I saw a blue streak in the sky today followed by a strange, yellowish-white light! Oh, it’s the sun and a strip of sky trying to peek through the grey cloud cover! I feel like Paul who was in the storm at sea and hadn’t seen the sun or stars for 14 days. Well, we’ve had daylight, but a dismal one for what seems like two weeks. This morning I dressed to go out in winter coat, gloves, turtleneck and corduroys against the cold and damp, but my wardrobe this afternoon gave way to sandals and capris. It’s supposed to be 88 on Sunday! My mood is lighter already!
I have a dozen buds on several of my irises, some more plump than others, and the knock-out rose bushes we planted last year have greened up, looking alive and well, even showing buds. I think the pansies are the only things that have enjoyed the cold, misty weather of late. They are as happy as clams, their little faces turned up and bobbing merrily in the wind. Their bright colors of yellow and violet have cheered me on the disagreeable days we’ve been having. Spring’s grey skies set off the soft green of the trees and the lilac of the redbuds beautifully, though. Nature’s palette is like a water color, especially on rainy days.
Today is the last day of March, with Easter coming in scarcely three weeks. I should be used to Oklahoma weather by now, after the 3 1/2 years we’ve been back and the childhood I spent here. I remember Easter almost always being cold and grey back then. (Later, my husband’s mother invariably attributed the weather to the “equinoxial storm.”) I didn’t know that then, I only knew that we teenage girls were chilly at Easter services in the flowery, pastel dresses our mothers had made, wobbly in our white heels with goose bumps on our bare legs.
After attending our granddaughter’s wedding on Good Friday at her father’s church in Tennessee, we may spend Easter a few hours away in North Carolina with children who live there. Our son is a pastor, too, and we are looking forward to church with them. What a time of celebration! Families getting together, a blessed holiday, and Spring all at the same time. When I get back, I should be welcomed home by a mass of purple irises. And hopefully, warmer weather!
Thursday, March 31, 2011
What Smells So Good?
My husband has been chopping a cedar stump from our yard. A tree had been cut down years ago, and later sawed close to the ground, but it still interferes with his lawn mowing. The tree had divided into three trunks, and I didn’t even realize the dead, grey, wood jutting up was cedar until I saw the reddish color exposed by the axe and caught a whiff of its unmistakable fragrance. “Cedar!” I exclaimed, as I breathed deeply of the scented air. It was as if I’d opened the cedar chest we used to have that held our family’s memory-laden garments.
I never thought cedar trees were particularly pretty, especially when they had grown old and gnarled with their dark, dense greenery. But last winter I needed some evergreens for an arrangement, and lacking the lush, long-needled pines we had in Mississippi, I tugged at a branch from an ancient cedar at our fence line and broke off a few fronds. They were beautiful up close! Their delicate, flat, lacey patterns were perfect in my garden wagon filled with pinecones on the porch.
The cedar tree figures prominently in the Bible, mentioned 75 times in scripture. It was considered very desirable for building, especially for the strong ceiling beams supporting structures meant to last for generations. Both Solomon’s temple and the one that followed were built with cedars from Lebanon. Cedars were also valued for their aromatic fragrance.
II Corinthians 2:15 says, “For we are to God the fragrance of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.” Paul admonishes us to “Walk in love, as Christ also hath loved us, and hath given himself for us an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweet-smelling savor,” Ephesians 5:2.
One of the household tips I was reading in the ubiquitous organizational article in a magazine was how to refresh a cedar chest that had lost its fragrance. The author suggested lightly sanding the surface of the inside of the chest to release the lovely smell. Not bad advice for Christians who have lost some of their sweetness: we need to ask God to brush away some of our hardened exterior and draw us closely to Himself so that we may once again be “the fragrance of Christ.” How wonderful if a memory of us after we are gone evokes "a sweet-smelling savor", like the aromatic old cedar.
I never thought cedar trees were particularly pretty, especially when they had grown old and gnarled with their dark, dense greenery. But last winter I needed some evergreens for an arrangement, and lacking the lush, long-needled pines we had in Mississippi, I tugged at a branch from an ancient cedar at our fence line and broke off a few fronds. They were beautiful up close! Their delicate, flat, lacey patterns were perfect in my garden wagon filled with pinecones on the porch.
