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The Bible Tells Me

I’m not the Bible scholar I should be. I know some verses; not as many as I ought. Still, I find most of my experiences can be framed or underscored, explained or illuminated, by Scripture. Or maybe a hymn or a worship song, a devotional or a testimony. Frequently, I have those “Oh, yeah” moments when I see God clearly in an event. Or realized that I should have seen Him.

These are the moments of “The Bible tells me.”

These essays reflect that. Do know that I can proof-text as well as anyone. I have a concordance, and I know how to use it. Well, truthfully, I do all of that online now, where I can quickly find a passage, see it in many versions, and choose the one I like best. I try not to be narrow, but instead broad, as I apply Bible words to my experiences. I know that your interpretations and understanding may be different than mine. But I also know that our God is big enough for all of us.

I have a friend who, in her prayer time, likes to tell jokes to God. “I know He knows the punch line,” she says. “But I tell them anyway. He likes it when I laugh.”

He likes it when I laugh. I’m going to hang on to that. It’s Biblical. The Bible tells me.

Our mouths were filled with laughter then,
and our tongues with shouts of joy.
Then they said among the nations,
“The Lord has done great things for them.”
The Lord had done great things for us;
we were joyful.

Psalm 126: 2,3 (HCSB)


You Might Have Heard. It Snowed.

I don’t know what they’re gong to call what happened this week, but “It snowed,” isn’t going to be enough.

We woke up Monday morning to a significant amount of snow on the ground. An unusual amount of snow. And no power inside the house. I bundled up in a lightweight black knit shirt, a heavyweight black dress, a black sweater and another, heavier black sweater, and black leggings. And my shoes. And my pashmina wrapped around my head and covering my nose.

I was determined to finish Hamilton. It was due that day, and I didn’t have any more renewals. When the sun hit the front of the house, I opened the blinds, and I was quite cozy, sitting on my bed, reading away. The sun set, and we still didn’t have any power. But I did finish Hamilton!

We’re fortunate that, when my parents built this house, they chose gas as an energy source. The stove’s burners have an electronic ignition, which of course didn’t work. But we were able to turn on the burners and light the gas to make a flame. We could heat water for tea. I could scramble an egg in a skillet. David could heat up soup. The oven, while also gas powered, could not be lit. So, no baking. But most importantly, the hot water heater was working. We could wash out hands, wash a few dishes and silverware. It was more than I thought we could have expected. And the heating system didn’t work, so we were pretty chilly.

We have a lamp in the bedroom, and I suggested to David that he turn on the lamp, so we would know when the power came back on. Even if it had come on in the middle of the night, I’d have been glad to know that the power was back. It didn’t.

David pulled more blankets and quilts out of the cedar chest and spread them on the bed. I slept pretty well, except for a couple of trips to the bathroom. I was as quick as I could be, but it was pretty miserable, and took a while to warm back up.

Tuesday was exactly the same. I had finished Hamilton and read another Hamilton book (a lovely, lavishly illustrated book that has heavy pages, illustrations on every page, and four, three-page foldouts, with maps and drawings). We did leave the house in the afternoon, to go return the books. There’s a book drop at the back of the library. It’s automatic. You press a green button and a door opens. You can put the book in, and a conveyor belt pulls your book into the library, automatically scanning the book. When the power is on. Which it wasn’t.

We drove around to the front of the library where there’s a regular slot with a door, and you can just shove the books in. We did that, then we noticed that the Target parking lot had lots of cars, and the lights were on. And we said,”Target has power?” Apparently, they did, and we went to Target. We spent an hour or so doing a little shopping, but mostly walking around and being warm.

We went home, and I bundled up in bed under layers and layers of blankets. The lamp never came on.

Wednesday morning, I wanted a nice, hot bath. Taking a shower in the smaller bathroom seemed daunting. We did have hot water and that would be great. Until I had to step out of the shower into the bathroom itself, where the temperature was maybe 20 degrees. I thought a bath would be a better choice.The hot, hot water would help raise the temperature in the room. So when I got out of the tub, the room wold be nice and warm.

I enjoyed the tub for quite a while, often replenishing the cooling water with additional hot, hot water. But when I did get out, the room was still just as frigid as when I’d gotten in. Brrrrr. I put on nice, fresh, clean, warm clothes, and we drove carefully, over to David’s office, to check on things there. It was fine there. It has heat, lights, and power.

All our pillows and blankets to take for our over night stays.

I charged up my phone. I called my sister. I called Jeremy, who said, “Don’t stay in the house with no power at all! Spend the night in Dad’s office!” And that sounded like a plan.

We went back home, checked the lamp to see if the power had come back on, and gathered up pillows and blankets and quilts, and the blow up mattress that Peter sleeps on when he comes. We did make another trip home, later, just to be sure that the power hadn’t suddenly come on. It hadn’t. David slept on a sofa in the library, in his sleeping bag. I slept on the blow up mattress, which deflated as the night wore on. Still, I had the best night’s sleep I’d had in a few days.

Thursday, we both woke up feeling better than we had in days.

David got lots of work done. I read some of Aaron Burr’s letters in a two volume set that David had purchased for the library a few years earlier. I found a letter that said: “Hamilton is desperately searching for someone to run against A.B.” (i.e. Aaron Burr)

Mid-day, David left to check on the house. I stayed and read. When he returned, a couple of hours later, he said, “Let’s go home.” The heater was running! The house was warm! The power was back!

“Was the lamp on?” I asked. It was.

We had packed up the pillows and blankets, just in case. We put them in the car and hurried back home. The roads were much less slippery and much less covered with ice and snow. It looked like spring. Well, sort of.

