Mouse Disposal will be addressed in a minute, but first, what goes hack, wheeze, snort, and kerchoo, talks with a very deep, sexy voice, drinks copious amounts of liquids, and occasionally moans out of self-pity? ME with a cold. UGH!
I'm much better than I was, though. Saturday evening I didn't even want to open my eyes. My head was so congested my whole face ached. My head probably hurt me more than my face hurt anyone looking at me. That is debatable, though. With a red, runny nose, dry lips, watery eyes, and my hair pressed to my scalp, I was not a pretty sight.
At least I had on my warm, fuzzy bathrobe I got for Christmas. It provided both warmth and comfort, especially with two pockets that held my cough drops and damp hankies. (excuse me while I blow)
Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, I didn't get much accomplished at the retreat--at least in the line of album pages completed. I rested, blew my nose, talked and laughed, coughed, read most of one book and part of another, snorted, drank tea, juice, and water, napped, wrote a post for my blog, enjoyed wonderful brunches and dinners, and finally made my way home to find a happy cat waiting for me.
How happy was she? She was so happy, she brought me a mouse. Oh, to be loved so much. I am probably deluded when it comes to discerning the affections of a feline. I am afraid the chubby rodent that Licorice so thoughtfully placed on my welcome mat has nothing to do with her affections for me. It is probably going to be her dinner later this evening if I don't get rid of it first.
I tried getting rid of one once before. The dead mouse had been granted permission to spend the night on my porch. My ulterior motive was this: some scavenger will pick it up before morning--a raccoon, cat, or crow. I was so wrong. At dawn's first light, the little thing, now damp with dew, was still where Licorice had left it, and still very much dead. So, with my jaw firmly set, I put on my oldest, dirtiest tennie-runners, slowly approached the critter, half expecting it to jump at me, and gently nudged it off the porch onto a pile of brown, soggy leaves below. A couple hours later, when I let Licorice in from whatever it is she does outside, the mouse was gone. Did Licorice find it? Maybe yes. Maybe no. Did a crow get it? Maybe yes. Maybe no. I don't know for sure what happened. So, for lack of evidence, she didn't eat it. Something else did.
Now, about the body on the porch. Licorice went back out, moved it from the mat to the edge of the porch, then wanted in--again. So, I still have the body to contend with because I don't want her to eat it. (I can look into her big yellow eyes, but the thought of her having mouse breath freaks me out)
I could (#1) try the old "nudge it off the porch" trick again, then kick some leaves over it. But then, I will end up dealing with a decomposed mouse when I clean out the leaves--whenever that will be.
I could (#2) scoop it up on a shovel and toss it into the tall grass across the road by the mail box. But then, I mow over there. I don't especially want to find teeny, tiny mouse bones in my grass clippings when I dump them. That isn't probable, but it is possible.
I could (#3) use my shovel to dump it into the garbage can. The garbage man comes next week.
I could (#4) use my shovel to put it in the pile of brush we will burn later this spring--a huge funeral pyre for a noble mouse.
Or, I could (#5) use my handy-dandy trowel to dump it in the toilet. You know the old "flush it" routine. That may work for a pet fish, but sadly, this mouse is way too big for flushing.
But, do I really want to defile my shovel? Scooping up dog poop is one thing, but a deceased mouse? That is another matter all together.
I guess I will put on my old shoes, and give it the "nudge off the porch" treatment. If Licorice finds and eats it, she finds and eats it. At least I won't know, and my shovel won't be defiled--just the side of my shoes. On second thought, I think I had better use a long stick instead.
Thankful that my problems are so mundane, and my cold is so much better,
Jan and Licorice Kitty (she is sleeping and probably dreaming of her mouse)
P.S. No wonder the little mice are so big and fat, they are gophers! Duh.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Who Are Those People?
I said I wasn't going to do it, but I did it anyway--brought my laptop to the retreat in case I want to write something. So, that is what I am doing, writing. And yes, there is WiFi here now. I am writing because of a box of photos I went through last evening. They are pictures I got from my dad a couple years ago. There are photos of Mom and Dad with various great-grand-kids, photos of birthday parties and anniversary celebrations, photos from events they attended as snowbirds in Arizona, and photos of Mom painting, as well as pictures of some of her landscapes (Dad's, too)
As I sit here at the retreat center this morning, there is only one other person up. Everyone else is still asleep. While they sleep, I stare back at the picture that has been staring at me all morning . It was taken at my grandparent's fiftieth wedding anniversary. There they sit at a table with a cake in front of them. A huge 50 is perched on top of it, and flowers decorate the sides. My parents stand behind Granddad, and my dad's sister and her husband stand behind Grandmother. Everyone has a smile of sorts on their face. The women are all displaying big smiles and white teeth. The guys just have relaxed mouths and a look on their faces that says, "Let's get this picture session over with."
These are the people who helped shape my life, people I knew from the time I was born, and people who, except for my 93 year old dad, are no longer living. But who were they really? I know they must have had their hopes and dreams, disappointments, joys and frustrations because they were real people, and that is what real people do. But looking at the faces staring at me from the black and white photo, I see six people who are practically strangers to me. That is sad.
It may be sad, but I think it is life. We experience it's highs and lows, and ups and downs without being very aware of those who exist around us. I knew my grandmother was quiet, liked darkened rooms, moved slowly, and loved the roses growing in her back yard. Granddad laughed robustly, adored my grandmother, gave me horehound candy, spent hours in his workshop in the garage, and snored. But who were they really? What motivated them? I have no idea.
The same is true for my parents and my aunt and uncle. I know some of their stories, some of their likes and dislikes, some of the things we did together, but I don't know who they were. At least that is true of me and my relationships with them.
Last week I was riding to a ballgame with by daughter and granddaughter. During the course of the trip, my granddaughter said, "Mom, I don't know you. I don't know anything about you. Tell me who you are."
Interesting comments coming from a fourteen-year-old, I mused.
Where am I going with all this? Nowhere that I know of. Do I need to know who those people in the photo really were. No. Would I like to know? Yes, I would.
I know I have mentioned this before, yet want to say it again. I don't want to leave this world without my family knowing about my love for them--love expressed through heartfelt words, not just kind deeds and thoughtful actions. I want them to know about the strength Christ gave me when I traveled through dark valleys, and the delight I feel at the sight of wild life, grand-kids, and sunrises. I am more than someone who cooks and welcomes guests; although, I love doing those things.
What I am fumbling around trying to say is this, "I am not my deeds and actions, I am my heart. That is what I must keep in mind about the people around me, too. They aren't just what they do or say. They each have a heart that can either be seen, or else hidden away.
Lord, let me see people's hearts.
Jan
As I sit here at the retreat center this morning, there is only one other person up. Everyone else is still asleep. While they sleep, I stare back at the picture that has been staring at me all morning . It was taken at my grandparent's fiftieth wedding anniversary. There they sit at a table with a cake in front of them. A huge 50 is perched on top of it, and flowers decorate the sides. My parents stand behind Granddad, and my dad's sister and her husband stand behind Grandmother. Everyone has a smile of sorts on their face. The women are all displaying big smiles and white teeth. The guys just have relaxed mouths and a look on their faces that says, "Let's get this picture session over with."
These are the people who helped shape my life, people I knew from the time I was born, and people who, except for my 93 year old dad, are no longer living. But who were they really? I know they must have had their hopes and dreams, disappointments, joys and frustrations because they were real people, and that is what real people do. But looking at the faces staring at me from the black and white photo, I see six people who are practically strangers to me. That is sad.
It may be sad, but I think it is life. We experience it's highs and lows, and ups and downs without being very aware of those who exist around us. I knew my grandmother was quiet, liked darkened rooms, moved slowly, and loved the roses growing in her back yard. Granddad laughed robustly, adored my grandmother, gave me horehound candy, spent hours in his workshop in the garage, and snored. But who were they really? What motivated them? I have no idea.
The same is true for my parents and my aunt and uncle. I know some of their stories, some of their likes and dislikes, some of the things we did together, but I don't know who they were. At least that is true of me and my relationships with them.
Last week I was riding to a ballgame with by daughter and granddaughter. During the course of the trip, my granddaughter said, "Mom, I don't know you. I don't know anything about you. Tell me who you are."
Interesting comments coming from a fourteen-year-old, I mused.
Where am I going with all this? Nowhere that I know of. Do I need to know who those people in the photo really were. No. Would I like to know? Yes, I would.
