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
Friday, January 10, 2014
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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