"Look!" Howard said as he came in carrying a gift bag, "Jamie got us T-shirts!" I saw from the logo it was from the university where he is taking a Master's course.
"Oh, you are making up for what you did to me in college!" I needled Jamie, who was grinning sheepishly as he carried in our suitcase.
"Red or Blue?" Howard asked, to which I replied, "Red." It was a good thing I did, because when I unfolded the shirt, I saw the word, MOM, painted in an artistic flourish with a big heart in the middle instead of the "O," and HBU (Houston Baptist University) in blue letters above it. Howard's had the word, DAD, on it.
Back in the day, Jamie left a lot of close friends in our small Mississippi town when he went off to study at the University of Oklahoma. Friendly and gregarious, he was something of a mini-celebrity to the kids at church, who wrote him faithfully when he first left. He was especially close to a fun-loving family of girls and their youngish parents who were often involved in youth activities. I think there was a mutual crush between our son and their eldest daughter.
Imagine my surprise and chagrin one night at church when I saw their mother wearing an "OU MOM" T-shirt! That should've been mine! My unpredictable son! I guess on his limited budget, he couldn't afford one for me, too! Oh well, I chalked it up to adolescent insensitivity. Like I did when he came home for his first weekend, attended church with us, then didn't show up for Sunday dinner, instead leaving it to me to find him eating at the home of friends!
Well, he's a parent now, so he must know how that would feel, and to his credit, he is very solicitous of his mom and dad as a grown-up! But I think I felt a little of what God feels when He says, "I am a jealous God," Exodus 20:5. Besides the obvious definition as resentment, when I looked up the word I read, "intolerant of unfaithfulness; apprehensive of losing affection or position."
Of course it was unreasonable to think I was losing affection, and I could not lose my position, but the twinges were there, just the same! On the other hand, God is intolerant of unfaithfulness! He wants and deserves our devotion, faithfulness and praise. And that is something for which no T-shirt, slogan, or bumper sticker can substitute!
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Delicate Impressions
"Look at the difference in their maturity level," I spoke fondly of my granddaughters to my daughter-in-law, Tammy. Three-year-old Maddie was covering her kids' menu color sheet with large, looping circles of orange crayon, while Anne-Marie, almost six, had turned her sheet over to the blank side and drew with utmost concentration. Their mother nodded in agreement.
We were at an upscale cowboy-themed restaurant in Ft. Worth's Sundance Square. Decorated in rustic grandeur, it had several large paintings on the walls. "Can I see your picture?" I asked Anne-Marie. It seemed to be a rather complicated drawing, with a princess-like figure with flowing blonde hair sitting in one corner, a couple of people on the other side, and a row of tiny rectangles across the top. "What are those boxes at the top?" I asked her.
"Glasses," she responded as she went on coloring. Suddenly someone started laughing, and we realized she was copying the painting on the wall of an old-time saloon scene with a fancy lady on a bar stool, and a long row of glasses on a shelf above the bar! Poor baby! She had no idea what she was copying, but it was recorded in childish detail on her paper.
I hadn't even noticed the flambuoyant art work, we had been so intent on conversation and visiting with our kids in Texas this weekend. After lunch, we were going to the historic stockyards district, where we would see a cattle drive and other old west attractions. It was all perfectly innocent, but it made me realize anew how impressionable children are.
We might not think kids are paying any attention to their surroundings, what is being said, or thinking of anything but their play, but they are absorbing like a sponge all the time, sometimes to the embarrassment of adults. Their traits of transparency, candor and honesty are part of which make them so appealing and precious. And they don't miss a thing.
The next day turned unseasonably cold, and as we were walking through the sights of the state fair in Texas, I quipped, "It's so cold we should be singing Christmas carols!" Maddie looked up from her stroller and smilingly sang, "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!" Going home later, I asked her what her favorite part of the fair was. She was silent for a minute, then said in her deliberate manner, "The carrousel." What a big word for her to know (I still say "merry-go-round.") "The carrousel," she repeated matter-of-factly, "But we didn't get to go on it."
It sounded like her Pa-Pa, when I asked him what he liked about the fair. He said, "The livestock, but we didn't see any." (There must have been some there, but evidently we weren't at the right place at the right time, search as we might.)
After we got home today, I called our son, Jamie, thanking them for the nice time we had and asked about their trip home to Houston. He said they had stopped for supper, then two bathroom stops, one for everyone and one for Maddie. "That's what happens after they are potty trained," I laughed. Maddie had had her own ideas about that project, but when she finally came around, there was no going back. "She was wearing a pull-up," Jamie said, "but she said, 'Big girls use the bathroom!' so we had to make a special stop for her." Like I said, things make impressions on kids. Would that they would always be the right things!
