today

"It is a moment of light surrounded on all sides by darkness and oblivion. In the entire history of the universe, let alone in your own history, there has never been another just like it and there will never be another just like it again. It is the point to which all your yesterdays have been leading since the hour of your birth. It is the point from which all your tomorrows will proceed until the hour of your death. If you were aware of how precious it is, you could hardly live through it. Unless you are aware of how precious it is, you can hardly be said to be living at all.

'This is the day which the Lord has made,' says the 118th Psalm. 'Let us rejoice and be glad in it.' Or weep and be sad in it for that matter. The point is to see it for what it is because it will be gone before you know it. If you waste it, it is your life that you're wasting. If you look the other way, it may be the moment you've been waiting for always that you're missing.

All other days have either disappeared into darkness and oblivion or not yet emerged from them. Today is the only day there is."

~ Frederick Buechner, in Listening to Your Life

on 'olks and forkheads

"Can you make mine 'olky?" Tera asks.

She's standing behind me, so she doesn't see my smile.

"I like 'olky eggs," she adds, for good measure.

When will I tell her that eggs have yolks, and not 'olks? Never. Someone else will have to spill the beans, because I cannot bring myself to correct that word.

I couldn't correct Zac, either, when he used to refer to his "forkhead." It was just too cute. Sure, I had visions of a future-him pointing to his forehead and mentioning casually, to his teenaged friends, "Man, I ran into the door the other day and banged up my forkhead," and having to endure their snickers, but still, I could not bring myself to correct that word. He didn't discover the truth until he was about ten. And that was way too early for me.

I've always let those words stand. A much younger Tera would sometimes note my tiredness and pat my shoulders or my head. "Does that feel ya better, Mom?" she'd ask. I'd nod, and let the more-interesting sentence stand. Or she'd offer to read Good Night Moon for me, and I'd hear, "Potanonna time, they was three kittens ... and they all is gonna be died. Amen." After the first time I heard that rendition, I never wanted to read Good Night Moon to her again because I didn't want to ruin her version.

At four, she practically taught herself to read, and she learned the truth about Good Night Moon. She learned that the kittens didn't die, and that the book didn't end with an "Amen." And something saddened inside me. But she was still young enough to not realize that "We should get arid of some of these clothes in my room" contained a wrong word. So I let it stand. Everytime she thought we should get "arid" of something, I treasured her mistake.

She makes so few anymore. She's such a smart girl, with such a broad, tangy, impressive vocabulary. So when she asks for 'olky eggs, I crack two into the pan and I don't say a word.

It just feels me better.

of mice and young men

I've been toying with the idea of focusing--at least for awhile--on my little town. I know my profile says I live in Seattle, but that's because I figured I'd lose you if I said Marysville. But now you know the truth.

I could probably blog for an entire year about the characters in this town. And up till now, the only reason I haven't done so is because I couldn't choose which story, which character to share first. But yesterday I found my beginning place. I'm going to start on one specific street in downtown Marysville, the one that runs by Starbucks.

I saw the boy as Dave and I were driving out the back entrance of the Starbucks parking lot. I'm amazed I noticed him at all because I was totally consumed with my iced grande soy latte. I'd been trying to get up the courage to try a soy latte for two weeks. But every time I stood at the counter and opened my mouth, some other order came out. Yesterday, however, after managing to gush my worries to the barista and hearing her assurance that I could dump it if I wasn't delighted and she'd replace it for free, I went ahead and jumped off that cliff. And you know what? It wasn't bad at all. They use vanilla soy, which apparently masks the fact that you're drinking bean milk.

I was sipping and savoring and mmm-ing as we turned left out of the parking lot, but in the midst of all that I caught a glimpse of the traveler sitting on the right side of the road. I knew he was a traveler because he was thoughtful enough to announce it, to me and every other driver within passing distance. Traveling--Low on funds, his cardboard sign read. I'm not sure if it was the honesty of that sign or the fact that he had dredlocks which drew me to him, but something did. (On the dredlock topic--I've always been fascinated. I'm quite sure that if I were a twenty-something young man, I'd have them too).

I looked in my wallet and found a five-dollar bill with no immediate plans attached to it. "Mind if I give this to that boy?" I asked Dave. He didn't. I pulled down my window and waited to catch the traveler's eye. He grinned when he saw my outstretched hand and jogged over.

"Where are you headed?" I asked.

"Seattle," he answered. And then, because he's a traveler, don't you know, and travelers have to make friends quickly, he kept talking. "I have a job interview there. I might stay. Or I might go north ... or south. I don't know." He grinned, and that cinched it. I liked him. I actually wanted to take him home with us and make him a pot roast, but as we were talking in the middle of the street and the light had just changed and a line of cars behind me didn't share my fascination with the boy, we had to part ways.

"God bless you," I said.

He God blessed me right back.