 

 

And the King will answer them, “Don’t you know? When you cared for one of the least important of these my little ones, my true brothers and sisters, you demonstrated love for me.”

Matthew 25:40 (The Passion Translation)

Then the King will say, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.’

Matthew 25:40 (The Message Translation)

The king will answer, “Whenever you did it for any of my people, no matter how unimportant they seemed, you did it for me.”

Matthew 25:40 (Contemporary English Version)

 

I have some important work to do in the next day or two. We easily withstood the difficulties of the past few days. I know there are scores of folks who did not. I don’t know those men, women, and families. But I know people who do know them. And I will ask for suggestions about how I can make their lives a little easier in the next few days.

Out with the Old, In With . . .

Nothing

Over the years, I’ve amassed lots of cookware and bakeware. Most of what I got as wedding gifts (ever so long ago) has been broken, dented, and/or warped. I’ve received some replacement and/or new items, like a crepe pan, that I used a couple of times, stored for years, and finally passed on. After my parents were gone, and we moved into the house in which JoAnne and I grew up, I kept a few of my mother’s things. I ended up with some duplicates, like rectangular baking pans with lids, and (Pyrex) rectangular baking dishes.

For a while, I needed those things. When my sister’s family lived in Texas (and they came and went a couple of times), they might come to visit a few times a year, which would mean more kitchen-related activities. When the boys were growing up, we would have their friends over for get-togethers, and I would cook and bake. There would be pot-luck dinners at church, which do sort of happen, or did, until recently, but they’re not quite the same. People often bring boxes of fried chicken or pizzas from local food establishments, and they bring side dishes from those places, too.

Years ago, when a new family moved into the neighborhood, ladies would cook a casserole or a dessert to take to the new folks. These days, people have a variety of food habits, like lactose-free, keto, low-carb, vegetarian. I wouldn’t dream of taking a meat loaf or a gelatin salad to someone I didn’t know. I take apples.

So, ultimately, I don’t need much in the way of cookware and bakeware. I have one large pot with a lid. I have one good-sized skillet, also with a lid. I have one large and one medium sized glass baking dish. I have two (one large, one small) racks for cooling baked goods, like cookies and scones. I do have four cookie sheets, of various sizes. I primarily use them as bases for freezing things like rolls that I will heat up later and things like meatballs, chicken breasts, and fish, that I will store (after freezing) in storage bags and remove one at a time to prepare for dinner. (Well, more than one meatball.) And, of course, those cookies and/or scones.

When Peter comes, we might make bread. I have loaf pans for loaves, muffin tins for rolls, and those cookie sheets for more creative arrangements of dough.

 

By this time they were in front of Peter’s house. On entering, Jesus found Peter’s mother-in-law sick in bed, burning up with fever. He touched her hand and the fever was gone. No sooner was she up on her feet than she was fixing dinner for him.

Matthew 8:14-15 (The Message Translation)

 

If Jesus came to my house, I’d be able to stir up some dinner pretty quickly, because my kitchen is, for the moment, at least, pretty well organized. And, I’m pretty sure there’s food in the freezer.

 

Here’s all the cookware that’s bagged up, in the car’s trunk, on the way to Goodwill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sewing

I have a cousin who, for several years, worked as an interior designer. Her husband was a builder, and she helped make his houses look lovely and up-to-date. We always enjoyed visiting her and seeing what kinds of interesting and beautiful things graced her home. She knew all kinds of trends. Once when we visited, she showed us a long, narrow box which was actually a drawer from an old sewing machine. People were using them for storing small items or displaying a variety of things, such as a few small picture frames with photos or other pictures in a drawer that was lying horizontally on a desk or cabinet. A drawer displayed vertically might have an arrangement of leaves or flowers in a little vase.

I ended up with one that I use, even now, to hold spools of thread and a pincushion, in easy reach of my sewing machine.

 

Around the same time, my mother was interested in refinishing pieces of furniture, and she was poking around in a little “antique” store in Hillsboro, the town where she grew up. She saw an old, treadle sewing machine. All of its pieces were intact, including four, nice and sturdy drawers. Mother asked the owner if she could buy a couple of those drawers. He said, “Fine,” and she left the place all satisfied with her purchase. And, since sewing machine drawers were such a hot, valuable item, she went back the next day and bought the other two drawers. Then, a few days later, she asked me if I’d like to have the entire sewing machine cabinet, itself. My sewing machine was just sitting on a kneehole desk that I’d used as a young teenager. I thought it might be a nice addition to our home, and I said, “Yes.” She went to work refinishing the whole thing, taking it all apart, and then putting it all back together.

That old sewing machine sat in a hole on the top of the table part. The treadle itself was still on the machine, as well as the belt that moved the needle on the machine. Seamstresses would pump the treadle up and down with their feet. You can see the treadle, here, at the bottom of the cabinet. And you can see the wooden piece that was attached to the wheel (on the right side) to make it turn.  There had been a belt (rubber, I think) that went from the large wheel under the machine to a smaller wheel on the side of the machine itself, that would then turn to make the needle move up and down to create a seam.

 

My mother’s very modern sewing machine had a hinged part that would allow her machine to be lowered down into the cabinet. Then there was a lid that would cover the machine, so that it just looked like a small table. My mother used her machine often, so it rarely got to the table part.

My new/old machine had this lovely box to protect the machine when it wasn’t being used. The original sewing machine sat nicely under this box. I think the first machine I used on this sewing cabinet also fit well. The next machine was a little, tiny, bit taller, and, when I cleaned up after sewing, I sat the box on that machine and it swayed a little bit, not reaching all the way to the surface of the cabinet.