I know I have mentioned this before, yet want to say it again. I don't want to leave this world without my family knowing about my love for them--love expressed through heartfelt words, not just kind deeds and thoughtful actions. I want them to know about the strength Christ gave me when I traveled through dark valleys, and the delight I feel at the sight of wild life, grand-kids, and sunrises. I am more than someone who cooks and welcomes guests; although, I love doing those things.
What I am fumbling around trying to say is this, "I am not my deeds and actions, I am my heart. That is what I must keep in mind about the people around me, too. They aren't just what they do or say. They each have a heart that can either be seen, or else hidden away.
Lord, let me see people's hearts.
Jan
Friday, January 24, 2014
New Words for the Day
I'm off to a retreat for the weekend. It will be a few days to work an a photo album, organize album supplies (again), and sort and organize newspaper clippings. In between these tasks, I have a book to read and a cross stitch project to work on--the one I began at last year's retreat and haven't touched since.
There will be wonderful meals to share and stories to tell. I am looking forward to it.
I decided that my laptop is staying home; therefore, there will be no blog posts over the weekend. There is no internet hookup there anyway. But I might take it along if I get inspired to write. Who knows? I don't.
This is a day that I learned something new. Two words. Since I love words, I had to check these out. In an article on the arctic snowy owls migrating much further south than normal, the word irruption was used. That was a new one for me. An irruption is an invasion of things (my word) not usually found in the area. It can be people, plants, or animals. So, that is what happened last summer. My magnolia tree had an irruption of paper wasps in its top branches.
The other word was murmuration. and used in the heading for a video of a huge flock of birds that filled the sky as it swooped and swirled up and down, back and forth. It was amazing. When I looked up the word, I discovered that a murmuration is the term for a gathering of starlings. I love the word, but I really don't think starlings murmur.
Have a great weekend everyone.
Jan and Licorice Kitty who hasn't brought me a mouse in days :)
There will be wonderful meals to share and stories to tell. I am looking forward to it.
I decided that my laptop is staying home; therefore, there will be no blog posts over the weekend. There is no internet hookup there anyway. But I might take it along if I get inspired to write. Who knows? I don't.
This is a day that I learned something new. Two words. Since I love words, I had to check these out. In an article on the arctic snowy owls migrating much further south than normal, the word irruption was used. That was a new one for me. An irruption is an invasion of things (my word) not usually found in the area. It can be people, plants, or animals. So, that is what happened last summer. My magnolia tree had an irruption of paper wasps in its top branches.
The other word was murmuration. and used in the heading for a video of a huge flock of birds that filled the sky as it swooped and swirled up and down, back and forth. It was amazing. When I looked up the word, I discovered that a murmuration is the term for a gathering of starlings. I love the word, but I really don't think starlings murmur.
Have a great weekend everyone.
Jan and Licorice Kitty who hasn't brought me a mouse in days :)
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Beside Myself
I was practically beside myself yesterday--so beside myself that there wasn't enough room in my chair for both of us. I couldn't find my purse. I knew I had had it Sunday morning when I left for church, but by Monday morning I couldn't find it. So, yesterday I checked with both the church and the grocery story I had stopped at. No purse. I turned the house upside-down. I checked the car from trunk to floor under the front seats. No purse. For the life of me I couldn't remember when I had it last.
It wasn't just my purse that was missing, it was 'my life'--gas money, grocery money, money for the remaining out-of-town basketball games. It was over $100. Then there was my drivers license, medical insurance cards, debit card, and a couple credit cards (which I use only a couple times a year to order something on-line). Finally, there were two McDonalds gift cards.
The thought of dealing with phone calls to law enforcement, my bank, and credit card personnel didn't make me very happy. I couldn't even tell anyone what had happened except the fact that I had left it somewhere. To top it all off, having to find something to verify my identity for a new driver's license irritated me no end.
The straw that almost broke this camel's back was the phone call from by daughter asking me if I wanted a ride to the ball game. Of course I did, but without my driver's license I didn't want to risk driving to her house in the dark, and getting stopped. I also didn't want to ask for the money to get into the game; therefore, I told her I would sit this one out.
Half an hour later my daughter-in-law called. Was I going to the game? No. I couldn't find my purse, I told her. Then added that I don't like going anywhere without ID.
"Your purse is over here." she informed me. I must have taken in with me when I watched the football game with her on Sunday. In the heat of the Seahawk's win, my mind must have gone blank.
Today was going to be the day to make those calls. Thankfully that is not necessary. This is a day to spend the rest of my grocery money, meet a friend for coffee, and start gathering up what I will need for this weekend's retreat.
I don't know why I don't like dealing with junk like lost purses. It shouldn't have caused me to go into a funk, but it did. "Lord, help this brain of mine remember." I prayed. "If it was stolen, let me get at least my ID cards back."
I am thankful I didn't get overly excited and make those calls yesterday. I guess my reticence paid off in this case. "Thank you, Lord."
By the way, we got clobbered in the basketball game last night, but my granddaughters played well. They both have hustle and speed--so much fun to watch.
Heading out for the store with anticipation of a blessed day,
Jan (I left Licorice outside to chase the field mice around)
It wasn't just my purse that was missing, it was 'my life'--gas money, grocery money, money for the remaining out-of-town basketball games. It was over $100. Then there was my drivers license, medical insurance cards, debit card, and a couple credit cards (which I use only a couple times a year to order something on-line). Finally, there were two McDonalds gift cards.
The thought of dealing with phone calls to law enforcement, my bank, and credit card personnel didn't make me very happy. I couldn't even tell anyone what had happened except the fact that I had left it somewhere. To top it all off, having to find something to verify my identity for a new driver's license irritated me no end.
The straw that almost broke this camel's back was the phone call from by daughter asking me if I wanted a ride to the ball game. Of course I did, but without my driver's license I didn't want to risk driving to her house in the dark, and getting stopped. I also didn't want to ask for the money to get into the game; therefore, I told her I would sit this one out.
Half an hour later my daughter-in-law called. Was I going to the game? No. I couldn't find my purse, I told her. Then added that I don't like going anywhere without ID.
"Your purse is over here." she informed me. I must have taken in with me when I watched the football game with her on Sunday. In the heat of the Seahawk's win, my mind must have gone blank.
Today was going to be the day to make those calls. Thankfully that is not necessary. This is a day to spend the rest of my grocery money, meet a friend for coffee, and start gathering up what I will need for this weekend's retreat.
I don't know why I don't like dealing with junk like lost purses. It shouldn't have caused me to go into a funk, but it did. "Lord, help this brain of mine remember." I prayed. "If it was stolen, let me get at least my ID cards back."
I am thankful I didn't get overly excited and make those calls yesterday. I guess my reticence paid off in this case. "Thank you, Lord."
Heading out for the store with anticipation of a blessed day,
Jan (I left Licorice outside to chase the field mice around)
Friday, January 17, 2014
I Saw a Masterpiece Today
I had a WOW moment today that made me wish I had an i-phone or i-pad or i-something I could use to post a picture. I would have loved to have all of you experience the beauty and grandeur of an elk herd up close. By 'up close' I mean that at least twenty beautiful creatures were standing and grazing thirty to forty feet from my bedroom door. Watching such magnificent animals, enormous yet regal, thrilled me. WOW.
I love watching the wildlife that regularly visit my small piece of paradise. I've occasionally seen a raccoon in the evenings--it trips the motion sensor night light. Bats have gotten into the house. Snakes have shed their skin in the field. I've seen signs of bear, and heard the eerie howl of coyotes. There are the squirrels, chipmunks, feral cats, neighbor's dogs, and field mice. There are jays, crows, starlings, hummingbirds, swallows, eagles, and hawks. And of course, there are the deer.
But elk are another story. Although they are fairly common around here, grazing in large herds in roadside fields, they are usually seen from a distance. There is a sizable herd that dines in fields by the nearby river, possibly the same herd that knocks down pasture fences at my daughter's house. But when a 500-700 pound Olympic elk is no longer off in the distance and is lifting up his head from munching on your blue berry bushes and looking you in the eye, you know you have seen something.
Wild, yet beautiful is what they are--a masterpiece of God's creation.
I hope they come back soon. I had only a few minutes to watch them, before leaving to help out at the school. Maybe tomorrow. If not, I feel blessed to have been so close to them today. Thank you, Lord.
