Warm wind puffs,
lifts damp hair off my neck,
swirls shirts around my body.
Sleeves cling to my sweaty arms
while lifting linen to a clothesline
then secured with an orange peg.
If not for that breeze
the hot would oppress
with its humid breath.
I think of women who have gone before--
those who hung laundry in other climes:
sticky tropical, dusty desert, verdant hills.
I picture time-worn faces;
cracked and defined by age and fickle weather,
circumstances and life.
I imagine gnarled hands that grip
lids of jars of harvested peaches and apricots--
then put shirts and sheets on lines in the sun.
As I ponder, black clouds break open;
the wind shifts like a compass needle
and hot rain thunders down on freshly laundered shirts.
-30-
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Precocious child on a river (revised)
"Have you ever been on a locomotive?"
"Why are flies black?"
"Why do bees sting?"
"How far have you traveled on that boat?"
"I don't like eggs. Why do you?"
"The Easter Bunny leaves me chocolate eggs. Do you know why?"
On my last of five days on the Glenelg River in Australia over Easter weekend, I was peppered by questions from a five-year-old like buckshot from a 12-gauge rifle.
I had settled in for the night with my companion. I moored my small sailing yacht at Saunders Landing and powered the outboard tinny for fishing before sunset. No one was at the picnic/camp area. We seemed to be utterly alone.
I lit the wood-fueled barbecue. We cooked steak, sautéed onion, corn-on-the-cob and potatoes in foil, then settled in for a game of Scrabble.
Dusk turned to night. Parrots and other sleepy birds settled in.
Midway through our dinner with the board game by flashlight nearly finished, we heard a foghorn-like female voice drifting over black water:
"Hoy! Yeah mate! That's the place we saw earlier today, mate! Oi! There's boats there! But I'm sure it's the same place! Oi! It looks like two boats are there! Pull in anyway! Oi! I see lights! Pull in hard right, mate! I'll watch out!"
Chagrined, my companion and I helped these boaters navigate with flashlights through a dark, snag-filled river underneath a star-filled sky.
Once landed, we invited them to share our fire and sparkling wine.
This couple, older than us in our late 40s, had Campbell, a five-year-old son with them.
Campbell is precocious to say the least.
Curious, he processed information quickly. He noticed our interrupted Scrabble game and asked questions about letters on squares with tiny numbers in the corner. I explained the game while his parents spoke with my companion by the campfire.
I enjoyed watching him learn. He was fascinated with our flashlight and randomly turned it on and off. He lit up the surrounding gum trees looking for ring-tailed possums and koalas. He asked how far light goes.
"How far do you think light goes?" I said.
He pondered a moment and answered, "As far as I can see."
"Really?" I said.
By this time the moon rose and sailed above the horizon.
"But light travels so much farther than we can see," I said. "What if someone was on that moon over there and saw your light? Do you think that could happen?"
Campbell didn't answer, he stared at the moon.
"What about the stars?" I asked. "What if the light shining down to us from space was really a bunch of people on planets with flashlights shining them in our direction--hoping we would see them?"
Campbell looked at me quizzically and said, "Flashlight?"
"I mean torch," I said. (Australian lingo.)
Thinking about that for a minute, Campbell smiled. With a childish laugh, he discounted the idea.
"Nah," he said. "That's just too far away."
The child was distracted by my companion offering a perfectly melted marshmallow from a stick over the fire.
As the evening wore on, Campbell was ushered off to bed on his parent's houseboat.
“Oi!” his mother called to me, trailing after her husband who held their sleeping son. “He’s pretty smart, ain’t he?”
-30-
"Why are flies black?"
"Why do bees sting?"
"How far have you traveled on that boat?"
"I don't like eggs. Why do you?"
"The Easter Bunny leaves me chocolate eggs. Do you know why?"
On my last of five days on the Glenelg River in Australia over Easter weekend, I was peppered by questions from a five-year-old like buckshot from a 12-gauge rifle.
I had settled in for the night with my companion. I moored my small sailing yacht at Saunders Landing and powered the outboard tinny for fishing before sunset. No one was at the picnic/camp area. We seemed to be utterly alone.
I lit the wood-fueled barbecue. We cooked steak, sautéed onion, corn-on-the-cob and potatoes in foil, then settled in for a game of Scrabble.
Dusk turned to night. Parrots and other sleepy birds settled in.
Midway through our dinner with the board game by flashlight nearly finished, we heard a foghorn-like female voice drifting over black water:
"Hoy! Yeah mate! That's the place we saw earlier today, mate! Oi! There's boats there! But I'm sure it's the same place! Oi! It looks like two boats are there! Pull in anyway! Oi! I see lights! Pull in hard right, mate! I'll watch out!"
Chagrined, my companion and I helped these boaters navigate with flashlights through a dark, snag-filled river underneath a star-filled sky.
Once landed, we invited them to share our fire and sparkling wine.
This couple, older than us in our late 40s, had Campbell, a five-year-old son with them.
Campbell is precocious to say the least.
Curious, he processed information quickly. He noticed our interrupted Scrabble game and asked questions about letters on squares with tiny numbers in the corner. I explained the game while his parents spoke with my companion by the campfire.
I enjoyed watching him learn. He was fascinated with our flashlight and randomly turned it on and off. He lit up the surrounding gum trees looking for ring-tailed possums and koalas. He asked how far light goes.
"How far do you think light goes?" I said.
He pondered a moment and answered, "As far as I can see."
"Really?" I said.
By this time the moon rose and sailed above the horizon.
"But light travels so much farther than we can see," I said. "What if someone was on that moon over there and saw your light? Do you think that could happen?"
Campbell didn't answer, he stared at the moon.
"What about the stars?" I asked. "What if the light shining down to us from space was really a bunch of people on planets with flashlights shining them in our direction--hoping we would see them?"
Campbell looked at me quizzically and said, "Flashlight?"
"I mean torch," I said. (Australian lingo.)
Thinking about that for a minute, Campbell smiled. With a childish laugh, he discounted the idea.
"Nah," he said. "That's just too far away."
The child was distracted by my companion offering a perfectly melted marshmallow from a stick over the fire.
As the evening wore on, Campbell was ushered off to bed on his parent's houseboat.
“Oi!” his mother called to me, trailing after her husband who held their sleeping son. “He’s pretty smart, ain’t he?”
-30-
When the lights went out (revised)
The power quit during a communion service in the little church I attend.
Our state in Australia was inundated for several days with storm after storm of wintry blasts from the South Pole...thunder and lightning, hail and rain, wind and stronger wind. Temperatures hovered around the 40s during the day and 30s at night.
On the way to church that morning, I marveled at how much standing water there was, in a land plagued with drought over the last two deacades. Creeks flooded, and paddocks looked like grass-fringed lakes with ducks circling and flapping in the frigid air while sheep and cattle sought higher ground.
As I entered the 150-year-old town hall in Buninyong where the congregation of 30-plus people meet, I noticed everyone was rugged up in woolly scarves and warm winter coats. I found a seat where our backs could be warmed from heat emanating from ancient radiators shaped like curvy Christmas candy painted pine green.
We settled in, sang hymns and modern songs, the offering was taken, and then it was time to remember Jesus' sacrifice, as scripture tells us to. The Body broken for me, the Blood shed to cleanse my sins and make a way for me to be in God's presence now, and forever.
Darkness descended in fits and starts as overhead bulbs flickered. The high windows near the ceiling in the old building are painted beige, so light was dim anyway. The storm had its way, and darkness won the fight. Our pastor's wife had a penlight so an elder leading that part of the service could read his Bible out loud.
I thought the chosen topic was apt; Exodus 32:7-14 and Exodus 33:12-16 describes an honest conversation Moses had with God. Moses argued with God, and talked Him out of destroying a nation He had rescued from the Egyptians and a life of slavery because they were so ungrateful, wayward, and stiff-necked.
But the kick-in-the-pants verse for me was out of Matthew 15:8-9, "These people honor Me with their lips, but their hearts are far from Me. They worship Me in vain; their teachings are but rules taught by men."
Ouch.
How easily distracted I am away from God's heart. I tend, sometimes, to focus on what I think is expected of me from others as a Follower of Christ, rather than what the Bible clearly teaches in the Old Testament and in the example Jesus set.
"Follow Me," he said. Not others and the way they think and the rules they make.
Sometimes I think that God became man in the form of Jesus because He understood that life is confusing, people are confusing; people are sheep needing to be herded and led. In His compassion He seemed to say, "Okay, my beloved children. THIS is what I want you to do, THIS is how I want you to love me, THIS is how much I love you.” His Way, His example to live and be, is clear in the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
Why do I forget that? Darkness descends and fights with the flickering light in my spirit.
Our pastor asked two questions, both of which I pondered: "What is hardest for you in your life to trust God in?" and "At the end of your life, looking back over the years, what would you change in your walk with God?"
The nitty gritty is that I struggle with trust in general. I resist trusting people, and I guess that brings me to trusting God. What would I change? For a start I’d be less stubborn in hanging onto my own "safe" way of doing things.
As the service ended, we sang a hymn with older and younger voices raised, no electric keyboard, and we prayed. Afterward we mingled and laughed about how there may not be hot water for instant coffee or teabags. However it was a subdued crowd--not because there was no power, but because we each recognized something in us that we struggle with, and that we are all on the same journey.
Then the lights came on.
-30-
Our state in Australia was inundated for several days with storm after storm of wintry blasts from the South Pole...thunder and lightning, hail and rain, wind and stronger wind. Temperatures hovered around the 40s during the day and 30s at night.
On the way to church that morning, I marveled at how much standing water there was, in a land plagued with drought over the last two deacades. Creeks flooded, and paddocks looked like grass-fringed lakes with ducks circling and flapping in the frigid air while sheep and cattle sought higher ground.
As I entered the 150-year-old town hall in Buninyong where the congregation of 30-plus people meet, I noticed everyone was rugged up in woolly scarves and warm winter coats. I found a seat where our backs could be warmed from heat emanating from ancient radiators shaped like curvy Christmas candy painted pine green.
We settled in, sang hymns and modern songs, the offering was taken, and then it was time to remember Jesus' sacrifice, as scripture tells us to. The Body broken for me, the Blood shed to cleanse my sins and make a way for me to be in God's presence now, and forever.
Darkness descended in fits and starts as overhead bulbs flickered. The high windows near the ceiling in the old building are painted beige, so light was dim anyway. The storm had its way, and darkness won the fight. Our pastor's wife had a penlight so an elder leading that part of the service could read his Bible out loud.
I thought the chosen topic was apt; Exodus 32:7-14 and Exodus 33:12-16 describes an honest conversation Moses had with God. Moses argued with God, and talked Him out of destroying a nation He had rescued from the Egyptians and a life of slavery because they were so ungrateful, wayward, and stiff-necked.