My heart stayed on that street corner with the boy I would never see again. And all the way home, I hurt that I couldn't bring him to our home and to our church. My reaction startled me. I'm not the first person to hand out money to sign-holders. In fact, I often suspect that when their day's work ends, they hop in their somewhere-hidden Mercedes and jet off to their beach-front homes. I have no proof, mind you, but that's my suspicion. From time to time, God nudges me to help someone, but until I feel that holy prod, I look the other way.

I grieved over my lost friend all evening, and thought about him again this morning. But it wasn't until I sat down to write this post that I made the connection.

Just a week ago, as I'd been pulling out of Starbucks again on that same back road onto that same street, a small blur on the pavement between me and the front car caught my eye. It was a mouse, and he was running for his life. For right on his heels came a (proportionally) giant black crow. Just as the crow was reaching his feet out to snatch the mouse, the big-eared, long-tailed little guy ran beneath the front car. Seconds later, that car moved. Not wanting to run him over, I scanned the pavement before moving forward, but he was nowhere in sight. It occurred to me that he may have hitched a ride on the undercarriage of the car--and I was right. After that car had turned left and gone twenty feet, the mouse reappeared, and skittered across the left side of the road. I looked up the road, saw an oncoming car, and held my breath. But the mouse made it to the curb unsquished. However, his troubles weren't over, for the crow had been watching as well, and he flew from behind me and swooped right toward the mouse. I so wanted him to get away. I watched as he bounced against the curb--no doubt fighting panic--and lay dazed for a split second. He ran back, just barely missing the crow's talons, and then ran forward again. But the writing was on the wall for this battle. Before the light changed and I left the scene, the crow had snagged his prey and flown off to enjoy his lunch.

The entire drama had played itself off directly across the street from where the traveler sat waiting. The mouse was long-gone, long-digested by the time that boy sat himself on the grass and penned his cardboard sign. But I must have made a sub-conscious connection.

It's a great big world, and he was just one young man--a young man who reminded me of my own boy. A young man whose mother might be looking up from her stove somewhere and wondering if her boy is hungry. A young man about to venture into a world chock full of taloned predators. I know there's an adventure involved, and I hope on his search he finds whatever he's looking for. But I'm praying he simply lands somewhere warm and safe, and that at the end of his traveling, he knows he's loved.

We're all on a journey of some sort. May your travels today lead to joy.

what is that?

Such a good reminder ...

start now

My dear friend, Inga-Lill Guzik, sent this to me today. I love the message behind this woman's actions. Read to the bottom, and then ask yourself, "What can I start doing today that will create beauty for someone?"

The Daffodil Principle
by Jaroldeen Asplund Edwards

Several times my daughter, Julie, had telephoned to say, "Mom, you must come see the daffodils before they are over." I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from my place by the beach to her lakeside mountain home.

"I will come next Tuesday," I promised, a little reluctantly, on her third call. The next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and so I got in the car and began the long, tedious drive.

When I finally walked into Julie's house and hugged and greeted my grandchildren, I said, "Forget the daffodils, Julie! The road is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and the children that I want to see bad enough to drive another inch!"

My daughter smiled calmly, "We drive in this all the time, Mom."

"Well, you won't get me back on the road until it clears and then I'm heading straight for home!" I said, rather emphatically.

"Gee, Mom, I was hoping you'd take me over to the garage to pick up my car," Julie said with a forlorn look in her eyes.

"How far will we have to drive?"

Smiling she answered, "Just a few blocks, I'll drive ... I'm used to this."

After several minutes on the cold, foggy road, I had to ask "Where are we going? This isn't the way to the garage!"

"We're going to the garage the long way," Julie smiled, "by way of the daffodils."

"Julie," I said sternly, "please turn around."

"It's all right, Mom, I promise, you will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience."

After about twenty minutes we turned onto a small gravel road and I saw a small church. On the far side of the church I saw a hand-lettered sign ... "Daffodil Garden." We got out of the car and each took a child's hand, and I followed Julie down the path. As we turned a corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped.

Before me lay the most glorious sight. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow. Each different-colored variety was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue. Five acres of the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen!

"Who planted all these?" I asked Julie.

"It's just one woman," Julie answered, "She lives on the property. That's her home," and she pointed to a well-kept A-frame house that looked small and modest in the midst of all that glory.

We walked up to the house and on the little patio we saw a poster:

Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking :
50,000 bulbs
one at a time
by one woman
2 hands, 2 feet
and very little brain
Began in 1958

There it was ... "The Daffodil Principle."

For me that moment was a life-changing experience. I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than thirty-five years before, had begun - one bulb at a time - to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountain top.
Still, this unknown, old woman had forever changed the world in which she lived. She had created something of magnificent beauty, and inspiration.

The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principles of celebration: learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time, (often just one baby-step at a time) learning to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.