Still in awe,
Jan and Licorice (she slept through it all)
I love watching the wildlife that regularly visit my small piece of paradise. I've occasionally seen a raccoon in the evenings--it trips the motion sensor night light. Bats have gotten into the house. Snakes have shed their skin in the field. I've seen signs of bear, and heard the eerie howl of coyotes. There are the squirrels, chipmunks, feral cats, neighbor's dogs, and field mice. There are jays, crows, starlings, hummingbirds, swallows, eagles, and hawks. And of course, there are the deer.
But elk are another story. Although they are fairly common around here, grazing in large herds in roadside fields, they are usually seen from a distance. There is a sizable herd that dines in fields by the nearby river, possibly the same herd that knocks down pasture fences at my daughter's house. But when a 500-700 pound Olympic elk is no longer off in the distance and is lifting up his head from munching on your blue berry bushes and looking you in the eye, you know you have seen something.
Wild, yet beautiful is what they are--a masterpiece of God's creation.
I hope they come back soon. I had only a few minutes to watch them, before leaving to help out at the school. Maybe tomorrow. If not, I feel blessed to have been so close to them today. Thank you, Lord.
Still in awe,
Jan and Licorice (she slept through it all)
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
What? It's Tuesday (plus) Redeemed Treasures
A day of diverse activities, that is what today is. It started with the pest control guy spraying for pests (the six legged kind) around my house. It then moved to my Tuesday morning prayer meeting in town, followed by a visit to the friendly dentist. One filling later (old one was cracked) I was back home washing up a sink full of bowls and small plates, glasses, silverware, and a couple pot and pans. By then my deadened mouth was no longer dead so I fixed a bite to eat, inhaled it, then handled today's mail. The clock, if it were able, would now be chiming 4:00. So I now have one and one-half hours to write this post--if I can figure out what to write-- and head to the school to watch my grandson play some basketball. Where did Tuesday go?
While that is a very good question, an even better question is, what happened to Monday? Before heading out this morning, I sent a short e-mail to my dad with this heading, "Monday Morning." As I drove down my road, I noticed most of my neighbors had their garbage cans out as well as their recycle bins. Oh, ya, I told myself. Tomorrow is recycle day--gotta remember to get my can out. My neighbors are really on the ball getting their cans out a day early.
Well, the truth hit me about fifteen minutes later. My neighbors weren't a day early, I am going to be a day late. Now I have to wait two more weeks before I can get rid of all my papers, cans, and plastic bottles from Christmas. Oh well.
As for my "Monday Morning" note to Dad, I hope I don't get him all confused. But knowing him, he knows it is Tuesday because his weekly routines keep him on track--a track that is nearly impossible to remove him from. That guy doesn't derail easily. That is the complete opposite of me. Most of the time, I am not even on the track. If I start out on the mainline in the morning, by sometime mid-afternoon I am usually in a field somewhere playing in the daisies with The Little Engine That Could.
Four-thirty has rolled around and I, instead of writing, have been sitting here in my 'daisy field' playing with thoughts such as, what happened to the mouse head and ?? that Licorice left on the porch last night? They were still there when we got up this morning, but not there when I got home at two. Did the pest guy remove them? Did Licorice have them for lunch? Did the crows come calling at my smorgasbord of exotic foods? I would love to know what happened. There has got to be a good story there somewhere. I know they didn't run off on their own.
I also played a virtual game of remember when... Remember when you had to spit into the little bowl by the dentist chair? Remember when x-rays were little, black, transparent squares placed on a light box so the white images of your teeth would be 'read' by the dentist? Remember the low-pitched sound and the vibration of the slow rpm drills? Remember...Let's not.
Now that I have spent an hour writing, wondering, and reminiscing, all in the comfort of my living room, I want to leave with this from a video I watched last night. It was taken at 2010 youth conference in Tennessee. I loved the points Pastor Dan Mohler was lovingly pounding home. These are my interpretations of his message.
God didn't send his Son to die for us so we could go to heaven some day. Jesus died to bring heaven to us while we live. He lives in us.
God doesn't look at us and see worthless, sinful failures. He looks at us and sees the people he created us to be. People with a purpose. People so valuable, so needed, so loved, that he paid the redemption price--the life of his own son.
Instead of asking, "How could God allow x, y, and z to happen to me?" or "How can God love me? I'm such a failure." remember there are no 'what ifs' and 'ifs onlys' with God. God sees us as he made us to be. We are the ones who see ourselves as failures, sinners, no good, or whatever else the world puts on us.
As redeemed treasures, when negativity rears its ugly, accusatory head we need only say, "Thank you, Lord, that I am no longer that other person. Thank you for loving and redeeming me, for changing me, for empowering me. Thank you for helping me become who you made me to be."
Pastor Mohler is an interesting, flaky (his own words) guy, but I love the way he celebrates life in the Lord and the victory Christ gives us over past hurts and defeats.
And, with that, I will sign off to get ready for a basketball game.
A redeemed treasure of the Lord,
Jan---Licorice, too (sleeping again, but at least she won't bring any mice home)
While that is a very good question, an even better question is, what happened to Monday? Before heading out this morning, I sent a short e-mail to my dad with this heading, "Monday Morning." As I drove down my road, I noticed most of my neighbors had their garbage cans out as well as their recycle bins. Oh, ya, I told myself. Tomorrow is recycle day--gotta remember to get my can out. My neighbors are really on the ball getting their cans out a day early.
Well, the truth hit me about fifteen minutes later. My neighbors weren't a day early, I am going to be a day late. Now I have to wait two more weeks before I can get rid of all my papers, cans, and plastic bottles from Christmas. Oh well.
As for my "Monday Morning" note to Dad, I hope I don't get him all confused. But knowing him, he knows it is Tuesday because his weekly routines keep him on track--a track that is nearly impossible to remove him from. That guy doesn't derail easily. That is the complete opposite of me. Most of the time, I am not even on the track. If I start out on the mainline in the morning, by sometime mid-afternoon I am usually in a field somewhere playing in the daisies with The Little Engine That Could.
Four-thirty has rolled around and I, instead of writing, have been sitting here in my 'daisy field' playing with thoughts such as, what happened to the mouse head and ?? that Licorice left on the porch last night? They were still there when we got up this morning, but not there when I got home at two. Did the pest guy remove them? Did Licorice have them for lunch? Did the crows come calling at my smorgasbord of exotic foods? I would love to know what happened. There has got to be a good story there somewhere. I know they didn't run off on their own.
I also played a virtual game of remember when... Remember when you had to spit into the little bowl by the dentist chair? Remember when x-rays were little, black, transparent squares placed on a light box so the white images of your teeth would be 'read' by the dentist? Remember the low-pitched sound and the vibration of the slow rpm drills? Remember...Let's not.
Now that I have spent an hour writing, wondering, and reminiscing, all in the comfort of my living room, I want to leave with this from a video I watched last night. It was taken at 2010 youth conference in Tennessee. I loved the points Pastor Dan Mohler was lovingly pounding home. These are my interpretations of his message.
God didn't send his Son to die for us so we could go to heaven some day. Jesus died to bring heaven to us while we live. He lives in us.
God doesn't look at us and see worthless, sinful failures. He looks at us and sees the people he created us to be. People with a purpose. People so valuable, so needed, so loved, that he paid the redemption price--the life of his own son.
Instead of asking, "How could God allow x, y, and z to happen to me?" or "How can God love me? I'm such a failure." remember there are no 'what ifs' and 'ifs onlys' with God. God sees us as he made us to be. We are the ones who see ourselves as failures, sinners, no good, or whatever else the world puts on us.
As redeemed treasures, when negativity rears its ugly, accusatory head we need only say, "Thank you, Lord, that I am no longer that other person. Thank you for loving and redeeming me, for changing me, for empowering me. Thank you for helping me become who you made me to be."
Pastor Mohler is an interesting, flaky (his own words) guy, but I love the way he celebrates life in the Lord and the victory Christ gives us over past hurts and defeats.
And, with that, I will sign off to get ready for a basketball game.
A redeemed treasure of the Lord,
Jan---Licorice, too (sleeping again, but at least she won't bring any mice home)
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Eight Hours of Team-Cheering and People-Watching
People. That is what is on my writing agenda today: family people, bleacher sitting people, cheering people, and running, jumping, spinning people. Those people are an interesting lot.
First off is the one-thirty p.m. gathering of one adult male, two adult females, one teenage male, three teenage females, and a twelve-year old. This fine group of people is my family and me. Most of us are clad in Seahawk shirts and caps, and all of us are sitting upright around a video screen. On this windy, rainy, game day in the Pacific Northwest, we intently watch the game action on the screen, make comments to each other, the game officials, and the players, and eat homemade stew--all at the same time. We are a talented bunch of fans.