We were at an upscale cowboy-themed restaurant in Ft. Worth's Sundance Square. Decorated in rustic grandeur, it had several large paintings on the walls. "Can I see your picture?" I asked Anne-Marie. It seemed to be a rather complicated drawing, with a princess-like figure with flowing blonde hair sitting in one corner, a couple of people on the other side, and a row of tiny rectangles across the top. "What are those boxes at the top?" I asked her.
"Glasses," she responded as she went on coloring. Suddenly someone started laughing, and we realized she was copying the painting on the wall of an old-time saloon scene with a fancy lady on a bar stool, and a long row of glasses on a shelf above the bar! Poor baby! She had no idea what she was copying, but it was recorded in childish detail on her paper.
I hadn't even noticed the flambuoyant art work, we had been so intent on conversation and visiting with our kids in Texas this weekend. After lunch, we were going to the historic stockyards district, where we would see a cattle drive and other old west attractions. It was all perfectly innocent, but it made me realize anew how impressionable children are.
We might not think kids are paying any attention to their surroundings, what is being said, or thinking of anything but their play, but they are absorbing like a sponge all the time, sometimes to the embarrassment of adults. Their traits of transparency, candor and honesty are part of which make them so appealing and precious. And they don't miss a thing.
The next day turned unseasonably cold, and as we were walking through the sights of the state fair in Texas, I quipped, "It's so cold we should be singing Christmas carols!" Maddie looked up from her stroller and smilingly sang, "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!" Going home later, I asked her what her favorite part of the fair was. She was silent for a minute, then said in her deliberate manner, "The carrousel." What a big word for her to know (I still say "merry-go-round.") "The carrousel," she repeated matter-of-factly, "But we didn't get to go on it."
It sounded like her Pa-Pa, when I asked him what he liked about the fair. He said, "The livestock, but we didn't see any." (There must have been some there, but evidently we weren't at the right place at the right time, search as we might.)
After we got home today, I called our son, Jamie, thanking them for the nice time we had and asked about their trip home to Houston. He said they had stopped for supper, then two bathroom stops, one for everyone and one for Maddie. "That's what happens after they are potty trained," I laughed. Maddie had had her own ideas about that project, but when she finally came around, there was no going back. "She was wearing a pull-up," Jamie said, "but she said, 'Big girls use the bathroom!' so we had to make a special stop for her." Like I said, things make impressions on kids. Would that they would always be the right things!
In or Out of Touch
"Do you have the cell phone?" I asked my husband as he locked the front door. We had at last gotten ready for our trip and had already put the suitcase in the trunk of the car. He frowned and said he thought I had it.
"Let's go back in and look for it," I said resignedly. "Remember, you had it when you were talking to Jamie a few minutes ago," I reminded him, trying to retrace the phone's path. Well, he couldn't remember putting it down, so I searched in every conceivable place: the kitchen counter, the bookshelf with its dark, concealing finish, the bathroom, both bedrooms, the desk, the coffee table.
"We can't leave without it!" Howard declared, which I knew was true. We were headed to Norman, Oklahoma, the first leg of our trip to Texas. From there we would take the "Heartland Flyer" for an easy train ride to Ft. Worth. Our kids would meet us there for a short week-end of fun and family fellowship.
After searching the car, Howard glanced across the street to a house remodeling project where painters were going in and out. "I'm going to ask them if they will use their cell phone to call our number. You go in and listen for it to ring," he instructed me.
Soon he was back, carrying the neighbor's phone in his hand. I had come out of the house with the admission that I hadn't heard anything. "Maybe it's in the suitcase! Ring it again!" I stood by the car trunk, but heard nothing. "Let's look and see, anyway," I said.
Feeling a little foolish, I unzipped the suitcase. There it lay, plain as day on top of a pink sweater! Then I remembered finding a scarf I had been searching for, unzipping the packed bag and putting it in. I had had the phone in my hand then!
As we drove away, I looked at the phone dial, seeing we had missed a call, which was of course Howard calling from across the street. I wondered about a voice message it showed, though, so I pressed the button, only to hear static, then my own muffled voice! "Did you let it ring?" I heard myself say, and Howard answering in a fuzzy reply! It was the conversation we had when he had come back from across the street! Had the phone picked it up through the trunk? Weird! Anyway, we laughed and were just thankful we had found it.