"It makes me sad in a way," I admitted to Julie, "What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five years ago and had worked away at it 'one bulb at a time' through all those years. Just think what I might have been able to achieve!"

My daughter summed up the message of the day in her direct way, "Start tomorrow, Mom," she said, "It's so pointless to think of the lost hours of our yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson a celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask, "How can I put this to use today?"

leaving

The tomatoes are shriveled red orbs that roll and bounce against their green plastic cage when I pull them from the back corner of the refrigerator. I'd had high hopes for those tomatoes back when they were fat and wrinkle-free.

Those are tossed. But the yogurt and butter, cranberry juice, cream cheese and milk go in a bag for Lindsey and Tyson. I remember being married only a month and still in college. Sometimes a handful of items makes the difference. I'll add the recyclable bottles, which they can trade for a few euros.

We've said our good-byes and hugged everyone we could snag. The rugs have been shaken out, the floor swept, the last of the dishes returned to the cupboards. Our suitcases are packed. There's nothing left to do but sleep, and rise, and walk across the street to the train station. One adventure gives way to another. Tomorrow night at this time we'll be sleeping in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower ... more or less.

A woman I know is dying of inoperable cancer. She's beautiful and young and filled with a bright love for Jesus. In this last week she's been on the phone with her friends--preparing them for what's to come, speaking her love, and asking for prayer for her husband and still unsaved mother. She's been planning her funeral, and visiting my dreams.

We eventually leave these places where we sojourn but a moment. We leave a mess behind us, or we sweep the dust of our tracks before closing the door.

And no one makes that choice for us.

rescue me

I saw the first of these signs in Scotland, I believe, in an area where there was a lot of road construction going on. Apparently, if you find yourself stranded within these random pockets of rescue, all you have to do is wait and someone will come along to "recover you." It struck me then, and I couldn't shake the thought. So when the same signs began popping up on the road somewhere between York and London, I had to take a picture.

"Free recovery ... Await rescue." Has ever the gospel been expressed so simply, so succinctly?

I'm waiting for You, Jesus. Please come quickly.
* * * 
For the reward of sin is death; but what God freely gives is eternal life in Jesus Christ our Lord ~Romans 6:23 BBE

Let not your heart be troubled: have faith in God and have faith in me. In my Father's house are rooms enough; if it was not so, would I have said that I am going to make ready a place for you? And if I go and make ready a place for you, I will come back again and will take you to be with me, so that you may be where I am. ~John 14:1-3 BBE

... in the twinkling of an eye ... ~1 Corinthians 15:52

tasty morsels

It's happened again. Another media shark feast, all due to a whiff of scandal within Christianity. This time it's the principal of a local Christian school.

Not for one moment am I minimizing the charges. If they're true, they're awful. And they require serious consequences. But I'm taking a stand here.

I've decided to believe the best. And not just about this man, or this circumstance. For a long time now I've been trying to urge the women in our church to believe the best about each other, every time, in every situation. I tell them that because 1 Corinthians 13 comes down, in large part, to that one sentence: Love believes the best. That means we don't take offense at one another, and it means that when we stand at a cross-roads choosing between two paths, we turn our back on the one that says, "I think she really meant that," and we run down the road that says, "I believe she didn't." I'm convinced that it's only when we consistently make that choice that we'll have peace in our relationships and peace within the church. And it's only then that the world will look at us in wonder, recognizing a love that eludes them in their circles.

So I've been sounding the gong for a long while now. I believed it on a conviction-level. But only in the last few months has the conviction taken root in my heart. Over those last few months, I myself have been the subject of gossip. One person chose to put words in my mouth rather than admit to the ones she spoke. The words she credited to me were absolutely false, and so far beyond anything I'd speak that I didn't recognize myself in the revised story as it made the rounds. Another person stood at the cross-road I just mentioned, listened to my explanation, took a few tentative steps down the road of "I believe she didn't," and then turn and ran full speed down the road of "I think she did." When the dust settled, friends I've known and loved for twenty years (and some for twelve) left me and left our fellowship without one word, and without even once asking me for the truth ... all because they chose to believe gossip.

So my ethereal view of gossip--and the godly way to handle it--has been brought into concrete terms for me. And when this story hit the news yesterday, and people started murmuring about it, I made a decision. I'm going to believe the best until I'm forced to believe otherwise. And it won't cost me a thing ... except the lingering taste of a dainty morsel. But I am, after all, the bride of Christ. I should probably watch what I'm eating.

*    *    *    
The words of a gossip are like tasty bits of food.
People like to gobble them up. (Proverbs 18:8 New Century Translation)

Listening to gossip is like eating cheap candy;
do you really want junk like that in your belly? (Proverbs 18:8 The Message)

There are six things the LORD hates,
seven that are detestable to him:
haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies and a man who stirs up dissension among brothers. (Proverbs 6:16-19 NIV)

encore

"It may be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His routine might be due not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life.