But the kick-in-the-pants verse for me was out of Matthew 15:8-9, "These people honor Me with their lips, but their hearts are far from Me. They worship Me in vain; their teachings are but rules taught by men."
Ouch.
How easily distracted I am away from God's heart. I tend, sometimes, to focus on what I think is expected of me from others as a Follower of Christ, rather than what the Bible clearly teaches in the Old Testament and in the example Jesus set.
"Follow Me," he said. Not others and the way they think and the rules they make.
Sometimes I think that God became man in the form of Jesus because He understood that life is confusing, people are confusing; people are sheep needing to be herded and led. In His compassion He seemed to say, "Okay, my beloved children. THIS is what I want you to do, THIS is how I want you to love me, THIS is how much I love you.” His Way, His example to live and be, is clear in the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
Why do I forget that? Darkness descends and fights with the flickering light in my spirit.
Our pastor asked two questions, both of which I pondered: "What is hardest for you in your life to trust God in?" and "At the end of your life, looking back over the years, what would you change in your walk with God?"
The nitty gritty is that I struggle with trust in general. I resist trusting people, and I guess that brings me to trusting God. What would I change? For a start I’d be less stubborn in hanging onto my own "safe" way of doing things.
As the service ended, we sang a hymn with older and younger voices raised, no electric keyboard, and we prayed. Afterward we mingled and laughed about how there may not be hot water for instant coffee or teabags. However it was a subdued crowd--not because there was no power, but because we each recognized something in us that we struggle with, and that we are all on the same journey.
Then the lights came on.
-30-
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Sparrow Flight (revised)
Note: I submitted this story online at Faithwriters.com It won the Jewel Chest award for the week.
Sparrow Flight
By Heidi Wallenborn
At first I thought there was a mouse under the covered barbecue on the verandah.
I'd gone out to move the little tray of birdseed I keep near the door so I can enjoy watching rosellas and finches singing and dancing, with me as their private audience.
A pattering sound caught my attention. I spied a soft grey body, little beady eyes, then a flutter and flopping barely visible under the edge of the green canvas cover. I moved closer; a flurry of tiny wings stilled me.
Hesitant, I tiptoed forward then gently lifted the cover and spied a little bird. It twisted and turned, frantic to take flight; its leg was caught in a crevice of a double wheel.
I called to my husband. He gently held the sparrow. He felt her little heart beat a tattoo under his palm. Her foot was caught, held fast in the wheel's grip.
Several years ago I battled depression. A "house sparrow," I stood one morning in the bathroom of our second story home in a forest in Washington. Gazing out the window, I contemplated the death of my nearly 20-year marriage. It was late autumn and most frost-bitten leaves had pirouetted to their end, carpeting the forest floor. But one lone, yellow leaf caught my eye. It hung on a bare branch, stubbornly refusing to fall. It spun in the breeze, hanging on by a tendon. Despite the grey drizzle and cold winds, it stayed suspended between its summer haven and a loamy grave.
Sometime later, I looked for that stubborn, yellow leaf--it was still there. In fact it stayed for quite awhile until a severe, wintry gale knocked it loose. I was disappointed when it fell. I'd taken a few baby steps to change my future and had so much hope from such a little thing; I was on my way up, instead of falling down and rotting.
As he carefully handled the frightened little bird with one hand, he pried open the wheel with a small tool in the other. The sparrow's mangled claw dangled, useless. She peered at us through the top part of his fist and we discussed what to do. With tears in our eyes, we decided that neither one of us wanted to "put her out of her misery." I remembered some time ago seeing a bird hop around on one leg, and told him so. So he amputated the claw cleanly. He sent the tiny bird soaring over the verandah rail; as she took flight, I prayed.
Perhaps I'm still a bit like that house sparrow; maimed by life and a little crippled.
But I can still fly.
Sparrow Flight
By Heidi Wallenborn
At first I thought there was a mouse under the covered barbecue on the verandah.
I'd gone out to move the little tray of birdseed I keep near the door so I can enjoy watching rosellas and finches singing and dancing, with me as their private audience.
A pattering sound caught my attention. I spied a soft grey body, little beady eyes, then a flutter and flopping barely visible under the edge of the green canvas cover. I moved closer; a flurry of tiny wings stilled me.
Hesitant, I tiptoed forward then gently lifted the cover and spied a little bird. It twisted and turned, frantic to take flight; its leg was caught in a crevice of a double wheel.
I called to my husband. He gently held the sparrow. He felt her little heart beat a tattoo under his palm. Her foot was caught, held fast in the wheel's grip.
Several years ago I battled depression. A "house sparrow," I stood one morning in the bathroom of our second story home in a forest in Washington. Gazing out the window, I contemplated the death of my nearly 20-year marriage. It was late autumn and most frost-bitten leaves had pirouetted to their end, carpeting the forest floor. But one lone, yellow leaf caught my eye. It hung on a bare branch, stubbornly refusing to fall. It spun in the breeze, hanging on by a tendon. Despite the grey drizzle and cold winds, it stayed suspended between its summer haven and a loamy grave.
Sometime later, I looked for that stubborn, yellow leaf--it was still there. In fact it stayed for quite awhile until a severe, wintry gale knocked it loose. I was disappointed when it fell. I'd taken a few baby steps to change my future and had so much hope from such a little thing; I was on my way up, instead of falling down and rotting.
As he carefully handled the frightened little bird with one hand, he pried open the wheel with a small tool in the other. The sparrow's mangled claw dangled, useless. She peered at us through the top part of his fist and we discussed what to do. With tears in our eyes, we decided that neither one of us wanted to "put her out of her misery." I remembered some time ago seeing a bird hop around on one leg, and told him so. So he amputated the claw cleanly. He sent the tiny bird soaring over the verandah rail; as she took flight, I prayed.
Perhaps I'm still a bit like that house sparrow; maimed by life and a little crippled.
But I can still fly.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Australian Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving in Australia
Looking back, it seems absurd that I thought Australia was a mini-America.
I moved Down Under in January 2007. I discovered these truths: English is spoken here, but it sounds funny; the seasons are opposite of the calendar I know; holidays are more British than anything else, and yes, the water flows counter-clockwise.
During my first year, new Aussie friends asked about Thanksgiving and what it meant. They had no idea what Thanksgiving is or why Americans celebrate it. It's a unique holiday.
The best way to explain was to host a celebration at our house.
Turkey is not typically available year-round in Australia. When there are any available, it's not in frozen 25-lb plastic shrink-wrapped bundles with red pop-up pegs. In fact, turkey is an afterthought, sold in bits and pieces.
Nevertheless, we invited 14 people for the experience.
Oh my.
People laughed at me when I asked where I could find a 25 lb. turkey.
“This is not America, love,” one man said while cleaning his teeth with a bowie knife.
I called the local butcher.
'Could you get me a 25-lb turkey in a week or so?' I asked.
'Well...' Silence.
Thinking that perhaps he didn't understand pounds, I explained that it's roughly 12.5 kilograms. He said he’d get back to me. His best effort was about half that size.
I also discovered that there's no Crisco, Jello-brand gelatin, mini-marshmallows, French-fried onions to top green bean casseroles, freshly bagged cranberries to make a sauce, or Cool Whip available in supermarkets.
Guests arrived, bearing designated gifts of mashed potatoes and gravy, pre-dinner nibbles of cream-cheese stuffed celery, green and black olives without pits, deviled eggs with paprika, and wine and soft drinks. They watched me scurry around the kitchen and asked if I needed any help.
“Nope!” I said in my no-nonsense American accent. “Just talk to me and make me laugh.”
They did. Aussies are good for yarns.
Although I wasn’t able to pull off a genuine traditional Wallenborn family feast, I was happy. Laughter resonated in my home, and good-natured fun and camaraderie kept me smiling while waiting for the fowl to finish.
The beautifully browned bird came out of the oven and onto the counter-top to cheers. Two teen-age guests asked, "What is THAT?"
Because all the fixins' couldn't fit on the crowded table, I lined up food buffet-style on counters (benches to Aussies). Hardly a scrap was left on the turkey, but nobody went hungry. It pleased me to hear 'mmmmm,' 'this is so good,' and requests for recipes strange to an Australian palate.
As the American in residence, I read a history of Thanksgiving. Because the lump in my throat was too big for me to speak, I asked someone else to read George Washington's proclamation of Thanksgiving Day.
Afterward, we gave thanks for anything on our minds. One guest was impressed with the idea of a nation setting aside one day every year to give thanks to God for His blessings, to remember their beginnings, and that the current Australian Prime Minister would be wise to take notice.
Despite springtime rather than autumn weather and the absence of my family, that Thanksgiving ranks top in my memories.
I am thankful for new friends, a different country to live in and experience, and the love of my God who takes care of me no matter where I reside.
Psalm 139:9b-10, "...if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast."
Looking back, it seems absurd that I thought Australia was a mini-America.
I moved Down Under in January 2007. I discovered these truths: English is spoken here, but it sounds funny; the seasons are opposite of the calendar I know; holidays are more British than anything else, and yes, the water flows counter-clockwise.
During my first year, new Aussie friends asked about Thanksgiving and what it meant. They had no idea what Thanksgiving is or why Americans celebrate it. It's a unique holiday.
The best way to explain was to host a celebration at our house.
Turkey is not typically available year-round in Australia. When there are any available, it's not in frozen 25-lb plastic shrink-wrapped bundles with red pop-up pegs. In fact, turkey is an afterthought, sold in bits and pieces.
Nevertheless, we invited 14 people for the experience.
Oh my.
People laughed at me when I asked where I could find a 25 lb. turkey.
“This is not America, love,” one man said while cleaning his teeth with a bowie knife.
I called the local butcher.
'Could you get me a 25-lb turkey in a week or so?' I asked.
'Well...' Silence.
Thinking that perhaps he didn't understand pounds, I explained that it's roughly 12.5 kilograms. He said he’d get back to me. His best effort was about half that size.
I also discovered that there's no Crisco, Jello-brand gelatin, mini-marshmallows, French-fried onions to top green bean casseroles, freshly bagged cranberries to make a sauce, or Cool Whip available in supermarkets.
Guests arrived, bearing designated gifts of mashed potatoes and gravy, pre-dinner nibbles of cream-cheese stuffed celery, green and black olives without pits, deviled eggs with paprika, and wine and soft drinks. They watched me scurry around the kitchen and asked if I needed any help.
“Nope!” I said in my no-nonsense American accent. “Just talk to me and make me laugh.”
They did. Aussies are good for yarns.
