Internet Ingenue

“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” No where is that more true than in using a computer on the internet! I had needed to place an order for a shipment of books, so I sat down last night to go through the process. Since they already had all of my information, I just had to fill in the order, check the shipment and billing address, review the order and wait for “Order Complete” to pop up. Just as it did and I was exiting the site, I caught a glimpse of something unsettling disappearing from the screen. I quickly reviewed my order, and saw that somehow I had clicked on the wrong shipment address! There were a couple of other addresses listed, since in the past when friends or family wanted several copies of my book, I just had it shipped directly to them. Their addresses were still on file!

I frantically called my son, Jamie, the internet guru, and he guided me through the process to contact the company. We stated the problem in the appropriate box and asked for a correction. The automated message said we would hear from them sometime during the next business day. Well, getting nervous that they might not stop the shipment in time, I have been checking my e-mail messages all morning, but no new notification. I did notice on the “Contact Support” site we had used that there was a telephone icon, with the friendly promise that they would immediately return a phone call. Just as I started to do this and a box popped up, I saw the next place to click, entitled “How does this work?” I found out how it worked, but the box would not pop up again! Jamie was driving and unable to help me at the moment.

Giving up and deciding to get off the internet and turn off my computer, I noticed a box at the bottom of the screen that said “Call Us.” I clicked on it and it re-established my lost site. After filling out the information, I immediately got the return phone call! A very friendly representative said the order had not been shipped, he had seen our correspondence, but normally we would not get a response for 24-48 hours! I knew in that time, the order could be sent! He assured me he would contact production and hopefully change the shipment address in time. He is to let me know as soon as he finds out.

I talked with my son again, and, in an effort to reassure me, he said that the worst case scenario was that it would just go to my friend’s house in Mississippi where I had inadvertently sent it. “No!” I exclaimed, “She is going on a cruise and will be gone all week!” I could just imagine my precious books sitting on her porch, possibly getting wet or stolen. Besides, which, it would be expensive and inconvenient for her to send them to me!

I was just about to conclude my blog on a note of uncertainty, when I checked the e-mail once more. Praise God! The message read, “We have updated your order to the correct address.” And I did it (almost) by myself!

Life, Interrupted

“What is this brown water?!” I said aloud when I opened the washing machine and saw suds floating on chocolate-y looking water. I had just placed a load of whites in there and was checking to see if the new detergent seemed sufficient. Then I remembered that there were some dish towels in the bottom of the washer that Howard had tossed in there earlier. What was on them? Had he spilled coffee and mopped it up with the towels? No doubt, that was it, I fumed.

“What was on the dish towels you put in the washer?” I demanded, calling him at work. “Something has turned the water brown!” I didn’t get an answer, as he had a customer and would call me back. I spun out the offending water and went to wash the sink full of dishes. I had put off these chores until now, because this morning we had been dismantling the kitchen and out buying paint in preparation for having it painted tomorrow. I turned on the tap, squirting in dishwashing liquid and turned to retrieve a pan from the stove. When I looked again, the sink was filled with brown water! Uh-oh, it wasn’t Howard’s fault. The city must be working on the lines.

Sure enough, when I called the water department, the mystery was solved. I was informed the fire department was to blame, having been “stirring things up over there.” “When people get home this afternoon and start using water, it’ll clear up,” I was told assuredly. Well, I was home now! What about me? Kind of made me think of the old adage, “Don’t put off ’til tomorrow what you can do today,” (or dishes ’til this afternoon)!

The Bible forbids boasting about tomorrow in James 4:13-14, when it says, “Come now, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, spend a year there, buy and sell and make a profit’; whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.” The next verse admonishes us to say, “If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that.”

That truth about our life being a vapor is more real every day. Just yesterday we learned of the passing of yet another friend we’d had in Mississippi. He was a contemporary; our kids played together, we had shared with them a joint venture in establishing a church there, our daughters were roommates when they first went off to college. It hardly seems possible that he could be gone. But just as God breathed the breath of life into man, when that breath is gone, so are we, like a vapor.

The kitchen was supposed to be painted last week, but we had put it off, taking a chance that the weather would still be suitable this week. So, as Paul said when he was bidding goodbye to his friends in Ephesus, “…I will return again to you, God willing,” Acts 18:21, I am saying, “God willing, we will get the kitchen painted tomorrow.” And hopefully we will have clean dishes and laundry to put away!