The cedar tree figures prominently in the Bible, mentioned 75 times in scripture. It was considered very desirable for building, especially for the strong ceiling beams supporting structures meant to last for generations. Both Solomon’s temple and the one that followed were built with cedars from Lebanon. Cedars were also valued for their aromatic fragrance.
II Corinthians 2:15 says, “For we are to God the fragrance of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.” Paul admonishes us to “Walk in love, as Christ also hath loved us, and hath given himself for us an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweet-smelling savor,” Ephesians 5:2.
One of the household tips I was reading in the ubiquitous organizational article in a magazine was how to refresh a cedar chest that had lost its fragrance. The author suggested lightly sanding the surface of the inside of the chest to release the lovely smell. Not bad advice for Christians who have lost some of their sweetness: we need to ask God to brush away some of our hardened exterior and draw us closely to Himself so that we may once again be “the fragrance of Christ.” How wonderful if a memory of us after we are gone evokes "a sweet-smelling savor", like the aromatic old cedar.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
A Bad Bet?
When we lived in Gulfport, Mississippi, there was a Q & A column in the local newspaper about gaming. One person wrote in asking for tips on successful gaming and the chances for winning. The columnist, an expert in her field and actually representing the industry, began her answer with this statement. “Remember, casinos are palaces built by losers.”
And palaces they were. We took a walk-through of the most palatial one of that time once when we had out-of-town guests who wanted to see the sights. The domed entry soared upwards like the Sistine Chapel; the wide, elaborately tiled walkways with beautiful restaurants and expensive shops on each side made corridors of the fanciest, world-class airport pale in comparison.
Fountains and manicured flower beds reminiscent of Disney World attracted the eye. We even took the hotel elevator to see a sample of their guest rooms--beautiful, serene, professionally decorated spaces met our gaze. Designed to pamper, there were spas, salons and exercise rooms to meet one’s every need. People poured in by the droves.
Many people justify gambling by saying that the Bible is neutral on the subject. But the Bible is clear on the subject of stewardship. Wasting is always cast in a negative light. Jesus had the disciples gather up the leftovers from the feeding of the multitudes that nothing be wasted. The story of the Prodigal Son is often thought of as the story of a rebellious, runaway son. But the word, prodigal, means wasteful. He wasted his inheritance on riotous living. We knew of many instances in our years there of families being torn apart, their homes and sustenance lost in gambling, and of lives wasted.
When gaming and lotteries were made legal in our state, revenues generated were supposed to benefit the school systems, yet the schools regularly cut out programs like music and physical education. It seems the benefits went to the new highways that were put in to accommodate the extra traffic to the casinos.
When Hurricane Katrina hit, I thought it was ironic that a mammoth barge that held afloat one of the casinos was picked up and deposited on top of and crushing the structure of the first gambling hall on the Mississippi Gulf Coast dating from early times. Was God trying to tell us something?
And palaces they were. We took a walk-through of the most palatial one of that time once when we had out-of-town guests who wanted to see the sights. The domed entry soared upwards like the Sistine Chapel; the wide, elaborately tiled walkways with beautiful restaurants and expensive shops on each side made corridors of the fanciest, world-class airport pale in comparison.
Fountains and manicured flower beds reminiscent of Disney World attracted the eye. We even took the hotel elevator to see a sample of their guest rooms--beautiful, serene, professionally decorated spaces met our gaze. Designed to pamper, there were spas, salons and exercise rooms to meet one’s every need. People poured in by the droves.
Many people justify gambling by saying that the Bible is neutral on the subject. But the Bible is clear on the subject of stewardship. Wasting is always cast in a negative light. Jesus had the disciples gather up the leftovers from the feeding of the multitudes that nothing be wasted. The story of the Prodigal Son is often thought of as the story of a rebellious, runaway son. But the word, prodigal, means wasteful. He wasted his inheritance on riotous living. We knew of many instances in our years there of families being torn apart, their homes and sustenance lost in gambling, and of lives wasted.