Although I wasn’t able to pull off a genuine traditional Wallenborn family feast, I was happy. Laughter resonated in my home, and good-natured fun and camaraderie kept me smiling while waiting for the fowl to finish.
The beautifully browned bird came out of the oven and onto the counter-top to cheers. Two teen-age guests asked, "What is THAT?"
Because all the fixins' couldn't fit on the crowded table, I lined up food buffet-style on counters (benches to Aussies). Hardly a scrap was left on the turkey, but nobody went hungry. It pleased me to hear 'mmmmm,' 'this is so good,' and requests for recipes strange to an Australian palate.
As the American in residence, I read a history of Thanksgiving. Because the lump in my throat was too big for me to speak, I asked someone else to read George Washington's proclamation of Thanksgiving Day.
Afterward, we gave thanks for anything on our minds. One guest was impressed with the idea of a nation setting aside one day every year to give thanks to God for His blessings, to remember their beginnings, and that the current Australian Prime Minister would be wise to take notice.
Despite springtime rather than autumn weather and the absence of my family, that Thanksgiving ranks top in my memories.
I am thankful for new friends, a different country to live in and experience, and the love of my God who takes care of me no matter where I reside.
Psalm 139:9b-10, "...if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast."
The lonely profession
Most writers believe the craft of writing is one of the loneliest professions known to mankind because it is difficult to know what your readers think of your work and you rarely meet your audience personally...(from Faithwriters.com)
Amen.
Amen.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Watching over me (revised)
In 1970 I saved my allowance for nearly a year to buy a wristwatch.
My step-father encouraged me to put money aside for things I really wanted. If it was a worthy cause, he would match whatever was saved. He suggested a watch because learning time by hour and minute hands was a struggle for me.
We left the house early one morning after enough money was saved. Snuggled in my light-blue, down parka, I pulled the fur-lined hood over my chestnut hair and clambered into the family's metallic blue Chevy station wagon for the short trip into town. Excitement built so that I could scarcely breathe. The chill February air of eastern Washington bit my nose.
Kicking snow along the sidewalk, we walked to Chelan's only jeweler's shop. A bell pinged above the dark door as it shut behind us. The small room was mysterious in dim light with precious gems glittering.
My step-father told the man behind the counter that I could tell time and that we wanted to buy my first wristwatch. The owner smiled, pointed to a clock on the wall and asked me to perform.
There was an array of watches: diamond-studded faces, thin gold bands with dainty chains that dangled from the wrist, opulent bands in multi-faceted gems, and ordinary timepieces. I didn't have enough money for anything fancy. We settled for a Timex with a round face, clear numbers, and a ridged, black fabric wristband.
To be honest, I wasn't that thrilled with it. The watch wasn't ornate or pretty like the luxurious adornments worn by movie stars. But it grew on me. I loved to hold it under my ear and hear its tiny ticking heart. It was mine, bought by saving allowances and sacrificing candy, and I became quite proud of it, wearing it everywhere.
In 1971, my third-grade class sent a letter to President Richard Nixon along with a handcrafted gift from our Mrs. Pingrey. He (or someone) wrote back; my classmates became news fodder. Our photograph was printed in the Chelan Daily Mirror newspaper. I gasped when our picture was printed because my prized watch was visible on my wrist.
The following summer, my family and I vacationed at Yachats, Oregon on the Pacific Ocean. It was a fairly long trip with two adults and four children stuffed into a Chevy station wagon bursting with suitcases and bedding.
We spent about a week in a rustic beach side cabin. We played in the sand and surf, looked for wild strawberries, and caught net-fulls of smelt. As fast as my mother fried, we gobbled them hot, right out of the pan.
When we got home, my wristwatch was gone. I looked everywhere. I didn't ask my step-father and mother for help for fear of being yelled at and labeled irresponsible. So I quietly mourned, and prayed, and hoped no one would notice my empty wrist.
School started in September with chilly mornings and warm afternoons. I grabbed my light jacket and set out for the walk to school, jamming my chilly hands into its pockets. I stopped in my tracks. My fingers closed around the familiar fabric band and felt the smooth face of a beloved, long-lost friend. Little bits of sand clung to it. It must have been stashed there for safekeeping while building sandcastles.
After jumping up and down in excitement, I wound the watch to start it anew and set the time.
Walking home after school I went into a copse off a side road at the top of a hill where a spreading elm tree stood. It was a special tree. I buried a bird there once while offering a prayer and imagining Jesus with me. It was a favorite place where He listened to my little girl troubles.
On that autumn day, I stood under thick, spreading branches with yellowing leaves. No bird to bury, no troubles to tell Him. My right hand fingered the watch on my left wrist. My eyes closed and I thanked Him for watching over me.
Walking home, I imagined that He held my hand, the one with the watch on the wrist.
My step-father encouraged me to put money aside for things I really wanted. If it was a worthy cause, he would match whatever was saved. He suggested a watch because learning time by hour and minute hands was a struggle for me.
We left the house early one morning after enough money was saved. Snuggled in my light-blue, down parka, I pulled the fur-lined hood over my chestnut hair and clambered into the family's metallic blue Chevy station wagon for the short trip into town. Excitement built so that I could scarcely breathe. The chill February air of eastern Washington bit my nose.
Kicking snow along the sidewalk, we walked to Chelan's only jeweler's shop. A bell pinged above the dark door as it shut behind us. The small room was mysterious in dim light with precious gems glittering.
My step-father told the man behind the counter that I could tell time and that we wanted to buy my first wristwatch. The owner smiled, pointed to a clock on the wall and asked me to perform.
There was an array of watches: diamond-studded faces, thin gold bands with dainty chains that dangled from the wrist, opulent bands in multi-faceted gems, and ordinary timepieces. I didn't have enough money for anything fancy. We settled for a Timex with a round face, clear numbers, and a ridged, black fabric wristband.
To be honest, I wasn't that thrilled with it. The watch wasn't ornate or pretty like the luxurious adornments worn by movie stars. But it grew on me. I loved to hold it under my ear and hear its tiny ticking heart. It was mine, bought by saving allowances and sacrificing candy, and I became quite proud of it, wearing it everywhere.
In 1971, my third-grade class sent a letter to President Richard Nixon along with a handcrafted gift from our Mrs. Pingrey. He (or someone) wrote back; my classmates became news fodder. Our photograph was printed in the Chelan Daily Mirror newspaper. I gasped when our picture was printed because my prized watch was visible on my wrist.
The following summer, my family and I vacationed at Yachats, Oregon on the Pacific Ocean. It was a fairly long trip with two adults and four children stuffed into a Chevy station wagon bursting with suitcases and bedding.
We spent about a week in a rustic beach side cabin. We played in the sand and surf, looked for wild strawberries, and caught net-fulls of smelt. As fast as my mother fried, we gobbled them hot, right out of the pan.
When we got home, my wristwatch was gone. I looked everywhere. I didn't ask my step-father and mother for help for fear of being yelled at and labeled irresponsible. So I quietly mourned, and prayed, and hoped no one would notice my empty wrist.
School started in September with chilly mornings and warm afternoons. I grabbed my light jacket and set out for the walk to school, jamming my chilly hands into its pockets. I stopped in my tracks. My fingers closed around the familiar fabric band and felt the smooth face of a beloved, long-lost friend. Little bits of sand clung to it. It must have been stashed there for safekeeping while building sandcastles.
After jumping up and down in excitement, I wound the watch to start it anew and set the time.
Walking home after school I went into a copse off a side road at the top of a hill where a spreading elm tree stood. It was a special tree. I buried a bird there once while offering a prayer and imagining Jesus with me. It was a favorite place where He listened to my little girl troubles.
On that autumn day, I stood under thick, spreading branches with yellowing leaves. No bird to bury, no troubles to tell Him. My right hand fingered the watch on my left wrist. My eyes closed and I thanked Him for watching over me.
Walking home, I imagined that He held my hand, the one with the watch on the wrist.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Patty's legacy
My great-grandmother wrote letters to me when I was eight years old.
I relished her written words as much as I did her company.
My 73-year-old Grandma Patty’s short, white curls framed her angular face and high cheekbones. A slash of red on her smiling lips added character. Her blue eyes twinkled at me while the rest of her spelled mischief. She was not a typical old lady. She was 65 when I was born.
My favorite photograph of her is set in her 1950s Seattle, Washington living room. She is sitting on a grey, high-backed chair, languidly crossing her silk-covered legs. She wears a cotton-candy pink-colored, knee-high satin cocktail dress with full skirt, capped sleeves and a square neckline. High-heeled strappy pumps adorn her feet. Cat-eye glasses beautify her face above a poppy-red smile. A cigarette filter makes the white tobacco-stick seem longer between two red-nailed fingertips.
Grandma Patty, born in December 1896, called me “dahling” in a husky, whisky-tinged voice. I learned she played the accordion, or “squeeze-box,” for sailors in honky-tonks returning from WWI--while she awaited her first of five husbands to come home. I have photos of her in a variety of early 1900s swimsuits and cheeky, fun-loving poses and outfits. Perusing them, I smile. She was my fun-loving grandma who loved me. I think I take after her in several ways.
My first-ever letter was from Grandma Patty. My family moved to Heppner, Oregon from Longview, Washington in about 1969. My two brothers and I were newly adopted by our step-father. At that age, I wasn’t sure what that meant--only that I had a new daddy and I couldn’t see my other one. I was sad, but adjusted, as children do. Not long afterward I got a letter in the mail from Grandma Patty.
When I close my eyes, I can see the pristine white envelope with my name and address written in blue-ink, old-lady scrawl. I ran to my room and carefully unfolded the precious letter. It was the first of many. I don’t remember what she said.
I do remember writing back to her right away and telling her what I was reading at the time--my first ever library book, “Winnie the Pooh and The Blustery Day.” I wrote to her about how proud I was that I had a library card. Shortly afterward, my teacher spoke to us about having pen pals. I already had one in Grandma Patty.
Perhaps what meant most to me was that she listened. She wrote letters, responded to things I said, childish or not. I never felt like a burden or a bother, and she never betrayed my confidences.
Maybe that’s part of the reason I find it so easy to talk to God. Grandma Patty, ribald as she was, set a good pattern in this child’s ability to talk to a trusted adult. It was a smooth transition—speaking to her, then speaking to God. I find it ironic that within a few months of her first letter to me I was introduced to Him at summer vacation Bible school.
Grandma Patty and I kept up a handwritten correspondence for 15 years. Her regular communication gave me confidence in writing day-to-day events that perhaps no one else would be interested in. It also taught me the responsibility of answering messages in a timely manner. (Not that I'm good at it.) I learned etiquette in asking about her life and activities because she always asked questions about me and my little girl-to-young-womanhood-life.