Recently, I had to get a new sewing machine. A part on the machine that holds the bobbin (lower part) of the thread, came apart. I went online to order a new one and found that my machine was so old, they didn’t make that exact part any more. But, they suggested another part that should work. I ordered that part, and it finally came, and, Ta-Dah!! It didn’t work at all.

Now, the truth is, I don’t sew very much any more. But, I do sew some. So, I went to the giant fabric/notions/patterns/trim/pillow forms/yarn/thread/sewing machines store and bought a new machine. Not the cheapest one, and certainly not one of the extra fancy, extra ordinary, extra large, extra expensive ones. It’s a plain machine, and it does what I need doing.

The hole that the old, original machine rested in is, of course, not at all usable. I’ve put down a white rectangular piece that was originally a metal, sort of, cutting board. It does a fine job of covering the hole and supporting the machine.

You can see, on the floor, next to the old treadle, a small, black, rectangular thing that has a cord attached to it. That’s the foot control. It’s what I press, with my foot, which delivers the electricity to the machine and causes the needle to go up and down. Pressing slow means sewing slowly, like sewing in a sleeve. Pressing harder means faster sewing, when sewing a long, straight seam.

This machine is a little bit taller than my previous machines, and the piece that holds a bobbin when I’m winding thread on it, is not removable, causing the box to wobble, quite a bit, when I place it back on the machine. So, I glued small wooden spools onto the bottom of the box, which keeps it sturdy and secure.

I do like my new machine. I’ve made a pillow cover and done some repairs to clothes, and am in the process of making a new Christmas tree skirt.

 

 In Joppa there was a follower named Tabitha. Her Greek name was Dorcas, which means “deer.” She was always doing good things for people and had given much to the poor. But she got sick and died, and her body was washed and placed in an upstairs room.  Joppa wasn’t far from Lydda, and the followers heard that Peter was there. They sent two men to say to him, “Please come with us as quickly as you can!”  Right away, Peter went with them. The men took Peter upstairs into the room. Many widows were there crying. They showed him the coats and clothes that Dorcas had made while she was still alive. After Peter had sent everyone out of the room, he knelt down and prayed. Then he turned to the body of Dorcas and said, “Tabitha, get up!” The woman opened her eyes, and when she saw Peter, she sat up.  He took her by the hand and helped her to her feet.Peter called in the widows and the other followers and showed them that Dorcas had been raised from death.  Everyone in Joppa heard what had happened, and many of them put their faith in the Lord.

Acts 9:36-42 (Contemporary English Version)

 

Maybe I should consider broadening my sewing skills. And, while I’ve certainly not done the kind of sewing that Dorcas did, there are a few dolls in the Preschool classroom at church that have extensive, handmade wardrobes.

 

And, because it’s that time of year, Peter has recently had a birthday and is now eight years old.

Mystery

Post Christmas:

Kevin and April stayed in Waco for a few days at Christmastime. They went back to Fort Worth, and Peter stayed with us for a few more days, before heading back home to be ready to get back into school mode.

A few days ago, Kevin called and asked if Peter’s Dog Man books were here. The author, Dan Pilkey, is a guy who understands the pulse of school-aged readers. One of his first series of books are the Captain Underpants books. I first learned about them when kindergartners at church told me about how much they liked them (and those kids are college graduates now). The books are funny and and appealing to school-aged kids. One site says that the reading level is grades 2-5, but the “appeal” level is grades 4-8. Seems like a big leap. The first book of the series was published in 1997, so they’ve been around for a while.

Mr. Pilkey’s more recent series is the Dog Man series. The web site’s description is: “When Officer Knight and his police dog Greg are caught in a freak accident caused by the evil Petey the Cat, there’s only one way to save them. Doctors carefully sew Greg the Dog’s head onto Officer Knight’s body to create an all-new superhero: Dog Man. Half-dog and half-man, he is here to sniff squirrels and save the city—and he’s all out of squirrels to sniff.”

Peter finds them compelling, and he is not alone. Peter had the first two books, and he received two more for Christmas. I thought he’d probably memorized them by now.

A couple of days ago, Kevin phoned and asked if Peter’s Dog Man books were here. I went and looked at the shelf where books are, in the room where Peter stays when he’s here. I looked at every book, and, nope. No Dog Man. books.

 

Kevin called back a couple of days later. Had I looked in the shed, he said. Well, no, I hadn’t looked in the shed.

Years ago, we bought a shed (a shed in a box) to store things like the lawn mower and lawn chairs. Kevin and April came to help put it together. At first, there were a few fold-up canvas chairs in there. And that’s about all. Peter and David would open up a couple of chairs and sit in the shed (with doors open) and read books have snacks and enjoy the spring-time weather.

Then, after a while, other things got stored in there, like the lawn mower, which wasn’t used any more, because lawn people came to mow each week. There was an old trunk, an old trash can which we didn’t use any more because the city now provided trash bins that the trash trucks would lift and empty.

Years earlier, David and my dad created some shelving above the garage doors, where things that belonged to the boys were stored. A while back, we needed to remove these storage spaces, and we had to move the boxes that belonged to the boys. Those boxes went into the shed.

Periodically, the city has a bulky waste day, and we were able to put out things like that lawn mower that hadn’t been used in years. I looked in the old trunk and there wasn’t much in there, but most of it was unusable. When Jeremy came, in the fall, he and Kevin hauled boxes out and went through things.