The thing I mean can be seen for instance in children, when they find some game or joke that they especially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, ‘Do it again’; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony.

But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening. ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite for infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical encore.” ~G. K. Chesterton

Lord, make me young like You.

pieces

I'm still in southern California, still loving the sunshine and the circumstances that have brought me here. I'll have many stories when I get back. For now, here's one from the past ...

My proper but mischievous grandmother had one firm rule about cussing: If you must do it, do it in the barn. I believe now that her unspoken message was "animal behavior belongs with the animals," but we didn't hear that subtext back then. We just thought it a tantilizing and dangerous invitation. Of us seven girls, I only remember one who regularly took Grandma up on that offer. "Dang it," the girl-whose-name-I'm-not-telling-you would whisper, when she just couldn't take the pressure of being seven anymore. Sometimes I overheard her. Sometimes I didn't have to. She'd come moseying out of the barn with that satisfied look on her face, and I'd know the old building had stripped her of all her troubles.

I spent the majority of my growing-up summers living on my grandparents' farm. And I wasn't alone. Whether my grandparents extended the invitation to bless us or to bless our parents didn't much matter. We seven cousins packed our bags the first day of summer vacation, hit the farm running, and didn't look back until September started making noise.

When the sun broke through our dreams and drove us from our beds, we girls would gulp down breakfast, yank on our cowboy boots, and head for the barn. We ventured out now and then, of course--to chase cows, climb trees, ride ponies, and beg Grandma for a cup of sugar for dipping rhubarb stalks--but our home base was Grandpa's barn. To this day, whenever I walk into a barn (and I do, every chance that presents itself), all I have to do is close my eyes and draw in a big breath, and I'm instantly short again. The perpetual dust inside is drifting through a sunbeam like miniature snowflakes, I'm surrounded by the heavenly tang of manure, and I can feel and hear the stomp of cow feet or horse feet or girl feet slapping the concrete floor.

Our favorite thing to do in the barn was to climb up to the hay loft and make mazes with the bales. It took all fourteen of our skinny little no-muscle arms to lift and stack those bales, but unity of purpose kept us grunting and puffing. We'd take a whole morning to create the perfect hay maze, then spend the rest of the day hiding around corners and trying to scare one another.

Grandpa let us sweep the broken bales and loose hay out the window. When enough had accumulated in a heap below that second floor window, we'd jump. The worse part of growing up was saying good bye to that rush. There's little in the adult world that offers the same freedom as leaping from a second floor window. For just a moment there, you and your sixty-five pounds don't belong to earth.

One summer day, while preparing for a jump, my middle sister Megan took off her spanking-new, bright green tennis shoes and set them off to one side of the window. If her goal was to spare her new shoes an afternoon of dirt, she didn't quite think it through. After repeatedly jumping in the hay, running over the grass and across the dirt path and up the grimy stairs to repeat her performance, the feet she planned to plunge back into those new shoes were beyond filthy. But she never got the chance to dirty her footwear. One shoe went missing. Though we looked high and low and everywhere in between, though we moved hay bales and checked corners and took a pitch fork to the pile outside, we never found that second green tennis shoe. No one ever found that shoe. I like to think a family of klepto-crazed field mice lined up while we were giggling in the pile of hay below and dragged that green shoe down a secret hole. In my best imaginings, it became a mice family heirloom ... and the story, a legend.

A piece of my sister lingered in that barn, long after she outgrew hay jumping and pony rides. And that's just how it goes when you've sojourned in a place. Whether we plan to or not, we leave pieces of ourselves wherever we travel. Those little markers, little breadcrumbs, show we've been this way.

I hope you're conscious of the pieces you're leaving behind today. Someday, someone will hold up that breadcrumb and tell the story of you. Make sure it's a good one.

rich man

We went to Dick's drive-in in the U-District Thursday (U being University of Washington, for those of you unfamiliar with my exotic, sophisticated, Washingtonian lingo). It wasn't optional. As far as I know, it's not possible to drive to and from SeaTac airport without making the obligatory stop at Dick's--our version of In-and-Out Burger.

Got in line. Gave our order: Two deluxe, four cheeseburgers, four fries, two tartar, three vanilla shakes, one diet Coke. And then Dave said, "Isn't that Bill Gates?"

Sure enough. Two lines over, smiling and trying not to notice that twenty heads had turned in his direction, was the founder of Microsoft. "Hi, Bill," someone near him said, as though Bill were a buddy.

"Hello," he said, still smiling.

One woman left her line and scampered over to stand behind him. Clearly, he was her buddy too. She began talking as though resuming a previously interrupted conversation.

