were pulled up and two senior citizens were engrossed in a game of checkers.  The playing pieces were lids of Pepsi bottles.

After the wonderful store, our venture too us to a setting right out of a storybook--the store owner's birthplace--a rustic, two-story cabin that belied an interior of modern conveniences and decorator styling.  A little path led up to a pond with a deck holding Adirondack chairs.  Other farm outbuildings had been converted to guest houses, with the main building a beautiful inn.  We could have stayed all day in the gorgeous surroundings, but we contented ourselves with getting pictures in the porch rockers and dreaming of days gone by.  Mark plans a trout fishing trip there for the summer.

"We have to eat t this place everyone has told us about," Kay emphasized.  "I can't go back home unless we eat there."  We set out to find the highly-recommended restaurant, and we were not disappointed.  We were seated at a table set with glass goblets, place mats and real china, and a cart was pushed in laden with food.  Bowls of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables, steak, country ham biscuits and coleslaw were put in the center of the table for family-style dining.  The food was luscious, then we had our choice of peach cobbler, strawberry shortcake, or chocolate layer cake.

What a sweet ending to a magical day, and what better place for a respite for us and our minister husbands than a place with a beautiful name like Valle Cruci 

Little is Much

 "You never know the power of these shoeboxes," our guide at the Operation Christmas Child department of Samaritan's Purse said.  We had come to the beautiful campus of Franklin Graham's ministry in Boone, North Carolina, and we had just missed the scheduled tour, but the gracious staff thought something could be arranged.  "I'll take you," the friendly employee said to my husband, our son, his wife and me with a twinkle in her eye.  We had already watched an informative video about the history of the ministry, and now we were excited to see how this part of it worked.

She went through the steps with us of how they opened the boxes, taking out any inappropriate contents (chocolate, liquids, glass, or military dolls), which were later donated to charities.  "I want to tell you a story of one shoebox," she offered.  She told of how a woman had filled a shoebox with small articles and enclosed a note she had written, wishing the recipient a merry Christmas and explaining that she had sent the box to her in Jesus' name.  Then she closed with, "I don't have any children of my own."

It just so happened that the young girl who received the box was in an orphanage, her parents having been killed in a war.  She had already told her caretaker that all she wanted for Christmas was a family.  Together they wrote to the donor of the box, and more correspondence ensued, with the American woman eventually coming to meet the little girl.  She ended up adopting her and taking her to live in America.

"We sent 650,000 shoeboxes from this warehouse," our host said of the huge building.  "I asked one of the personnel what that many shoeboxes looked like.  He said if we stacked the boxes wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling, we would fill  the warehouse twice."  Then she finished, "What are the chances than one box would go to the child who needed a mother from a woman who needed a child?" We agreed it was the providence of God.  She had other stories of miraculous results of the shoeboxes.  "Remember," she stressed, "it's not the contents of the box that matter.  It's the act of love that sends them, and what God can do with them."

We left with new appreciation of the work there and amazed at God's orchestration of events in the ministry of His laborers.  The aura of peace seemed to surround the complex set in the beauties of His creation was almost holy. The verse comes to mind that says, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills. From whence does my help come? My help cometh from the Lord, who made Heaven and Earth." These spectacular hills and mountains certainly bore witness of their Creator. 

Patience

"You are in the middle of a miracle," the evangelist preached at the revival the other night.  He was emphasizing that we are not to give up when we get discouraged.  Quoting the scripture, "All things work together for good to those that love God and are the called according to His purpose," he referenced several illustrations.

Joseph didn't realize he was in the middle of a miracle when he was sold into slavery, falsely accused and thrown into prison, then forgotten about by the man whose dream he had interpreted.  But God worked it out in a way that was not only for his good, but for that of the whole nation.

Daniel didn't realize he was in the middle of miracle when he was taken from his people into Babylon, emasculated and turned into a eunuch, and made to learn the Babylonian ways, but he was faithful to God and was promoted by God.

The minister told of a man who had been diagnosed with cancer, and was so despondent that he committed suicide.  Shortly thereafter, it was revealed that he had received a wrong diagnosis.  He gave up too soon.

Another story was of a well-known person of the time who was a gold miner.  He had had some success and was treated well by merchants and backers.   But things changed for him, and one day he was broke with no credit. The miner felt sure he was on top of a major lode in the California hills, but he became discouraged when, day after day, month after month, his digging yielded nothing.  "This mine has destroyed me," he said in despair one day, and went home and poisoned his family and committed suicide.  The man who took over the mine shortly after hit the mother lode just below where the miner had stopped digging.  He had given up too soon.

The preacher asked if we'd heard of the Hanover Building in Chicago.  He said it was named for a very wealthy man.  Once a hitchhiker was picked up by the man.  The hitchhiker, a young man who did not know who the wealthy man was, felt an urge to witness to him and ask him to become a Christian.  Mr. Hanover stopped the car, put his head on the steering wheel and gave his life to Christ.  He gave the young man his address and told him to look him up if he were ever in Chicago.  Years later, the man did just that.

He was met by Mrs. Hanover and explained that he had met her husband on a certain date and led him into salvation.  His wife began to cry.  "My husband was killed in an auto accident the day after that date," she exclaimed.  "I had tried to persuade him to get saved for years, and I thought he had died without salvation." She went on to say that thinking God had failed her, she had left the church and gave up on her faith.  She repented, for she knew she had given up too soon.

We can all relate, finding ourselves in situations when we wonder when things will change for us or our loved ones.  The Bible tells us to not be weary in well doing, for we will reap in due season if we faint not (become discouraged).  After all, we may be in the middle of a miracle. 

 

Transformation

 "What do you call these flowers?" I asked the landscape gardener at the park where we took a morning walk today. The pretty orange and yellow flowerets on tall stems were covered with Monarch butterflies.

"Butterfly Weed," she explained.  "It's the only thing butterflies will eat."  Hmm. I thought I'd seen butterflies on other bright flowers as well.  She said that they do drink nectar from other flowers, but lay their eggs on these plants.  Then the resulting caterpillar feeds on the milky, poisonous leaves and stem of the plant.

I found out that butterflies are poison, having ingested the poison "milk" from infancy.  It is a natural defense against enemies.  Anything that eats the beautiful creature will get very sick, and will avoid doing it again.  "They're just milkweed," she finished.

I had no idea milkweed was good for anything! I could remember getting the sticky substance on my hands as a child picking flowers that make the world more beautiful.  Their initial diet as larva or caterpillars has protected them for their adult lives.  Sure enough, I looked at a stem and saw a green, yellow and black striped caterpillar, munching away, completely oblivious of a loving Creator who had planned ahead for its safety.

Butterflies present many life lessons.  As baby Christians, we learn to feed on the Word.  Filling our minds and lives with God's truth is a perfect defense against Satan's attacks.  He can't stand the Word of God and will flee from it.

Jesus used the Word of God against him in Matthew 4:4, when Satan tried to get him to turn stone into bread.  Jesus replied, "It is written, "Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God." And when He was tempted by Satan to worship him, Jesus commanded, "Get thee hence, Satan, for it is written "Thou shall worship the Lord The Lord Thy God, and Him only shat thou serve." Satan then left Him alone.  The Word of God is also a deterrent to sin, as referenced in Psalm 119:11, "Thy Word have I hid in my heart, That I might not sin against God."

The life cycle of the butterfly is often compared to death and resurrection: the chrysalis, which for the larva is a time and place of rest in a dark place, representing death and burial, and the emerging of the butterfly as a beautiful, triumphant creature likened to our heavenly bodies in the resurrection. Or it is compared to becoming a new creature at salvation to go on to become something of light and beauty in this world.

Just as a butterfly is attracted to the Aclepi-as ruberosa--the milkweed's botanical name--because of its flowers and abundant nectar, may the world be attracted to Christians by their abundant life and "nectar".  The word the Bible uses for lifestyle is "conversation." Proverbs 16:24 says, "Pleasant are the words as an honeycomb, sweet to the soul and and health to the bones."  Now that's nectar!  

Encore

"Mmm, these pan drippings would make a good gravy to go with that left-over chicken tonight," I thought as I cleaned the kitchen after making a fried chicken picnic that morning. I had some baking mix, so we could have biscuits as well.  I love bonus meals, and that seemed like a good one.  Also, I had bought strawberries that needed to be used, so maybe there would be enough baking mix to make a shortcake, too.