This inanimate object speaking to us from the trunk, you might say, made me think of an illustration our pastor used in his sermon last Sunday. When he got up to preach, an usher placed a huge, decorative boulder from the flower border out front on the altar. It had been inscribed with with the words, "Jesus Loves Me", a message those entering the building saw every Sunday. The sermon was entitled, "Substitute Praisers," from the passage where Jesus said that if the people did not praise Him, the very stones would cry out.
Also, it was a reminder that every word we speak is no doubt being recorded somehow on the the ether waves of time, or some other way in God's universe, possibly to be replayed back to us someday, giving us pause as to what we say and how we conduct our speech. Like our pastor said, may we never let the stones speak for us!
"Let's go back in and look for it," I said resignedly. "Remember, you had it when you were talking to Jamie a few minutes ago," I reminded him, trying to retrace the phone's path. Well, he couldn't remember putting it down, so I searched in every conceivable place: the kitchen counter, the bookshelf with its dark, concealing finish, the bathroom, both bedrooms, the desk, the coffee table.
"We can't leave without it!" Howard declared, which I knew was true. We were headed to Norman, Oklahoma, the first leg of our trip to Texas. From there we would take the "Heartland Flyer" for an easy train ride to Ft. Worth. Our kids would meet us there for a short week-end of fun and family fellowship.
After searching the car, Howard glanced across the street to a house remodeling project where painters were going in and out. "I'm going to ask them if they will use their cell phone to call our number. You go in and listen for it to ring," he instructed me.
Soon he was back, carrying the neighbor's phone in his hand. I had come out of the house with the admission that I hadn't heard anything. "Maybe it's in the suitcase! Ring it again!" I stood by the car trunk, but heard nothing. "Let's look and see, anyway," I said.
Feeling a little foolish, I unzipped the suitcase. There it lay, plain as day on top of a pink sweater! Then I remembered finding a scarf I had been searching for, unzipping the packed bag and putting it in. I had had the phone in my hand then!
As we drove away, I looked at the phone dial, seeing we had missed a call, which was of course Howard calling from across the street. I wondered about a voice message it showed, though, so I pressed the button, only to hear static, then my own muffled voice! "Did you let it ring?" I heard myself say, and Howard answering in a fuzzy reply! It was the conversation we had when he had come back from across the street! Had the phone picked it up through the trunk? Weird! Anyway, we laughed and were just thankful we had found it.
This inanimate object speaking to us from the trunk, you might say, made me think of an illustration our pastor used in his sermon last Sunday. When he got up to preach, an usher placed a huge, decorative boulder from the flower border out front on the altar. It had been inscribed with with the words, "Jesus Loves Me", a message those entering the building saw every Sunday. The sermon was entitled, "Substitute Praisers," from the passage where Jesus said that if the people did not praise Him, the very stones would cry out.
Also, it was a reminder that every word we speak is no doubt being recorded somehow on the the ether waves of time, or some other way in God's universe, possibly to be replayed back to us someday, giving us pause as to what we say and how we conduct our speech. Like our pastor said, may we never let the stones speak for us!
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Winds of Change
The after-school kids' shows were still on when I heard the screen door fly open. Soon both girls had deserted their perch in front of the tv for the great outdoors. I went to see what the attraction was, and I saw they were engulfed in a gust of swirling leaves, hands raised and feet dancing. The air was suddenly cooler, blowing invigorating energy into our surroundings.
Unable to resist the fresh air, I smiled in amusement from our screened porch at joy the children were having with their frolicsome playmate, the wind. Long hair blowing straight behind them like a flag in the stiff breeze, one a pony's tail flying behind her in the gale, they leaped in great bounds, the billowing wind giving its buoyant support.
Two school boys came ambling by, pushed by the wind and carrying a box of fund-raiser chocolate bars. My friendly granddaughter directed them to the house, even though she had gotten to us first last week with the project. The boys dallied, the girls chattered, pointing, hopping and dashing with the teasing wind, until their new playmates seemed to remember the work at hand and went in search of more customers.
On their way back down the street, the salesboys' now-empty box provided even more fun when it was grabbed by the wind, retrieved, worn on the head like a helmet, flaps pulled over ears, as the boys showed off for their appreciative admirers. Soon the girls' mother came to pick up my baby-sitting charges, and our street grew quiet again as the wind died down.
The children's rosy, flushed cheeks as they drove away gave evidence of their healthy exercise and rejuvenating play, no doubt with the same warmth and tingling in their limbs I remembered after playing outdoors as a child.