While I strained to eavesdrop, Zac, whom we had picked up at the airport, said, "That's just wrong." I might have heard more of Bill's conversation than just the woman's "I've noticed it's really grown around there in the last ten years, haven't you?" if Zac wasn't delivering a speech about standing-in-line propriety and burger anonymity right in my ear.

"Mom, quit looking at him," he warned, right in the middle of said speech.

I really wanted to linger so I could tell you what Bill ordered, but Zac hustled me right to the car. I can tell you that Bill wore simple black pants and a modest blue jacket with thin black squares, and that his wife was waiting for him in their Volvo station wagon, two cars from ours.

I have to say, he seems like a very nice, very humble man. But while watching Bill back up their car, pull out of Dick's, and drive east on 45th Street, I thought the same thing I often think when his name or his face pops up in the news. I thought of baubles, and how quickly they will dissipate when this life is over.

Later in the day, we went to the home of a rich man, to bring him worship and communion in the last hours of his life.

We parked not far from his mobile home, and noticed as we did so that two other couples from church--Dave and Sue Kunkle, and John and Laurie Watson--were also parked near the Baileys' home. With Bible, communion elements, and guitar in hand, we walked up to the house, knocked on the door, and joined the others inside.

Bruce was lying in his hospital bed in the living room next to the sliding glass door, where he had a view of the neighboring mobile homes, and the potted plants Alberta had set on their deck. Two IV bags hung from a stand at the head of his bed. When I asked her if she rotated the bags herself, she nodded. "It's OK except when I have to lift the stand higher to get a better drip. I'm just not strong enough to do it when two bags are hanging there."

I walked to the bed and took Bruce's hand. "Hello," I said. "It's good to see you." His eyes latched with mine. He didn't speak or smile, but his grip tightened. "Your hands are nice and warm," I said.

We took seats around the bed, and prayed, and sang. First, a song of declaration.

I believe in Jesus
I believe He is the Son of God
I believe He died and rose again
I believe He paid for us all
And I believe that He's here now
Standing in our midst
Here with the power to heal now
And the grace to forgive

Then a song of adoration.

Isn't He (isn't He)
Beautiful (beautiful)
Beautiful (beautiful)
Isn't He (isn't He)
Prince of Peace
Son of God
Isn't He

After another song, and more prayer, Dave asked, "Bruce, would you like to have communion?" And Bruce said his one and only word: "Yes."

Dave read from Matthew. Alberta gave her husband a small bite of communion bread, then helped him drink the juice. Then, clustered around his bed, we laid hands on Bruce and prayed that God would ease his pain, and fill him with peace, and give him glimpses of the heaven he was about to enter. Bruce closed his eyes, and kept them closed--and sometime in early hours of Saturday morning, he opened them to Jesus.

He died a rich man--rich in the love of his wife, the love of his church family, the love of his God.

And he's a rich man still.

For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world, and forfeit his soul? ~Mark 8:36

just thinking

I'm as busy as I've ever been, writing-wise. I wake up, make a pot of coffee, find a quiet corner of the house (and that changes on a regular basis), and start reading, transcribing, and scribbling notes. This research (on the Counterculture Movement of the 60s, the Jesus Movement that followed, and how that movement merged with a small fellowship called Calvary Chapel and exploded into a globe-spanning revival) is so fascinating, so thought-consuming, that I've been waking up three or four nights a week around 2:00 a.m. with a head full of questions. On those nights, I start the coffee earlier than usual and work through dawn.

All that to say, I've begun to fall out of love with the internet. I still need it for research, and I still prefer email to trying to scrounge up an envelope and stamp, but I've also never been more aware of what a time killer it is. I've got three email accounts, a MySpace, a Facebook, MyChurch, a knitting group on Ravelry, Goodreads, LinkedIn, Plaxo, our women's ministry blog, my own blog, my author site, a column for Christian Women Online, a Sparks People page, and two yahoo groups (out of 18) that I read regularly. I just know I'm forgetting another something or two. And that doesn't even take into consideration the fact that most of you have MySpace, Facebook, MyChurch, Ravelry, Goodreads, LindIn, blog, blog, blog pages that I should be reading and keeping up with.

How does a person keep up with all that? Here's a more thought-provoking question: Should a person keep up with all that? Because I have to tell you, the last two days I've almost completely ignored the internet--and it's been pure bliss. Instead of checking in 17 times a day, I checked in once. Period. Yesterday I didn't get online until 8:00 p.m., which is a first for me. And yes, it means I have dozens of emails to get through. It means I haven't posted anything new on any of my blogs or groups. But I've loved the disconnect. Loved, loved, loved it. I felt like I'd chewed through the chain around my ankle and was finally relearning the joy of dancing.

I don't know what I'm going to do with all these thoughts swirling about my head. Do I burn my Mac dial-up connector and disappear from cyber space all together? Do I go back to being a woman who got all her stimulation and information from books, conversations, and the library? Or do I dare try to limit myself to just a short, harmless spurt every day? Is that even possible--or is the internet a drug? Can you have just a tiny bite and walk away any time you want?