When gaming and lotteries were made legal in our state, revenues generated were supposed to benefit the school systems, yet the schools regularly cut out programs like music and physical education. It seems the benefits went to the new highways that were put in to accommodate the extra traffic to the casinos.
When Hurricane Katrina hit, I thought it was ironic that a mammoth barge that held afloat one of the casinos was picked up and deposited on top of and crushing the structure of the first gambling hall on the Mississippi Gulf Coast dating from early times. Was God trying to tell us something?
Monday, March 28, 2011
Shoeless, not Clueless
On a cold Spring noontime last Sunday, most of the people at my son’s church went home barefoot. No, they weren’t homeless or underprivileged, they were just moved by Mark’s sermon to place their shoes on the altar to be sent to Japan. He had forewarned them somewhat by asking everyone to wear a pair of shoes to church that day that wasn't necessarily their favorite pair. Some surmised what he had planned and brought boxes of shoes from their homes. No doubt they will be a blessing to many who lost everything in the earthquake and tsunami recently.
I can’t think of a gesture that would be more humbling and touching than to go to the altar, take off your shoes, and place them as an offering to God for the benefit of others. I don’t imagine that there was a dry eye in the place. Evidently, most of the shoes were sturdy, serviceable shoes in good condition, probably a lot of athletic shoes. I asked if anyone put in high heels, and he laughed that the ladies who wore them that day wouldn’t part with them. I remarked that it would be like when some people used to put neckties in missionary barrels to be sent to the jungles of Africa. (I remember seeing pictures of bare-chested natives wearing some of those neckties.)
“Mom, what are missionary barrels?” Mark asked. “I’ve always wondered what people meant by that.” Talk about a generation gap! As late as the 1950s, when I was a girl, churches routinely packed missionary barrels of clothing to be shipped, probably by sea, to foreign countries. Our church women’s group, then called Women’s Missionary Council, included rolls of bandages for the leper colonies. It would be an afternoon’s activity for the women, including my mother, to tear old clean, white, bed sheets into long strips of cloth, then roll them into bandages of the right size like a roll of gauze bandage. How my mother loved those hours of visiting, praying and fellowship with her WMC’s, hands busy in the work of the Lord.
From what I have read and seen in period movies and television presentations, frontier churches also received missionary barrels sent by rail to the West or to poor mountainous regions of the country. The minister’s family often depended on the contents for clothing and even toys and gifts at Christmas time, not only for themselves, but for their congregation as well.
Mark’s church also received an offering for Convoy of Hope, the disaster relief agency partnering with our church fellowship, who has been on the ground since day one of the Japanese tragedies. Thanks to modern transportation and travel, help is available almost immediately to stricken areas, followed soon after by shipments like the shoes and other humanitarian aid supplies. No need to wait months for boats as in the old days. Modes of transportation may have changed, but the motivation behind such shipments has not. Christian love and concern for their fellowman is as certain as the calamities that are sure to come.
I can’t think of a gesture that would be more humbling and touching than to go to the altar, take off your shoes, and place them as an offering to God for the benefit of others. I don’t imagine that there was a dry eye in the place. Evidently, most of the shoes were sturdy, serviceable shoes in good condition, probably a lot of athletic shoes. I asked if anyone put in high heels, and he laughed that the ladies who wore them that day wouldn’t part with them. I remarked that it would be like when some people used to put neckties in missionary barrels to be sent to the jungles of Africa. (I remember seeing pictures of bare-chested natives wearing some of those neckties.)
“Mom, what are missionary barrels?” Mark asked. “I’ve always wondered what people meant by that.” Talk about a generation gap! As late as the 1950s, when I was a girl, churches routinely packed missionary barrels of clothing to be shipped, probably by sea, to foreign countries. Our church women’s group, then called Women’s Missionary Council, included rolls of bandages for the leper colonies. It would be an afternoon’s activity for the women, including my mother, to tear old clean, white, bed sheets into long strips of cloth, then roll them into bandages of the right size like a roll of gauze bandage. How my mother loved those hours of visiting, praying and fellowship with her WMC’s, hands busy in the work of the Lord.