Field Goal, Seahawks!! A cheer goes up around the room, bowls go down, happy dances are performed, and high-fives are given all around. An afternoon of football is underway. At the first touchdown, water is spilled on the carpet, soaked up with a towel, then the glass refilled.
By halftime, with the Seahawks leading, the guys are now sprawled all over the sofas.The teenage girls are using a curling wand on their hair while sitting on the floor, still cheering, groaning, and complaining over the game. One adult woman is using an exercise machine--pedal, pedal, pedal. And me? I am washing down a chocolate chip cookie with a brown cow (root beer and milk combo), watching the game, and being entertained by my family.
Go Hawks. Go Guys on the sofas. Go Girls with partially-curled hair. Go pedaling daughter-in-law.
Third quarter comes around, the Seahawks still lead. The girls, with beautifully coiffed hair, are now polishing their finger nails. The sprawled out guys have become very vocal, sideline coaches, my daughter-in-law puts away uneaten stew, and I eat another chocolate chip cookie while learning about accent nails.
I know about accent pillows, accent walls, and accent accessories, but I had never heard about accent nails until the third quarter of yesterday's game. The two granddaughters who were giving themselves manicures each had ten beautifully polished nails (lavendar), but on each hand was one nail adorned with a glittering finish--the accent nail. Wow. I learn something new everyday--almost. Almost learn or almost every day? take your pick.
Fourth quarter! The game can go either way. Will we finish victoriously? Go Hawks. Everyone is sitting at attention once more. Everyone that is except my oldest grandson. He is now dressed in his basketball jersey and pacing the floor in the entry way. He doesn't want to be late for his pre-game warm-ups, but doesn't want to miss the end of the Seattle game either. So he paces.
Finally, the clock runs down and the rival team is unable to score. WE WIN! My grandson makes his exit. Two granddaughters also exit. They head home to get ready for the high school basketball game, and those of us remaining straighten up the house before leaving, too.
It is time for an evening of basketball. Go Cats!
The Junior Varsity game is almost underway when we arrive. The crowd is sparse. Actually it isn't a crowd at all--just us parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, the usual bunch. We nod, wave, smile and greet each other, exchange a few pleasantries, ask about injured sons, and settle ourselves into our usual spots in the bleachers and onto our don't-leave-home-without-it cushions. There are also the little brothers and sisters milling around with either suckers in their mouths or bags of popcorn in their hands. We are ready for action.
For the next one and one-half hours, the basketball family cheers and encourages the young players. It moans over missed shots, jumps to its feet at great plays, and goes silent when a player goes down. It shakes its head and gets upset at the refs' "bad" calls. Throughout the evening, as it eats popcorn, nachos, pretzels and cookies, licks suckers, drinks water, and laughs, it is one living, breathing unit. It is family. And it grows.
Smiling cheerleaders arrive. Students (macho, flirty, shy) arrive. Family of varsity players arrive, and so do people from the visiting team. By the time our JV team defeats their rival from across the harbor, the gym is fairly full of people ready for two more hours of continuing excitement.
Go Cats!
The whistle blows, the ball is tossed, it's tipped, we score. The cheerleaders yell, they kick, they shake their pompoms. Our crowd cheers, the opponents moan. The cheerleaders smile. The Varsity game is on.
The young players are unbelievable to watch. They run fast and play hard. They dive for loose balls, and throw themselves at opponent's passes. They jostle for rebounds, and wrestle to tie up the ball. They charge into massive bodies, then pass to the little guy on the outside who takes the shot. They dribble around and through. They pass over and under. They make lay-ups and three-pointers. They throw rim shots and air balls. They foul other players, are fouled themselves, and sometimes foul out. But, even more amazing, is the body control they do have, and the finesse they can exhibit. These young men, whether playing uninhibitedly or with some degree of poise, all possess heart, energy, and passion.
When the final buzzer sounds, the opponents cheer over their victory, our crowd cheers over the great job our guys did, and I am exhausted. Three exciting games and eight hours of high intensity play is almost too much for one day. And next weekend we will do it all over again. Only next weekend, it is the girls who have the home game after the Seahawks finish up. Whew.
After watching the afternoon's and evening's action, part of me says, Oh to be young again. But another, more realistic parts says, Who are you kidding? You weren't even that way when you were young.
To be totally honest with myself, I have always been quiet, reflexive, yet curious and observant. I have never lived life at a break-neck, throw myself into the fray pace. Although I love being part of the action, my enjoyment comes from experiencing the sights and sounds around me, watching the actions and interactions of people I am with, and being awed by the athletic abilities of others--that is the way I live.
I work on the sideline by encouraging, cheering, and helping. I will pray with you and for you. But I don't sense God's calling to throw myself into the heat of the battle. Until God's still-small-voice tells me otherwise, I will remain where I feel I must be. Is that an excuse for where I am in my walk with the Lord? I don't think so; however, if it is, I need the Holy Spirit Referee to blow his whistle, point to me in the stands, and say, "You, Jan, get yourself down here on the court. We need you here, now!" When and if that happens, may I be obedient.
Lots of love on this Sunday afternoon,
Jan and Licorice (Sleeping on a chair. Go Licorice Kitty!)
First off is the one-thirty p.m. gathering of one adult male, two adult females, one teenage male, three teenage females, and a twelve-year old. This fine group of people is my family and me. Most of us are clad in Seahawk shirts and caps, and all of us are sitting upright around a video screen. On this windy, rainy, game day in the Pacific Northwest, we intently watch the game action on the screen, make comments to each other, the game officials, and the players, and eat homemade stew--all at the same time. We are a talented bunch of fans.
Field Goal, Seahawks!! A cheer goes up around the room, bowls go down, happy dances are performed, and high-fives are given all around. An afternoon of football is underway. At the first touchdown, water is spilled on the carpet, soaked up with a towel, then the glass refilled.
By halftime, with the Seahawks leading, the guys are now sprawled all over the sofas.The teenage girls are using a curling wand on their hair while sitting on the floor, still cheering, groaning, and complaining over the game. One adult woman is using an exercise machine--pedal, pedal, pedal. And me? I am washing down a chocolate chip cookie with a brown cow (root beer and milk combo), watching the game, and being entertained by my family.
Go Hawks. Go Guys on the sofas. Go Girls with partially-curled hair. Go pedaling daughter-in-law.
Third quarter comes around, the Seahawks still lead. The girls, with beautifully coiffed hair, are now polishing their finger nails. The sprawled out guys have become very vocal, sideline coaches, my daughter-in-law puts away uneaten stew, and I eat another chocolate chip cookie while learning about accent nails.
I know about accent pillows, accent walls, and accent accessories, but I had never heard about accent nails until the third quarter of yesterday's game. The two granddaughters who were giving themselves manicures each had ten beautifully polished nails (lavendar), but on each hand was one nail adorned with a glittering finish--the accent nail. Wow. I learn something new everyday--almost. Almost learn or almost every day? take your pick.
Fourth quarter! The game can go either way. Will we finish victoriously? Go Hawks. Everyone is sitting at attention once more. Everyone that is except my oldest grandson. He is now dressed in his basketball jersey and pacing the floor in the entry way. He doesn't want to be late for his pre-game warm-ups, but doesn't want to miss the end of the Seattle game either. So he paces.
Finally, the clock runs down and the rival team is unable to score. WE WIN! My grandson makes his exit. Two granddaughters also exit. They head home to get ready for the high school basketball game, and those of us remaining straighten up the house before leaving, too.
It is time for an evening of basketball. Go Cats!
The Junior Varsity game is almost underway when we arrive. The crowd is sparse. Actually it isn't a crowd at all--just us parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, the usual bunch. We nod, wave, smile and greet each other, exchange a few pleasantries, ask about injured sons, and settle ourselves into our usual spots in the bleachers and onto our don't-leave-home-without-it cushions. There are also the little brothers and sisters milling around with either suckers in their mouths or bags of popcorn in their hands. We are ready for action.
For the next one and one-half hours, the basketball family cheers and encourages the young players. It moans over missed shots, jumps to its feet at great plays, and goes silent when a player goes down. It shakes its head and gets upset at the refs' "bad" calls. Throughout the evening, as it eats popcorn, nachos, pretzels and cookies, licks suckers, drinks water, and laughs, it is one living, breathing unit. It is family. And it grows.