It's odd, because I didn't mean to let all that out. What I meant to do--in one short paragraph--was say, "I haven't been online much and haven't had time to post, but here's a fun test you can take." Instead, I flopped down on a cyber couch and had a little session, right in front of all y'all.

Well, I'm getting up now and getting back to my real job. Here's the fun test. Come back and tell me how fast you type.

And if you have any words of wisdom about all the other stuff, I'll take that too.

100 words

Speed test

light of the world

I love that my husband doesn't argue with me when I ask for things. This morning, while I was sipping coffee and correcting Tera's math, he slipped me a folded sheet of paper. "Happy Valentine's Day."

In the span of time that it took for me to reach for and take and open that slip of paper, the twelve-year old girl in me elbowed her way to the forefront. I felt a little bit Christmas morning and a little bit August 5th, all blended up. I felt shivery like I used to when someone handed me a box wrapped up in cartoony, primary colored paper.

A lantern ... Dave had bought a kerosene lantern. "It will go to a missionary," he explained.

"It's perfect," I told him. And it feels perfect. How absolutely appropriate. Somewhere across the ocean, someone sent by God to share His light with the world will have a bit of light for nighttime reading, or to help with the long walk between villages.

I'm still in the clutches of the twelve-year old me, who has gone back to Gospel For Asia to ogle more goodies. I'm greedy for more right now. I want to buy a bicycle, or a drum set. I want another goat. I want a sewing machine and a giant pile of blankets, and I want some of the big stuff. I want a Jesus Well, and a fishing boat, and a house.

I am Veruca Salt this morning. I want, I want, I want ... and I want it now.

Don't you want it too?

better than chocolate

I like chocolate as much as the next woman ... maybe more. But I've decided I can live without another red velvet boxful. I'm pretty fond of sweet peas and daisies, and have never yet turned my nose up at a bouquet of roses. But I can live without flowers.

Thursday is Valentine's Day. That means Wednesday night (at the earliest) or, more realistically, early Thursday morning, husbands everywhere will be dashing to the florist or the candy store. But I've got a better idea. It's faster and easier (just the click of a mouse), it contains no calories, there's nothing to recycle, and it will leave a much more satisfying feeling than anything they can pick up at the store.

What if we all skipped the red velvet madness this year and asked instead for a donation to Gospel For Asia? Think about it: you could scan the donation store and decide between livestock (chickens, rabbits, pigs, or the bigger stuff), Bibles, blankets, tools, or a number of other much-needed items, and both you and a family in Asia would be blessed. And I mean blessed. When Dave bought a list of items in my name at Christmas, I couldn't help but cry. I can't remember when anything felt that good. And the family you touch could get the leg-up they've been praying for.

It costs so little to make such a difference. Please forgive the persistent nudge in this direction--but it's on my heart.

And that's really what Thursday is about, right?

in one week ...

Here's what's on the menu around the world this week. Take a good look at the family size, diet, availability and cost of what is eaten in each country.

Germany: The Melander family of Bargteheide
Food expenditure for one week: 375.39 Euros or $500.07



United States: The Revis family of North Carolina
Food expenditure for one week $341.98



Italy: The Manzo family of Sicily
Food expenditure for one week: 214.36 Euros or $260.11




Mexico: The Casales family of Cuernavaca
Food expenditure for one week: 1,862.78 Mexican Pesos or $189.09



Poland: The Sobczynscy family of Konstancin-Jeziorna
Food expenditure for one week: 582.48 Zlotys or $151.27



Egypt: The Ahmed family of Cairo
Food expenditure for one week: 387.85 Egyptian Pounds or $68.50



Ecuador: The Ayme family of Tingo
Food expenditure for one week: $31.55



Bhutan: The Namgay family of Shingkhey Village
Food expenditure for one week: 224.93 ngultrum or $5.03



Chad: The Aboubakar family of Breidjing Camp
Food expenditure for one week: 685 CFA Francs or $1.23



Once again, here's a link to Free Rice and Gospel For Asia. I promise--it won't hurt a bit.

sing

Twice a day, at least, and sometimes several times a day, I drove past the empty mobile home on the highway-side of our long, private road, and tried not to look. The sight of that long strip of yellow crime scene tape, tucked haphazardly within the branches of a never-pruned bush, would tip me off that I was nearing the scene. I'd catch the flicker of a loosened edge of tape, dancing in obedience to a passing breeze, and I'd look to the other side of the road, and try hard not to think of all the sadness that had played itself out on that parcel of acreage.

Three deaths had occurred there; three deaths in about that many years. The first had been a drug overdose. The second was an accidental homicide, which happened when an estranged ex-husband showed up with a gun, threatened his ex-wife, and shot her new boyfriend. The boyfriend lived. The ex-husband died when his 14-year old son, trying to defend his mother, picked up a two-by-four and hit him over the back of the head.

