Saturday, November 15, 2008

Magnificence

Rumble, roar, a crashing like cymbals
drew me outside onto the verandah.

Oppressive record-breaking heat
and humidity gave way to a storm on the evening of the third day.

The springtime sun had just set behind black, ominous clouds,
throwing gold and fuchsia colors across greening grass and black treetops.

Dusky rims of cumulus lit up every few seconds with
paparazzi-like flashbulbs, circling my haven, my home.

I remember my mother's mother silencing my fear
as a three-year-old child when we lived in Seattle.

"God's angels are bowling," (in response to thunder);
"God is taking pictures of you, so smile," (explaining lightning.)

So on this evening I smiled. Posed. I giggled at myself
for being so silly.

Like a child I grinned, "oohed," and "aahed"
at God's pyrotechnics in the sky around me like it was the Fourth of July.

I also remembered recent studies in Psalms
with my friends.

"The God of Glory thunders..."
"The Voice of the Lord is powerful, the Voice of the Lord is majestic."

"Out of the brightness of His presence, clouds advanced
with hailstones and bolts of lightning."

"The Lord thundered from heaven,
the Voice of the Most High resounded."

The smells of sulphur and sun-baked grasses and
rain on hot asphalt filled my nostrils.

The awareness of God's display of His presence
filled me with joy...and trepidation.

My eyes beheld lightning bolt after bolt
in quick succession drawing ever nearer to my home, and I was nervous.

A pulsing blue-white spear thick as an American tornado hit the ground
on the other side of a pine tree grove just 100 yards from my Australian haven.

Immediately thunder crackled and rumbled
overhead and nearly split my eardrums.

My hair stood on end and I gaped open-mouthed,
clutching fiercely to my husband's arm while my lungs expelled a surprised whoosh of air.

In that split second I thought of
the apostle John's description of God's throne in Revelation:

"From the throne came flashes of lightning,
rumbles and peals of thunder."

And I wondered, "If this is majesty now,
what will it be like when He's really angry."

I hope I never know.

Monday, November 10, 2008

A different Saturday

I love Saturdays with my husband.

Fresh-made coffee served by him or me in bed, (depending on whose turn it is), steaming cups held in chilly hands, blankets pulled up to our chins as we chat about life, love, and other mysteries.

On this Saturday, we left the bed and put our empty cups on nightstands while he went outside to do bloke things...cleaning his work shed, sorting out his work ute from the week...and I made breakfast of eggs, sausages, and toast. We also watched an episode of NCIS, our favorite American television program that we have purchased all five series in DVD, then off to more chores and a shower each.

Steve surprised me this day with a break in our routine. "Let's go to the Show."

The Ballarat Spring Show is equivalent to a "Fair," where there are rides, tons of junk food, a smattering of sheep, cows, pigs, and poultry to observe, and vendors selling wares in a building covered by a tin roof. Steve entered a drawing for tools, I purchased a few candles that smell deliciously of "Australian Bush," and we both agreed on purchasing five samples of myriad flavors of fudge. We watched woodcutters chop their way through hard gum tree trunks in record time with their more than sharp axes while listening to a local band play on a nearby stage.

I was reminded of outings made with my children to the much bigger Clark County Fair in Washington, and the great times we had over the years. I think they would be as amused as I with this very much smaller version. On our way out of the small grounds where the "show" is held, we bought sweet corn on the cob, one each, brushed lavishly with melted butter and copiously salted. I couldn't finish mine, and handed it over to Steve, who had devoured his in nano seconds.

On our way back to the "Disco" as Steve has dubbed our Land Rover, the black sky gave way to pelting rain. It was late afternoon, and my thin man was hungry.

So we headed to an English-style Pub that we'd heard a lot of positive things about but had never visited. The Bended Elbow looks nondescript from the outside, but going inside was sort of like going back in time. It's all polished dark wood and brass fixtures, dim lighting, and in the entrance there is a wide, ornate stairwell rising to the upper floors on the right. A bridal party was there and photographers were making their way down to the lower level to scope out the best place to take pictures as we arrived. In front of us was a three-cornered bar with beer on tap and lots of wine to choose from...the dining areas are on the raised perimeters.