My great-grandma was a unique woman. Out of all the adults around me, she was the only one who took time to get down to my level and enjoy my company. I think of the Bible verse in Matthew 19:14, when Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.“
I don’t know much about her faith; I don’t remember any conversations about that. But Grandma Patty in her own way showed me Jesus. She wrote handwritten letters to me until she died in 1983, at nearly 88 years old. I regret that she never got to meet my son, born in 1982--her great-great grandson, Jason.
Time with my renegade great-grandma was about learning how to play Las Vegas one-card solitaire while we sat cross-legged on the floor. She taught me how to laugh from my belly up. She taught me how to correctly apply lipstick. But most importantly, she taught me I was loved. She gave me the gift of communication.
I relished her written words as much as I did her company.
My 73-year-old Grandma Patty’s short, white curls framed her angular face and high cheekbones. A slash of red on her smiling lips added character. Her blue eyes twinkled at me while the rest of her spelled mischief. She was not a typical old lady. She was 65 when I was born.
My favorite photograph of her is set in her 1950s Seattle, Washington living room. She is sitting on a grey, high-backed chair, languidly crossing her silk-covered legs. She wears a cotton-candy pink-colored, knee-high satin cocktail dress with full skirt, capped sleeves and a square neckline. High-heeled strappy pumps adorn her feet. Cat-eye glasses beautify her face above a poppy-red smile. A cigarette filter makes the white tobacco-stick seem longer between two red-nailed fingertips.
Grandma Patty, born in December 1896, called me “dahling” in a husky, whisky-tinged voice. I learned she played the accordion, or “squeeze-box,” for sailors in honky-tonks returning from WWI--while she awaited her first of five husbands to come home. I have photos of her in a variety of early 1900s swimsuits and cheeky, fun-loving poses and outfits. Perusing them, I smile. She was my fun-loving grandma who loved me. I think I take after her in several ways.
My first-ever letter was from Grandma Patty. My family moved to Heppner, Oregon from Longview, Washington in about 1969. My two brothers and I were newly adopted by our step-father. At that age, I wasn’t sure what that meant--only that I had a new daddy and I couldn’t see my other one. I was sad, but adjusted, as children do. Not long afterward I got a letter in the mail from Grandma Patty.
When I close my eyes, I can see the pristine white envelope with my name and address written in blue-ink, old-lady scrawl. I ran to my room and carefully unfolded the precious letter. It was the first of many. I don’t remember what she said.
I do remember writing back to her right away and telling her what I was reading at the time--my first ever library book, “Winnie the Pooh and The Blustery Day.” I wrote to her about how proud I was that I had a library card. Shortly afterward, my teacher spoke to us about having pen pals. I already had one in Grandma Patty.
Perhaps what meant most to me was that she listened. She wrote letters, responded to things I said, childish or not. I never felt like a burden or a bother, and she never betrayed my confidences.
Maybe that’s part of the reason I find it so easy to talk to God. Grandma Patty, ribald as she was, set a good pattern in this child’s ability to talk to a trusted adult. It was a smooth transition—speaking to her, then speaking to God. I find it ironic that within a few months of her first letter to me I was introduced to Him at summer vacation Bible school.
Grandma Patty and I kept up a handwritten correspondence for 15 years. Her regular communication gave me confidence in writing day-to-day events that perhaps no one else would be interested in. It also taught me the responsibility of answering messages in a timely manner. (Not that I'm good at it.) I learned etiquette in asking about her life and activities because she always asked questions about me and my little girl-to-young-womanhood-life.
My great-grandma was a unique woman. Out of all the adults around me, she was the only one who took time to get down to my level and enjoy my company. I think of the Bible verse in Matthew 19:14, when Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.“
I don’t know much about her faith; I don’t remember any conversations about that. But Grandma Patty in her own way showed me Jesus. She wrote handwritten letters to me until she died in 1983, at nearly 88 years old. I regret that she never got to meet my son, born in 1982--her great-great grandson, Jason.
Time with my renegade great-grandma was about learning how to play Las Vegas one-card solitaire while we sat cross-legged on the floor. She taught me how to laugh from my belly up. She taught me how to correctly apply lipstick. But most importantly, she taught me I was loved. She gave me the gift of communication.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Not the school
The newest love of my life is a seventh-month-old baby boy I met a month ago.
His name is Jarrah Gold, the son of my step-nephew-and-niece-in-law Andrew and Jacqui Gold. But who cares about convoluted monikers? They are family to me.
It's hard to imagine that in a few short years, Jarrah may don a typical Australian school uniform with broad-brim hat and shiny black shoes and wave good-bye to his mum for the day.
Today, Jarrah is a trusting baby. He smiles hugely, touches our faces, mouths our cheeks with sloppy wet kisses, presses his forehead into ours or into the crook of our necks while chuckling, and generally likes our company.
The Golds visited me over the last two days. In this visit Jarrah smiled so much at me his eyes squinted tight. His mother said it's as if he's trying to smile more than he's able to with just his mouth.
Jarrah and I "read" a book. I loved his good morning grins, and looking at parrots on the verandah. He is an unusual child in that he makes intent eye contact, which makes one wonder what's going on his brain--and how he will respond to being in school.
Jacqui and Andrew are great parents. They read and sing to Jarrah and engage him in physical activity. They tag-team feeding, diaper changing, and walking and rocking times. They love and respect each other with humor and take extra care of their son.
Yesterday I went with the trio to meet a longtime friend of Jacqui's for lunch. The woman we met has a background similar to mine with the end of a rough marriage in her children's teen years. She home-schooled her children, as I did. Andrew asked her ideas versus public and/or Christian schooling. Her answer left me pondering.
"Parenting," she said, "is what makes the difference. Both parents. Not the school."
This woman who currently helps teenagers find a profession, explained that it takes two parents acting in their roles to the best of their ability for the good of the children that makes a difference. A mom can't fulfill a dad's role no matter how hard she tries, and vice-versa. Parents need to be on the same page in raising their children. Even then, children stray. The point, she said, is not the school they go to. It's the environment they live in at home with two united, loving parents that gives the advantage.
I look at Jarrah, this brand-newest generation. His parents want so much to do the right thing by him and each other.
Watching this little one grow up will be interesting. What will his interests be? What friends will he gravitate toward? Will he be respectful? Will he keep to the morals he'll be taught? Will Jarrah hold to the faith of his father and mother?
I hope so. I pray so.
In an aside, I also wonder if he will have a special grown-up smile for the American aunty who loved him, held him, sang to him, let him stick his fingers in her eyes, ears, nose and mouth, and didn't mind chucked-up apricots, broccoli, mango, turnips, oatmeal, breast-milk and pears on her shirt, table, chairs, floors and rugs. (We will laugh about all this later, Jarrah!)
Will Jarrah know that Aunty Heidi, like his parents, loved him through the tough times and good times and always--no matter what--believed the best for and of him?
I believe and hope he'll choose the good way because he's surrounded by a firm foundation of several generations of honorable people.
His name is Jarrah Gold, the son of my step-nephew-and-niece-in-law Andrew and Jacqui Gold. But who cares about convoluted monikers? They are family to me.
It's hard to imagine that in a few short years, Jarrah may don a typical Australian school uniform with broad-brim hat and shiny black shoes and wave good-bye to his mum for the day.
Today, Jarrah is a trusting baby. He smiles hugely, touches our faces, mouths our cheeks with sloppy wet kisses, presses his forehead into ours or into the crook of our necks while chuckling, and generally likes our company.
The Golds visited me over the last two days. In this visit Jarrah smiled so much at me his eyes squinted tight. His mother said it's as if he's trying to smile more than he's able to with just his mouth.
Jarrah and I "read" a book. I loved his good morning grins, and looking at parrots on the verandah. He is an unusual child in that he makes intent eye contact, which makes one wonder what's going on his brain--and how he will respond to being in school.
Jacqui and Andrew are great parents. They read and sing to Jarrah and engage him in physical activity. They tag-team feeding, diaper changing, and walking and rocking times. They love and respect each other with humor and take extra care of their son.
Yesterday I went with the trio to meet a longtime friend of Jacqui's for lunch. The woman we met has a background similar to mine with the end of a rough marriage in her children's teen years. She home-schooled her children, as I did. Andrew asked her ideas versus public and/or Christian schooling. Her answer left me pondering.
"Parenting," she said, "is what makes the difference. Both parents. Not the school."
This woman who currently helps teenagers find a profession, explained that it takes two parents acting in their roles to the best of their ability for the good of the children that makes a difference. A mom can't fulfill a dad's role no matter how hard she tries, and vice-versa. Parents need to be on the same page in raising their children. Even then, children stray. The point, she said, is not the school they go to. It's the environment they live in at home with two united, loving parents that gives the advantage.
I look at Jarrah, this brand-newest generation. His parents want so much to do the right thing by him and each other.
Watching this little one grow up will be interesting. What will his interests be? What friends will he gravitate toward? Will he be respectful? Will he keep to the morals he'll be taught? Will Jarrah hold to the faith of his father and mother?
I hope so. I pray so.
In an aside, I also wonder if he will have a special grown-up smile for the American aunty who loved him, held him, sang to him, let him stick his fingers in her eyes, ears, nose and mouth, and didn't mind chucked-up apricots, broccoli, mango, turnips, oatmeal, breast-milk and pears on her shirt, table, chairs, floors and rugs. (We will laugh about all this later, Jarrah!)
Will Jarrah know that Aunty Heidi, like his parents, loved him through the tough times and good times and always--no matter what--believed the best for and of him?
I believe and hope he'll choose the good way because he's surrounded by a firm foundation of several generations of honorable people.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Conversation in Silence
Like Samuel of the Old Testament, God first spoke to me when I was a child.
As far as this 49-year-old memory can reach backward, I recall being aware of conversations I had with God, and listening for His response from toddler age on.
Funny thing is, no one ever told me about Him. I just knew Him. We were formally introduced through vacation Bible school when I was eight.
Lying on my back cradled in a bed of warm, green grass, I looked at the azure sky with cotton ball clouds floating by, and imagined they were puff balls set off by God’s footsteps. In the thunder, I heard angels bowling; the lightning was God taking my picture.
Although I wouldn’t claim to have spoken with God face-to-face like Moses and Abraham, there are times in my life when His Presence is that tangible and near to me that I swear if I opened my eyes I’d see His face.
God talks to me in things I know.
I believe that’s how He made each of His children. He fashioned us to hear Him in specific ways. Mine is through nature.