My husband brought groceries to the family and spent a half-hour trying to comfort a group of people who showed no interest in comfort. "I'm glad he's dead," one said, and the rest agreed. Though I can't imagine the boy escaping regret for the whole of his life, he showed no remorse on that afternoon when Dave sat ready to point the way to forgiveness.

We tried to reach out again, not long after, when Dave spotted the owner of the property, J.D., out near the mailbox. J.D. lived in a travel trailer off to the side of the mobile home, which he had rented to the other family. We'd just returned from the grocery store and had a box of donuts in a bag between us. Dave handed the donuts to J.D., chatted with him a bit, and then suggested that they get together for coffee.

"I might like to do that, Pastor," J.D. said. Dave left our number and told the quiet man to call anytime.

But coffee never happened. A week turns into a month pretty quickly, and months slip by before you catch what's happening. Once in awhile, one of us would mention J.D. and the coffee idea would resurface. But before it could come to life, J.D. was gone. One night, after several drinks with his live-in girlfriend, J.D. fell asleep ... and she shot him.

Three deaths; three long yellow strips of crime scene tape. I was sick of the sight. But one afternoon, before I realized what I was doing, I stopped my car directly in front of that unpruned bush. Reaching into the branches, I pulled out a section of that tape and tore it away, then brought it home and tacked it to the bulletin board above my writing desk.

We don't know the number of our days. We only know that we have this hour, this minute, this second. I don't want to forget the frailty of breath. I want no regrets.

Next to that strip of yellow tape I've posted a favorite quote. Most of us go to our graves with our music still inside us.

Today, I want to sing.

this new day

I knew, coming into 2007, that I was entering a year full of milestones, most of which revolved around my mother. This past September marked the 20th anniversary of her suicide. And because she died at 46, and I turned 46 in August, I've lately indulged odd, pensive thoughts about life, and time, and what we do with what we've been given.

Yesterday, I was the exact age she was when she died: 46 years, 125 days. I spent a great part of yesterday wondering what it would be like to be living my final day. I looked back on my life and thought, If this was the fullness of my days, would I have been who I wanted to be--who I was created to be? I can't say yes to that question. Given the chance to ponder the past, we quickly find fault. All the detours I took, all the frivolous choices, all the hurtful decisions, loom large over my shoulder.

But the pensive mood of yesterday put today in perspective. I opened my eyes at 5:20 this morning and entered the 126th day of my 46th year. And I found that my slate is clean, and I've been given a fresh batch of minutes to play with. Who will I be, in this first day of unchartered territory? What will I do with the blessings God has poured over me--blessings my mother never availed herself of?

I laid quietly, asking myself those questions, until the words to a favorite worship song drifted into the room.

And for all You've done and yet to do
With every breath I'm praising You

"With every breath I'm praising You ..." I pushed back the covers, rose, and drew a breath.

This new day is His.

the box

It's crossed my mind a half dozen times this week. And then my online writers' group posed the same question: in the event of a disaster, what five things would you grab from your house? Since the question was posed to a group of over 500 writers, the angle we were asked to consider was what five professional things we'd save. But since this is my blog, and not my yahoo group, I'm going to take out the "p" word.

I'm imagining a box. It's probably going to have to be a big box, because one of my items--and yes, I'm counting it as one--is the distressed end table/box to the right of my couch. Within that box are family pictures dating from the early 1900s through to my son's graduation this last June. So don't challenge me on this. The end table goes in the box. And since the end table is just around the corner from the staircase, and I've got two framed photo montages hanging right there (one for Zac and one for Tera, showing their growth from birth to 18 and 12, respectively)--and technically, we're still talking photos--I might as well slip those frames in too.

Next, I'm placing my Bible in that giant box. Now, as one of my writer cohorts pointed out, the Bible is readily available online. Bibles are easy to replace--at least in my part of the world. But I could never replace the fifteen years of notes I have in my wide-margined Bible. The book of Romans, for instance, is awash with color. It's so covered with arrows and asterisks and exclamation points and regular old words that some pages have literally not another spare inch of white space to offer up. Some pages are barely clinging to the spine. So I want my Bible.

Without question, I have to take my laptop. Not only does it contain my books and all the correspondence related to those books, but it's bulging with novel ideas. I've half a town captured in those files, populated with an almost complete cast of characters, all pulled from the character sketches I've been collecting for a dozen years. The men from Rotten Ralph's are in there. So is the traveling boy, and Charlie, and Lillian. Not to mention, my laptop is loaded with recipes. I mean loaded. And many are my own concoctions. Recipes ... and 2000 of my favorite songs ... and more pictures. Move over, end table. The laptop is coming in.