This being April 15, we had plans to go to our son's house that evening so our daughter-in-law could figure our taxes.  I was sure they wouldn't be complicated, but it felt good to know that a CPA would be doing them.  "Maybe I could take strawberry shortcake over there," I pondered, then thought better of it since I couldn't make biscuits and enough shortcake for everyone with the little bit of mix I had left. I had a relaxing afternoon, still resting up from being gone nearly two weeks, and a little later I made six individual shortcakes.

As it drew nearer to supper time, I made a half-dozen biscuits. Just before Howard came in, I made a pan of chicken gravy, and it kept growing as I added milk, getting it too thin, then adding flour to compensate. "What am I going to do with all this gravy" I asked myself. 

"Last night at church, I told Greg that we would take them out to dinner tonight, since Joanna is doing our taxes," to which I answered , "What? Why didn't you  tell me about it?"  He said he'd forgotten, and Greg wasn't sure they could go anyway.  I needed to know, so he tried to call our son, but he wasn't home yet.  He found Joanna out shopping, and she would let us know as soon as she heard from Greg.  Meanwhile, I wondered if I had enough prepared to have them eat with us, Howard was wanting to go ahead with supper and take them out later.

Just then the phone rang that they were on their way over.  Howard and our daughter-in-law sat down immediately and started doing taxes, and I wondered what to do about supper.  "We'll just eat here," I told them.  The taxes wouldn't take long, so I went into the kitchen and made four plates of the biscuits and heated-up gravy, (thankfully I had some good pieces of chicken left for their plates), added some green beans and iced tea, and finished with strawberry shortcake for all.  It turned out surprisingly well.  Howard always says chicken is the the gift that keeps on giving, and tonight was no exception.

The Still Small Voice

We had stopped at a rest area on our trip, and since I was in a hurry, I went on ahead of my husband while he was still getting out of the car.  Coming out of the ladies' room a little later, I didn't see him in the reception area, so I busied myself looking at brochures from the racks showing local points of interest.  I kept glancing toward the men's room door so as to catch his eye when he came out.  Time began to go by, and Howard didn't appear.  I looked out the window and saw that he wasn't in the car, so I went outside to sit on the bench to wait for him.  No Howard.

Getting worried by this time, I considered asking someone to check the rest room, as people were going in and coming out every few minutes.  I thought he might be sick or something.  I looked out once more, and saw him coming up the walk.  "Where have you been?" I exclaimed.  "I've been waiting for you to come out!" It seemed like I'd been waiting for a good 10-15 minutes.

"Oh, I've been up on the hill playing the guitar!" he said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.  Knowing he hadn't brought a guitar, I waited for more of an explanation.  "I saw this guy sitting at a picnic table and playing the guitar, so I went up and talked to him," he said brightly, "and he let me play the guitar, too!"

"You mean you haven't even been to the rest room yet?" I said incredulously.  I grabbed the keys and headed toward the car.  He had no idea what he'd put me through.  Here I was, with mental images of being stranded in the middle of nowhere with an emergency to deal with, and he'd been blissfully unaware of anything but his own joy in the moment!

It wouldn't have been so bad if I weren't already upset from a phone call we'd just received.  The desk clerk from the motel we'd stayed in over a hundred miles back called saying we'd left something of importance in the room--one of Howard's many briefcases with items of importance inside.

I didn't go to the car, but followed the sloping walk up the hill and sat at a picnic table, giving way to tears of frustration, fatigue and disappointment.  I was mad at myself as much as my husband, because I'd had a feeling I should go back and check the room one more time as I got in the car, and I ignored it.

He had carried out our last bag, and I had assembled the last few small items, including computer, phone charger and small book on the dresser.  I told him that was everything .  But I completely forgot about the leather case I'd had on the nightstand, so he missed getting it.  We made arrangements for its safety with the motel, but I couldn't help my feelings.

My mood lightened the nearer we came to our daughter's house, and I didn't think any more about the incident until I heard Howard talking about it to one of our sons on the phone.  He told with delight all about where the guy was from--the Cumberland Plateau--and any number of fascinating trivia.  Well, he was happy and I was happy to see family, especially dear grandchildren, but I think we both had learned a lesson. He, to be more considerate, and me, to listen to the Holy Spirit when He nudges me to double check on details.  

Water Babies

 "Howard, look!" I exclaimed to my husband at the pool this morning.  What looked like folded money was drifting in the water! He grabbed it, and I noticed the pocket to his swimsuit was inside out.  "I thought you left that in your wallet that we locked my purse in the car!" I said unbelievingly.  Apparently, he hadn't, not keeping out a couple of dollars as I had thought.

Thank God we had seen it! When we got back to the other side of the pool, though, there was a $20 bill floating around!  I promptly took the money and put it away for safekeeping. On the way home, we stopped at the bank to make a deposit.  "They won't take wet money!" I speculated.  But they did.  It was only damp by then, like my eyes from laughing at my unpredictable husband.

I didn't want to stay in the water too long today, because I usually felt fatigued if we stay too long.  I had told my husband that it even made me a little queasy.  Today he said his stomach wasn't feeling good and decided it was because we had eaten not long before.  This led to a discussion of the merits of not eating before going swimming.

"My mother always drilled it into us to not go swimming after we had just eaten," Howard said.  "She wouldn't even let us  take a bath after eating!" he went on.  Now I was laughing again.  "No, really, it made my brother sick once when he did that," my husband said seriously.  Maybe he had eaten too much and had a very full bathtub, I thought.

Supposedly the danger of eating before swimming was that it would cause stomach cramps and could possibly cause drowning.  Now that had been mostly dismissed as old wives tales, although it is best to wait an hour before going swimming because the blood and oxygen needed for strength in swimming is being utilized by the digestive process.

Anyway, I will not eat before we go to the pool next time.  Throwing up would be disastrous.  Nor will Howard carry money in his swimsuit.  This is not what the Bible means when it says to cast your bread upon the waters!  

You are the Air I Breathe

 While watching the film, EVEREST, at the IMAX theatre in Ft. Worth recently, I learned something about the body.  As the climbers ascend to heights where the atmosphere has become thinner, they begin to suffer oxygen deprivation unless they make camp, rest, and exert themselves as little as possible for a couple of weeks until their bodies acclimate to the new environment.  Meanwhile, their bodies are producing more red blood cells than usual, enabling them to take in more oxygen and continue their climb.

Reading about this later, I found out that many athletic and Olympic training camps are held at higher altitudes to increase the endurance and stamina of the athletes, since they develop greater lung capacity and increased blood cells at these levels.  This enables them to compete at greater performance levels, at least for a few weeks, when the body returns to its previous state in their normal environment.

There is even evidence that living at  higher altitudes increases longevity, due to the increased red blood cells bringing more oxygen to the heart.  I think I have read of instances of people from Tibet or other mountainous regions who have lived extremely long lives.  Of course, they get a lot of sunshine up there, which may make them healthier.

I wonder if in the same way we can increase our spiritual capacity? I know that once when I went on a three-day fast, I became more spiritually sensitive as I was less concerned about my physical needs.  It was if I had grown new spiritual receptors; the words in the Bible seemed to jump out at me with new clarity and meaning.  People who spend much time in prayer seem able to do just that--spend a lot of time in prayer.  They have grown stronger and increased their prayer stamina.  Their hearts have grown stronger in the rarified atmosphere of prayer.

Colossians 3:1-2 tells us, "If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God.  Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth."  And in Matthew 6:19-21, we are admonished not to lay up treasures on earth, but in Heaven.  Verse 21 says, "For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."  Jesus' blood that He shed has brought eternal life-giving oxygen to my heart, and I think I will live just fine in that ultimate High Altitude!   

True Colors

 I know hanging curtains with a spouse is dangerous to a marriage, but that is nothing compared to hanging a flag!  We had admired the stars and stripes billowing patriotically in the wind on a house across the street, so when I saw a flag set at Lowes yesterday, I suggested we get it.  The red, white, and blue would be pretty against our white, craftsman-style bungalow.

We got up bright and early this morning and filled our planter in front with red and white flowers, anticipating kids visiting later this month.  "Let's put the flag up, too!" I said brightly.  Howard was agreeable, and went to fetch his ladder.  I got out the flag and read the simple instructions to mount it. Howard made the pole sections fit when I couldn't.  I carried the flag out with the eager anticipation of a soldier planting it in victory, but I was told to put it back inside until he was ready.