Smiling cheerleaders arrive. Students (macho, flirty, shy) arrive. Family of varsity players arrive, and so do people from the visiting team. By the time our JV team defeats their rival from across the harbor, the gym is fairly full of people ready for two more hours of continuing excitement.
Go Cats!
The whistle blows, the ball is tossed, it's tipped, we score. The cheerleaders yell, they kick, they shake their pompoms. Our crowd cheers, the opponents moan. The cheerleaders smile. The Varsity game is on.
The young players are unbelievable to watch. They run fast and play hard. They dive for loose balls, and throw themselves at opponent's passes. They jostle for rebounds, and wrestle to tie up the ball. They charge into massive bodies, then pass to the little guy on the outside who takes the shot. They dribble around and through. They pass over and under. They make lay-ups and three-pointers. They throw rim shots and air balls. They foul other players, are fouled themselves, and sometimes foul out. But, even more amazing, is the body control they do have, and the finesse they can exhibit. These young men, whether playing uninhibitedly or with some degree of poise, all possess heart, energy, and passion.
When the final buzzer sounds, the opponents cheer over their victory, our crowd cheers over the great job our guys did, and I am exhausted. Three exciting games and eight hours of high intensity play is almost too much for one day. And next weekend we will do it all over again. Only next weekend, it is the girls who have the home game after the Seahawks finish up. Whew.
After watching the afternoon's and evening's action, part of me says, Oh to be young again. But another, more realistic parts says, Who are you kidding? You weren't even that way when you were young.
To be totally honest with myself, I have always been quiet, reflexive, yet curious and observant. I have never lived life at a break-neck, throw myself into the fray pace. Although I love being part of the action, my enjoyment comes from experiencing the sights and sounds around me, watching the actions and interactions of people I am with, and being awed by the athletic abilities of others--that is the way I live.
I work on the sideline by encouraging, cheering, and helping. I will pray with you and for you. But I don't sense God's calling to throw myself into the heat of the battle. Until God's still-small-voice tells me otherwise, I will remain where I feel I must be. Is that an excuse for where I am in my walk with the Lord? I don't think so; however, if it is, I need the Holy Spirit Referee to blow his whistle, point to me in the stands, and say, "You, Jan, get yourself down here on the court. We need you here, now!" When and if that happens, may I be obedient.
Lots of love on this Sunday afternoon,
Jan and Licorice (Sleeping on a chair. Go Licorice Kitty!)
Friday, January 10, 2014
Sticky Key Syndrome
What happens when your affectionate cat walks across your laptop keyboard, and then sits down on the control key to be petted? It freezes your keyboard!! That is the vital information I discovered today when I took my laptop to the doctor.
For the past two days I haven't been able to do anything on my computer that requires the use of the keyboard. It all started while I was working on an Excel spreadsheet. As I moved some data around, Licorice decided to jump onto my lap for a little visit. I scooted her off the keyboard, but she sat down on the left-hand edge and gave me a little meow. I gave her chin a little scratch, patted her down, and sent her on her way. When I returned to my work, nothing worked right. My mouse wouldn't scroll (it just increased and decreased the size of everything), alpha-numeric keys didn't work, and the control and alt keys in combination with other keys did crazy things.
I couldn't even go on line for help because I couldn't type anything. Today, knowing I couldn't write on my blog site, I thought I would try something on Microsoft Word. Maybe that would work. It didn't, but at least I got a message from Bill Gates. It said my control key was depressed. Well, I was getting depressed too, not to mention that after two days I was beginning to suffer from withdrawals.
So, off to town I went this morning. I got my hair trimmed, bought some all-juice Popsicles as a treat for a granddaughter who will be spending the night with me, bought a toy for Licorice, and visited the 'puter doc. The nice young man at Staples knew exactly what to do. He hollered back to another techie, "How do you fix Sticky Key Syndrome?"
"Push the control key five times, or restart the computer."
This is what the Staple's tech told me. When someone (Licorice) either pushes down the control key five times in a row, or holds it down for an extended period, the keyboard is frozen. Now I know what happened and how to fix it. What I don't know is what in the world Sticky Key is used for.
I will now digress.
My entire family, and most of Washington State as well, is geared up for the Seattle Seahawk-New Orleans Saints playoff game tomorrow afternoon. The wind will blow and gust, the rain will pour, and the 12th man (crowd) will roar through it all. Our family will cheer right along with them. Go Hawks.
Have a great weekend.
Jan and Licorice, who is napping. She has absolutely no sense of guilt over her control issue
For the past two days I haven't been able to do anything on my computer that requires the use of the keyboard. It all started while I was working on an Excel spreadsheet. As I moved some data around, Licorice decided to jump onto my lap for a little visit. I scooted her off the keyboard, but she sat down on the left-hand edge and gave me a little meow. I gave her chin a little scratch, patted her down, and sent her on her way. When I returned to my work, nothing worked right. My mouse wouldn't scroll (it just increased and decreased the size of everything), alpha-numeric keys didn't work, and the control and alt keys in combination with other keys did crazy things.
I couldn't even go on line for help because I couldn't type anything. Today, knowing I couldn't write on my blog site, I thought I would try something on Microsoft Word. Maybe that would work. It didn't, but at least I got a message from Bill Gates. It said my control key was depressed. Well, I was getting depressed too, not to mention that after two days I was beginning to suffer from withdrawals.
So, off to town I went this morning. I got my hair trimmed, bought some all-juice Popsicles as a treat for a granddaughter who will be spending the night with me, bought a toy for Licorice, and visited the 'puter doc. The nice young man at Staples knew exactly what to do. He hollered back to another techie, "How do you fix Sticky Key Syndrome?"
"Push the control key five times, or restart the computer."
This is what the Staple's tech told me. When someone (Licorice) either pushes down the control key five times in a row, or holds it down for an extended period, the keyboard is frozen. Now I know what happened and how to fix it. What I don't know is what in the world Sticky Key is used for.
I will now digress.
My entire family, and most of Washington State as well, is geared up for the Seattle Seahawk-New Orleans Saints playoff game tomorrow afternoon. The wind will blow and gust, the rain will pour, and the 12th man (crowd) will roar through it all. Our family will cheer right along with them. Go Hawks.
Have a great weekend.
Jan and Licorice, who is napping. She has absolutely no sense of guilt over her control issue
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Licorice, aka Spirit
Leftovers. That is what I have been eating the past week. This morning I discovered the remains of some delicious thick-sliced bacon in a cottage cheese container. The bacon had been used to wrap around a pork loin roast we had for the holidays. The roast was marinaded for a day, then baked. The loin was so good, as was the bacon.
So, for breakfast this morning, I heated up the bacon, poached an egg, toasted a couple slices of English Muffin bread, and poured a glass of V8 juice. I then sat in the recliner and, under the scrutiny of Licorice Kitty, enjoyed every bite of it. At least that is what I thought.
Late this afternoon, after I finished a crossword puzzle, Licorice jumped onto my lap, gave me a friendly meow with a comforting purr, poked her nose into the cushion beside me and stated to dig. What in the world is she up to, I wondered. Since cat claws and leather cushions don't mix well, I moved her off my lap and replaced her with my laptop. Before long, she had returned and repeated her previous actions. I repeated mine.
After a few moments of pondering Licorice's actions, I finally, and very carefully, put my hand down between the cushion and the side of the chair. For all I knew, Licorice had a mouse stored down there. She didn't. Instead, it was a piece of bacon that had slid off my plate this morning! I can't believe I didn't know it had gone missing. I ate it.
I'm considering giving Licorice the nickname of 'Spirit'--the one who searches out my deepest, darkest places to reveal those things that need to be removed before they rot and cause bigger problems.
Well, it's time to get ready for another basketball game. Love it.
This has been a great, new-year day. I pray tomorrow will be, too.
Jan and Licorice Kitty (I should have given her the bacon)
So, for breakfast this morning, I heated up the bacon, poached an egg, toasted a couple slices of English Muffin bread, and poured a glass of V8 juice. I then sat in the recliner and, under the scrutiny of Licorice Kitty, enjoyed every bite of it. At least that is what I thought.
Late this afternoon, after I finished a crossword puzzle, Licorice jumped onto my lap, gave me a friendly meow with a comforting purr, poked her nose into the cushion beside me and stated to dig. What in the world is she up to, I wondered. Since cat claws and leather cushions don't mix well, I moved her off my lap and replaced her with my laptop. Before long, she had returned and repeated her previous actions. I repeated mine.