Perhaps my theme song is Lover of My Soul, sung by Amy Grant: “When I see the winter turning into spring, it speaks to this heart of mine more than anything,” “When the sun comes up slowly with the dawn, oh this is the kind of feeling that I hang my hope upon. There is love and beauty in all that I see, and no one, nobody is explaining You to me,” “Maybe my eyes can’t see that You are surrounding me here in the wind and rain, the things that I know...I know the Voice I know the touch, Lover of my soul.”
There are times I’ve turned my back on God’s conversation to me. Overwhelmed by tragedies, sometimes just too busy, and a long period of time when I was confused about what my faith was all about anyway were all things that closed my ears. Troubles and programs and jobs were bony fingers under my chin, relentlessly turning my face away.
Recently I spent the better part of three weeks in near solitude. I was desperate to have conversation with God again, not just one-sided this time with me doing all the chatting then walking away before His response.
I spent a lot of time in silence. I took a stack of music to listen to, but didn’t. I didn’t call anyone except my husband once a day. I stared at the Southern Pacific Ocean. I read my Bible. I wrote down my thoughts. I prayed. I walked. I listened.
God spoke. His Presence is what I craved, what I needed a good dose of. He showed me lessons in nature around me. Sometimes He just showed off His creation...whales breaching offshore, and sultry tropical spring flora-scented air. In all these things, I heard His Voice.
The writer of Psalm 42 penned verse2, “My soul thirsts for God, for the Living God. Where can I go and meet with God?” I believe the result of yearning for God’s presence and conversation is this: the first part of verse 7, “Deep calls to deep.” What that means to me is the deep in me calls to the deep of God. I won’t be satisfied with anything less than profound, meaningful conversation with God, not at Him, and sometimes in silence.
The challenge for me is to maintain a simple, childlike heart that responds as little Samuel did after God called his name in I Samuel 3:10, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”
As far as this 49-year-old memory can reach backward, I recall being aware of conversations I had with God, and listening for His response from toddler age on.
Funny thing is, no one ever told me about Him. I just knew Him. We were formally introduced through vacation Bible school when I was eight.
Lying on my back cradled in a bed of warm, green grass, I looked at the azure sky with cotton ball clouds floating by, and imagined they were puff balls set off by God’s footsteps. In the thunder, I heard angels bowling; the lightning was God taking my picture.
Although I wouldn’t claim to have spoken with God face-to-face like Moses and Abraham, there are times in my life when His Presence is that tangible and near to me that I swear if I opened my eyes I’d see His face.
God talks to me in things I know.
I believe that’s how He made each of His children. He fashioned us to hear Him in specific ways. Mine is through nature.
Perhaps my theme song is Lover of My Soul, sung by Amy Grant: “When I see the winter turning into spring, it speaks to this heart of mine more than anything,” “When the sun comes up slowly with the dawn, oh this is the kind of feeling that I hang my hope upon. There is love and beauty in all that I see, and no one, nobody is explaining You to me,” “Maybe my eyes can’t see that You are surrounding me here in the wind and rain, the things that I know...I know the Voice I know the touch, Lover of my soul.”
There are times I’ve turned my back on God’s conversation to me. Overwhelmed by tragedies, sometimes just too busy, and a long period of time when I was confused about what my faith was all about anyway were all things that closed my ears. Troubles and programs and jobs were bony fingers under my chin, relentlessly turning my face away.
Recently I spent the better part of three weeks in near solitude. I was desperate to have conversation with God again, not just one-sided this time with me doing all the chatting then walking away before His response.
I spent a lot of time in silence. I took a stack of music to listen to, but didn’t. I didn’t call anyone except my husband once a day. I stared at the Southern Pacific Ocean. I read my Bible. I wrote down my thoughts. I prayed. I walked. I listened.
God spoke. His Presence is what I craved, what I needed a good dose of. He showed me lessons in nature around me. Sometimes He just showed off His creation...whales breaching offshore, and sultry tropical spring flora-scented air. In all these things, I heard His Voice.
The writer of Psalm 42 penned verse2, “My soul thirsts for God, for the Living God. Where can I go and meet with God?” I believe the result of yearning for God’s presence and conversation is this: the first part of verse 7, “Deep calls to deep.” What that means to me is the deep in me calls to the deep of God. I won’t be satisfied with anything less than profound, meaningful conversation with God, not at Him, and sometimes in silence.
The challenge for me is to maintain a simple, childlike heart that responds as little Samuel did after God called his name in I Samuel 3:10, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Courtship of She Gone Awry
A well-dressed, handsome suitor decided to treat his lady love to a leisurely rowboat ride across a clear, green lake on a fragrant spring afternoon.
She basked in glorious, butter-colored sunshine and in his attention. He placed a cushion on the seat for her and made sure there were cool drinks and nibbly bits of things to eat. Her comfort was his utmost concern.
Languidly, she stretched out her legs and kicked off her sandals. He engaged her in conversation about myriad things and laughed at her witty comments. She enjoyed his company and thought, I could spend the rest of my life with this man.
No sooner had that thought crossed her mind than a shadow passed over his face, and his mood shifted like a thundercloud passing over the sun. He fell silent and didn't engage in her attempt at small talk.
Alarmed, she leaned forward after a few minutes and asked if he felt ill.
Without words, he glared at her. Yanking the oars back into the boat, he stood while the little boat rocked precariously. He bailed. He jumped out of the boat causing a great splash, and, fully clothed, swam toward the middle of the lake, not the tree-lined shore.
Stunned, she gripped the splintered sides of the heaving boat and called out, “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What is wrong?”
He curtly replied,“I’m fine! Aren’t I allowed to go for a swim? Must you mother everything I do? Can’t I just be myself?”
What should she say?
What should she do?
The threatening thundercloud of his mood had changed without warning into a full-on squall with thunder and lightning. In shock, she questioned herself rather than him.
Did she misunderstand his intentions?
Maybe she misread his loving care.
Maybe he didn’t want to be with her after all and his mother made him do it. What kind of a remark was that anyway?
Maybe she smells bad.
While the drifting lover floated and kicked and mumbled, his lady-love took charge.
Removing herself from the cushioned seat, she tossed him a life jacket and maneuvered onto the middle plank.
She gripped the oars and rowed herself away from his floundering self and toward shore.
Her suitor angrily slapped the water on both sides of his bobbing body.
“What’s the matter?” he yelled. “Do you always have to be in control?”
This little story could end one of two ways.
#1: Looking in surprise over her shoulder, dripping oars suspended over rippling water, she replied, “Oh! My dear, I didn’t realize you only wanted to swim by yourself. I’m so sorry. Your jump was so unexpected! Honestly, I'm not trying to control you. I thought you were mad at me for some reason and wanted to give you some space. I shouldn’t have second-guessed you. Please forgive me. Here, I’ll help you get back in. I’m so sorry. You take the oars of the boat and our relationship.”
OR
#2: She sent a ferocious glance over her shoulder at him while she pulled hard at the oars like a woman on a mission. Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades underneath her Egyptian cotton-covered back. Rather than yell, she let the breeze carry her strong voice, “Stuff you Jack! If my father knew what you’d just done, he’d tan your worthless hide. You are 'allowed' to do anything you want to. But not with me. Swim home on your own, buster.”
Which will you choose?
She basked in glorious, butter-colored sunshine and in his attention. He placed a cushion on the seat for her and made sure there were cool drinks and nibbly bits of things to eat. Her comfort was his utmost concern.
Languidly, she stretched out her legs and kicked off her sandals. He engaged her in conversation about myriad things and laughed at her witty comments. She enjoyed his company and thought, I could spend the rest of my life with this man.
No sooner had that thought crossed her mind than a shadow passed over his face, and his mood shifted like a thundercloud passing over the sun. He fell silent and didn't engage in her attempt at small talk.
Alarmed, she leaned forward after a few minutes and asked if he felt ill.
Without words, he glared at her. Yanking the oars back into the boat, he stood while the little boat rocked precariously. He bailed. He jumped out of the boat causing a great splash, and, fully clothed, swam toward the middle of the lake, not the tree-lined shore.
Stunned, she gripped the splintered sides of the heaving boat and called out, “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What is wrong?”
He curtly replied,“I’m fine! Aren’t I allowed to go for a swim? Must you mother everything I do? Can’t I just be myself?”
What should she say?
What should she do?
The threatening thundercloud of his mood had changed without warning into a full-on squall with thunder and lightning. In shock, she questioned herself rather than him.
Did she misunderstand his intentions?
Maybe she misread his loving care.
Maybe he didn’t want to be with her after all and his mother made him do it. What kind of a remark was that anyway?
Maybe she smells bad.
While the drifting lover floated and kicked and mumbled, his lady-love took charge.
Removing herself from the cushioned seat, she tossed him a life jacket and maneuvered onto the middle plank.
She gripped the oars and rowed herself away from his floundering self and toward shore.
Her suitor angrily slapped the water on both sides of his bobbing body.
“What’s the matter?” he yelled. “Do you always have to be in control?”
This little story could end one of two ways.
#1: Looking in surprise over her shoulder, dripping oars suspended over rippling water, she replied, “Oh! My dear, I didn’t realize you only wanted to swim by yourself. I’m so sorry. Your jump was so unexpected! Honestly, I'm not trying to control you. I thought you were mad at me for some reason and wanted to give you some space. I shouldn’t have second-guessed you. Please forgive me. Here, I’ll help you get back in. I’m so sorry. You take the oars of the boat and our relationship.”
OR
#2: She sent a ferocious glance over her shoulder at him while she pulled hard at the oars like a woman on a mission. Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades underneath her Egyptian cotton-covered back. Rather than yell, she let the breeze carry her strong voice, “Stuff you Jack! If my father knew what you’d just done, he’d tan your worthless hide. You are 'allowed' to do anything you want to. But not with me. Swim home on your own, buster.”
Which will you choose?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Attitude change
Roses are one of my favorite flowers, especially hybrid tea roses.
However, I never really tried to plant them because I'm a lazy gardener and I knew they wouldn't survive. They need a lot of care to make sure they thrive.
Sounds like wife/women care.
Of course, everyone has different needs and wants in their lives, and some thrive better in some conditions than others. But in general, I think women are at their best when they are nurtured, watered and given regular attention--even when ugly bits are lovingly and carefully pruned. All people have such needs, but I'm focusing on women for a reason today.
Some roses are tough and resilient, some grow wild with little care except what nature brings. But to have hybrid tea roses, a lot more attention is involved.
Hybrid teas produce one glorious blossom at the end of a stem, rather than clusters. They have an open bloom, rather than a bushy one. They are repeat bloomers during the season in a variety of colors and offer wonderful fragrance.
To get the best of the rose, it needs regular watering, pruning, mulching and fertilizing. It needs to be protected from evil aphids and other things that will drain its lifeblood and attack its source of nutrients.