I might have known how the morning would go when he told me the end of a ladder leg had mysteriously broken off.  I would have to balance and hold it steady.  Then the screws would not penetrate the stubborn board on the house gable, and I was dispatched for thinner screws.  I remembered seeing some lying on the  picnic table and brought them.  Those screws kept flying off, and I kept picking them up out of the flower box and handing them to my spouse.

"Get me the other drill from the garage!" the "drill" sergeant ordered. Not much better, so I was sent for a pack of new magnetic drill tips he had bought yesterday.  Going back onto the porch to fetch something, Howard suddenly yelled in pain as blood shot from his finger!  An invisible sharp nail had appeared from nowhere as he took hold of a wicker chair as he went in.  As the blood stained the white tissue I had in my hand, it dawned on me what the red stripes in the flag were. Yes, courage and valor, which often incurred the shedding of blood.

Finally, my husband said our project was finished.  And it looked great! While he had gone to put something away, though, the flag seemed to be dipping curiously lower and lower, as if bowing to someone of importance.

The cheap bracket had bent.  "Don't worry, I can fix that," my improvising spouse said.  All I got was silence to my question of "how".  In fact, the "why" question had been getting me in hot water all morning, as he seemed to take it as an affront to his competence.  Another trip to the garage and a climb up the ladder, and he had reinforced it. It held this time, and we watched its rewarding billows in appreciation of what it stands for.

The other day at McDonald's, Howard was having trouble getting a light-haired cashier to understand him. He asked for an empty cup for water, and she uncomprehendingly handed him butter.  From my seat I could see him as he pantomimed drinking from a glass, and another employee finally gave him a cup.

The mystery was cleared up last night when the pastor said he was treated with unaccustomed courtesy at McDonald's yesterday from a staff of smiling, blonde young people lined  up behind the counter.  He was so intrigued, he inquired of the manager where he got this work force.  "They're from Russia," she explained, "sent here for training to work at a McDonald's over there."  What better place to learn than in the land of the free and the home of the brave!  And may they see only the good in us while here.  After all, diplomacy begins at home, even when hanging the colors! 

Hail Fellow Well Met

If I ever get bored, all I have to do is trail along with my husband on some errand or another.  Today he was trying to find a place to have his lawn edger repaired, and since we needed to pick up a couple of things, I went along.  A friend had directed him to a repairman, only knowing the general directions to his house, and not knowing the repair man's name.

Howard said the street was four blocks east of 14th street, and the 3rd or 4th house.  Well, after traveling on Lake road for much more than four blocks, my husband decided the street must run off  Hartford.  We were looking for a fix-it sign for small engine repair, and not seeing one, I suggested he ask an old gentleman sitting on the front porch of a house we were coming to.

The man rose from his lawn chair and I saw them shake hands and talk animatedly for a few minutes, while Howard pointed, nodding, then wave each other off like long-lost friends, he got back in the car.  "That man was (Mr. So-and-So!)" he exclaimed.  I recognized the name as a man we'd met doing a nursing home service where his  wife was a resident. (At that time my husband found out he was a brother of someone he had worked with in another lifetime.) "The house is the second one from the corner," he announced as we backed out.

After knocking on the front door of said house, hubby came back, got the edger from the trunk, and headed to the back of the house without explanation to me, but I figured he he'd drop the tool off and be right back. Wrong! I finally decided he must be waiting for the repair, and I was just about to go check on him when he came back empty-handed.

"Are you ready for this?" he exclaimed dramatically.  I thought he was going to give me an exorbitant figure, but he said, "That  man was Bill Jackson (not his real name), the brother of Tom Jackson!" Supposedly someone he used to know? "Tom's son was a coach at (a certain college) and has a building named after him!" There was much more, and I realized why he had been gone so long.

Just as we were getting out of the car to go into a store, on of our son's called.  His dad had to tell him all about meeting this guy, and the fact that the man had told him of a good place to eat in Pawnee.  "He said his motorcycle buddies had been trying to get him to there for years, and when he finally did, he couldn't believe how good it was, Howard told him.

By this time, I was gesturing that we get of the hot car, and he talked into the phone as we went, stopping mid-sentence to say to a man getting into the truck next to us, "Are you from Louisiana?" The man looked at his t-shirt and said he used to live at Lake Charles, prompting Howard to further inquire, 
"You work at Conoco? Our son used to lkive at Lake Charles, and he works there now." The son he had dangling on the phone.

Finally getting into the cool store, Howard looked at  me and said, "What?!!" I just believe in being friendly.  I needed to get home and rest,  

This Old House

 The other day someone put a video on Facebook entitled something like "My Old House".  It was about returning to the house of her childhood and finding it redone and sparkling with freshness, but still the house she remembered.  The video was interspersed with snapshots and old home movies, some with frayed and faded edges, but still giving a glimpse into the living out of lives that had gone on there is bygone years.  Shots of the author growing from a baby to child to teen and adult were set against dated backgrounds reflecting the times and styles.  Special dinners, family meals, or birthday celebrations were evidence of her treasured history.

I commented to the person who shared it that it reminded me of our house where we lived and raised our family for 20 years, then where our married daughter lived for 10 years  after that. It looked nothing like our house, but the photos filled me with a poignancy and longing that brought tears as scenes of my own children's childhood flooded my memory.

Before our daughter and her husband sold the house, it too, had been beautifully redone.  The new owners sent us a picture a few years back of some of the work they had additionally done, accomplishing things I had always wanted but never saw in the tight budget of raising our brood of six.

Then a few days ago a comment was made about my blog where I had referred to that house that made me do a double take!  It was by a Facebook friend I'd accepted, but actually place, but it turns out they are the ones who bought the house and are living there!  Now, by viewing their pictures, I have a virtual tour of the lovely property and all the improvements they have made!

Our time there was blessed, but God must surely have wanted this young family to live there now.  I hardly recognized the grounds, which obviously a lot of talent, love and hard work have turned into a showplace of patios, neat vegetable plots, a garden shed, children's fort and other plantings.  It warmed my heart to see their child swinging from the old rope swing my kids loved so much.  If I remember right, the house sits on beams of cypress, which lasts a long, long time.  I have a feeling the house will, as well. 

"I Can Live on a Good Compliment for Two Months"--Mark Twain

"At your convenience, could I have a warm up of my coffee?" Howard asked the waitress as he left the table and headed toward the desert bar at the buffet where we were having a Sunday lunch.

"Oh yes," I heard her say, then, "You're polite!" Then she turned to fill his coffee cup, and said to me, "Your husband is polite!"  It seemed she didn't run into much in her everyday restaurant service.

"Yes," I agreed.  "He has good  manners." (I think he makes up for me; unfortunately, everything I say seems to come out rather bluntly!)  My husband has always had a pleasing way with people, and it is rewarding to me when they obviously appreciate it. We enjoyed our meal, and the young waitress was kind and solicitous whenever she passed our table.

As we were leaving and I was gathering my coat and gloves, she again remarked to me on Howard's cordiality.  "You are a fortunate wife," she said, her warm brown eyes sparkling.  Just a teenager, maybe she was taking notes on what she might want in a husband someday.

"I know," I said, "'we've been married 53 years."  His thoughtfulness and the way of a true gentleman were part of the reason I was attracted to him in the first place, not to mention his love for the Lord.

"Fifty-three years!" she exclaimed in surprise.  "Why, you look in your early fifties yourself!  I would never have guessed that!"  When I protested, she said, "Well, maybe in your mid-fifties."  This was a girl after my own heart! I enjoyed her reaction when I told her my age, and then I added, "We have 6 children and 18 grandchildren!" forgetting to mention we are great-grandparents now.

"You must have a happy life!" she concluded.  I told her that indeed, I do.  After this many years, the rough spots and difficult times have softened in memory to inconsequential ripples on the (mostly) smooth seas of matrimony.  We are very thankful for the Lord's blessings on our life together and give Him the glory.  I'm still working on patience and my abruptness, but I doubt I'll ever have the charm of my spouse.  After all, if we were just alike, one of us would be unnecessary!  

Guardian Angels

Last night as a sermon illustration on his message, "A Saving Saviour", our pastor recalled and incident that happened to him in his childhood.  He and his two brothers were forbidden to go to a recently dug pond near their home in rural Oklahoma.  Nevertheless, after a big rain which filled the pond to overflowing and in their parents' absence, the boys, all non-swimmers, ventured to the pond.  The youngest jumped in, flailed around and was about to drown.  After a terrified argument about who would rescue him, one boy became the hero and saved his brother's life.