 

Jeremy had driven to Waco, and had space in his car to take home lots of stuff. Kevin took his stuff home, which meant that there were only a couple of boxes stored in the shed. I cleaned out more of things that I’d been storing for “Fun with Friends,” a summer activity session that I would provide for preschoolers. Since things had been shut down for the summer, and because I was retiring from my preschool teaching time at church, I recycled all the toilet paper and paper towel tubes I’d been saving for making a golf ball structure.

This is a “bean box” that I’d made from a Dyson vacuum box and a variety of round boxes like oatmeal boxes and wrapping paper tubes. I’d used it for several years at “Fun Friends” on Physics Day. I’d set it on four preschool chairs, two on each side, in one side of the large box that my treadmill had come in. Then, I’d pour several large bags of dried pinto beans into the large box, along with scoops. Kids could scoop beans into the various openings in the Dyson box and watch to see where the beans would come out. It was hilarious fun. It was a little poignant to dismantle it and shove the pieces into the blue recycle bin, which left space on shelves in the garage for the remaining boxes that belonged to Jeremy.

Now, the shed is much more spacious, and Peter found it to be a nice, quiet, undisturbed space. So, when Kevin asked me if I’d looked in the shed, and I said, “No,” he said that Peter said he’d been reading in there.

I went to look.

And that, of course, is exactly where they were, all lined up, along with the very old wheelbarrow, and the bag of compost, and those fold-up canvas chairs, all safe and secure.

And now, they’re on the shelves, ready for when Peter comes to visit again.

 

 

Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it?  When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, “Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.”

Luke 15:8-9 (New Revised Standard Version)

 

I guess there’s been some rejoicing at Peter’s house. Or relief.

The Eyes Do Have It

Thursday morning, I went to the hospital with a friend who was having a procedure done. I was the designated driver.

When the procedure was complete, we were waiting for her discharge, and a physician walked by. He had on his scrubs and a hospital jacket and a cap and a mask. My friend said, “Oh, there goes Dr. —–.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’d have never recognized him.”

His family had been members of our church, several years earlier. I’d known him and his wife, and his daughter had been a preschooler in my Sunday School class. I’d have recognized him in his street clothes, but not, apparently when only his eyes were showing.

I’ve never been good at recognizing folks. I have to meet someone more than once (and sometimes several times) before I’m sure about their identity.

It’s embarrassing. I’ll be introduced to someone, and then, a week or so (or a day or so) later, I’ll see them at a store or a library or church, and be uncertain about who they are, and where do I know them from, and what is their name?!?

If I do run into someone that I think I’m supposed to know, I might start a generic sort of conversation: “Hi. It’s good to see you.” That sort of thing, with the hope that there will be some clue about how and where I might have met this person and what is it that we have in common (church? knitting group? neighborhood?).

I have a new neighbor across the street. I wave to him and his little twin boys.

I also have a new neighbor next door. I wave to her and her four kids.

If I should see either one of these adults, without their kids, at a store, I’m not sure I’d be certain who they were. I need to spend a few more conversations with them to be absolutely certain who they are. I should spend more time in my front yard at the approximate times they arrive back home. I should set my watch.

Anyway, back to the doctor.

While I was waiting for my friend to get checked out and ready to leave the hospital, that doctor walked back by me. He looked at me and said, “Hello, Gayle.”

I was pretty surprised. After all, I had on a mask, too, so only my eyes were showing. And, it had been several years since I’d seen him. I certainly wouldn’t have known him, all masked and hatted as he was, if my friend hadn’t pointed him out, earlier.

And I said, “Hi,” back, and told him that my friend had pointed him out to me. We chatted for a moment and then my friend came back and we talked together for a few minutes. Then, of course, he had to leave to go and do some doctoring.

I said, “If all I’ve got to recognize people is their eyes, I really need folks to wear name tags. Otherwise, I’ll never know who they area.”

 

There were two blind men sitting by the roadside. When they heard that Jesus was passing by, they shouted, “Lord, have mercy on us, Son of David!”  The crowd sternly ordered them to be quiet; but they shouted even more loudly, “Have mercy on us, Lord, Son of David!”  Jesus stood still and called them, saying, “What do you want me to do for you?”  They said to him, “Lord, let our eyes be opened.”  Moved with compassion, Jesus touched their eyes. Immediately they regained their sight and followed him.

Matthew 20:30-24 (New Revised Standard Version)

 

‘Way back last February (remember last February, when we could go places and visit with people and not be anxious), I had signed up for a series of informational classes through a Baylor program for senior adults. I’d sat down in the last chair on a row and there were a couple of empty chairs beside me. A minute or so later, a couple of ladies came in on the other end of the row, and people who were already seated scooted down to make room for the friends. I moved my purse from an empty chair. The woman who sat down next to me looked at me. I smiled at her and she said, “Gayle Goodwin!” And I said, “yes,” (as that’s my maiden name). She said her name, which I recognized from high school.

“Hello!” “Hello!” we said to each other, and chatted for a moment.

“I’m surprised you recognized me,” I said to her.

“Oh,” she said. “I see it in your eyes.”

So, maybe I should be sure my eyes are opened, as I’m smiling at the only part of people’s faces I can see. It’s important for people to really be seen.

 

Maybe It’s Normal for You, But For Us, It Was AMAZING

Okay. It snowed.

