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.