After a few moments of pondering Licorice's actions, I finally, and very carefully, put my hand down between the cushion and the side of the chair. For all I knew, Licorice had a mouse stored down there. She didn't. Instead, it was a piece of bacon that had slid off my plate this morning! I can't believe I didn't know it had gone missing. I ate it.
I'm considering giving Licorice the nickname of 'Spirit'--the one who searches out my deepest, darkest places to reveal those things that need to be removed before they rot and cause bigger problems.
Well, it's time to get ready for another basketball game. Love it.
This has been a great, new-year day. I pray tomorrow will be, too.
Jan and Licorice Kitty (I should have given her the bacon)
Monday, January 6, 2014
Lessons From a Basketball Game
As I was saying last night, and I repeat, "No matter how hard I have tried, I haven't been able to come up with a parable for my granddaughter's basketball game last night. She played the game of her life--13 points with 83% shooting from the free-throw line (9/11). She played tough defense and, at 5'4", successfully fought for rebounds. After the game she was giddy and amazed at the same time. She had played the whole game without wearing her contacts. Anything farther than ten feet away was a blur. She never knew what the score was or how much time was on the clock unless she asked. She spotted her down-court teammates... Wait. I've got it. It's amazing what journaling can do. You will have to wait for tomorrow's post to get the rest."
Well, today is yesterday's tomorrow. As I was beginning to say last night, my granddaughter spotted her down-court teammates by locating their white jerseys, not their faces. She saw everything through the eyes of an extremely near-sighted young lady who has to order more contacts. In the meantime she wears glasses to see the whiteboard (or smart-board, or whatever has replaced the classroom blackboard) and to drive. Other that that, she wouldn't be caught dead wearing her glasses--especially on the basketball court.
My granddaughter had one defensive assignment during the game--keep a six-foot tall shooter from scoring. While Granddaughter played man-to-man defense, the rest of the team played zone. The opponent laughed, and exclaimed to her teammates, "I've got shorty on me," then gave everyone a high-five. My granddaughter performed well, and before long, a different tall-girl was taking the shots. My granddaughter was then reassigned to that shooter.
So the evening went, shifting from one shooter to the other, keeping a hand in their faces, hustling for their rebounds, and keeping out of foul trouble. She did what she was asked to do, and did it well. She couldn't clearly see the girl she was fighting against, not even her number. She just kept next to the tallest girl on the opposing team. The score board, the time clock, and other activities on the court didn't distract. They were all a blur anyway. The coach's instructions, the ref's whistle, and the opponent were all that mattered.
On offense, my granddaughter, who is not the greatest ball handler or shooter, kept drawing fouls. Eleven foul shots were attempted, and nine went swish. For a kid who has trouble making shots of any kind, this was unbelievable. Again, there were no visual distractions for her. She didn't see people moving in the bleachers, she couldn't see the opposing players ready to rebound. She just had to concentrate on an orange horizontal line on a white shape above the court. Swish.
When handling the ball, she shouted, "help" when trapped, moved into unoccupied spaces when she saw them, and passed off to the closest white shirt she could spot, . She was never sure who that girl was, but she knew it was someone on her side.
What is laughable now is the family's critique from the stands. "Why isn't she stepping into the ball? Why didn't she steal that pass?" We had no idea that most of the time she didn't know where the ball was. She just ran with the crowd, played her position on offense, and chased down the tallest girl she could find on defense.
Where is all this going? In my mind, scripture references about having our eyes opened, scales removed from our eyes, and looking at a reflection darkly, all show me that what I can see and understand of life is very limited. God reveals what he want me to see and hides the rest. That way I am not distracted by those other things that will interfere with my game-play.
He tells me about the enemies I must defend against, and the rebounds I will need to make. I'm told to call "help" when I'm trapped, pass off when I can, and help whoever is in need on my team, but I don't need to know who is wearing the white jerseys I see bounding around the court. I just need to know they are there.
I can see only the part of God's court that he shows me. I have to do what I've been told to do, do it the best I can, and trust that the rest of the team is doing what they have to do.
The bonus of playing of the Lord's team is the "Vision Improvement Program" that, over time, opens my eyes to more and more of the big picture. Even now, I see more clearly who is racing down court and into position for the next big plays in my Game of Life. I can put faces to those who are moving to the ball when I call for help. I also see more clearly the enemy's weaknesses as well as my own.
As for the scoreboard, I don't know what the score is, but the coach not only knows the score, he also knows how much we will win by. I don't know how much time is left on the clock either. All I know is it is running down quickly.
So, the game goes on. I play the best I can in my visual arena, and trust the coach and my teammates with the rest.
Some days it is nice to sit on the bench and cheer for the blurs running up and down the court.
Jan, Licorice, who left the rear-half of a mouse sitting on the Welcome Mat, and a beautiful doe who is munching on old leaves at the bottom of my front steps.
Well, today is yesterday's tomorrow. As I was beginning to say last night, my granddaughter spotted her down-court teammates by locating their white jerseys, not their faces. She saw everything through the eyes of an extremely near-sighted young lady who has to order more contacts. In the meantime she wears glasses to see the whiteboard (or smart-board, or whatever has replaced the classroom blackboard) and to drive. Other that that, she wouldn't be caught dead wearing her glasses--especially on the basketball court.
My granddaughter had one defensive assignment during the game--keep a six-foot tall shooter from scoring. While Granddaughter played man-to-man defense, the rest of the team played zone. The opponent laughed, and exclaimed to her teammates, "I've got shorty on me," then gave everyone a high-five. My granddaughter performed well, and before long, a different tall-girl was taking the shots. My granddaughter was then reassigned to that shooter.
So the evening went, shifting from one shooter to the other, keeping a hand in their faces, hustling for their rebounds, and keeping out of foul trouble. She did what she was asked to do, and did it well. She couldn't clearly see the girl she was fighting against, not even her number. She just kept next to the tallest girl on the opposing team. The score board, the time clock, and other activities on the court didn't distract. They were all a blur anyway. The coach's instructions, the ref's whistle, and the opponent were all that mattered.
On offense, my granddaughter, who is not the greatest ball handler or shooter, kept drawing fouls. Eleven foul shots were attempted, and nine went swish. For a kid who has trouble making shots of any kind, this was unbelievable. Again, there were no visual distractions for her. She didn't see people moving in the bleachers, she couldn't see the opposing players ready to rebound. She just had to concentrate on an orange horizontal line on a white shape above the court. Swish.
When handling the ball, she shouted, "help" when trapped, moved into unoccupied spaces when she saw them, and passed off to the closest white shirt she could spot, . She was never sure who that girl was, but she knew it was someone on her side.
What is laughable now is the family's critique from the stands. "Why isn't she stepping into the ball? Why didn't she steal that pass?" We had no idea that most of the time she didn't know where the ball was. She just ran with the crowd, played her position on offense, and chased down the tallest girl she could find on defense.
Where is all this going? In my mind, scripture references about having our eyes opened, scales removed from our eyes, and looking at a reflection darkly, all show me that what I can see and understand of life is very limited. God reveals what he want me to see and hides the rest. That way I am not distracted by those other things that will interfere with my game-play.
He tells me about the enemies I must defend against, and the rebounds I will need to make. I'm told to call "help" when I'm trapped, pass off when I can, and help whoever is in need on my team, but I don't need to know who is wearing the white jerseys I see bounding around the court. I just need to know they are there.
I can see only the part of God's court that he shows me. I have to do what I've been told to do, do it the best I can, and trust that the rest of the team is doing what they have to do.
The bonus of playing of the Lord's team is the "Vision Improvement Program" that, over time, opens my eyes to more and more of the big picture. Even now, I see more clearly who is racing down court and into position for the next big plays in my Game of Life. I can put faces to those who are moving to the ball when I call for help. I also see more clearly the enemy's weaknesses as well as my own.
As for the scoreboard, I don't know what the score is, but the coach not only knows the score, he also knows how much we will win by. I don't know how much time is left on the clock either. All I know is it is running down quickly.
So, the game goes on. I play the best I can in my visual arena, and trust the coach and my teammates with the rest.
Some days it is nice to sit on the bench and cheer for the blurs running up and down the court.
Jan, Licorice, who left the rear-half of a mouse sitting on the Welcome Mat, and a beautiful doe who is munching on old leaves at the bottom of my front steps.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
What is it about Journaling?