For several days, the forecast said, for Sunday, 80% chance of snow. I did not find that credible. Snow is really, really rare for Central Texas. It’s really, really amazing, but pretty rare. So I was in a, rather, whatever frame of mind. I slept a little late on Sunday morning, and when I got up, I did look out the window, just in case, and Ollie, Mollie, Gollie, snow was falling, quite steadily. The tree limbs already had snow stacking up, and the fence next door sported a significant accumulation. Well, significant for Central Texas. And, even more amazing, the snow kept falling down.

I kept on checking, thinking that, as soon as it stopped, I’d go out and take some photos, to be able to get the maximum snowfall photos.

Looking out the front door, late morning. This is some serious snow for Central Texas.

 

And then, looking out the kitchen window, at the back yard. There was a bird on the bird feeder, and I verrrrry carefully edged over to get a photo, but, I’m not as careful and stealthy as I thought I could be, and he took off. Trust me, there was a bird!

 

 

 

I kept looking out the window, checking the snow. At one point, the flakes were, well, not flakes, but large blobs of snow falling, made up, it seemed, of scores of actual flakes. It was like a movie.

 

 

The back yard and patio–

All the patio plants are either winter hardy or they die down with colder weather and make a come back in the spring. More tender plants are in the little plastic greenhouse. Some of those will most likely not survive the winter, but, some will. I looked in on Thursday afternoon and they all look all right. If we get a deeper freeze, some will need to be replaced.

 

 

 

This photo shows the footprints of my next door neighbor, who trekked over in the late afternoon. When we answered the doorbell, I was surprised to see her. She was doing what neighbors do . . . she needed a cup of flour for making dinner, not having realized that she was out. I asked if her kids were at home (there are four of them), but they were at their Dad’s. She said that we’d have heard them, playing outside, if they’d been at home.

I said that, if I had heard them, I’ve have come over and, if they’d been making snowmen, I’d have offered our snow to them, if their yard didn’t have enough.

 

 

 

The last bit of snow, on Wednesday afternoon.

 

And, on the right, on Thursday afternoon . . .

These bougainvilleas have a lovely brick-colored flower. I like the way they look with the bricks on the house. After they were so swaddled in snow, I thought they’d be all done for the season. But, they’ve put out new little flowers and seem quite unscathed by the wintry weather.

 

Just as rain and snow descend from the skies
    and don’t go back until they’ve watered the earth,
doing their work of making things grow and blossom,
    producing seed for farmers and food for the hungry,
so will the words that come out of my mouth
    not come back empty-handed.
They’ll do the work I sent them to do,
    they’ll complete the assignment I gave them.

So you’ll go out in joy,
    you’ll be led into a whole and complete life.
The mountains and hills will lead the parade,
    bursting with song.
All the trees of the forest will join the procession,
    exuberant with applause.

Isaiah 66:10-12 (The Message Translation)

 

My dad grew up in northern Ohio. There, snow began falling in the autumn, and it stayed until early spring. I remember one fall, when we were on the phone, chatting with Daddy’s family. Suddenly, my uncle said, with a big sigh of resignation (or maybe a little bit of frustration), “It’s snowing.” “Oh, wow,” we said, with excitement! He was not nearly as enthusiastic as we were. I guess we’re more excited about a snowfall because we don’t have to shovel the stuff.

Fire! Fire!

When I was in elementary school, I sang in our church’s Children’s Choir. We met every week at the music leader’s house, and that’s where I first learned about singing in rounds. The first one I learned was “Scotland’s Burning.” The third part of the round (after “Scotland’s burning; Scotland’s burning! Look out! Look out!) was the portion “Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!” That’s what I remember most clearly.

I had the experience recently of, well, not exactly singing, but more like yelping:

FIRE! FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

Solar lights with their solar panels, all packed up until next year.

We have solar outdoor lights that I put on the hedges at the front of the house at Christmas time. One set goes on the holly hedges. One set starts on the greenery on the porch railing and then goes on the holly bush at the end of the porch. Both of those sets are small lights. Another set of snowflake-shaped lights go on the boxwood at the corner of the house. I love these lights because I put them up and then press the “on” button on the little solar panels that are attached to the lights’ strings. They soak up the sunlight all day long, and then the lights come on when the sun goes down. They glow for a few hours, then they shut down, after using up all the sunlight-powered energy. The next day, they soak up the light again. They’re great.

After several chilly days, last Monday was warmer, and I went out to take down the lights. I wound the strands around large pieces of cardboard to store them. I finished the longer, small-bulbed lights. Then, I went over to take down the snowflake lights. I bent down to get the solar panels that were lying on the ground under the boxwood. I picked them up and dusted off the loose soil that was there. And, YOW! What?!? Fire Ants! I dropped the panels and, a little frantically, began to sweep the ants from my hands. Those ants mean business.

I went inside to wash my arms and hands to be sure I’d gotten all the ants off. I waited a few minutes and went back out. Fire ants erupt and swarm around for a few minutes, then they disappear down into the ground. I didn’t see any more of them, and, carefully went about the business of removing, quickly, the remaining strings of lights, and packing them up, looking carefully for any errant ants still lurking about.

Yucky looking fire ant sting

Monday, the stings were just rather painful. There were five on my left forearm, between my elbow and wrist, and two between fingers on my left hand. There were two, between fingers, on my right hand. It seems as though, while I was brushing ants from my right arm and hand, ants were busy on my left arm and hand. And that’s all there are, so I’m more fortunate that some folks. I put some anti-itch cream on the stings.

Tuesday, I put more cream on. Then, in the wee hours, Wednesday morning, the itchiness woke me up, and I eventually got up and re-applied the cream. I’ve heard about people who fell onto a bed of fire ants and were overwhelmed with stings. I’m assuming that those people would need to be hospitalized and sedated and in need of antibiotics. I don’t know how long it must take to recover. For me and my nine stings, I’m not miserable, just uncomfortable.