Though it was a serious situation, our pastor's animated story-telling style infused the long-ago scenario with drama and humor, keeping the congregation on the edge of their seats or gasping with laughter. "That was quite a story," I remarked after the service to the lady sitting next to me.

"You know," the 83-year-old said, "something like that happened to me when I was young!"  She went on to tell how she had gotten into a pond with several cousins.  Although she couldn't swim, she rode and hung onto a log as it bobbed around the water.  Suddenly the log sank, taking the little girl down with it.  "I was drowning!" she exclaimed, the memory obviously as fresh in her mind as when it happened more than 70 years before.  "And the strangest thing happened!" she said in amazement, "My life passed before my eyes!"

"Really?" I replied.  I had heard of this phenomenon before, and I was fascinated.  I asked her what it was like, and she said scenes of her childhood flashed in rapid succession through her consciousness!  Thankfully, a cousin who could swim pulled her out in the nick of time.

I'd had a close call myself as a child.  Raised with a houseful of boys, I had trailed off after them to the creek one day and found myself sitting on a log holding on to my eight-year-old brother and floating through flood-swollen waters.  I remember falling from my slippery perch and seeing the yellow water swirling before my eyes.  Then suddenly I was being yanked to safety by my long blonde hair my brother had grabbed!  Maybe the buoyancy of the water helped, but somehow he managed to get me back on the log.  Angels watching over me!  My short life did not flash before my eyes, so I guess he caught me before I reached that point.

Some say this condition is caused by lack of oxygen to the brain, but who really knows? It is amazing to think that our histories are stored like this, with events we might not even remember surfacing in an instant.  Romans 14:10-12 tells us that we shall all stand before the judgment seat of God and that each one of us will give an account of himself to God.  I'm sure God will have a way of replaying our lives for us to see.  How thankful we will be if  our sins have been blotted out and we have trusted in our "Saving Saviour",

  

Reject Rejection in Favor of God's Favor

 The minister yesterday was stressing that the righteous have favor with God.  "You even have favor when you are not feeling particularly blessed," he emphasized.  He cited Joseph's troubles: Joseph was blessed to be his father's favorite, but in his brothers' rejection of him, he was sold into slavery.  Yet Joseph had favor with Potiphar.  Even after he had been falsely accused and cast into prison, he had favor with the keeper of the prison. Then he languished in prison waiting for the butler, whose dream Joseph had rightly interpreted, to remember him to Pharaoh.  Finally that happened, and circumstances led to Joseph being second in command of all of Egypt.

The Bible is full of promises to the righteous.  We may have down days when we don't feel blessed, but truth be told, we still have the favor of God.  Psalms 1:3, speaking of the righteous, says, "He shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth its fruit in its season, whose leaf also shall not wither and whatever he does shall prosper." Have you ever had something turn out right, when you had little hope that it would?  Many times  I have toiled  over a meal, worrying about its outcome, and yet things seemed to right themselves, with everyone enjoying the food and complimenting the cook!  That was God's favor.

When I look back, I know it was God's favor that granted  me my husband, and later my family.  It was his favor that none of the children went astray and are strong Christians today.  When Howard went into the ministry mid-career, we still had three of our six children at home to educate on a  minister's salary,  One by one we watched as God provided for them.

Trevor just happened to walk into his school's financial aid office and noticed they were having trouble with a computer program.  He knew the program, offered help, was hired, eventually becoming Financial Aid Director, which led to his career with the Department of Education.  God's favor.

Our daughter, Amy, was enrolled in a state college, and we were about to incur considerable education costs, when she fell in love that summer, married that winter, and went to nursing school nearby, most of which was covered by her scholarships.  Again, God's favor.

The youngest, Jamie, was awarded the prestigious National Merit Scholarship, paying all costs and even letting him study abroad his junior year.  And it was God's favor that kept him that year in France,  granting him favor with the people (they thought he was French) a part-time teaching job, safety in travel and sustaining him in a serious bout of illness and many bouts of homesickness.

Look for God's favor in your life.  You are sure to see it if you just acknowledge it. 

Gone With the Wind

 A friend on Facebook remarked that she was excited about doing her laundry so she could hang it out the next morning.  A flurry of remarks resulted, split half and half between the pros and cons of line drying clothes.  I was surprised at the zeal of of those who were in favor--if they loved it, the really loved it.  Of course, the others disliked it equally intensely.

I have been having the urge to dry clothes outside myself.  There is nothing like the fragrance of sun-dried sheets and towels.  No dryer softener can match it.  I often hung our laundry when the kids were young, especially when our dryer would go on the blink.  There is something invigorating about getting out into the fresh air and sunshine and going through the homely task of hanging a husband's shirt, a child's pair of jeans, or pajamas out to dry.

One day a few months ago, I checked the clothes in the dryer and they were still wet and cold. The dryer had breathed its last! The warm days of autumn were upon us, and I tried to persuade  my husband to put up a clothesline for me.  I didn't want one strung across the yard, though, but on a single pole with multiple lines forming a square around it.  That way I could discretely hand unmentionables and raggedy items on the inner lines, shielded from view by towels and sheets on the outside.  Then the whole thing would fold up when I took the dry clothes inside.

Alas, he didn't want to dig a hole, set the pole in concrete and put up my new appliance, nor spend the money on it, either.  Instead, my husband replaced the dryer, and a good thing, since winter was coming on.  But warm weather is here again, and I think I will renew my efforts for the clothesline.  Call me old fashioned, but I even wash my dishes by hand. I got tired of streaked glasses from the dishwasher, so now I use its racks to store food containers and miscellaneous dishes.

Like all kids, when I was young I hated washing dishes.  Once in fourth grade our teacher tried to shame us by saying, "You should be glad to wash the dishes for your mother.  When you have good Dreft, and hot water, it's not hard at all." That was in the days before dishwashing liquid, and  it was a choice between milder Dreft or Oxydol or Tide to do the dishes in, if I remember right.

I noted on Facebook I have of a favorite memory I have of my sister's homespun philosophy when she said, "Many a time I've gotten a new lease on life under the clothesline."  I'm sure it was a brief reprieve from other household tasks for the mother of six to be outside surrounded by nature, her perspective renewed and inspiration gained seeing her children's clothes dance gaily on the line.  No doubt her spirit was refreshed by God's creation, the wind billowing the laundry like clouds above, floating her cares away.  She expressed my sentiment exactly.

Labor of Love

My husband loves to be outside  his nice weather working in the back yard.  Every spare moment is spent out there, raking, hammering, sawing or just staring into space dreaming up his next project.  I admit I get a little impatient on his days off when he only comes in for meals, or when he stays out there all morning on work days until it's time for his afternoon job.  But I can't get too upset when I see how happy it makes him, and how well he sleeps at night after such vigorous exercise.

Howard has been dragging home various miscellaneous boards he buys at the Habitat for Humanity surplus store.  (His newly-acquired F-150 truck comes in handy for this.)  He did a great job doing some repair work on the back of the garage, but the back yard never held much appeal for me.  I prefer the view from the swing on our screened front porch.  But today after he went to work as I stood at the kitchen sink doing our lunch dishes, I peered out the window at the yard.  It was charming!

The newly-raked yard was showing green from the overnight moisture, dappled in sun and shadow by the emerging young leaves from the elm branches overhead.  Howard had finished constructing an attractive yard bench and had set it between our little garden statue, Boy with a Jug, (which had reminded me so much of our four-year-old son when we had bought it over 30 years ago) and a large bird bath with a gracefully swirled base and fluted bowl that he bought at a yard sale last week.

He had placed our fifties-style metal yard chairs before the little matching table and positioned a cushioned lawn glider chair and its mate in a cozy conversational grouping around it.  The picnic table, swept clean of leafing residue, was nearby.  Excess lumber had been stacked neatly behind a white picket fence enclosure, built last year in a burst of creativity, in one corner of the yard behind the garage.  I was impressed! It looked positively inviting!

I had to go outside  and sit a few minutes among the singing birds flitting through tree branches, attracted by the bird feeders and dropping down to sip from the birdbath.  I was able to identify a distinctive birdsong as coming from the brilliant red cardinal high overhead, his beak opening and his little body jutting forward with each trill.  I had to hand it to my husband.  He had created a veritable work of art!

Ever since Adam tended his garden, it's been inherent in man to tame his environment and bring order to his little bit of creation.  I  joined my husband in his little Eden after supper, where we shared the binoculars and a new pastime of bird watching.  After all, love isn't just looking at each other, it's looking in the same direction!