A new Women's Bible Study starts at church in three weeks--Sacred Secrets--by Beth Moore. If this study had been presented a year or two ago, I would not have sign up for it because it entails journaling, journaling, journaling.
Now some people, like the spell-checker person who lives in my computer, will say journaling is not an acceptable word, and draw a red squiggly line under it. I know, I know. One shouldn't add ing to a noun in order to create a verb. But I did find a source who felt that English is a living, changing language, and if the reader/listener understands what is being said, the word is okay. Since I am fairly certain everyone knows what I mean by journaling, I will keep the word as I wrote it. And, I might note, it is in the Urban Dictionary along with many interesting new words and new definitions of old words. I found out that if my car ever breaks down in a bad section of a large city, I shouldn't ask for a ratchet because I will probably end up with a female of questionable repute instead of a special wrench. Who knew? Not I. But, I digress.
Where was I? Oh yes, journaling. In the past, when I participated in a Bible study that had homework, I filled in the blanks concerning portions of Scripture I had read, but when I came to a "how did you feel?" question I would skip it. Feelings were something I was neither good at nor comfortable with. But, after spending a couple years in therapy, I discovered both the benefits and joys in writing. I also discovered the surprises that came, too.
It's the surprises that keep me writing this blog. Most of the time I have some idea what I want to write about, but no idea where my writing will ultimately end up or why. Take yesterday for example. My grandmother's mirror was on my mind because I had just about knocked it onto the floor earlier that day. As I had mused about what my grandmother saw when she looked into her looking-glass as a young woman, I decided to use that as a jumping off place for the blog. I had no idea that a couple hours after I started writing I would end up with a poem of sorts. But I digress again.
Journaling! Throughout this new Bible study, the participants will be asked to dig deep to discover our personal, shameful secrets, our secret places in which we find God, our good secrets, and secrets between God and us--secrets not to be shared yet. Then we are to write, using our book as a journal.
Since I am no longer afraid to dig, experience emotions, or to write, I am expecting to be surprised and blessed through the digging, the emoting, and the writing. I'll keep you posted.
I hope your Sunday has been as great as mine--worship, rest, grandson's basketball game, and delicious Greek Honey Yogurt. What could be better?
Anticipating a great tomorrow,
Jan and Licorice (Black cat + pink afghan = pretty picture, if I had a camera)
No matter how hard I have tried, I haven't been able to come up with a parable for my granddaughter's basketball game last night. She played the game of her life--13 points with 83% shooting from the free-throw line (9/11). She played tough defense and, at 5'4", successfully fought for rebounds. After the game she was giddy and amazed at the same time. She played the whole game without her contacts. Anything farther than ten feet away was a blur. She never knew what the score was or how much time was on the clock unless she asked. She spotted her down-court teammates... Wait. I've got it. It's amazing what journaling can do. You will have to wait for tomorrow's post to get the rest.
Now some people, like the spell-checker person who lives in my computer, will say journaling is not an acceptable word, and draw a red squiggly line under it. I know, I know. One shouldn't add ing to a noun in order to create a verb. But I did find a source who felt that English is a living, changing language, and if the reader/listener understands what is being said, the word is okay. Since I am fairly certain everyone knows what I mean by journaling, I will keep the word as I wrote it. And, I might note, it is in the Urban Dictionary along with many interesting new words and new definitions of old words. I found out that if my car ever breaks down in a bad section of a large city, I shouldn't ask for a ratchet because I will probably end up with a female of questionable repute instead of a special wrench. Who knew? Not I. But, I digress.
Where was I? Oh yes, journaling. In the past, when I participated in a Bible study that had homework, I filled in the blanks concerning portions of Scripture I had read, but when I came to a "how did you feel?" question I would skip it. Feelings were something I was neither good at nor comfortable with. But, after spending a couple years in therapy, I discovered both the benefits and joys in writing. I also discovered the surprises that came, too.
It's the surprises that keep me writing this blog. Most of the time I have some idea what I want to write about, but no idea where my writing will ultimately end up or why. Take yesterday for example. My grandmother's mirror was on my mind because I had just about knocked it onto the floor earlier that day. As I had mused about what my grandmother saw when she looked into her looking-glass as a young woman, I decided to use that as a jumping off place for the blog. I had no idea that a couple hours after I started writing I would end up with a poem of sorts. But I digress again.
Journaling! Throughout this new Bible study, the participants will be asked to dig deep to discover our personal, shameful secrets, our secret places in which we find God, our good secrets, and secrets between God and us--secrets not to be shared yet. Then we are to write, using our book as a journal.
Since I am no longer afraid to dig, experience emotions, or to write, I am expecting to be surprised and blessed through the digging, the emoting, and the writing. I'll keep you posted.
I hope your Sunday has been as great as mine--worship, rest, grandson's basketball game, and delicious Greek Honey Yogurt. What could be better?
Anticipating a great tomorrow,
Jan and Licorice (Black cat + pink afghan = pretty picture, if I had a camera)
No matter how hard I have tried, I haven't been able to come up with a parable for my granddaughter's basketball game last night. She played the game of her life--13 points with 83% shooting from the free-throw line (9/11). She played tough defense and, at 5'4", successfully fought for rebounds. After the game she was giddy and amazed at the same time. She played the whole game without her contacts. Anything farther than ten feet away was a blur. She never knew what the score was or how much time was on the clock unless she asked. She spotted her down-court teammates... Wait. I've got it. It's amazing what journaling can do. You will have to wait for tomorrow's post to get the rest.
Friday, January 3, 2014
My Grandmother's Mirror
My grandmother's large hand-held mirror graces the top of my dresser. The mirror, beautifully set in a dark wood of some kind, sits on top of an old, crocheted doily and next to my car keys, abandoned necklace, and some loose change.
I use the mirror almost everyday, especially if I am going out in public. It's my hair I check, not my face. A crazy cowlick on the back of my head plays crazy tricks on me. Back-combing my hair, adding hair spray, and using Grandmother's mirror to see the otherwise unseeable all help make me quite presentable. At least I hope so. But I must be careful with the mirror. Just this morning I almost knocked it onto the floor all because I carelessly left the handle sticking over the dresser's edge; ooopsies are not good.
That mirror fascinated me when I was a child. I loved picking it up from the vanity in the lavender, guest bedroom and looking at myself--braces, glasses, and all. I lifted it very careful because I was just a little girl, and the mirror was Grandmother's large, weighty, magical treasure. After checking out the 'magic' mirror, I would examine the button hook (for buttoning up Grandmother's boots in her youth), her fingernail buffer, and her nail file--all part of a wondrous, ivory handled set. From the lavender, filmy curtains on the windows to the beautiful manicure set and mirror on the vanity, the setting was perfect for this fantasy Cinderella as I prepared for Prince Charming's ball.
This morning was different though. As I moved the mirror away from the edge of the dresser, I happened to glance at my reflected image. I was suddenly struck by how much I resemble my grandmother, and I began to wonder what my grandmother, as a teenager, might have seen when she looked into this very mirror one-hundred years ago. I know she saw a pretty, young, blue eyed girl getting ready for an afternoon cruise with her friends an a Mississippi paddle-wheeler. I think she saw a young bride-to-be preparing to meet her handsome husband-to-be at the altar. Grandmother might even have imagined a some-day daughter holding that mirror as her hair was braided for her first day of school. But no way did she ever envision her own tear-stained face as she tried to look presentable for her real-life daughter's funeral--eight-years old was too young to die. And, I'm fairly certain she never anticipated seeing the reflected image of a white-haired woman with Alzheimer's disease staring blankly back at her.
Now I am the one looking into Grandmother's mirror and seeing someone I wouldn't have recognized when I got it. Back then I never saw age-spotted hands, white hair, or additional pounds. I didn't see married grandchildren or a husband in prison. I saw only what I chose to see at the moment--the much needed haircut of a busy mom or the happy face of the mother-of-the-bride/groom.
As much as my grandmother's mirror got my mind thinking in half a dozen directions at once, what stood out is this. The only mirror that really matters is the Word of God, and what I see when I look into it?
Mirror, mirror on my lap,
give me strength ere I collapse.
You showed me where I need to prune,
where in my heart I must make room
by weeding out brambles and thorns.
Like a lamb I must be shorn.
Only then will I look like you,
and love and live and listen, too.
Only then will my image be
like the One who created me.
Mirror, mirror on my lap,
may I in your arms be wrapped.