As Steve asked the barmaid if we should wait for a table, I stood in a corner, well away (I thought) from male wedding revelers who acted very silly at the bar. The man with his arm around his buddy and who kissed the buddy's shaved head found me, standing alone in the corner. Another of his friends stood in front of me and then kicked his legs up and out sort of like a can-can girl, then dissolved in giggles. I couldn't help but laugh, he looked so stupid. The kissing bloke and his mates wandered toward me in my corner. I smiled, amused.

"Hey, you wanna go with us?" he asked.
"Not really," I answered.
"No, I mean, really, it would be fun. Come on, come with us to the (cricket) ground," he persisted.

I was very amused by this time, and could hardly hold back my guffaws. "No," I said with a huge smile, wondering if he'd remember this conversation tomorrow. "I don't think I want to."

"Why not?" he asked, befuddled. "What else do you have planned for this glorious day?"

I smiled in relief at my husband emerging through the group of about 12 blokes all chorusing "come with us!" Steve looked amused as well, as he could see the twinkle in my eyes.

I took Steve's offered arm, pointed to the dining area, and said, "I'm going over there with my husband."

"Oh," was the response.

But that's not the end. After we sat ourselves into a booth and picked up the menu, a bloke came to our table and asked if we were ready to order. I looked at him, and a little irritated, I told him that we JUST sat down, could he give us a few minutes. The "waiter" dissolved into giggles like an adolescent girl. He was a drunk reveler pretending to be a waiter in a place where there is no waiter. In a pub, you decide what you want, go to the counter, and order.

But at the time, I didn't understand that. I thought we had a drunk waiter. I was ready to leave, because I thought that if this was an eatery that had drunken waiters, I didn't want to stay, and for all I knew I could order salad and end up with fish. But my Aussie husband saw it for the lark it was, and explained it to me. Harmless, I suppose. The "drunken waiter" and his friends left, we ordered our meal in a normal manner, and actually enjoyed it once the revelers were gone.

This was another experience of America versus Australia. In my previous life I may have balked a bit going to a "pub," but I have learned that to Australians and the English, a pub is just a different sort of restaurant. With different sorts of people.

Emphasis on "different."

Monday, November 3, 2008

A mother's plea

The following poem is by Ruth Bell Graham, adjusted in the first line to reflect my own brood of two. (She had five.) Sometimes someone else is able to articulate things better than I what I feel. My daughter and son's birthdays are within three weeks of each other every autumn. I pondered in October and November and found this:

"[Two] I have:
each separate,

distinct,
a soul
bound for eternity: and I
--blind
leader of the blind--
groping and fumbling,
casual and concerned,
by turn...
undisciplined, I seek
by order and command
to discipline and shape;
(I who need Thy discipline to shape
my own disordered soul.)
O Thou
Who seest the heart's
true, deep desire,
each shortcoming and
each sad mistake,
supplement
and
overrule,
nor let our children be
the victims of our own
unlikeness unto Thee. "
RBG [Sitting By My Laughing Fire]

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Almost like autumn

It's springtime, well and truly.

One day it's 90 degrees and sunny or cloudy, the next it's 50 for a high, and the woodstove blazes away overnight.

Today it's a bit of both. As I write, it's 7 p.m., 66 degrees, the sun is lowering in the sky, and there are mid-level clouds promising more rain than the smattering we got today. It was enough to water our infant homestead rose bushes.

I am wearing my sweatshirt and trakky daks, and listening to Steve rustling around in his manly shed with the news radio on. I hear a crow calling to his mates, small birds singing melodious, and Buster beginning his sunset chorus of squawks and screeches.

I smell sweetly blooming dainty pink flowers on the bushes outside the sliding glass door in the courtyard, and a hint of eucalyptus tree smoke from neighboring woodstoves firing up for the chilly night to come.

It almost seems like autumn to me.

And so, I made an autumn meal, which is scenting the house deliciously. A roast lamb with stuffing rolled into the middle, pumpkin pieces and sweet potato dotted with butter cooking next to the roast in order to soak up juices, and sweet corn on the cob wrapped in foil and smothered in real butter. For dessert we'll have vanilla ice cream with stewed rhubarb.



So I guess this is my bit of rebellion on this second day of November in a southern hemisphere spring. I've made an autumn meal. I will raise my chilled glass of fizzy lemonade in remembrance of you all, who are at home in a northern hemisphere fall...well and truly.