The refreshing of the wind made me think of the winds of the Holy Spirit. It first came on the day of Pentecost with the "...sound from heaven as of a rushing, mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting." Acts 2:3. This wind changed the people it touched, and they changed the people they touched. They became engaged with their neighbors, unable to keep their joy to themselves. The Bible says about 3,000 people were added to the church that day. There is something about the Wind!
Unable to resist the fresh air, I smiled in amusement from our screened porch at joy the children were having with their frolicsome playmate, the wind. Long hair blowing straight behind them like a flag in the stiff breeze, one a pony's tail flying behind her in the gale, they leaped in great bounds, the billowing wind giving its buoyant support.
Two school boys came ambling by, pushed by the wind and carrying a box of fund-raiser chocolate bars. My friendly granddaughter directed them to the house, even though she had gotten to us first last week with the project. The boys dallied, the girls chattered, pointing, hopping and dashing with the teasing wind, until their new playmates seemed to remember the work at hand and went in search of more customers.
On their way back down the street, the salesboys' now-empty box provided even more fun when it was grabbed by the wind, retrieved, worn on the head like a helmet, flaps pulled over ears, as the boys showed off for their appreciative admirers. Soon the girls' mother came to pick up my baby-sitting charges, and our street grew quiet again as the wind died down.
The children's rosy, flushed cheeks as they drove away gave evidence of their healthy exercise and rejuvenating play, no doubt with the same warmth and tingling in their limbs I remembered after playing outdoors as a child.
The refreshing of the wind made me think of the winds of the Holy Spirit. It first came on the day of Pentecost with the "...sound from heaven as of a rushing, mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting." Acts 2:3. This wind changed the people it touched, and they changed the people they touched. They became engaged with their neighbors, unable to keep their joy to themselves. The Bible says about 3,000 people were added to the church that day. There is something about the Wind!
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Words
My 36-year-old son says he and his 5-year-old daughter are on the same page. They are both learning tthe alphabet and learning to read: she in kindergarten and he in Greek, Hebrew and Aramaic. He says he'll be glad when it becomes reading for enjoyment, rather than plodding along sounding out words. I'm sure Anne-Marie will, too. But if she is progressing like her father, she's doing fine (under his tutelage, by the way).
Recently, thanks to internet, I saw Jamie preach a Greek Exegitical Sermon to his English-speaking Chinese congregation in Houston. It was very enlightening as he incorporated what he had learned (after only 3 weeks of study!) into his sermon! For instance, in the original Greek, the word Jesus used when referring to being born "again" (John 3:3) can also be translated as "from above." If Nicodemus had "heard" what Jesus meant, the rest of the passage would be more clear, as Jesus further taught about the neccessity for transformation of the Spirit in understanding the things of God. (The gist of the semon was something like that, anyway..something may have been lost in (my) translation.)
This reminds me of little Maddie, their three-year-old, who is on her own track in figuring out language. Jamie related that one day Anne-Marie pointed and said, "Look there is an airplane at 12:00 o'clock!" to which her father said, "No, that's 1:00 o'clock." Maddie corrected them both when she said emphatically, "That's not a clock! That's a plane!"
After 54 years of marriage, my husband and I frequently have trouble understanding what the other is saying. It's not a listening problem, it's a hearing problem. I have a tendency to speak more softly, which causes misunderstandings for him. His voice is strong and resonant, but intially it's in a lower range, and if I miss the first word, I might miss his whole point. Very frustrating sometimes, but also very hilarious at other times! Kind of like the man who said it might rain, and his wife said, "What train?"
Thankfully, one might be hard-of-hearing, but still able to hear the voice of God. He speaks through His Word, which even the deaf can read. He speaks in the still, small voice to our hearts, or maybe even an audible voice in urgent situations. No matter the language, God speaks it.
Psalm 19:1-3 says, "The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork. (2) Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. (3) There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard." Some things are crystal clear!
Recently, thanks to internet, I saw Jamie preach a Greek Exegitical Sermon to his English-speaking Chinese congregation in Houston. It was very enlightening as he incorporated what he had learned (after only 3 weeks of study!) into his sermon! For instance, in the original Greek, the word Jesus used when referring to being born "again" (John 3:3) can also be translated as "from above." If Nicodemus had "heard" what Jesus meant, the rest of the passage would be more clear, as Jesus further taught about the neccessity for transformation of the Spirit in understanding the things of God. (The gist of the semon was something like that, anyway..something may have been lost in (my) translation.)