From what I have read and seen in period movies and television presentations, frontier churches also received missionary barrels sent by rail to the West or to poor mountainous regions of the country. The minister’s family often depended on the contents for clothing and even toys and gifts at Christmas time, not only for themselves, but for their congregation as well.
Mark’s church also received an offering for Convoy of Hope, the disaster relief agency partnering with our church fellowship, who has been on the ground since day one of the Japanese tragedies. Thanks to modern transportation and travel, help is available almost immediately to stricken areas, followed soon after by shipments like the shoes and other humanitarian aid supplies. No need to wait months for boats as in the old days. Modes of transportation may have changed, but the motivation behind such shipments has not. Christian love and concern for their fellowman is as certain as the calamities that are sure to come.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Heartthoughts: It Happened One Night
“Hurry, Howard! It’s cold out here!” I urged my husband as I scurried to the restaurant entrance while he was still getting out of the car. The March wind was whipping on this misty, grey evening, but we would soon be inside. There were lots of cars here, so there must be a good attendance at the party for our friend’s 93rd birthday. I could see the cozy scene through the plate glass windows of people gathered around tables, laughing and talking. I thought we were right on time, but maybe we were a little late.
As my husband walked up, I grabbed the door handle and gave it a pull. What? Nothing! “It’s locked!” I exclaimed. The door wouldn’t open! “Let’s try the door on the other side. They must be using that door,” he directed, as we headed to the other side of the glass entrance. It was locked, too! There was a sign that said, “Please Use Other Door.” What other door? We dashed around the corner of the building, but were only met with an expanse of brick wall.
By this time, Howard was rapping on the glass, trying to get someone’s attention. I recognized faces of the honoree’s family, but they only glanced up then went on eating. Finally, someone got up, came through the inner door, opened the entrance and let us in. “We must be late!” I apologized. “I thought it was for 5:30.” Turns out it was for five o’clock. We had driven the 15 miles or so from our neighboring town, and it was nearing six o’clock by this time.
“Oh, that’s okay,” the young man assured us. “We just got started. Come on in!” He explained that they had reserved the restaurant, so the owner had locked the doors when they began. Most of the spaces at the long tables were filled, but he showed us to two seats at one end of a table. “We’re just having our salads,” he said, pointing us to the salad bar. By this time, people were smiling, nodding and welcoming us to the party. It felt so good to be in out of the cold! More and more faces began to look familiar. We had grown up with the children of the birthday guest, but we had lived away for a lifetime and had reconnected with them only in recent years, mostly at events like this.
Howard was soon engrossed in conversation with the person across from us, thoroughly enjoying uncovering bits of the past and acquaintances held in common. It was like playing detective in a mystery novel as he unraveled threads of information that were inadvertently dropped by this stranger. “Oh, I remember him!” Howard would say, or, “They used to trade at my dad’s store!” I chimed in, too, reminding and clarifying, when I wasn’t talking to the old acquaintance on my right. After all, we’d both grown up here.
Later, I reflected on how we felt when we couldn’t get in the door, and the similarities to the story of the ten virgins in Matthew 25. The five foolish who had let their lamps go out and were too late for the wedding feast found themselves on the outside looking in. Verse 10 says, “And while they went to buy, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went in with him to the wedding, and the door was shut.” Jesus reminds us to be ready in verse 13, when he says, “Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour in which the Son of Man is coming.” It pays to know what time it is.
As my husband walked up, I grabbed the door handle and gave it a pull. What? Nothing! “It’s locked!” I exclaimed. The door wouldn’t open! “Let’s try the door on the other side. They must be using that door,” he directed, as we headed to the other side of the glass entrance. It was locked, too! There was a sign that said, “Please Use Other Door.” What other door? We dashed around the corner of the building, but were only met with an expanse of brick wall.
By this time, Howard was rapping on the glass, trying to get someone’s attention. I recognized faces of the honoree’s family, but they only glanced up then went on eating. Finally, someone got up, came through the inner door, opened the entrance and let us in. “We must be late!” I apologized. “I thought it was for 5:30.” Turns out it was for five o’clock. We had driven the 15 miles or so from our neighboring town, and it was nearing six o’clock by this time.