Wednesday, I needed to go to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription, and while I was there, asked the pharmacist what would be a good choice for treating fire ant stings. She not only told me what to get, but she walked me over to the aisle and picked up the tube of hydrocortisone cream (intensive healing formula), which I can apply 3 to 4 times daily. It’s much, much better. I’m wondering how long it’ll take for the stings to heal completely.

 

An untrustworthy messenger stirs up trouble, but a faithful emissary is curative balm.

Proverbs 13:17 (The Voice Translation)

 

As of Thursday evening, the stings don’t really look any better, but they don’t itch hardly at all. But, I’m still using that Pharmacist’s curative balm.

All’s Well, So Far

Christmas came, and our New Year’s Eve was calm. Kevin and April came, and Peter’s here for New Year’s Day and then goes back home. And then, I guess, life gets back to normal, which is a relative term, these days.

Kevin and April and Peter arrived before Christmas and the adults got to work on all the things that needed repairs/replacements.

 

Then, we went forward on the fan and light fixture. April got her laptop and we began to go through the kinds of ceiling fans I might like. I just don’t have much experience choosing fixtures. Previously, we’d gotten a ceiling fan for the house we’d lived in for over twenty years. It was in the kitchen of our 10-foot ceiling home, and I’d not had to think about heights. Now, in this 8-foot ceiling house, we had to be more careful. The more we looked at the variety, the more I got lost in the choices. Then, we thought about how the present (non-functional) fan came to be in the house. The room with the fan had been, in all my growing up years, the family den. The television was there, along with a sofa and a couple of easy chairs. It rather needed a fan to move the air around in the room, and the light gave enough illumination for reading and, for my mother, hand sewing.

 

But, now, that’s where the dining table is. There is a television on a chest, but it’s not really a place where several folks gather on a regular basis.

“So,” asked April, “do you need a fan in here?”

“Well, I guess not,” I said. And we began to look for light fixtures. I found one I liked. And, we were going to get two, because I wanted it to match the fixture which was on the kitchen ceiling, and, of course, that fixture was more than ten years old and wasn’t being manufactured any more. We went off to Home Depot to see it for real. It looked good and we bought two of them, along with bulbs.

The electricians did come, first thing Monday, as promised, and installed both fixtures and carried away the old ones.

 

David likes that the lights illuminate the corners of the rooms, instead of just beaming straight down. And, after the electricians had gone, Kevin said, “Look at this,” and he was across the room, under the light fixtures, without having to duck, which, apparently, he’d been having to do as he walked under the fan, for many, many years. So, it worked out for everyone.

Then, the dishwasher. When the sudsing didn’t abate, I finally contacted the Bosch folks and described the problem. Of course, it was in the middle of December, and I had to wait for a while for a response. They were ever so sorry to hear about my problem, and, in an e-mail, recommended (and I am not making this up) that I put two Tablespoons of cooking oil in the bottom of the dishwasher and run it, empty, on the hottest cycle. Really?

So, that’s what I did. It did not solve the problem immediately, but there were fewer suds.

So, we’ll see. maybe it’s the sort of thing I’ll need to do every now and then. And, very much cheaper that having repair people come out.

I do understand, and appreciate, how fortunate I am.

 

With all my heart I praise the Lord, and with all that I am I praise his holy name!
With all my heart I praise the Lord! I will never forget how kind he has been.

The Lord forgives our sins, heals us when we are sick, and protects us from death.
His kindness and love are a crown on our heads.
Each day that we live, he provides for our needs and gives us the strength of a young eagle.

Psalm 103:1-5 (Contemporary English Version-by David)

Yes, Some Christmases ARE Memorable, for LOTS of Reasons

In 1976, there were some, um, problematic events, at Christmastime. Nothing epic, just a series of things, that were frustrating for my mother. One of my aunts, who liked to write poetry, wrote a poem about them.

One issue involved some dessert plates. We’d gotten a set of beautiful blue glasses, as wedding gifts. Then, we found some matching plates. A few years after we were married, we moved to Lubbock for David’s graduate studies, and I packed a few of those plates. Our kitchen was pretty small, and things were stacked around as best as I could manage. One day, I was reaching for a couple of those plates, in a top cabinet. I knocked some of them over, and four of them crashed to the floor, breaking.

When we moved back to Waco that summer, I thought that I should go to one of the stores that carried them and replace what I had broken. Mother had the same idea, and, quietly, bought them for me as a Christmas present. At some point, before Christmas Day, I mentioned that I’d replaced them. Mother sighed, a little bit, about it, and returned them.

Another Aunt and Uncle always put up a large Christmas tree in their living room, and decorated it with beautiful red and gold ornaments. As Mother shopped, early in December, she found a red and gold ornament that she thought would be perfect for their lovely tree. She took it, with great holiday anticipation, to their house, excited for them to see it and add it to their tree. But, when she went inside, she was startled to see a very small, plain, sparsely decorated tree. “Oh,” they said, “it just got to be too much for us to handle.” They were several years older than Mother and Daddy, and she understood. But was disappointed.

She got a new billfold for my grandmother. Before she could mail it off to Ohio, she learned that someone had recently given my grandmother a new one.

She bought a sweater for my dad, but, some members of their Sunday School class, which Daddy taught each week, asked for gift ideas, and she handed over the sweater for them to give him.

Mother’s oldest sister, the one who liked to write poetry, had a number of in-laws who had been important in her life, when her sons were growing up. One of that family’s holiday traditions was baking buttermilk pies for Christmas morning breakfast.