And then, I think I need one of my grandmother's teacups and saucers from the big cedar chest in the living room. She loved collecting those cups, and every time I push something aside in that chest, in a quest to find the turkey platter or the gravy boat or a tablecloth, and I see one of those delicate, floral-patterned cups, her memory comes to visit. While I'm digging in the chest and selecting a just-right cup, if one of my great-grandmother's doilies or a long-ago Kismet score card happened to fall into the teacup and take a ride to the box, who's to notice?

And lastly, because it is a tangible reminder to me that God sees all the tucked-away longings and losses we carry, and sometimes brings the balm we most need, I'd put my mother's note in the box. I keep it on the shelf above my writing desk. As I think about it, her diary is right there, right next to her framed note. Might as well keep those two together.

Some of you are counting. But I say, if you have time to stand there while I salvage pieces of my life and count the items in my hand, you have time enough to help me grab five more.

So now it's your turn. Here's a giant box for you. What will you fill it with?

someone's watching you

I rarely watch TV in the morning. Who has time? But our puppy--who has been recovering from an unknown ailment that had her at the vet for a week--is sleeping in her crate in the living room, and Dave felt certain that the lull of all-night voices would keep her content when the rest of us went to bed. So when I settled in this morning to finish a book edit, the TV was already on.

I got sucked into Good Morning America. Maybe "sucked in" is the wrong term. I should say that while I checked for misplaced commas and scanned for redundancies, I kept one ear on the top stories.

I managed to ignore most of it. But when they began a segment on how Walmart is keeping tabs on the shopping habits of American consumers, my fingers paused over the keyboard. I shop at Walmart. That means Walmart is watching me.

And here's what they've discovered about me ... and you:

--The average woman who shops at Walmart is a size 14 in clothes, size 8 ½ in shoes.
--The most popular turtleneck colors are black and red.
--If you live in the Northeast, you’re most likely to have a bagel for breakfast
--In Texas, you’re likely to reach for a donut
--Across the country, bananas are the highest seller in all their stores
--Ohio buys more TVs than any other state (Sports ... it's all sports)
--Boxers and briefs are tied for popularity, but Southern men prefer boxers
--Western states like New Mexico, Wyoming and California buy the most dog food
--Maine buys the most cat food
--In times of crisis, like an impending hurricane, people want to buy Pop Tarts.
Therefore, when the weather forecasters warn of a brewing storm, the Walmart distribution center sends truckloads of Pop Tarts to the stores in its path.

It all got me thinking. The first thought I had was that the next time I found myself in Walmart, I might buy an apple ... or a nectarine ... or a kiwi. But you can be sure I'm not buying another bunch of bananas from the Big Eye.

And then ... I don't know. Maybe I was just in one of those places where it was easy to spot a spiritual illustration in an odd story. Whatever the reason, something in that Pop Tart comment made me think of Satan. He studies us too, you know. He watches us so diligently that he knows exactly what we like best and he knows exactly what we turn to in times of stress or difficulty. And then he makes sure that “thing” is right within easy reach.

And I hate to say it, but I'm afraid that too often, when we’re in need of comfort, we settle for Pop Tarts when we could be reaching for God.

chick wisdom

She came out of the woods one day and sauntered around the corner of the house with four unexpected fluff balls in tow. She'd never let on that she had a nest out there. She'd been holding out--and this day was show-and-tell. If ever a hen exuded pride, she was it.

She had a right to that pride. Those chicks are perfect little hen-lets. Teensy eyes, stick-figure legs, miniature bodies so downy-light, the yellow seems to hover about them like an aura.

That first day, they followed her across the sea of gray concrete with their tiny hearts beating madly in their mini chests. Where was she taking them? Why? When I spoke to them (in practiced Chickese), they skittered to the far side of Mama, cocked their heads to this side and that, and stole quick, quizzical glances at the scary Womanzilla who is me.

I was patient. Those first few days, I tossed crumbs of toast or leftover cheesy bread at them from a far distance--but always with a spoken invitation in a quiet voice. After that, when I'd hear their little chirps and Mama's more persistent cluck, I'd open the sliding glass door and wait them out. They'd come nearer with cautious, scratchy steps ... closer, closer ... until they couldn't bring themselves to move another inch. At the edge of their courage, they'd wait for the handful of leftover brown rice or muffin bits I'd lob at them, again, while speaking. "Hello, babies," I'd say.

This morning, I looked up from the couch to see four small faces peering at me through the slider. They'd made it all the way to my door.

I opened it with a slow nudge and said, "There you are." At the sound they'd memorized, they hopped and fluttered and chirped. And they stayed right there, waiting for me, while I slipped out to join them on the step. I let a handful of quick oats drop through my fingers, and they dined at my feet.

Call me back, Lord. Draw me away from all that leaves me empty. In that voice You use--the one that soothes and lulls and comforts--draw me to Your feet. I need to dine today.