With God

"Let me know the funeral details," my son's mother-in-law had written to him on Facebook.  "Delmar was a wonderful man.  He was loved and respected in Waco," she went on. And he was. On our infrequent visits, we could hardly go into a store or walk down the street with Delmar, my husband's brother, for people wanting to stop and talk to him.  A pastor there for nearly 50 years, he was well known by so many.  All three Summers brothers were people persons, loving conversation and with a genuine interest in their fellowman.

We had gotten the call about 2:30 this morning with the news of his passing--unexpected though he had been ill the past few months.  Howard did not go back to bed, although I found him dozing fitfully in a chair when I awoke.  I saw where he had the Bibles and scripture books spread out in front of him, and a notation that he had scribbled marking them as bringing comfort after the sad news.  My eyes fell on one from Isaiah 57:18, "I have seen his ways, and will heal him: I will lead him also, and restore comforts unto him and to his mourners."

It seemed so appropriate, for now my brother-in-law was healed, led into God's presence, never to be troubled by sickness or pain anymore, but comforted.  Just as we on earth had known his ways, his kindnesses and thoughtfulness.  God had also taken note of them.  And he comforts us, his mourners, in our sorrow as well.

The wisdom and forethought of God was brought home to  me again today when I got an e-mail about the Fibonachi numbers, a formula discovered in all of nature that points to a divine creator.  The whorls, or spiral or circular pattern of fingerprints, flowers, nautilus sea shell, pineapples, the human ear and even the spirals of our universe point to Intelligent design and bear the very finger print of God.  How amazing that our brother is now in the brilliance of that Presence, no doubt all questions were answered by the One who loves us and created it all.

Riding the Rails

This is fun! I thought as I began to relax on our train trip.  Surprisingly smooth, the ride wasn't much different from being in an airplane, with the occasional jiggle, of course.  And much more freedom and space to move around.  As soon as the announcement came on that the snack bar was open, we headed there for a biscuit and sausage, supplementing our scanty hotel breakfast we'd had earlier.  A trail of passengers followed us in turn.

It was so cute to observe a family near us.  Doting grandparents were obviously treating young ones to their first train ride. The attentive, youngish grandfather stood over them, monitoring snacks and ushering kids down the narrow stairwell back and forth to the restroom.  A voice referred to as Mimi pointed out trains to a tot on her lap before we left the station.  "He calls them Thomas," she relayed to her husband.  "He said, "Where are their faces?"  A young mother kept a professional-looking camera poised to record every reaction of the children in what would surely be a scrapbook full of memories.  (My husband and I nudged each other when we heard someone coaxingly say to a subject, "Say, 'Hi, Thelma.") Someone had my name!

The wide, panoramic view out the windows of the elevated car was entrancing as winter fields, hills and valleys spread out before us.  Livestock bounded as one across a pasture, calves kicking up their heels, cows frolicking and goats hurrying toward an unseen feeding call.  Once I got a glimpse of animals we had just passed that I could not identify as horses or deer.  They were a vivid brown with black faces, shorter than a horse, and one had a strange flap hanging as if from its mouth.  Later, the conductor asked if we'd seen the elk!  He said one had a rack dangling from its head.  So that was it!

"Look, a coyote!" my husband pointed out as I caught sight of a rangy creature darting in and out to scant pasture cover.  But the most glorious sight emerged when the intercom announced we were passing through "The Canyon," the walls of the mountain on one side and the beautiful Washita river on the other.  We could imagine a float trip as the wide, shallow river meandered over shoals and frothy rapids for miles outside our window.  I could almost hear the clop-clop rhythm of horse's hooves as an Oklahoma cowboy sang a ballad of "riding down the canyon to see the sun go down."

As we neared our destination, we wondered aloud what a large, stadium-like construction was, finally deciding it might be where the Texas Rangers  played.  A man from a seat across the aisle and a few seats ahead of us turned and told us it was the Texas Speedway.  Another architecturally interesting structure turned out to be American Airlines hangars.  Our trip was ending, but our memories were just beginning. 

Medium of Exchange

"The Buck Starts Here", was the name of the introductory movie we were to view Saturday before starting our tour of the US Bureau of Engraving and Printing, Western Facility, in Fort Worth, Texas.  Our son joked that they had already taken us to everything in Houston, where they live, and now they were starting on Ft. Worth, where they met us for this brief vacation.

By the time we viewed  the film, looked at the displays and went on the guided tour, we had a pretty good idea of how they make our paper money.  Some of the things that stand out in my memory was a little bit on the history of money.  The instructive display outlined several criteria for money: 1) Easily carried, or portable. 2) Durable. 3)Attractive or desirable. 4) Backed by a government or authority that is "legal tender".

Throughout the tour, which was conducted through a long hall way with display windows on each side, we viewed various stages of making our currency. First, the paper made of cotton and linen is cut into sheets that will eventually become 36 "notes" of various denominations.  The sheet goes through a three-step coloring process, imbedding the dyes that will deter efforts at counterfeiting.  The engraving process is carried out by the use of enormous pressure on metal plates that stamp the artwork and numbers on the bills.

Finally, the notes of Ones, Fives, Tens, Twenties, Fifties and Hundreds are bundled into "Cash stacks", shrink wrapped in plastic, loaded on pallets and put through the final step that turns them into real money.  They are put through a machine that records their serial numbers.  Only then are they loaded into secure vehicles for transport to banks and government destinations.

Several parallels between money, or medium of exchange, and our salvation occurred to me.  First, our testimony is easily carried; it is with us wherever we go.  Then, it is durable; it will last a lifetime.  Thirdly, ideally, it is attractive.  Our lives are to give off a sweet-smelling savor, or the fragrance of Christ, making salvation attractive.  (II Corinthians 2:15, Ephesians 5:2.) Fourthly, God has accepted the blood of Jesus as "Legal Tender", or payment for our salvation.  Paper money, such as we use, has no intrinsic value of and in itself.  It is known as "fiat" currency.  Fiat is a Latin word meaning "Let it be done."  Jesus said, "It is finished."

I forgot to mention the ultimate proof of a notes reliability.  It has threads woven through it that show up under a special light that prove it is not counterfeit.  The scarlet cord that runs from Genesis to Revelation is Jesus' blood, one that cannot be counterfeited.  Also, there are watermarks on our paper currency that show up if held to the light--often a picture of a president or other symbol.  A true salvation testimony, when held up to the light of scrutiny or criticism, will reveal the image of Jesus.

Just as the engraving process is carried out under tremendous pressure, Jesus suffered such enormous pressure of the weight of bearing the sins of the world that his sweat became as drops of blood during His  Passion in the Garden of Gethsemane.  The very word, "Gethsemane", means "oil press", indicating that that was the place where he olives were squeezed in an ancient press.  All this that we may have His Name engraved on our hearts for all eternity.

Where Will You Spend Eternity? Smoking or Nonsmoking?

"Aa-choo! I sneezed as my husband and I were sitting at the table reading our Bibles after breakfast.  I must be allergic to something, I thought.  I'd been sneezing and grabbing tissues all  morning.  But to what? I'm pretty consistent about keeping up with my allergy meds, and the pollen that was so bad had pretty much disappeared with the week-end rains.  Of course, there was that strange fluttering and bumping in the chimney yesterday, as if some birds had gotten in there to make a nest (Heaven forbid!) maybe I'm allergic to birds.

About that time, Howard said, "This Bible sure smells like cigarettes1"  What? Which Bible was he reading, I wondered.  He said he got it at a garage sale. No matter how many Bibles he has, he can't pass one up at estate or garage sales. When I lose track of him in a house that's hosting a sale, I can always find him poring over books shelved in the den or living room of the home. And he usually finds one that he just has to have.

"How long has it smelled like that?" I asked, noticing the yellowed pages.  "Ever since I  bought it," was his nonchalant reply.  Since I don't have much of a sense of smell, a lot gets past  me. No wonder I was sneezing.  Probably allergic to cigarette smoke and smells.  Allergic to the Bible! Wouldn't that be something!

Yet, when you think about it, that's the way a lot of folks react toward Bibles today.  They lie ignored and unopened until they have to be picked up on Sunday, if then.  Of course the Bible can make one uncomfortable and even irritated with the unvarnished truth it presents as it convicts of sin.  Like an allergy, cough, or a bad dream, it can keep you lying awake nights if things are not right between you and the Lord.