This reminds me of little Maddie, their three-year-old, who is on her own track in figuring out language. Jamie related that one day Anne-Marie pointed and said, "Look there is an airplane at 12:00 o'clock!" to which her father said, "No, that's 1:00 o'clock." Maddie corrected them both when she said emphatically, "That's not a clock! That's a plane!"
After 54 years of marriage, my husband and I frequently have trouble understanding what the other is saying. It's not a listening problem, it's a hearing problem. I have a tendency to speak more softly, which causes misunderstandings for him. His voice is strong and resonant, but intially it's in a lower range, and if I miss the first word, I might miss his whole point. Very frustrating sometimes, but also very hilarious at other times! Kind of like the man who said it might rain, and his wife said, "What train?"
Thankfully, one might be hard-of-hearing, but still able to hear the voice of God. He speaks through His Word, which even the deaf can read. He speaks in the still, small voice to our hearts, or maybe even an audible voice in urgent situations. No matter the language, God speaks it.
Psalm 19:1-3 says, "The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork. (2) Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. (3) There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard." Some things are crystal clear!
Monday, October 1, 2012
Hobby Farming
Since our son and his wife just purchased land in the country, Greg and his dad are planning all sorts of grandiose ventures as ranchers/herdsmen/woodsmen or gentlemen farmers. They took us on a four-wheeler tour of the property last week, and their ideas, especially my husband's, billowed as loftily as the towering cumulous clouds stretching majestically across the big sky above the rounded hills and meadowlands.
The former owner raised a smattering of long-horn cattle, so father and son hung around a corral enclosing the animals that awaited transport to a new ranch, envisioning what they would raise. Howard favored goats, but he is also considering buying a few calves to feed out and nurture on the expansive pastures. To that end, he went to a livestock sale today, with me tagging along for the experience.
Mainly a fact-gathering outing, the auctioning off of cattle held little fascination for me, other than feeling a bit sorry for the poor, dumb brutes that were paraded across a pipe-fence stock pen in front of potential buyers perched on concrete bleachers or folding chairs high above the sales arena. The animals were plaintively beautiful, staring wide-eyed and uncomprehending, legs planted solidly as they beheld the observers before the exit door opened and they hurried toward the light.
We were amazed at the prices, yet there was steady bidding from several, obviously well-heeled, cattlemen, in the gallery. Numerous cattle trucks were parked outside, either from bringing the animals to market or awaiting additions to their herds. After nearly an hour, we walked outdoors to see if there were other kinds of animals to be auctioned. Howard was hoping to see pigs, goats, or even sheep, as well. Instead, we saw vast amounts of cattle, indicating an all-day affair. My husband gave in to my prompting to go to lunch, then we headed home where he could search on the internet for smaller sales.
His sites popped up when I turned on the computer tonight, and I saw my farmer-at-heart husband had gathered information on chickens, ducks, geese, and guineas. I thought I had married a merchant-turned-preacher, but over the years I've found out his true identity, one that he might at last fulfill now that he has the time for it!
The former owner raised a smattering of long-horn cattle, so father and son hung around a corral enclosing the animals that awaited transport to a new ranch, envisioning what they would raise. Howard favored goats, but he is also considering buying a few calves to feed out and nurture on the expansive pastures. To that end, he went to a livestock sale today, with me tagging along for the experience.
Mainly a fact-gathering outing, the auctioning off of cattle held little fascination for me, other than feeling a bit sorry for the poor, dumb brutes that were paraded across a pipe-fence stock pen in front of potential buyers perched on concrete bleachers or folding chairs high above the sales arena. The animals were plaintively beautiful, staring wide-eyed and uncomprehending, legs planted solidly as they beheld the observers before the exit door opened and they hurried toward the light.
We were amazed at the prices, yet there was steady bidding from several, obviously well-heeled, cattlemen, in the gallery. Numerous cattle trucks were parked outside, either from bringing the animals to market or awaiting additions to their herds. After nearly an hour, we walked outdoors to see if there were other kinds of animals to be auctioned. Howard was hoping to see pigs, goats, or even sheep, as well. Instead, we saw vast amounts of cattle, indicating an all-day affair. My husband gave in to my prompting to go to lunch, then we headed home where he could search on the internet for smaller sales.
His sites popped up when I turned on the computer tonight, and I saw my farmer-at-heart husband had gathered information on chickens, ducks, geese, and guineas. I thought I had married a merchant-turned-preacher, but over the years I've found out his true identity, one that he might at last fulfill now that he has the time for it!