The web site well plated, describes buttermilk pie as “a classic, old fashioned southern dessert that tastes like a custard pie but is SO. MUCH. EASIER. to make. Buttermilk pie tastes similar to crème brûlée.”

Sounds yummy.

In 1976, that aunt decided that she, too, should make buttermilk pies to share with family members. She purchased all the ingredients (which is a short list), along with frozen pie crusts. (Those pie crusts often come, frozen, in a stack of three.) She mixed up all the ingredients, laid out those pie crusts, poured the creamy batter in, and baked them up, the day before Christmas, and delivered them.

On Christmas morning,  Mother got the pie, warmed it up, and began to slice it into pieces. She tried and tried and tried, but just could not get the knife through the pie. On more careful examination, she saw that my aunt had neglected to remove the paper circles that were in the bottom of each frozen pie crust, to keep the crusts from sticking to each other. So, you had to scrape the yummy filling out, and eat it with a spoon, then, you could remove the paper and eat the crust.

I’m bringing all this up for a reason.

The dishwasher. At Thanksgiving, it began to develop suds during the cycle. Maybe it makes suds all the time, but they’re gone by time the cycle is finished. Now, when I open the thing up, there are suds. Still hanging around. Several inches of suds.

Then, on Monday morning, yes, just last Monday, when I walked into the kitchen, all ready to make my usual egg-and-cheese breakfast burrito, I looked at the microwave oven and noticed that the black rectangle, which usually displays the time, was blank. Hmmmm. I pressed the buttons to indicate how long the microwave should run. Nothing. I pressed start. Nothing.

Nothing. Nothing. And more nothing.

I got a stool to be able to reach the electrical socket at the back of the cabinet above the microwave. I pulled out the plug and then put it back in. No time showing up on the microwave. I went outside to the breaker box and flipped the appropriate switch back and forth, then went back inside. No time showing.

I had to get out the griddle, warm it up, warm up the flour tortilla, scramble an egg and cook it, on the griddle, and then put cheese on the tortilla, which is, by now, not hot any more. And then put the egg on top of the cheese and warmish tortilla. Not quite the same.

So, now, dishwasher not working right, microwave not working at all!

I worked a little on wrapping gifts, doing household stuff, took a package to the post office to mail.

Back at home, I went to switch on the light in the room where the dining table is. And, oh, I’d forgotten. The bulb on the ceiling fan’s light fixture was out. I got the step stool, climbed up, and loosened the small screws that hold the light’s cover on the fixture. I took the old bulb out and got another one. When I screwed it in, it lit up, then dimmed, then went on and off. Hmmm. Not right.

I went and got another bulb. A different wattage. I screwed it in. Same thing. Bright. Blink. Weak.

Yep. SOMETHING ELSE ISN’T WORKING THE WAY IT’S SUPPOSED TO.

And, company is arriving on Friday night.

I went to Lowe’s Tuesday morning and bought a new microwave. I called Kevin and explained the situation, because he and April had installed the first over-the-stove microwave we had. He said that was the worst experience he can recall, in his whole life. The second microwave we had was put in by the store’s official installer. This new microwave seems very much like that one, so I said, “Maybe, since the new one is very much like the one that’s not working, it would be easy to install. Maybe.” He says he and April will try, when they come this weekend. And I said, “Great,” and that the store has an installer, which we can ask for, if they decide against installation, themselves.

David felt like the light fixture on the ceiling fan could be repaired, so I phoned an electrician. The earliest appointment was not until next Monday, so I made that. Then, on Wednesday morning, the company called and said they had someone who could come that day. “Oh, yes,” I said. “Please send them.” When they came, one of them took the glass cover off and looked at the socket. “Oh, no,” he said. And he pulled the socket part down and looked further up into the fixture. “Oh, no, no, no. You don’t want this repaired. It’s not safe.”

“So, I’m going to need a whole new fixture (fan included)?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. And I asked for input about brands and he gave me a couple of suggestions. I said we’d go shopping for a new fan over the weekend. And to please tell their office to keep that Monday appointment we had scheduled, and they could come and install it then.

As I write this, on Wednesday, things are looking up. There’s a microwave oven in a box in the garage. There’s an appointment to install a new fan w/light. And, after doing quite a bit of cooking this afternoon, I filled the dishwasher up and ran it. When I looked in, towards the end of the cycle, there were no suds. Maybe something had gotten stuck in a drain? Maybe the dishwasher soap . . . . fell into a drain and, instead of dissolving like it should, it just stayed there and kept sudsing up, which seems really improbable, because I don’t see how that could have happened. Anyway. I’d love to think that the issue has resolved itself. We’ll see.

And I, I am going to stop complaining. We’ve stayed healthy. We’re going to be able to spend time with Kevin and April and Peter. There are gifts under the tree, and the stockings are bulging. We are fortunate in so many, many ways.

 

Praise the Lord. Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.

Psalm 106:1 (New International Version)

It’s Always Something, Isn’t It

I did some shopping last week. I like to use the self-check aisles, mainly because I like to use my own recyclable bags, and I know that it slows down the checkers, because they have a rhythm for bagging items. I try to help by doing the bagging myself, and no one complains. Or scowls. But, I feel like I’m getting in their way. So, I usually go through a self-check lane.

Last Thursday, I spent about 20 minutes or so at a store, and then went to the self-check line. I pulled items from my cart, scanned them, and bagged them. Then, I retrieved my credit card from my pocket. As I was moving it to the card reader, I noticed that it had something red on the back.