Unfortunately, some roses die under their caretakers for lack of attention. Left to thrive on their own, they send warning signals, such as wilting leaves, droopy heads, and no fragrance. If not looked after, they literally snap and die.
My life history is fraught with conditions that have not been good for a hybrid tea rose--sometimes not even a desert bloom. I'm not whining--it is what it is, and has been the way I grew up and lived as an adult. I'm not alone, everyone has a story to tell.
I've adjusted. I've come to realize that I survive as a Yucca.
Yuccas are actually quite attractive. They are found mostly in dry regions, love sunshine, and produce attractive pendulous bell to cup-shaped white or greenish-cream flowers sometimes tinted with pink or purple. Tall, with interesting leaves, they add a dramatic element to the garden, and are pretty much self-sufficient.
Yuccas are also useful for crafts, dyes, herbal tea and a variety of purposes. It was a favorite of Native Americans.
I mentioned recently to my niece that I figured out I can't expect to live a productive life as a hybrid tea rose, so I'm changing my name to Yucca.
She laughed, and calls me Yuccaphine and a few other endearing variations.
I laugh too. Really. Life is a whole lot easier when I'm not waiting to be watered by humans.
Smile with me today.
However, I never really tried to plant them because I'm a lazy gardener and I knew they wouldn't survive. They need a lot of care to make sure they thrive.
Sounds like wife/women care.
Of course, everyone has different needs and wants in their lives, and some thrive better in some conditions than others. But in general, I think women are at their best when they are nurtured, watered and given regular attention--even when ugly bits are lovingly and carefully pruned. All people have such needs, but I'm focusing on women for a reason today.
Some roses are tough and resilient, some grow wild with little care except what nature brings. But to have hybrid tea roses, a lot more attention is involved.
Hybrid teas produce one glorious blossom at the end of a stem, rather than clusters. They have an open bloom, rather than a bushy one. They are repeat bloomers during the season in a variety of colors and offer wonderful fragrance.
To get the best of the rose, it needs regular watering, pruning, mulching and fertilizing. It needs to be protected from evil aphids and other things that will drain its lifeblood and attack its source of nutrients.
Unfortunately, some roses die under their caretakers for lack of attention. Left to thrive on their own, they send warning signals, such as wilting leaves, droopy heads, and no fragrance. If not looked after, they literally snap and die.
My life history is fraught with conditions that have not been good for a hybrid tea rose--sometimes not even a desert bloom. I'm not whining--it is what it is, and has been the way I grew up and lived as an adult. I'm not alone, everyone has a story to tell.
I've adjusted. I've come to realize that I survive as a Yucca.
Yuccas are actually quite attractive. They are found mostly in dry regions, love sunshine, and produce attractive pendulous bell to cup-shaped white or greenish-cream flowers sometimes tinted with pink or purple. Tall, with interesting leaves, they add a dramatic element to the garden, and are pretty much self-sufficient.
Yuccas are also useful for crafts, dyes, herbal tea and a variety of purposes. It was a favorite of Native Americans.
I mentioned recently to my niece that I figured out I can't expect to live a productive life as a hybrid tea rose, so I'm changing my name to Yucca.
She laughed, and calls me Yuccaphine and a few other endearing variations.
I laugh too. Really. Life is a whole lot easier when I'm not waiting to be watered by humans.
Smile with me today.
Stilling the storm
October 5, 2010
Psalm 107:23-31
“Others went out to sea in ships; they were merchants on the mighty waters. They saw the works of the Lord, His wonderful deeds in the deep. For He spoke and stirred up a tempest that lifted high the waves. They mounted up to the heavens and went down to the depths; in their peril their courage melted away. They reeled and staggered like drunken men; they were at their wits’ end. Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble, and He brought them out of their distress. He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed. They were glad when it grew calm, and He guided them to their desired haven. Let them give thanks to the Lord for His unfailing love and His wonderful deeds to men.”
I recently got a reprieve from my troubles for two weeks, with a bird’s eye view of the South Pacific Ocean for part of that time.
I couldn’t stop staring at the restless sea.
Surfers were out from early morning until the sun set. Barges, fishing boats and yachts sailed under a boundless, ever-changing sky. I saw humpback whales breaching from my perch on the 23rd floor of a beachside condo.
I’ve always been fascinated by oceans. I can sit for hours, walk for hours, stare for hours.
It’s in my blood.
My ancestors on my father’s mother’s side come directly from Maine mariners. My great-great-great grandfather was a captain who sailed the Atlantic Ocean. When his sons were old enough they joined him on the sea. My great-great-grandfather had asthma and the open salty air helped him. However in his mid-20s he headed for the dry air of South Dakota and set up a livery stable there. I’ve often wondered how he felt, being landlocked after being raised on the wild, craggy coast of Rockland, Maine.
Part of the reason I visited the Gold Coast in Queensland, Australia is to recoup myself while I deal with my husband's penchant for infidelity.
Funny thing is, seaside is where I usually head when my soul is in need of repair.
From scripture, it appears that Jesus headed for water too.
This passage in Psalm 107 reminds me of the time when an exhausted Jesus headed out to “sea” after he heard about his beloved cousin John the Baptist’s beheading at the hands of a vindictive, power-hungry mother/pimp who wanted Herod to have her daughter. Matthew 14:13, “When Jesus heard what had happened [to John] he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place.”
After Jesus spoke to a crowd all day about the parable of the sower, a lamp on a stand, the parable of the growing seed, and the parable of the mustard seed (see Mark 4), He was dog-tired.
When evening came He suggested to the disciples that they go to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Other boats went along too and it wasn’t long before a “furious squall” erupted. Waves broke over the boat Jesus was in and it was nearly swamped. However, an unconcerned, exhausted Saviour slept soundly on a cushion.
Can you hear Peter waking Jesus up? “Don’t you CARE if we drown?” In other words...”Hellllooooo! Why are you sleeping at a time like this? At least you could help bail!”
Imagine that a groggy Jesus (because He was human like us) got up, rebuked the temper-tantrum winds and waves and said, “Quiet! Be still!”
Of course, the disciples were terrified because the wind and waves obeyed Him.
So.
Here I am, recovering from a nearly four-year, life-changing tempest of unfaithfulness from my second husband that has wreaked havoc in me. I m 10,000 miles from home.
Sometimes it seemed that Jesus slept.
In that same passage in Mark, Jesus asked his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”
My response to that question is similar to the man described in Mark 9:14-24 who came to Jesus for his son’s healing. He said to Jesus, “But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”
Jesus responded, “’IF you can?’ Everything is possible for him who believes.”
I join my voice to this anonymous father’s answer/plea to Jesus, “I DO believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”
I watch the soothing ocean because I seek the result of the mariner’s fearful cries in Psalm 107 when their courage melted away. They were at their wits’ end. They cried out to the Lord in their trouble.
God brought them out of their distress.
He stilled the storm to a whisper.
The waves were hushed.
They were glad when He guided them to their desired haven.
*Footnote: In February 2013, the continued infidelity, lack of repentance, and that my own health was continually at risk, I left. In September 2013, the Lord carried me home, to my desired haven. America.
Psalm 107:23-31
“Others went out to sea in ships; they were merchants on the mighty waters. They saw the works of the Lord, His wonderful deeds in the deep. For He spoke and stirred up a tempest that lifted high the waves. They mounted up to the heavens and went down to the depths; in their peril their courage melted away. They reeled and staggered like drunken men; they were at their wits’ end. Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble, and He brought them out of their distress. He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed. They were glad when it grew calm, and He guided them to their desired haven. Let them give thanks to the Lord for His unfailing love and His wonderful deeds to men.”
I recently got a reprieve from my troubles for two weeks, with a bird’s eye view of the South Pacific Ocean for part of that time.
I couldn’t stop staring at the restless sea.
Surfers were out from early morning until the sun set. Barges, fishing boats and yachts sailed under a boundless, ever-changing sky. I saw humpback whales breaching from my perch on the 23rd floor of a beachside condo.
I’ve always been fascinated by oceans. I can sit for hours, walk for hours, stare for hours.
It’s in my blood.
My ancestors on my father’s mother’s side come directly from Maine mariners. My great-great-great grandfather was a captain who sailed the Atlantic Ocean. When his sons were old enough they joined him on the sea. My great-great-grandfather had asthma and the open salty air helped him. However in his mid-20s he headed for the dry air of South Dakota and set up a livery stable there. I’ve often wondered how he felt, being landlocked after being raised on the wild, craggy coast of Rockland, Maine.
Part of the reason I visited the Gold Coast in Queensland, Australia is to recoup myself while I deal with my husband's penchant for infidelity.
Funny thing is, seaside is where I usually head when my soul is in need of repair.
From scripture, it appears that Jesus headed for water too.
This passage in Psalm 107 reminds me of the time when an exhausted Jesus headed out to “sea” after he heard about his beloved cousin John the Baptist’s beheading at the hands of a vindictive, power-hungry mother/pimp who wanted Herod to have her daughter. Matthew 14:13, “When Jesus heard what had happened [to John] he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place.”
After Jesus spoke to a crowd all day about the parable of the sower, a lamp on a stand, the parable of the growing seed, and the parable of the mustard seed (see Mark 4), He was dog-tired.
When evening came He suggested to the disciples that they go to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Other boats went along too and it wasn’t long before a “furious squall” erupted. Waves broke over the boat Jesus was in and it was nearly swamped. However, an unconcerned, exhausted Saviour slept soundly on a cushion.
Can you hear Peter waking Jesus up? “Don’t you CARE if we drown?” In other words...”Hellllooooo! Why are you sleeping at a time like this? At least you could help bail!”
Imagine that a groggy Jesus (because He was human like us) got up, rebuked the temper-tantrum winds and waves and said, “Quiet! Be still!”
Of course, the disciples were terrified because the wind and waves obeyed Him.
So.
Here I am, recovering from a nearly four-year, life-changing tempest of unfaithfulness from my second husband that has wreaked havoc in me. I m 10,000 miles from home.
Sometimes it seemed that Jesus slept.
In that same passage in Mark, Jesus asked his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”
My response to that question is similar to the man described in Mark 9:14-24 who came to Jesus for his son’s healing. He said to Jesus, “But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”
Jesus responded, “’IF you can?’ Everything is possible for him who believes.”
I join my voice to this anonymous father’s answer/plea to Jesus, “I DO believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”
I watch the soothing ocean because I seek the result of the mariner’s fearful cries in Psalm 107 when their courage melted away. They were at their wits’ end. They cried out to the Lord in their trouble.
God brought them out of their distress.
He stilled the storm to a whisper.
The waves were hushed.
They were glad when He guided them to their desired haven.