Work in Progress
Just as we went out the door to church yesterday, I glanced at my black sweater. "Howard," I said to my husband, "Check to see that I don't have any hair on my shoulder." I had just shampooed, and I didn't want any strays showing up for some well-meaning helper to remove. It's has always been a pet peeve of mine to see a hand advancing toward me, an intent look in its owner's eyes, while a collar was straightened, a speck removed or flaw pointed out.
Then while chatting over the pew later with a lady behind me as we waited for church to start, she peered and aimed a pinched thumb and forefinger toward me, informing me I had a loose hair. "That's okay," I said, moving swiftly away toward my seat. "My hair is always doing that."
"No, it's not on your head, it's on your sweater," she persisted. I told her about my pet peeve, and her response was, "Why?" I smiled and shrugged, but later I couldn't help feeling a little disconcerted about my reaction.
Our worship leader was away, so a newcomer was leading the singing this morning. After a slow beginning, he launched into a peppy tune I'd never heard before, but it was easy to learn and I was soon singing with feeling, "Jesus on the inside, Working on the outside." It fit me perfectly! I would be reminded of that later.
It was announced that after our monthly singspiration that evening, we would gather for fellowship over desserts, and were asked to bring something sweet. I'd been wanting to bring a special treat my daughter told me about, but we hadn't had these fellowships lately, so I hadn't prepared anything. That didn't stop me from going to the store immediately after lunch to procure the fixings.
The dish was similar to a fruit pizza, but the crust was cookie dough baked in miniature muffin cups, forming tiny containers for a topping of cream cheese/Kool Whip with small slices of fruit inserted decoratively. I found everything I needed and was soon mixing and slicing while the cookies baked. It seemed fruit had gone up considerably in price, and for such small portions it was a shame I had to buy whole containers, but the results would be worth it, I assured myself.
Between batches, I would dash to the bedroom to practice a song Howard and I were to sing that night that he was laboriously copying in large print so we could read it. I wasn't too sure about it, but if the cookies turned out right, maybe the song would. That was my prayer, anyway.
The cookies were beautiful, but nobody seemed to know what they were, and about half were left over. (Of course, there were many desserts there.) After waiting until almost the end of the long program to sing our song, most of it was pretty rough (hopefully the smooth parts made up for it). Nevertheless, I couldn't help feeling deflated and defeated in spirit as we went home. Feeling bad about my attitude, I had to remember the words of the song that morning, I have "Jesus on the inside," but still "Working on the outside."
Then while chatting over the pew later with a lady behind me as we waited for church to start, she peered and aimed a pinched thumb and forefinger toward me, informing me I had a loose hair. "That's okay," I said, moving swiftly away toward my seat. "My hair is always doing that."
"No, it's not on your head, it's on your sweater," she persisted. I told her about my pet peeve, and her response was, "Why?" I smiled and shrugged, but later I couldn't help feeling a little disconcerted about my reaction.
Our worship leader was away, so a newcomer was leading the singing this morning. After a slow beginning, he launched into a peppy tune I'd never heard before, but it was easy to learn and I was soon singing with feeling, "Jesus on the inside, Working on the outside." It fit me perfectly! I would be reminded of that later.
It was announced that after our monthly singspiration that evening, we would gather for fellowship over desserts, and were asked to bring something sweet. I'd been wanting to bring a special treat my daughter told me about, but we hadn't had these fellowships lately, so I hadn't prepared anything. That didn't stop me from going to the store immediately after lunch to procure the fixings.
The dish was similar to a fruit pizza, but the crust was cookie dough baked in miniature muffin cups, forming tiny containers for a topping of cream cheese/Kool Whip with small slices of fruit inserted decoratively. I found everything I needed and was soon mixing and slicing while the cookies baked. It seemed fruit had gone up considerably in price, and for such small portions it was a shame I had to buy whole containers, but the results would be worth it, I assured myself.
Between batches, I would dash to the bedroom to practice a song Howard and I were to sing that night that he was laboriously copying in large print so we could read it. I wasn't too sure about it, but if the cookies turned out right, maybe the song would. That was my prayer, anyway.
The cookies were beautiful, but nobody seemed to know what they were, and about half were left over. (Of course, there were many desserts there.) After waiting until almost the end of the long program to sing our song, most of it was pretty rough (hopefully the smooth parts made up for it). Nevertheless, I couldn't help feeling deflated and defeated in spirit as we went home. Feeling bad about my attitude, I had to remember the words of the song that morning, I have "Jesus on the inside," but still "Working on the outside."
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