In Daniel, chapter 2, the Bible tells of King Nebuchadnezzar's troubling dream that kept him awake at night.  He demanded that his soothsayers tell him the meaning of the dream, even though he didn't remember what the dream was.  Only Daniel could reveal and interpret the dream, thus saving the king's wise men from death.  The dream contained some dire news for Nebuchadnezzar, which came to pass, but in the end the king acknowledged God.

Later, when a descendant of Nebuchadnezzar inherited the throne, he displeased God so that, at a banquet he had thrown for thousands, while they worshipped false gods and drank wine from stolen sacred vessels, the fingers if a man's hand appeared on the wall with strange words that only Daniel could interpret.  The king's knees knocked at the sight, and Daniel's words from God came true.  The king was killed that very night.  It doesn't pay to be unrepentant toward God, his warnings of punishment in the Bible are so real you can almost smell the smoke.

Daisies are for Love

 "Would you like some daisies?" my neighbor was asking. "I am thinning out my flower bed and I have all these extra plants I'm getting rid of."  Daisies! My favorite flowers! Of course, I took them.  Come Spring, I had thick, lovely stands of them bordering my front entry.

We were just getting settled after a transitional period between churches.  We had recently assumed the pastorate of a small church and had moved into a modest rental home in the country.  The location was idyllic, and I was able to overlook the shortcomings of the small house, which did have its own particular charms.  It was light and airy with many windows overlooking a side yard where we had hung two porch swings right-angled from each other on the branches of two oak trees.  It was a perfect conversation spot for us and visitors alike.

A tiny patio, an eight foot square, was outside the front door.  We bought a swing with a green and white awning that just fit on one side, and an umbrella table with chairs for the other side, the adjustable umbrella tilting to provide privacy and/or sun protection.  A large shrub shielded one end of the swing. And then there were the daisies.  Cheerful, thick and swaying  gently on their slender stems in the hilltop winds, they brightened every morning for the entire season.  When we moved from there a few years later, our landlady protested, "But you had made this such a home!"

Maybe that's my knack, for as I was posting back and forth with a friend from Mississippi the other day who said she had lived in her home for 20 years, I mentioned that we had lived in our house there for that long.  She said she remembered our "lovely house" and how homey it was.  I knew I loved it, but it was nice to hear from someone else.

Then a few nights ago I had a gathering at our house for a church women's group.  One guest, especially, paid me lovely compliments on the de'cor (which is kind of Cracker Barrel-Inspired/Early Garage Sale). "You could have a bed and breakfast! she exclaimed.  (Well, I do have a Mom's Bed & Breakfast" sign in the kitchen I'd bought many years ago.)

The Bible says in Titus 2 that the older women are to "teach the young women to be sober, to love their husbands. to love their children, to be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed." A keeper at home.  I guess that's me.  We have many more freedoms than did the women of that culture, but the Bible is timeless.  My children have gown up, but I still keep house for their father.  Women will always keep the home, whether or not they have an outside job.  That too, is timeless.

Priorities

 This is a historic day!  I found my husband with the iron actually poised over the ironing board! I don't remember his ironing in the 52 (now 62) years of marriage!  I think it must have been due to the little table-top ironing board I bought.  He didn't have to set up the big one.  Yesterday I found one of his knit shirts had been misplaced in the closet and it had some folds on it. I guess he decided to wear it today and attempted to to iron while I was getting ready.

"This looks terrible!" he said of the result.  It really didn't, but I could see some streaks because he had ironed it flat and the ridges from underneath showed through. He was surprised when I told him he should have slipped the shirt over the ironing board.  "I didn't know that!" he exclaimed and did it over.

I don't know why Howard considers ironing solely "women's work."  All of our sons iron, and at least one of our four sons-in-law. (The other may be old school like my husband.) Once when I visited my future husband's house as a teenager, his mother showed me his closet filled with 21 crisply ironed shirts she had done.  (Was she trying to tell me something?)  However, he is perfectly happy to take our ironing to "The Iron Man," a he-man type who obviously enjoys ironing (and is strong enough to do lots of it).

For all the years of our marriage, our tasks have been pretty much defined.  Howard went to work, and I handled household chores, except for yard work.  Now that he is (at least semi-) retired, we do a lot of things together that used to be my responsibility, such as shopping--grocery and other wise.

Cooking is still my domain, but my husband has found he likes washing dishes, if there aren't too many; however, he draws the line at loading the dishwasher.  He does the vacuuming, but I'm in charge of the laundry.  And he has Never ironed.  I've tried to show him how, saying its like sawing or sweeping, just back and forth movements, but he insists on making little tapping-like jabs or setting the iron down in a stamping motion and twisting it.

Well, I guess you can't teach an old dog new tricks, or at least that's what I thought until this morning.  One area in which we seem to have more in common now and more time for us is reading and discussing scripture.  Proverbs 27:17 says, "Iron sharpens iron; so a man sharpens the countenance of his friend." A lively discussion with my oldest, dearest friend is sure to keep us both sharp, and we'll leave the ironing to the Iron Man!

Refreshings

I  thought I heard the pitter-patter of rain in the night, and when I looked out the window this morning the streets were wet and glistening in the semi-darkness.  Sure enough, a slight cool front had moved in with welcoming mountain resort-like air.  Such a blessed relief from yesterday's 100 degree temps!  We ate breakfast on the front screened porch, reveling in the refreshing cool breezes and restful view of grey skies and greening grass.

No wonder so many spiritual applications and analogies have been made about water, rain, or springs.  No doubt partly because most settings of scripture are in arid, stony, wilderness or even desert climes.  Psalms 104:10-13 says, "He sendeth the springs into the valleys, which run among the hills.  They give drink to every beast of the field:  The wild asses quench their thirst. By them shall the fowls of the heaven have their habitation, Which sing among the branches.  He watereth the hjlls from His chambers: The earth is satisfied with the fruit of Thy works."

Isaiah 35 is full of similes and other figures of  speech describing streams in the desert, parched ground becoming a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water, speaking of the beauty of the Messianic reign. Hebrews 4:9 says, "There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God."  This is the rest that is found in Christ, not found by the unbelievers of Jesus time nor our time.

Stories of Jesus are filled with examples of water representing cleansing, restoration and compassion: washing the disciple's feet, turning water into wine, his own feet washed with tears, and the waters of baptism, to name a few.  He allowed Peter to walk on water and stilled the storm at sea. "Peace, Be still," He commanded, calming both the storm and His friends' fears.

Jesus had been sleeping just fine in the rain, and the sound of rain soothes sleepers still.  In God's promise to  Noah, He allowed the moisture in the air from the Flood to break up light and become the first rainbow, a biblical symbol of hope and God's faithfulness to this day. Let it rain!

  

Let's Be Clear

 On the birthday of our youngest son, Jamie, he said he got what he wanted: a Japanese Bible from his wife. (Isn't the King James Version hard enough?)  But he's always been interested in languages, majoring in French in college.  Who would have thought, when he was such a non-verbal toddler?  Of course, he had his own language, even then.  Sign language, that is.  He would point and say "Um," and we'd better understand what he meant.  If we didn't, "Um" was repeated plaintively, then a satisfactory "Um" again when his request was granted. (If a sibling dare use "his" word, they risked a slap from a two-year-old palm or his flying left.)

Later, Jamie couldn't (wouldn't) make the sound "k," using a "t" sound instead.  "Say 'cat,'" I told him, and he would say, "tat."  He could, however, say, "black."  "Say 'black cat," I implored him, but it came out, "black tat."  My granddaughter, as a 5-year-old, couldn't say "hair," pronouncing it "har" or "her."  She would say, "Brush my "her," or "She pulled my 'har."  Since she was about to start kindergarten, I worked with her on her pronunciation.  "The man cuts hay.  He is a 'hay-er."  After a few tries she got a triumphant look on her face and said, "hay-er...hair!"

Children do eventually learn to speak clearly, even speaking in foreign languages.  Jamie directs a youth band in a Houston Chinese church where he volunteers weekly.  He also ministers there occasionally from the pulpit, with the help of an interpreter.  He must have everything written down verbatim in English to present to the interpreter a week in advance to review and familiarize himself with the sermon.  Although it's hard to pause after every thought to wait for the translation, our son says you get into the rhythm of it.  When I asked how he knew his words were effective, he said he could tell by the expressions on their faces, the occasional laugh at the appropriate place, and of course, by the moving of the Spirit.  They have wonderful altar services there with great response from the congregation.  It must be like being a missionary to China without ever leaving home.