With love,
Jan and Licorice Kitty (who just came in from an outside adventure--I'm afraid to ask)
I use the mirror almost everyday, especially if I am going out in public. It's my hair I check, not my face. A crazy cowlick on the back of my head plays crazy tricks on me. Back-combing my hair, adding hair spray, and using Grandmother's mirror to see the otherwise unseeable all help make me quite presentable. At least I hope so. But I must be careful with the mirror. Just this morning I almost knocked it onto the floor all because I carelessly left the handle sticking over the dresser's edge; ooopsies are not good.
That mirror fascinated me when I was a child. I loved picking it up from the vanity in the lavender, guest bedroom and looking at myself--braces, glasses, and all. I lifted it very careful because I was just a little girl, and the mirror was Grandmother's large, weighty, magical treasure. After checking out the 'magic' mirror, I would examine the button hook (for buttoning up Grandmother's boots in her youth), her fingernail buffer, and her nail file--all part of a wondrous, ivory handled set. From the lavender, filmy curtains on the windows to the beautiful manicure set and mirror on the vanity, the setting was perfect for this fantasy Cinderella as I prepared for Prince Charming's ball.
This morning was different though. As I moved the mirror away from the edge of the dresser, I happened to glance at my reflected image. I was suddenly struck by how much I resemble my grandmother, and I began to wonder what my grandmother, as a teenager, might have seen when she looked into this very mirror one-hundred years ago. I know she saw a pretty, young, blue eyed girl getting ready for an afternoon cruise with her friends an a Mississippi paddle-wheeler. I think she saw a young bride-to-be preparing to meet her handsome husband-to-be at the altar. Grandmother might even have imagined a some-day daughter holding that mirror as her hair was braided for her first day of school. But no way did she ever envision her own tear-stained face as she tried to look presentable for her real-life daughter's funeral--eight-years old was too young to die. And, I'm fairly certain she never anticipated seeing the reflected image of a white-haired woman with Alzheimer's disease staring blankly back at her.
Now I am the one looking into Grandmother's mirror and seeing someone I wouldn't have recognized when I got it. Back then I never saw age-spotted hands, white hair, or additional pounds. I didn't see married grandchildren or a husband in prison. I saw only what I chose to see at the moment--the much needed haircut of a busy mom or the happy face of the mother-of-the-bride/groom.
As much as my grandmother's mirror got my mind thinking in half a dozen directions at once, what stood out is this. The only mirror that really matters is the Word of God, and what I see when I look into it?
Mirror, mirror on my lap,
give me strength ere I collapse.
You showed me where I need to prune,
where in my heart I must make room
by weeding out brambles and thorns.
Like a lamb I must be shorn.
Only then will I look like you,
and love and live and listen, too.
Only then will my image be
like the One who created me.
Mirror, mirror on my lap,
may I in your arms be wrapped.
With love,
Jan and Licorice Kitty (who just came in from an outside adventure--I'm afraid to ask)
Thursday, January 2, 2014
What to Do? What to Do?
I decided to have a McDonald's morning before I undertake myriad errands. In my mind, my day will be super productive. After completing my in-town tasks and getting my first tank of gas for the year, I will head home and...well... I will do something productive, something like move the boxes of Christmas things out of the living room and into the storage room (which needs to be cleaned out and straightened up)
So, I will go home and clean out the store room before I put the Christmas boxes away. But I should probably eat lunch first. Grilled cheese made on the Foreman Grill sounds good. And a glass of no-longer-sparkling cider to wash it down. Then I will tackle the store room
Last time I started a storeroom cleaning project, I found a dead, dried-up mouse curled up in a stocking cap. I don't know what is worse, a dried-up mouse in a knit cap or a fresh one on the porch. Oh the joys of country living.
There is no way I can accomplish all this cleaning and straightening in one day, so I will make it my January project. It is do-able, measurable, and whatever else a goal needs to be. By the way, I think I need to do some straightening and cleaning of my heart. It is getting cluttered with junk again.
But, I must sign off now. My hour time limit at McDonalds is up, and the stores, bank, and gas station call for my undivided attention. Off to the thrift store I go, hunting for a cat carrier. Wish me luck.
Living a new day of my life, I am. Each day is a God-given, new day. I will rejoice and be glad in it.
Jan and Licorice Kitty (I left her outside to get her breakfast)
So, I will go home and clean out the store room before I put the Christmas boxes away. But I should probably eat lunch first. Grilled cheese made on the Foreman Grill sounds good. And a glass of no-longer-sparkling cider to wash it down. Then I will tackle the store room
Last time I started a storeroom cleaning project, I found a dead, dried-up mouse curled up in a stocking cap. I don't know what is worse, a dried-up mouse in a knit cap or a fresh one on the porch. Oh the joys of country living.
There is no way I can accomplish all this cleaning and straightening in one day, so I will make it my January project. It is do-able, measurable, and whatever else a goal needs to be. By the way, I think I need to do some straightening and cleaning of my heart. It is getting cluttered with junk again.
But, I must sign off now. My hour time limit at McDonalds is up, and the stores, bank, and gas station call for my undivided attention. Off to the thrift store I go, hunting for a cat carrier. Wish me luck.
Living a new day of my life, I am. Each day is a God-given, new day. I will rejoice and be glad in it.
Jan and Licorice Kitty (I left her outside to get her breakfast)
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Doorstep Delivery
I live too far out of town for pizza delivery. That is probably a good thing because I love pizza. I just wish I was too far out for field mouse delivery, but I am not. At 1:00 p.m., the black, Licorice-Kitty wagon arrived at my front door with a fresh, plump, white-tummied rodent to be dropped off. Since I didn't remember ordering it, I had to turn her away with these words, "I'm sorry Licorice. I really didn't order a mouse for lunch. You go ahead and eat it. I would like a pizza delivered next time."
She was a little slow to get the message that mousie wasn't coming into the house with her; however, after much meowing, complaining, and arguing she finally decided to dine alone in the brisk, fresh air--al fresco dining at its finest. Then, when her welcome-mat plate was all cleaned up, I let her in. Licorice is now stretched out on my blanket-covered lap sleeping off a full tummy while I attempt typing around a furry body that complains whenever I disturb it.
Thus begins 2014.
If I wanted to get a "message" from all this, I could interpret the mouse deliveries as a sign to be careful who or what I let into my home. I could say God provides unexpected things in my life. I could say, "God told me to sleep when my stomach is full, and don't try typing with a cat on my lap." I could say all those things, but that isn't where I see God in all this.
I see his hand in the companionship of a cat that appeared in the berry bushes last summer. I see his very ordered world where cats naturally hunt to sustain life. (Licorice doesn't particularly like wet or dry cat food) I learn about trust as Licorice has gone from letting me barely touch her, to where she now seeks me out for a pat down or a warm place on which to sleep. I see the comfort that full tummies, warm blankets, and naps can bring. As I experience the life God provides me, I try to enjoy each moment, including the mice delivered to my doorstep.
Thus begins 2014. That is what I am saying today. I will also say it tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Every day is a new beginning in Christ. Rejoice, trust, and enjoy.
Experiencing each moment as a new day,
Jan and Licorice (who has moved to a chair)
She was a little slow to get the message that mousie wasn't coming into the house with her; however, after much meowing, complaining, and arguing she finally decided to dine alone in the brisk, fresh air--al fresco dining at its finest. Then, when her welcome-mat plate was all cleaned up, I let her in. Licorice is now stretched out on my blanket-covered lap sleeping off a full tummy while I attempt typing around a furry body that complains whenever I disturb it.
Thus begins 2014.
If I wanted to get a "message" from all this, I could interpret the mouse deliveries as a sign to be careful who or what I let into my home. I could say God provides unexpected things in my life. I could say, "God told me to sleep when my stomach is full, and don't try typing with a cat on my lap." I could say all those things, but that isn't where I see God in all this.
I see his hand in the companionship of a cat that appeared in the berry bushes last summer. I see his very ordered world where cats naturally hunt to sustain life. (Licorice doesn't particularly like wet or dry cat food) I learn about trust as Licorice has gone from letting me barely touch her, to where she now seeks me out for a pat down or a warm place on which to sleep. I see the comfort that full tummies, warm blankets, and naps can bring. As I experience the life God provides me, I try to enjoy each moment, including the mice delivered to my doorstep.
Thus begins 2014. That is what I am saying today. I will also say it tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Every day is a new beginning in Christ. Rejoice, trust, and enjoy.
Experiencing each moment as a new day,
Jan and Licorice (who has moved to a chair)
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