How Sweet It Is!

We needed a couple of items from Walmart today, including a mailing envelope to mail one of my books to my brother. I found the envelope, which cost $1, although I could buy two for $1 at the dollar store. Then as we passed by the grocery department, I noticed a bin of cosmetics marked down. There was my favorite lip color! I hadn’t been able to find it lately. It was a bargain, so I bought two. A few more items we hadn’t planned on went into the cart, and when we checked out our tab was over $37! “Check that receipt,” Howard instructed me as we started to walk away. Sure enough, the $3 cosmetics I had bought had rung up at $8.50 each! We found another overcharge, and the service desk refunded us $14!

I got in the car and attempted to put the paperback book into the bubble-padded envelope, but it wouldn’t fit. I could have sworn that was the size I needed! Well, we could stop at the dollar store. I had bought them there before and they fit fine. I picked up what I needed there. These looked bigger, I thought with satisfaction. I tried to insert the book. I couldn’t believe it! I had gotten the wrong size again. Why was this day becoming so frustrating? I went back in to get what would be the 5th envelope (they come two to a pack)! At last I got the book mailed! (Efficiency is not my middle name!)

Why is it so easy to lose your joy? Especially since I’d had such a victorious day yesterday with the news that our grandson’s injuries from a four-wheeler accident were not that serious? I think it all started last night when, instead of attending a small group meeting where we had concluded our study, we met at the church to examine and study ballots and political questions and referendums for next week’s elections. The sheet with the state questions on it was passed out, but the print was smaller than the smallest Bible print. And I had forgotten my glasses! So I sat, miserable and clueless, while others who actually enjoyed politics waxed long and thoroughly on my least favorite, albeit useful, topic.

It wasn’t until I got home this afternoon that my aura of gloom began to lift, when I found our son had put pictures of our grandbabies on face book. Those happy little faces made me smile and feel warm all over. It’s now less than a month ’til Thanksgiving when I will get to see them! I decided that the only way to make it up to my husband for my bad disposition was to bake him an apple pie. It seems to have worked, and now an air of peace pervades our home along with the fragrance of nutmeg and cinnamon. A sweet smelling savor!

In His Hands

I was looking over the mail when I heard a musical note emit from the cell phone. Oh, it probably needs to be charged, I thought, then when I opened it I saw instead that I had a new message. “We are taking Reid to the ER,” it said, “He was in a wreck on an ATV.” Dear Lord! It was a message from our daughter, Amy, in Georgia. I immediately got her on the phone, and in a strained voice she told me that our 16-year-old grandson had been thrown off 4-wheeled utility vehicle, and that they were on the way to the hospital. He had head injuries and other, hopefully more minor, injuries. I was wild for details, but there wasn’t much she could tell me until he had been examined at the hospital.

I called Amy’s brothers and sister, sharing and asking them to pray. Then I called our pastor for prayer. Howard and I had already prayed and were still praying. Then I remembered face book. I typed out a message describing what had happened and posted it to all my friends. Next time I checked, many messages assured me that prayers were going up. We spent an anxious afternoon, getting news that Reid had a four-inch gash in his head that had to be closed with staples, that he was in a lot of pain in his neck and arm, and that they would have to do CT scans to check for further injuries.

It would be 5 or 6 hours before we heard that scans of his brain, facial bones, arm and head came back normal. Hallelujah! We were overjoyed. They were able to take him home that night. God is so good.

I tried to call Amy’s and Shannon’s house this morning before church, but getting no answer, I figured they were probably getting some much needed sleep after their ordeal. We had further prayer at church for Reid, and I called to check on him as soon as we got home. Good news awaited us, that, although he was still on pain medications, he had slept well and was up and around, despite swelling and soreness. More details of the accident had become known. Instead of hitting his head on a rock, as we had feared, it was determined that his cut had been caused by a metal seat belt slot cover or clasp as he was thrown forcefully against it. Hair, blood and scalp tissue were found on the metal device. Thank God he hadn’t been slammed into a rock, which was probably the reason he was spared. He obviously struck his jaw and arm on impact, judging from swelling and abrasions. It could have been so much worse.