The youth pastor at the church, a friend of Jamie, is a former missionary to China.  He married a lovely Chinese girl there; they had to leave the country when they were expecting their second child, due to the "one child" rule in China.  Now they have three children, so they don't have much hope of going back, even though China is now modifying its laws to include permission of two children in some places due to population depletion.

Jamie said he feels like a first-grader in trying to read and sound out the words in his Japanese Bible.  Demonstrating for me, he sounded like the adults on the "Charlie Brown" programs.  (I've heard that to know how a beginning reader feels, by reading a book upside down.  I've tried it, and it's true.)  The Bible says in James 3:5-8, that the tongue is an unruly member that no one man can tame.  And in Proverbs 16:32, that he who rules his spirit is better than he who takes a city. The Holy Spirit transcends languages and moves above our limitations, even in cities of China or in a place like Houston, Texas. 

When the Wind Blows

     The blowing of a train whistle while I was trying to go to sleep last night kept me awake.  Train whistles usually have a lonely and mournful sound to me, especially from a distance.  And during the day I find the sound oddly reassuring, a comfortable background affirmation that life and commerce are plodding along predictably.  But last night it was just plain irritating.

Howard, my husband, told me a lady was in the store where he works part-time the other day transacting some business, when she stopped mid-sentence and said, "Oh, I miss that sound."  A train was passing by a few blocks away and she heard the whistle blowing.  She was from Blackwell, and trains do not go through there anymore.

I was surprised one day when we passed by the building that formerly housed my father-in-law's grocery store in Blackwell.  "I thought there were some railroad tracks here," I puzzled, looking around.  They had been pulled up!  The street sign, "Frisco" stood there in mute testimony of former days. The trains had disappeared sometime during the many years we lived in the South.

After the 9/ll attacks when we were living in the country in Mississippi, I remember how we missed  the planes flying overhead for several weeks in the immediate aftermath when they had been grounded for security reasons.  We had both a military and a commercial airport a few  miles away in Gulfport, and there was normally a lot of activity.  We used to sit in a yard swing Howard had hung from the friendly branch of a tree and watch the planes in our hilltop sky on "Windy Acres."  It seemed strange for the night sky to be empty, the lights twinkling above only from the stars.

"The wind bloweth where it listeth (wishes)," Jesus said, "and thou hearest the sound thereof, but can't not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is everyone that is born of the Spirit."  He was explaining being born again to Nicodemus, who had come to Him by night with his questions.  Perhaps He was saying that we hear the wind with our natural ears, but we hear God with our spirit.  The words of a poem by Christina Rosetti that I read in school comes to mind:

Who hath seen the wind?

Neither I nor you; 

But when the leaves hang trembling

The wind is passing through

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I:

But when the leaves bow down their heads

The wind is passing by.

We can say the same thing of the Holy Spirit: We can be left trembling, and we will certainly bow down our heads.

 

rth If It Be in Tune..."'

 What a wonderful day!  Howard's birthday and the weather was perfect...what is so rare as a day in June?...  We rode with with the windows down in his truck as we struck out to enjoy "his" day.  His latest obsession is fixing up the back yard, so the first stop was to a farm store to buy fescue seed. (It's supposed to grow in shade.)  Then a swooping drive through Walmart's outdoor displays of garden soil, decorative rock, and mulch.  (We would return later for a steel rake to prep the soil for the grass seed.)

After fining flowering plants on sale and considering cushions for lawn furniture, we decided to check on the lawn swing we'd seen the other day.  It was on sale for only a little more than half it's original price!  "You'll have to pay extra to buy the one on the floor, since it's already assembled," the clerk said.  My husband's male ego made him say he would do it himself.

Well, it would have been well worth the $15, since it took us nearly three hours of "easy assembly" to put it together.  We're both wiped out, now, but it is beautiful, in a rustically-elegant sort of way.  We've been resting before going to our kids' for a birthday supper.  Then we're all going to church together, a perfect ending to his special day.

It may be Howard's birthday, but I am so excited I feel like it's mine!  I learned today that a proof copy of my second book, "Seasons of the Heart," is on the way and should be here in a few days!  It looked so good  when I looked up  the status on the internet.  I plan to speed read it and make any corrections, and hopefully have published copies by the end of the month!

Sometimes God answers prayers in multiples.  Howard had a prayer answered Monday, I had prayed that the book would be ready this month; and my laryngitis is gone!  Like I said, it was a beautiful day, and June is only half over...the best is yet to be: my birthday, our anniversary, and Father's Day.  Maybe a day in June isn't such a rare thing, after all!

The Road Not Taken

 We went backward on our walk at the park today.  No, I don't mean we walked backward, we just took the path from beginning to end and went to the beginning,  instead of the other way around.  It was an eye opener!  We saw things from an entirely different view and it was refreshing.  We had often met people on the path coming from that direction, but it was novel to come that way ourselves.

Actually, it is good for you to do something a different way.  I've read that it wards off Alzheimer's to do something like trying to read a book upside down.  Change awakens the mind and, I guess, creates new pathways in the brain (or at least helps neurons connect better.)

We hear a lot about thinking outside the box.  In other words, not the normal way of thinking about something.  I got the chance to do that quite by accident last weekend when the power was off. When we moved here a few years ago, it was quite a challenge to curtain and drape the rooms, adapting what I had and keeping new purchases to a minimum.  The bathroom window didn't have a shade, so I had "temporarily" propped a painting in the window.  It fit perfectly, and it was a translucent, hand-painted scene of clothes flapping on a clothesline.  It had been in my laundry room at our former house.

Well, the house was too dark with no electricity that day, so I moved the painting to let more light in, setting it on an antique wash stand below the window.  Hey, it looked good there!  The white-washed, weathered frame fit just right between the supporting posts of the wash stand's towel rack.  But now I would have to put something in the window.  I spotted a couple of nice towels, never used, folded on top of the wash stand.

Hmm.  I could fold the ends over, do a running stitch to make a pocket, slide a spring rod through them, and they would be perfectly appropriate for a window covering!  I was dreading to look for bathroom curtains, anyway.  I stitched them up this afternoon and was pleased with how they came out, even though they had to be folded almost double.  Oh well, the backs would have excess fabric, but it wouldn't show.  I accidentally hung them backwards, but the excess made a charming tiered appearance, so I left them.  The bathroom looks much better!

Paul tells us in Romans 12:2, "And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God."  I know this is talking about spiritual things, but I believe God helps us, as Christians, to also think creatively with our renewed mind --to think outside the box.

Of course, one thing led to another, as I had to move the slate "Powder Room: sign from the top of the window to a new location on a towel hook where its blue, hand-painted motif picked up the color of a blue bird on an adjacent hand towel.  And I found a home for a nautical rope-trimmed sign declaring "To Life Boats," with an arrow pointing toward the bathtub.  My creative mood extended to our supper meal, when I added homemade glazed carrots to our menu of Sour Cream Chicken and baked a Hoosier cake for dessert.  Thank you, God, for creativity and a renewed mind.      

Believe Me!"

 "Why didn't you tell me it was like this?" I asked my husband as we went into the restaurant behind the motel we stayed in the night before.  As soon as we drove into the parking area, I couldn't believe that Howard knew about this place all along and hadn't conveyed it effectively to me.  We were  on a trip to our daughter's in Georgia and had stayed at the "Casey Jones Motel" in Jackson, Tennessee, a quaint-looking modest-but-clean lodging on Highway I-40 between Memphis and Nashville.

In fact, Howard had checked it out on an earlier trip, coming back to the car and telling me the room wasn't very nice, then checking us in at a chain motel across the highway.  By the time we stop on these trips, I'm always so exhausted I don't want to leave the room to get something to eat, but just collapse on the bed and persuade him to bring me a burger.

That long ago night he kept saying that the desk clerk said there was a good place to eat at a nearby buffet.  The way he explained it, I thought it was part of a franchise chain that we'd frequented when we lived in Mississippi, and I declined, despite his urging.

I'd done the same thing last night, when he'd gone out and got me a hamburger at a "store."  This morning I was hoping to shop for breakfast at a Cracker Barrel I'd seen advertised on a billboard the night before.  But this was 'way better than Cracker Barrel!  It was called "The Old Country Store," and in fact, it was the prototype for the large chain.  "They tried to get us to franchise with them," the clerk behind the counter told me.  "But we are a family.  We wanted to keep the personal touch."