*Footnote: In February 2013, the continued infidelity, lack of repentance, and that my own health was continually at risk, I left. In September 2013, the Lord carried me home, to my desired haven. America.
Deep calls to deep
“Deep calls to deep in the roar of Your waterfalls; all your breakers and waves have swept over me.” Psalm 42:7
When I was a 19-year-old newlywed in 1981, my husband and I went to Oahu, Hawaii for our honeymoon.
We explored the island and went to a beach on the south side renowned for its isolation and waves. We bodysurfed.
The wild beauty and calming warmth of blue-green Pacific waters hid its deadly force.
Waves crashed so close to shore that when they crested and fell, it was with tremendous weight.
Breakers smashed me into sand underwater. The undertow pulled me. I couldn’t get out, no matter how hard I tried. My nose bled, my legs went weak; I had scratches all over my arms and legs from rough pebbles.
“Your breakers and waves have swept over me.”
Sometimes life drags us out and smashes us to pieces. We despair with no way to escape.
After nearly 20 years, my marriage disintegrated. Raising teenagers by myself where none of us made very wise choices was tough. I belonged to a church that turned out to be questionable in leadership and teaching. I made personal decisions that weren’t sensible.
I married again in 2006 to a man who claimed to be a follower of Christ. I and my family and friends had no reason to think otherwise. He said all the right things. But he was a liar. He could not stay faithful to me. I moved 10,000 miles to another country, where he abandoned me emotionally and spiritually and put my health at risk.
In 2013 I was able to come back home to America, to the loving arms of friends and family.
After 52 years, a host of bad decisions roosted like wild fowl in trees bordering my yard.
I read the 42nd Psalm surrounding verse 7: the author thirsted for God as a deer pants for water. Tears were his food day and night while he looked for God. He nearly gave up hope. He wondered why his soul was downcast and disturbed.
Despite the harassment and trouble he finally acknowledged that the answer to all his ponderings was to put his hope in God, his Saviour.
He sang...”I will yet praise Him, my Saviour and my God,” “I will remember you.”
There is an acknowledgment that God directed His love by day and His song over him by night...a Messenger with good news.
I’m getting out of the undertow and struggling my way past crashing breakers with great joy.
God responded to my deep calling to His deep.
He rescued me.
-30-
When I was a 19-year-old newlywed in 1981, my husband and I went to Oahu, Hawaii for our honeymoon.
We explored the island and went to a beach on the south side renowned for its isolation and waves. We bodysurfed.
The wild beauty and calming warmth of blue-green Pacific waters hid its deadly force.
Waves crashed so close to shore that when they crested and fell, it was with tremendous weight.
Breakers smashed me into sand underwater. The undertow pulled me. I couldn’t get out, no matter how hard I tried. My nose bled, my legs went weak; I had scratches all over my arms and legs from rough pebbles.
“Your breakers and waves have swept over me.”
Sometimes life drags us out and smashes us to pieces. We despair with no way to escape.
After nearly 20 years, my marriage disintegrated. Raising teenagers by myself where none of us made very wise choices was tough. I belonged to a church that turned out to be questionable in leadership and teaching. I made personal decisions that weren’t sensible.
I married again in 2006 to a man who claimed to be a follower of Christ. I and my family and friends had no reason to think otherwise. He said all the right things. But he was a liar. He could not stay faithful to me. I moved 10,000 miles to another country, where he abandoned me emotionally and spiritually and put my health at risk.
In 2013 I was able to come back home to America, to the loving arms of friends and family.
After 52 years, a host of bad decisions roosted like wild fowl in trees bordering my yard.
I read the 42nd Psalm surrounding verse 7: the author thirsted for God as a deer pants for water. Tears were his food day and night while he looked for God. He nearly gave up hope. He wondered why his soul was downcast and disturbed.
Despite the harassment and trouble he finally acknowledged that the answer to all his ponderings was to put his hope in God, his Saviour.
He sang...”I will yet praise Him, my Saviour and my God,” “I will remember you.”
There is an acknowledgment that God directed His love by day and His song over him by night...a Messenger with good news.
I’m getting out of the undertow and struggling my way past crashing breakers with great joy.
God responded to my deep calling to His deep.
He rescued me.
-30-
Don’t want to be decadent
I recently stayed by myself in an opulent condo on the Gold Coast courtesy of family in Australia who are financially blessed, and in turn are generous.
My nephew, niece and their six-month-old son checked into the empty unit with me, got the keys, and showed me around. On our way downstairs from the 23rd floor we came across two older women.
They crowded into the elevator with us.
The lift-mates were jolly old souls, decked out in tropically colored silk blouses, with several glittering, jewelled rings on every finger, and bracelets on each arm up to their pudgy elbows.
Their hair was dyed to match their youthful days and perfectly coiffed. Lipstick matched fingernails and toenails that peeped out of gold and silver strappy sandals.
Like magpies, they warbled about their visit, then focused their attention on my niece and her son.
Such kind, fun women they were who chatted to her in the elevator, following us into the lobby and in the parking lot next to her car.
I smiled, nodded, chuckled at the appropriate times, and basically kept my mouth shut while I edged into the background.
Why?
Well I reckon I’m pretty close in age and girth to them, so that wasn’t a problem.
However, I was in a pair of saggy black, saltwater-stained pedal-pushers and an unflattering top ensemble. My hair was seriously gunmetal gray and white for about two inches from the roots. And because it had been a long, humid day, my makeup had melted. My toenails polished with “I’m Not Really a Waitress” red, and fingernails accented with “Grand Central Carnation” pink were badly chipped. AND I’m an American, so my accent nearly always causes a fright. However, I did have black, silver and gold strappy sandals adorning my badly-in-need-of-a-filing feet.
Of course it was a matter of time before someone asked a question, and I answered.
“SO! You’re an American!”
Smiling, I said, “Yes I am.”
“Are you staying here very long?”
“For a lifetime” is what I wanted to say, just to see her horrified response. But instead, I said, “About a week. I’m on holiday.”
Then to verify my right to stay there I explained that Jacqui is my niece and I married her uncle.
A suspicious “oh.”
Or maybe I imagined the tone. Yanks can be oversensitive, I’ve heard.
In the underground garage I parked my road-dirty silver Mitsubishi Magna Sport next to shiny black, gold and silver Mercedes, BMWs, Lexus SUVs, and other spotless and polished vehicles.
When I traveled outside, I was followed by the same sorts of fancy vehicles, even to the Fisherman’s co-op down the road.
Even though I felt a tad out of place at times I was amused at how comfortable I felt in the ritzy, practically-on-the-beach Gold Coast condo, despite realizing that I was so out of my league.
But ya know what? I liked it—feeling like I don’t really belong to this lifestyle.
Perhaps some of these uber-wealthy people don’t know, or may have forgotten what it’s like to struggle to make ends meet. I believe “going without” builds character.
While there, I watched a television program about how the Great Depression in America happened with the stock market crash in October 1929. I hadn’t realized that the people it most affected were middle-class people like me. I also hadn’t realized how close America came to repeating that disaster in the latest economic crisis--some call it a downturn; I think that’s putting cake frosting on dog turd. But I digress.
I moved to Australia just before the global financial crisis hit. My house sold for cash before the bottom fell out of the market. I reaped my profit-sharing funds from my place of employment before the stock market plummeted (my boss relied heavily on Wall Street for profits for employees in his company), and I was able to leave the States with a nice little egg in my nest. Australia slipped through the crisis virtually unscathed.
But even if I had gazillions of dollars in the bank and investments, I wouldn’t want to change the way I live.
I like nice things, just like anyone, and I like to travel.
But I’m not into bangles and baubles and high-rises and the decadent way of life that comes with riches.
Proverbs 30:7-9, “Two things I ask of you, O Lord; do not refuse me before I die: Keep falsehood and lies far from me; give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown You and say, ‘Who is the Lord?’ Or I may become poor and steal and so dishonor the name of my God.”
Here’s to chipped fingernail polish, outgrown hair color, a functional car, and my God who takes care of my every need.
My nephew, niece and their six-month-old son checked into the empty unit with me, got the keys, and showed me around. On our way downstairs from the 23rd floor we came across two older women.
They crowded into the elevator with us.
The lift-mates were jolly old souls, decked out in tropically colored silk blouses, with several glittering, jewelled rings on every finger, and bracelets on each arm up to their pudgy elbows.
Their hair was dyed to match their youthful days and perfectly coiffed. Lipstick matched fingernails and toenails that peeped out of gold and silver strappy sandals.
Like magpies, they warbled about their visit, then focused their attention on my niece and her son.
Such kind, fun women they were who chatted to her in the elevator, following us into the lobby and in the parking lot next to her car.
I smiled, nodded, chuckled at the appropriate times, and basically kept my mouth shut while I edged into the background.
Why?
Well I reckon I’m pretty close in age and girth to them, so that wasn’t a problem.
However, I was in a pair of saggy black, saltwater-stained pedal-pushers and an unflattering top ensemble. My hair was seriously gunmetal gray and white for about two inches from the roots. And because it had been a long, humid day, my makeup had melted. My toenails polished with “I’m Not Really a Waitress” red, and fingernails accented with “Grand Central Carnation” pink were badly chipped. AND I’m an American, so my accent nearly always causes a fright. However, I did have black, silver and gold strappy sandals adorning my badly-in-need-of-a-filing feet.
Of course it was a matter of time before someone asked a question, and I answered.
“SO! You’re an American!”
Smiling, I said, “Yes I am.”
“Are you staying here very long?”
“For a lifetime” is what I wanted to say, just to see her horrified response. But instead, I said, “About a week. I’m on holiday.”
Then to verify my right to stay there I explained that Jacqui is my niece and I married her uncle.
A suspicious “oh.”
Or maybe I imagined the tone. Yanks can be oversensitive, I’ve heard.
In the underground garage I parked my road-dirty silver Mitsubishi Magna Sport next to shiny black, gold and silver Mercedes, BMWs, Lexus SUVs, and other spotless and polished vehicles.
When I traveled outside, I was followed by the same sorts of fancy vehicles, even to the Fisherman’s co-op down the road.
Even though I felt a tad out of place at times I was amused at how comfortable I felt in the ritzy, practically-on-the-beach Gold Coast condo, despite realizing that I was so out of my league.
But ya know what? I liked it—feeling like I don’t really belong to this lifestyle.
Perhaps some of these uber-wealthy people don’t know, or may have forgotten what it’s like to struggle to make ends meet. I believe “going without” builds character.
While there, I watched a television program about how the Great Depression in America happened with the stock market crash in October 1929. I hadn’t realized that the people it most affected were middle-class people like me. I also hadn’t realized how close America came to repeating that disaster in the latest economic crisis--some call it a downturn; I think that’s putting cake frosting on dog turd. But I digress.