“What’s that?” I wondered. It looked like red syrup, maybe. It didn’t feel very sticky, and, really, how would red syrup get on my card in my pocket. I hadn’t picked up anything that would have gotten on my card. In my pocket. I wiped it off, on the skirt of my dress, and then tried to use the card, but the card reader wouldn’t take the card.

I finally motioned to the store employee who was tending the self-check area.

“I can’t get my card to go through,” I said. “And there’s something sort of sticky on the card.” I kept trying to wipe off the red stuff. Then, I finally realized that it was blood. Yes, blood. Blood on my palm and on my thumb. I kept wiping it with my skirt.

She tried several times (while I was wiping my hands on my dress). She tried swiping it, when the slot wasn’t working. With perseverance, she finally got a swipe to work. I thanked her and put my bags in the cart and wheeled it out to the car. I kept wiping my bleeding hand as I drove home. There, I got a bandage box and put a small bandage on my thumb. Red blood ran right out. I needed two, larger, bandages on my thumb and one on my palm. I was just mystified.

I hadn’t picked up anything in the store that was sharp. I couldn’t imagine what had happened.

Friday, I removed the bandages, washed and dried my hand, and put new bandages on, as the one on my thumb was still bleeding a little.

When I woke up Saturday morning, the thumb was throbbing, and it was swollen. I told David that, maybe, I should go to the Express Care clinic.

He said, yeah, there was one really close to us. And I said, no, I needed to go to the one that’s affiliated with the system that includes my physician.

“Otherwise,” I said, “I’ll have to spend time telling them what all my medications are and what my medical issues are. The clinic that’s part of the system will have all that information.”

I went off to run a couple of errands, and then made my way over to the Express Care place. They have the most efficient system going. I pulled up and parked next to a couple of other cars. There are three slots that have signs in front of them that say, “If you need to be seen, please call us at . . . ” and there was a phone number. I called the number and someone answered. I said that I had a cut on my thumb and it was swollen and I thought it needed to be seen. She said where was I parked. Was I in one of the numbered slots? And I said that I was parked next to slot number one. She asked if I was in their system, and I said, yes, and gave her my name and birth date and my physician’s name.

She apparently checked to verify that and asked for my phone number and said that she was going to text me a form with information that I needed to confirm. When I’d done that, I should text it back to her and then someone would come out to get me. That took a few minutes, and then, sure enough, a guy came out and asked me to lower the window. He ran a thermometer in the direction of my forehead, and said, yes, I could come in.

The waiting room was completely empty. There was a partitioned space where I was weighed and had my blood pressure taken. Then, we went towards the back and went into an examination room. On an iPad, he pulled up all my medical information, and confirmed what medications I took, and looked at my thumb and asked how it happened. And, I had to say, “I’m not quite sure.” Shopping, bleeding, cart–maybe?

Then, he said the nurse would be in, shortly.

I meant to bring a book, but I forgot. I did have my phone, and I pulled up something to read. When the nurse came in, she looked at my phone and asked what I was reading. “Hebrews,” I said. She said that she’d been reading Job and found it frustrating. I admitted that I hadn’t read Job for quite a while.

She looked at my thumb and asked what happened. And I had to give that same “I’m not quite sure” answer. She said she’d write a prescription for an antibiotic, and I probably needed a tetanus shot. When did I last have one? I had no idea. It seemed that, at some time in the very distant past, I’d needed one, but I could not recall when, or even why. She looked at the iPad and said, “I know your doctor. She’s very thorough. If you’d had one in the past ten years, she’d have documented it.” So, I got a tetanus shot. She called my pharmacy and gave them the prescription information. As I left, she said to keep it clean but don’t cover it.

I did a little more shopping, to give the pharmacy time to fill the prescription. I stopped by Barnes & Noble book store. In the children’s section, I found a series of informational books that looked really interesting. There were titles such as Who Was Pete Seeger? Who was Benedict Arnold? Who Was A. A. Milne? and What Was the Titanic? What Was the Berlin Wall? What Was D-Day? Then I picked up What Was the Holocaust? Wow, I thought. That’s pretty heavy reading for school-agers. I flipped through the book, and, then, THE CUT ON MY THUMB OPENED UP AGAIN AND I BLED ALL OVER THE PLACE!

 

 

I was going to have to purchase the book.

 

 

 

 

I went to the bathroom to wash my bloody hands. I took a piece of paper towel with me from the bathroom, and held it against my thumb to keep from bloodying up anything else. Then I went to the Big Lots store next door and bought a box of bandages to keep any more bloody incidents from happening.

As of today, the thumb isn’t swollen any more, and I can hardly see the scrape. It’s still a little tender. I still have lots of pills to take. I think there were ten days’ worth, at three times a day.

 

I will offer You my grateful heart, for I am Your unique creation, filled with wonder and awe. You have approached even the smallest details with excellence; Your works are wonderful; I carry this knowledge deep within my soul.

Psalm 139:14 (The Voice Translation)

 

 

 

  This is the left-hand side of a cart at the store where I cut my thumb. This isn’t really sharp, but, I guess if I ran my thumb (on the right-hand side of the cart’s handle) across that edge, in just the right way, it might have caused that scrape. And, as a diabetic, I don’t necessarily feel my extremities all that well. So, it’s possible, I suppose, that the injury happened without my realizing it. Otherwise, I’m still mystified.

However, I do have a grateful heart, for how my body works to heal, for the trained health workers who know how to help me through that healing process, and for the medications that have been created to relieve the symptoms. Very grateful.