Their bountiful breakfast buffet was impressive.  Not only were there mounds of scrambled eggs, several kinds of breakfast meats, grits, gravy, and biscuits, but also a large, freestanding griddle in the center of the room where the cook turned the griddle cakes right on to your plate.  Then there was the long fruit bar constantly being replenished with prettily arranged melon, peaches, strawberries, and almost any fruit you could imagine.

Then the store!  All kinds of antique signs and decor, like Cracker Barrel, only more authentic-looking and more plentiful.  They even had Davy Crockett's jacket displayed in a glass case.  There were several departments in the store, including a fast food counter, a deli-type counter, a soda fountain, and even a genuine country store of long ago that had been hauled to the property and attached and preserved exactly as it had been when the father of the owner had had his first job there.

In fact, there was a whole village of stores--Casey Jones Village--old trains, and many other attractions I can't wait to see when we go back through there.  This time I know what I'd be missing!  God showed me a parallel here.  Do we fail to convey the goodness of God to people?  Or the hope of Heaven? Or worse yet, the terrors of Hell?  Too often, I'm sure, we shrug as if to say oh, well, I tried, and they're not not interested. But they just don't know what they're missing! (Or not!")  

Seedtime and Harvest

 My husband closed his sermon with a story I'd heard many times before, but I was just as moved as the rest of the congregation by his fervent, gripping manner of speaking.  He was determined to give every dramatic detail of the true experience of two young missionaries many years ago.

They had gone as naive Christian workers from Stockholm, Sweden, to a remote area in the wilds of Africa.  Another couple went with them, but when they had hacked their way through the undergrowth to arrive at a settlement, they were rebuffed by the natives. Again they hacked through the treacherous terrain, erected flimsy shelters, and attempted to reach the people with the gospel.  After six months of exhausting and seemingly futile efforts, the second couple despaired and went back to the mission station to return home.  The first couple would have gone with them, but by this time the wife was six months pregnant and couldn't travel.

Day after day, they struggled.  They had learned Swahili and tried to win people over, but their efforts were met with disinterest and hostility.  All except for one young boy who came to their hut every week to sell them fresh fruit or an occasional live chicken.  The young missionary wife befriended him and told him stories from the Bible.  Though somewhat interested, he did not accept the Lord.

Before long, a baby girl was born in these discouraging circumstances, joining a two-year-old brother.  A few weeks later, the mother became seriously ill.  A searing infection reached its peak and left the husband a  widower with a crying newborn in his arms and a toddler hanging on to his trouser legs.

Standing over the grave of his beloved wife and destroyed by grief, the missionary declared he was through.  He gave the little girl to the missionaries at the mission station, took the small child, and returned to Sweden.

Years passed, and the baby, who was adopted by another missionary couple, grew up and was sent to the U.S. for college.  She married a man who would become prominent in the national leadership of their denomination. Many years later, the opportunity arose for the couple to go to a church conference overseas.  The keynote speaker and organizer of the event attended by thousands was a striking black man with a commanding presence, the president of his denomination.  As he spoke, he mentioned being in the area where the baby girl was born.

The American lady talked to him and asked if he remembered the young missionaries she described, giving their names.  "Why yes," he said, "I used to sell them chickens and fruit.  The missionary's wife told  me Bible stories.  I heard her husband left when she died after their baby girl was  born."

"I am that little girl," she replied.  She subsequently located her father and convinced him that their labor had not been in vain.  One small boy reached with the gospel had resulted in uncounted thousands for the Lord.  The father, who had lived a life of bitterness and rebellion, found a place of repentance and forgiveness and was able to return once again to see his beloved Africa, this time seen through tears, not of defiance, but of gratefulness to God.  

"If You Can't Stand the Heat..."

 It seemed like such a good idea to use up some bananas that were getting too ripe. Howard heard  me say I was going to make banana pudding, and he suggested I make banana-nut bread while I was at it. Well, okay, I finally got the pudding finished after picking up pudding mix at the store. My recipe called for whipped topping, but I hadn't gotten any of that, so I made meringue, separating the whites and beating them.  I guess the egg yolks would be good for the banana bread, I thought.  I had plenty of vanilla wafers on hand for the pudding, so the dessert came out to our satisfaction.  (I can't be sure, but I noticed my husband had been sampling it eagerly.

By this time, I was a little tired to make banana bread from scratch, and it occurred to me I could use some of my baking mix. I seemed to remember doing that once before, but there was a recipe on he back of that particular box, and there wasn't one on this one.  Oh well, how hard could it be?  I wanted it to turn out like my favorite recipe, "Banana Bread with Oatmeal," from a 30-year-old church cookbook that was now held together by rubber bands. I sorted through the out-of-order loose pages for the contribution of our then-60-year-old youth leader, a successful business woman who loved kids.

I'd already started mixing things together, but something seemed amiss, so I thought I'd better check her recipe.  Hm-m. It called for two 1/2 cups of flour, and I only had two cups of baking mix.  I wondered if that would matter.  I was reminded to soak the oatmeal in buttermilk, (made by adding vinegar to milk) and to use soda.  The batter seemed a little thin, but I put it in the oven.  Checking the loaf awhile later, I reached in and touched the surface to feel it kind of deflate. When it was done, it had an ominous hollow down the middle.  Flipped out of the pan and turned upside down, though, it wasn't even noticeable.  I wonder what Howard will say when he sees the loaf is hollow?

Next he asked me to make soup for supper out of remains of a baked chicken from a few days ago.  It had made a nice meal then, and we'd already had sandwiches from it, plus I had served slices of it in the gravy over rice for another meal. (Around here, we say chicken is the gift that keeps on giving.)  I had seen him nibbling on the foil-wrapped carcass several times, so I didn't think there was anything left on it.  But now it is boiling away with carrots, peas, and miniature bow-tie pasta from 1/2 a box left from an earlier soup.  

I'm beginning to think frugality is not all it's cracked up to be, and that restaurant meals are worth every penny.  I'm exhausted from cleaning up messes, washing utensils and having iffy outcomes. I know how Martha must have felt when she asked Jesus to make her sister help.  If he told Martha to get out of the kitchen, that's good enough for me!

The Good Earth

 "Mom! Dad! Do you want to help us plant a garden this year?" our son Greg asked with his typical enthusiasm. He explained that one of the churches was designating a large expanse of their sunny back lawn as a community garden project. For a nominal fee, city dwellers like us who had the gardening bug but no space for one could enjoy a great summer activity.

My husband heartily agreed while I warmed up to the idea. I remembered gardens being a lot of work as a kid, but I also remembered gathering bushels of tomatoes and that sunshiny, vine-ripe taste of eating one fresh off the vine while the juice ran down my arm as I picked. So Greg signed us up for a 12x40 foot space for us to share with his family.

It was a win/win situation. The church prepared the soil, gave out seeds, provided the water and even encompassed the whole 1600' plot with a border of marigolds (a natural bug repellant--chemicals were not allowed.) Our kids eagerly set out to plan our garden. Being very analytical, they plotted it on graph paper with appealing-looking little sections, some on the diagonal, illustrated with neatly sketched rows of onions, peas, watermelons, etc. This looked like fun.

It was a little labor intensive, especially the watering part (plastic 50 gallon drums were mounted on stands enclosed in the middle of the garden to drain into buckets or watering cans), but later a hose was run from the church. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant diversion to go there in the late afternoon and attend to our project.

Scattering mulch, weeding, putting up tomato cages and other chores left us with dirt on our hands and tired bodies, but it was a pleasant tiredness. Almost before we knew it, we were enjoying leaf lettuce, radishes, and green onions, followed by green peppers, a smattering of peas and even a few green beans (we needed to perfect our skills in this area). Soon we were chatting with fellow gardeners, commiserating over the lack or abundance of rain, comparing notes and casting smug or envious glances over the crop. Several area feeding programs were the benefits of our excess. 

Now we were getting tomatoes, cantaloupe and watermelons, and the pumpkins that were green earlier are dotting the landscape with great orange orbs. Not only are we reaping the benefits of our garden, we were blessed with the visual treat of everyone's efforts.  The garden shimmers Eden-like on the landscape, a heavy planting of giant zinnias bobbing their Mexican colors down the length of the garden, purple blooms from the vines dripping from the trellis surrounding the water barrels, rows of cornstalks that formerly waved tassels in the wind have produced tempting ears of corn (never mind that they were stolen--our Eden isn't perfect, either).

So with the exception of a few snitched watermelons and other kinks that need to be worked out, the project was a success. They're talking of expanding it next year, and we'll probably be first in line. The wonder of pulling food from the good earth is too magical to resist!