“Mama, did I tell you about my prayers for Reid that morning?” Amy asked me as I talked to her. She hadn’t mentioned them, but she went on, “I took Reid to swim team practice at 6:30 Saturday morning, and when I let him off I felt a real burden of prayer, as well as an overwhelming feeling of loss.” She said she sat in the car in the morning darkness praying for Reid for probably 10 minutes or more, crying and pouring out unknown fears for his safety, protection and future. “Finally,” she said, “I turned it over to God, and I felt a great peace. And I heard the Lord say, ‘Whatever happens, I will use it for my glory.’ And He said Reid would be all right.”

“I didn’t know what it meant,” she went on, “but I felt comforted and we went on with our day. After we picked Reid up and were eating lunch, he asked to go to his friend’s house, then Shannon and I went shopping. We had redecorated Reid’s bedroom last week, and were picking up some accessories in a store when we got the call. I remembered my prayers and felt sure he would be okay.” And he was. And Amy knew they could trust his future to the Lord, too.

Age to Age

I remind myself of a squirrel who buried acorns in the summer then in the winter forgot where he put them. I was convinced I had lost a favorite set of clothes, even calling the homes of our kids I had visited during the winter to see if I’d left a pink turtleneck and grey cords at their house. Notorious for leaving things on trips, I assumed the worst when we had our first premature cold weather last month and I was looking for something warm in my closet. Where were the sweater and grey pants? An exhaustive search in both my husband’s and my closets proved futile, as did rummaging through drawers of dressers and chests.

Then yesterday I was retrieving a house shoe from under the bed with the help of a flashlight and cringed at the dust hidden by the bed skirt, but illuminated by the unforgiving beam of the flashlight. No wonder my allergies had been acting up! Grabbing a dust mop and going over the hardwood floor under the bed, I suddenly met resistance with the handle. Pushing harder, I dislodged a plastic storage carton, from what I could see, holding some winter throws and something of my husbands. I pulled it out and started removing things, and there was the sweater! I had absolutely no recollection of putting it there! Then, rifling through hangers on the closet rod looking for jeans, my hand touched something ribbed. What’s this? I found the lost pants hanging near the bottom of a multilevel hanger!

I must be slipping! No, Lord, I rebuke that thought! I’ve never given much thought to age, because, on the inside, I mostly feel like I always did, despite what the outside may show, which is apparent to me every time I look in the mirror. Still, it is a perk to hear something like I heard yesterday from someone I’d never met. A writer wanted to include me and my book in a Senior Supplement in her newspaper, but she had to confirm over the phone that I was a senior. I told her my age, but upon our meeting yesterday, she thought me some 20 years younger! (Thank you, Lord!) Although she asked what I “did” in the way of diet, exercise, etc., I had no secret to give her. I’ll just take whatever blessing the Lord gives me! She said she hoped I took that as a compliment. Are you kidding? I’m thankful to be living in an age of increased longevity, to enjoy good health and be as active as I want to be.

Many others fit this category, too, as I see more all the time. When we did a service at an assisted-living home last week, I couldn’t help noticing a middle-aged-looking man paying close attention, and afterwards Howard and I talked with him. Turns out they knew many of the same people in Blackwell, and in the course of conversation he said he was 88! He looked 60! There was not a wrinkle on his face! But when he left, I could see he was stooped and used a walker. A friend, who is 60 herself, visited a senior center recently and watched the participants do line dancing. She said one of the women seemed to be having a little trouble with some of the steps, but she learned afterward the woman was 100 years old! An upper-age octogenarian lady from our church has learned to play pool at the senior activities there, and beats all her opponents!

James 1:17 says, “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.” No matter how we may resist growing older, God is the only one who doesn’t age or change. As the Bible says, “Jesus Christ, the same, yesterday, today and forever.” Amen!

Feeding the Flock

Oh no! The roast is not going to be ready in time, I thought anxiously. I had checked it after a couple of hours and it was still red in the middle! That wouldn’t do for a pork roast, so I turned up the heat. It was almost time to take our food to “The Table,“ our monthly church fellowship meal. Pondering what to take this time, I had decided to use half of a huge roast bought on sale and cut into two roasts before I had frozen it. I could serve it sliced and make a potato salad. I also wanted to make strawberry jello with bananas, since I had plenty on hand. Looking through my pantry, I saw I also had the makings for a chocolate sheet cake, except for powdered sugar and real butter I could pick up when I went to the store.