“Oh, that’s okay,” the young man assured us. “We just got started. Come on in!” He explained that they had reserved the restaurant, so the owner had locked the doors when they began. Most of the spaces at the long tables were filled, but he showed us to two seats at one end of a table. “We’re just having our salads,” he said, pointing us to the salad bar. By this time, people were smiling, nodding and welcoming us to the party. It felt so good to be in out of the cold! More and more faces began to look familiar. We had grown up with the children of the birthday guest, but we had lived away for a lifetime and had reconnected with them only in recent years, mostly at events like this.
Howard was soon engrossed in conversation with the person across from us, thoroughly enjoying uncovering bits of the past and acquaintances held in common. It was like playing detective in a mystery novel as he unraveled threads of information that were inadvertently dropped by this stranger. “Oh, I remember him!” Howard would say, or, “They used to trade at my dad’s store!” I chimed in, too, reminding and clarifying, when I wasn’t talking to the old acquaintance on my right. After all, we’d both grown up here.
Later, I reflected on how we felt when we couldn’t get in the door, and the similarities to the story of the ten virgins in Matthew 25. The five foolish who had let their lamps go out and were too late for the wedding feast found themselves on the outside looking in. Verse 10 says, “And while they went to buy, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went in with him to the wedding, and the door was shut.” Jesus reminds us to be ready in verse 13, when he says, “Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour in which the Son of Man is coming.” It pays to know what time it is.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Heartthoughts: Heaven's Harmony
We filled our bird feeder with birdseed today. Birds are beginning to show up in our yard, some with tentative nesting behavior. Earlier two cardinals were investigating a small tree by our front porch, hopping from branch to branch, a small twig in the mouth of the female. When the brilliantly colored red male flew to a bush opposite, she followed, and I lost sight of them. I think they are the same couple that sits on a branch jutting under a metal awning that is over my kitchen window. She is always trying to balance a twig on the branch, but that’s as far as her nest-building goes in such a precarious spot.
It is amazing that God put this nesting instinct and parental drive into these small creatures. They are a joy to watch and add brightness to the days of any who are patient enough to observe them. They are a microcosm of our own human behavior as we work to establish homes, nurture our young and launch children.
The residents we see when we visit nursing homes remind me a little of frail, fluttering birds, tired and spent from life’s buffeting. But sometimes I catch a glimpse of who they once were, when a bright spark lights up their face or actions. Last night, when most of the attendees of our monthly service had been wheeled in, a late comer appeared, born on the strains of the music that had lured her from her room. Supported by her walker and accompanied by an attentive helper, she fairly danced into the room, her feet shuffling in time to “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” her eyes quietly smiling.
At an assisted living facility we visit, most have no need for walkers and come to the service under their own power. Some cannot keep their feet still as they respond to the hand clapping music, and one nearly always comes in dancing, her halting shuffle keeping the rhythm of the song as played by my husband on his guitar and our son on the mandolin. As we sing the jubilant hymns and choruses their weak voices are emboldened and blended into a cacophony of praise, as sweet as any birdsong to Him whose eye truly is on His "sparrows".
It is amazing that God put this nesting instinct and parental drive into these small creatures. They are a joy to watch and add brightness to the days of any who are patient enough to observe them. They are a microcosm of our own human behavior as we work to establish homes, nurture our young and launch children.
The residents we see when we visit nursing homes remind me a little of frail, fluttering birds, tired and spent from life’s buffeting. But sometimes I catch a glimpse of who they once were, when a bright spark lights up their face or actions. Last night, when most of the attendees of our monthly service had been wheeled in, a late comer appeared, born on the strains of the music that had lured her from her room. Supported by her walker and accompanied by an attentive helper, she fairly danced into the room, her feet shuffling in time to “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” her eyes quietly smiling.
At an assisted living facility we visit, most have no need for walkers and come to the service under their own power. Some cannot keep their feet still as they respond to the hand clapping music, and one nearly always comes in dancing, her halting shuffle keeping the rhythm of the song as played by my husband on his guitar and our son on the mandolin. As we sing the jubilant hymns and choruses their weak voices are emboldened and blended into a cacophony of praise, as sweet as any birdsong to Him whose eye truly is on His "sparrows".