I moved to Australia just before the global financial crisis hit. My house sold for cash before the bottom fell out of the market. I reaped my profit-sharing funds from my place of employment before the stock market plummeted (my boss relied heavily on Wall Street for profits for employees in his company), and I was able to leave the States with a nice little egg in my nest. Australia slipped through the crisis virtually unscathed.
But even if I had gazillions of dollars in the bank and investments, I wouldn’t want to change the way I live.
I like nice things, just like anyone, and I like to travel.
But I’m not into bangles and baubles and high-rises and the decadent way of life that comes with riches.
Proverbs 30:7-9, “Two things I ask of you, O Lord; do not refuse me before I die: Keep falsehood and lies far from me; give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown You and say, ‘Who is the Lord?’ Or I may become poor and steal and so dishonor the name of my God.”
Here’s to chipped fingernail polish, outgrown hair color, a functional car, and my God who takes care of my every need.
Monday, February 8, 2010
A sparrow story
A sparrow story
By Heidi Wallenborn-Cramer
At first I thought there was a mouse under the covered barbecue on the verandah.
I'd gone out to move the little tray of birdseed I keep near the door so I can enjoy watching rosellas and finches singing and dancing, with me as their private audience.
A pattering sound caught my attention. I spied a soft grey body, little beady eyes, then a flutter and flopping barely visible under the edge of the green canvas cover. I moved closer; a flurry of tiny wings stilled me.
Hesitant, I tiptoed forward then gently lifted the cover and spied a little bird. It twisted and turned, frantic to take flight; its leg was caught in a crevice of a double wheel.
I called to my husband, Steve. He gently held the sparrow. He felt her little heart beat a tattoo under his palm. Her foot was caught, held fast in the wheel's grip.
Several years ago I battled depression. A "house sparrow," I stood one morning in the bathroom of our second story home in a forest in Washington. Gazing out the window, I contemplated the death of my nearly 20-year marriage. It was late autumn and most frost-bitten leaves had pirouetted to their end, carpeting the forest floor. But one lone, yellow leaf caught my eye. It hung on a bare branch, stubbornly refusing to fall. It spun in the breeze, hanging on by a tendon. Despite the grey drizzle and cold winds, it stayed suspended between its summer haven and a loamy grave.
Sometime later, I looked for that stubborn, yellow leaf--it was still there. In fact it stayed for quite awhile until a severe, wintry gale knocked it loose. I was disappointed when it fell. I'd taken a few baby steps to change my future and had so much hope from such a little thing; I was on my way up, instead of falling down and rotting.
As Steve carefully handled the frightened little bird with one hand, he pried open the wheel with a small tool in the other. The sparrow's mangled claw dangled, useless. She peered at us through the top part of his fist and we discussed what to do. With tears in our eyes, we decided that neither one of us wanted to "put her out of her misery." I remembered some time ago seeing a bird hop around on one leg, and told him so. So he amputated the claw cleanly. He sent the tiny bird soaring over the verandah rail; as she took flight, I prayed.
Perhaps I'm still a bit like that house sparrow; maimed by life and a little crippled.
But I can still fly.
By Heidi Wallenborn-Cramer
At first I thought there was a mouse under the covered barbecue on the verandah.
I'd gone out to move the little tray of birdseed I keep near the door so I can enjoy watching rosellas and finches singing and dancing, with me as their private audience.
A pattering sound caught my attention. I spied a soft grey body, little beady eyes, then a flutter and flopping barely visible under the edge of the green canvas cover. I moved closer; a flurry of tiny wings stilled me.
Hesitant, I tiptoed forward then gently lifted the cover and spied a little bird. It twisted and turned, frantic to take flight; its leg was caught in a crevice of a double wheel.
I called to my husband, Steve. He gently held the sparrow. He felt her little heart beat a tattoo under his palm. Her foot was caught, held fast in the wheel's grip.
Several years ago I battled depression. A "house sparrow," I stood one morning in the bathroom of our second story home in a forest in Washington. Gazing out the window, I contemplated the death of my nearly 20-year marriage. It was late autumn and most frost-bitten leaves had pirouetted to their end, carpeting the forest floor. But one lone, yellow leaf caught my eye. It hung on a bare branch, stubbornly refusing to fall. It spun in the breeze, hanging on by a tendon. Despite the grey drizzle and cold winds, it stayed suspended between its summer haven and a loamy grave.
Sometime later, I looked for that stubborn, yellow leaf--it was still there. In fact it stayed for quite awhile until a severe, wintry gale knocked it loose. I was disappointed when it fell. I'd taken a few baby steps to change my future and had so much hope from such a little thing; I was on my way up, instead of falling down and rotting.
As Steve carefully handled the frightened little bird with one hand, he pried open the wheel with a small tool in the other. The sparrow's mangled claw dangled, useless. She peered at us through the top part of his fist and we discussed what to do. With tears in our eyes, we decided that neither one of us wanted to "put her out of her misery." I remembered some time ago seeing a bird hop around on one leg, and told him so. So he amputated the claw cleanly. He sent the tiny bird soaring over the verandah rail; as she took flight, I prayed.
Perhaps I'm still a bit like that house sparrow; maimed by life and a little crippled.
But I can still fly.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Hope gained
This summer morning, as I look out onto my view from my "treehouse office" at parrots flying low and a moon sailing over pine trees to its rest on the western horizon, I am reminded of Proverbs 13:12, "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life."
Perhaps my lighter heart this morning is in response to a number of good events over the last few days. Maybe I'm setting myself up for yet another emotional disaster that hope deferred brings.
But this morning, I feel good. Really good.
Getting married and moving to Australia in January 2007 was a bigger life change than I realized.
There were a lot of highly charged emotional things going on at the same time back in the States, and adding to the mix, the marriage isn't as easy-peasy as I thought it would be.
There were also roadblocks and other outside forces to deal with here that I had no idea were lurking around the corner to ambush me...a steady drone for years.
I finally talked to a professional about some of these things. It felt good to be validated and listened to and understood, and to know there is help available for me without prescriptions, and most of all there is hope.
I'm done with the guilt of feeling like Jesus should be enough, why isn't He? He is...and sometimes He uses other people as His hands throwing me a life jacket.
The biggest source of my joy this week were three week-long visitors.
My step-niece Josie and her 1-year-old daughter, Sienna, along with a friend's daughter from the US, Stephanie, are here.
They are young, fresh, and interesting in conversation (when we aren't chasing Sienna) and easy, enjoyable companions. For being perfect strangers, the two young women are getting along like a house on fire, and adventures are planned for the week.
When I started writing this morning, I felt peace. But now, the household is up, getting coffee, tea, and brekky, Sienna is banging plastic on the floor and squealing, and I realize that to this peace is added a quiet joy.
Maybe this longing fulfilled of a peaceful, hopeful life will become a strong and mighty tree in me.
Perhaps my lighter heart this morning is in response to a number of good events over the last few days. Maybe I'm setting myself up for yet another emotional disaster that hope deferred brings.
But this morning, I feel good. Really good.
Getting married and moving to Australia in January 2007 was a bigger life change than I realized.
There were a lot of highly charged emotional things going on at the same time back in the States, and adding to the mix, the marriage isn't as easy-peasy as I thought it would be.
There were also roadblocks and other outside forces to deal with here that I had no idea were lurking around the corner to ambush me...a steady drone for years.
I finally talked to a professional about some of these things. It felt good to be validated and listened to and understood, and to know there is help available for me without prescriptions, and most of all there is hope.
I'm done with the guilt of feeling like Jesus should be enough, why isn't He? He is...and sometimes He uses other people as His hands throwing me a life jacket.
The biggest source of my joy this week were three week-long visitors.
My step-niece Josie and her 1-year-old daughter, Sienna, along with a friend's daughter from the US, Stephanie, are here.
They are young, fresh, and interesting in conversation (when we aren't chasing Sienna) and easy, enjoyable companions. For being perfect strangers, the two young women are getting along like a house on fire, and adventures are planned for the week.
When I started writing this morning, I felt peace. But now, the household is up, getting coffee, tea, and brekky, Sienna is banging plastic on the floor and squealing, and I realize that to this peace is added a quiet joy.
Maybe this longing fulfilled of a peaceful, hopeful life will become a strong and mighty tree in me.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Hello again
I don't know if anyone reads this anymore...it's been several months since I wrote anything...on here, and at all.
But I want that to change. I want to write, I need to write, and I have suffered because I haven't.
So, if you read this, leave a note if you can. I'd appreciate the encouragement, the comments, and anything else you'd like to say.
But what it comes down to is this...these pages are my thoughts, for better or worse, and a place for me to be me. Whether anyone sees or not.
Thanks. Heidi
But I want that to change. I want to write, I need to write, and I have suffered because I haven't.
So, if you read this, leave a note if you can. I'd appreciate the encouragement, the comments, and anything else you'd like to say.
But what it comes down to is this...these pages are my thoughts, for better or worse, and a place for me to be me. Whether anyone sees or not.
Thanks. Heidi
Hanging on a Line
Warm winds puff,
lifts damp hair off my neck,
swirls my shirt around my body.
Sleeves cling to my sweaty arms
lifting sheets to a clothesline
secured with an orange peg.
If not for that breeze
the hot would oppress
with its humid breath.
I think of Australian women who have gone before me
those who hang laundry in other climes:
sticky tropical, dusty desert, verdant hills.
I picture time-worn faces,
cracked and defined by age and fickle weather
and circumstances and life.
I imagine gnarled hands that grip
lids of jars of harvested peaches and apricots,
and put clothes and sheets on lines in the sun.
I'm not an Australian woman;
But I see her in my neighbors, at the post office
and driving her beat-up ute to market.
As I ponder, black clouds break open,
the wind shifts like a compass needle
and hot rain thunders down on freshly laundered sheets.
lifts damp hair off my neck,
swirls my shirt around my body.
Sleeves cling to my sweaty arms
lifting sheets to a clothesline
secured with an orange peg.
If not for that breeze
the hot would oppress
with its humid breath.
I think of Australian women who have gone before me
those who hang laundry in other climes:
sticky tropical, dusty desert, verdant hills.
I picture time-worn faces,
cracked and defined by age and fickle weather
and circumstances and life.
I imagine gnarled hands that grip
lids of jars of harvested peaches and apricots,
and put clothes and sheets on lines in the sun.
I'm not an Australian woman;
But I see her in my neighbors, at the post office
and driving her beat-up ute to market.
As I ponder, black clouds break open,
the wind shifts like a compass needle
and hot rain thunders down on freshly laundered sheets.
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