The morning got away with various errands and chores, and before I knew it, it was time to start cooking. I hurried the jello by using ice cubes for a speedier set, sliced bananas into it and got it into the refrigerator. Then I made the (usually simple) cake, but today I seemed to be all thumbs. I bumped the measuring spoon of cocoa powder and it flew all over the floor and kitchen mat. What a mess. After getting it into the oven, I had to wash the cake batter from the mixer beaters to make the icing. I really should get the potatoes on to boil for the potato salad, but what would all that humidity do to the cake frosting? I waited until the cake came out of the oven and was frosted, then I put it in the dining room away from the steamy kitchen.

Looking at the clock and checking the cookbook-recommended time for pork roast, I put the meat in the oven at 400 degrees for 15 minutes. The recipe actually said to cook it at 500 degrees first, then turn it down to 250 for 1 1/2 hours. Instead, I turned it down to 350 degrees, thinking that it would cook more quickly and still be tender. I wanted to make gravy from the drippings, but gravy wouldn’t go with potato salad, so I decided to cook rice to be done just before we left. But first, the potato salad. The eggs got done and peeled, but the potatoes took a little longer. Finally I had it completed, but it wasn’t to my satisfaction, since I’d used russet potatoes instead of red ones; when cooked, their waxy texture makes better potato salad. These tended to crumble and taste grainy, but my husband said it was good. (I’d have to trust him, since my taste was largely absent that day.)

I cooked the rice, and took the roast out, hoping for the best. Removing it from the pan and covering it with foil to let it “rest,” I made the gravy. Time was growing short. Finally I had Howard slice the roast, and it was perfect. Keeping the slices intact, I placed in the crock pot with the gravy and went to get dressed. The rice had gone into a smaller crock pot to keep warm. This feast had grown exponentially along with my aspirations, and now it was a huge load to take to church. When I saw the smaller-than-usual crowd, I groaned mentally that I would have a lot to take home. Surprisingly, though, there was just a tidbit left in each container, leaving enough for our lunch today. The cake was ¾ eaten, and I sent the rest to work with Howard today to share with his co-worker. Thank you, Lord, for working it all out and giving us a very enjoyable evening, besides!

Pansies, Periwinkles and Prayers

The flowers in our long planter box hadn’t been the same since our September vacation. They had gotten a little dried out, despite an occasional watering in our absence. Even though we watered copiously when we got back and tried to re-establish their lush blooms, the changing season seemed to be against us. Oh well, they wouldn’t have lasted past November anyway. I have always loved Vinca flowers, or periwinkle, their prettier name. They were a favorite of mine when we lived in Mississippi, tolerating the hot summers beautifully and lasting into November or longer. But these would have to go.

“Let’s pull them out and plant pansies,” I suggested to my husband. I had never raised pansies, though in the South they were very popular as winter garden plants. I would see their two-tone blooms of purple or yellow looking like little faces bobbing merrily in the breeze in other people’s flower beds. Their delicate appearance belied their hardiness and ability to withstand the cold. We got a couple of flats, and found their proper name is Viola. After ruthlessly pulling out the woody stems and scraggly stalks of the Vinca, we set to work putting them into the soft soil of the flower box. I’d forgotten how much work even a little gardening is and wished for a “garden seat,” a low stool on wheels to save an aching back or spare stiff knees. However, it was a rewarding tiredness I felt as I looked in satisfaction at our newly bright planter, stretching across the front of the house with spots of color.

In the language of flowers, the periwinkle stands for friendship. The shy little pansy represents “thoughts.” What a sweet way to think of flowers. In gentler times, people were aware of what flowers meant in the etiquette of relationships. There used to be a thing called romance, when attractions developed slowly with all the little niceties and nuances of courtship, and flowers spoke a language all their own. Period movies depict messages sent and understood by the choice of flowers. We still love to get flowers, but who sends much besides a bouquet of roses these days? Victorian hearts beat wildly, or not, upon receiving particular floral messages.

Thinking of the delicacy of flowers reminds me of the Bible verse in Isaiah 42:3, “A bruised reed He will not break, and smoking flax He will not quench,” speaking of Jesus in bringing salvation to the Gentiles. This was brought to mind Sunday in a message from our pastor as he urged compassion for the lost. He warned against taking a “holier than thou” attitude and treating sinners shabbily, or defending our stance in self-righteous tones. “If you do that,” he said, his voice catching with the gravity of his words, “ it had better be without a shred of pride. We must have genuine love and concern for their souls.” He entreated the congregation to pray that God would give us a passion for the unsaved. That kind of love is a language all will understand.