Thursday, March 24, 2011
A Day to Remember
Our granddaughter, Sarah, is getting married in a month, so I am on the lookout for a dress for the wedding. Yesterday was a beautiful day, and my husband’s day off from work, so we set out to a nearby town with more shopping possibilities. It was slim pickings in the dress department, with most being bare, scanty styles, excluding one that might have worked, except for the too short sleeves and the too high price.
Never missing an opportunity to scan the casual shirts and tops, I saw some lovely ones on sale that fit perfectly (almost). Casting a longing eye at them, I tried another store without success in either category. Oh, well, we were hungry and wanted to eat lunch anyway. Walking out, I almost bumped into a display and said, “Oh, look at that beautiful blouse! I wish it were in my size!” I checked, and it was! I took it without even trying it on (my husband was impatient)! My spirits were definitely buoyed as we stepped out into the brilliant sunshine to go to lunch.
We almost went to our favorite place, but at the last minute I suggested an Italian restaurant I’d been to before with a ladies’ group. I wasn’t sure Howard would like it, but as soon as we stepped in to the high-ceilinged, terra cotta-embellished interior, complete with a balcony and Italian kitchen, I could tell he was impressed. Their special of the day was a wonderful pasta, with salad and fresh-baked bread. We thoroughly enjoyed the tasty lunch amid the décor of huge porcelain urns, archways and colorful appointments.
We would be glad we had our light-hearted outing to remember when we found sad news on the internet when we got home. A good friend from “back home” had passed away, someone we had gone to church with for years. A brave fighter, he had struggled with his health the entire time we had known him, yet I never remember hearing him complain. Rather, he was always ready to do a job around the church or help out a friend.
My favorite memory of Danny was of him mowing the church grounds on the riding mower, singing at the top of his lungs and praising the Lord with his huge grin. Howard was remembering the time they were Wise Men in a Christmas play together, and Danny’s rolled up trouser legs kept falling down beneath the hem of the robe costume. Recalling happy times helps us smile through tears and be grateful for God’s goodness. Danny’s real life is just beginning, and until then we cherish our earthly life and family celebrations. I will find a dress for the wedding. (Oh yes, the blouse fit perfectly!)
Never missing an opportunity to scan the casual shirts and tops, I saw some lovely ones on sale that fit perfectly (almost). Casting a longing eye at them, I tried another store without success in either category. Oh, well, we were hungry and wanted to eat lunch anyway. Walking out, I almost bumped into a display and said, “Oh, look at that beautiful blouse! I wish it were in my size!” I checked, and it was! I took it without even trying it on (my husband was impatient)! My spirits were definitely buoyed as we stepped out into the brilliant sunshine to go to lunch.
We almost went to our favorite place, but at the last minute I suggested an Italian restaurant I’d been to before with a ladies’ group. I wasn’t sure Howard would like it, but as soon as we stepped in to the high-ceilinged, terra cotta-embellished interior, complete with a balcony and Italian kitchen, I could tell he was impressed. Their special of the day was a wonderful pasta, with salad and fresh-baked bread. We thoroughly enjoyed the tasty lunch amid the décor of huge porcelain urns, archways and colorful appointments.
We would be glad we had our light-hearted outing to remember when we found sad news on the internet when we got home. A good friend from “back home” had passed away, someone we had gone to church with for years. A brave fighter, he had struggled with his health the entire time we had known him, yet I never remember hearing him complain. Rather, he was always ready to do a job around the church or help out a friend.
My favorite memory of Danny was of him mowing the church grounds on the riding mower, singing at the top of his lungs and praising the Lord with his huge grin. Howard was remembering the time they were Wise Men in a Christmas play together, and Danny’s rolled up trouser legs kept falling down beneath the hem of the robe costume. Recalling happy times helps us smile through tears and be grateful for God’s goodness. Danny’s real life is just beginning, and until then we cherish our earthly life and family celebrations. I will find a dress for the wedding. (Oh yes, the blouse fit perfectly!)
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