Posts Categorized: Patience

Fire! Fire!

| Kindness, Patience, Peace

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

| Patience, Peace

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

| Joy, Patience, Peace

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

| Patience

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.

Old Habits Are Difficult to Break

| Faithfulness, Love, Patience, Peace

I mentioned, a few weeks ago, that I’ve “retired” from teaching preschoolers at church. And, since we’ve not yet had a routine sort of schedule for Sundays, I haven’t yet had an opportunity to find a new niche for myself on Sunday mornings. I’ve absolutely determined to stay out of the preschool realm, and am completely confident in the capabilities of the people who are going to be the Sunday School teachers, at whatever time Sunday School starts up again.

However, I do find myself falling into some previous shopping habits. I’ve caught myself, when shopping, distracted by the sorts of things I used to purchase for church.

And then there is this old friend.

Right before Thanksgiving, in 1979, a friend called me. She was the Preschool Minister at a large church in Waco. They had a weekday program, and one of her teachers had abruptly quit. She was desperate. Was I interested in taking the job? I said, no, I really couldn’t take the full time job, but I could help her out, in the mornings, for December and January, and give her time to find a new teacher.

As I tried to get organized, which included getting breakfast done, lunches packed, and two-year-old Jeremy to a friend’s house, I realized I needed some additional resources. I bought this canvas bag to have a place to put things like books, games, and other supplies, so that I could just pick it up on my way out of the house.

After my time at that church, this bag became my “church” bag. It gave me a place to drop in, during the week, items that I wanted to use at church that Sunday. It has been incredibly sturdy! It has been laundered a few times over the years, after one thing or the other has been spilled or squashed down in the bottom. I’ve replaced the handles at least twice.  You can see the tattered upper edge on the right side. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it now. I might frame it: “Best bag ever!”

 

 

I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.

1 Corinthians 3:6 (New Revised Standard Version)

Come, Ye Thankful People, Come. Or, Shelter, Ye Weary People, Shelter

| Love, Patience, Peace

From all the childhood photos I have, this one on the left is the only Thanksgiving photo I can find. The across-the-street neighbors have come to celebrate with us. On Christmas Day, we went to their house for our holiday meal.

When we were first married, friends invited us to their home for Thanksgiving Dinner. The next year, I cooked and baked for the two of us.

 

 

A few years later, we went to David’s grandmother’s house, in Tennessee. We arrived a couple of days before the rest of David’s large family got there. When we walked into the house, Nanny (David’s grandmother) put me to work. I made pie crusts and filled them, I peeled potatoes, I baked yams, I never left the kitchen for the next three days.

In this charming photo of Nanny and her great-grandchildren, no one wants to have their picture taken. Except Kevin, who is smiling charmingly at the camera.

 

 

And a few years after that, we convinced David’s mother to come to Texas for Thanksgiving, because there were some great-grandchildren that she hadn’t met. Those two nieces (from those photos above) came with their husbands and their babies to Waco. It was a wonderful visit.

 

 

 

The holiday will be different for lots of folks this year. Often, coaches and sports teams will say, after a less that perfect season, “Just wait until next year. Things will be better.” I think most of us are counting on things being better. Much better.

 

Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.

Psalm 30:5,b (New Revised Standard Version)

 

 

 

Let it be so.

 

 

 

 

The Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands (Isaiah 55:12)

| Faithfulness, Patience

I’ve been spending lots of time outside. I like to work in the yard, and I certainly need to keep active. I might spend three or four hours a day at yard work. Of course, a much younger woman might be able to do what I get done, in an hour, or less.

A few weeks ago, I spent several hours cleaning up the space at the back of the yard where the compost bins are. There were still some of the leaves I’d raked up last fall, in addition to leaves from other trees in the area that had fallen and blown in. It’s pretty boggy back there. Also, I found something a little startling.

 

At first glance, I thought it was a toy. I don’t know exactly who lives behind me, on the other side of the wooden fence, but I guessed kids might have been playing and were tossing things around, and this ended up on my side of the fence.

Then, I put my glasses on and looked a little more closely. You can tell by the nearby leaves that it’s pretty small. And, as you might have guessed, it’s a little bitty mushroom. I don’t know what has caused the black spots, but I took the photo to send to Peter, because I thought it was looked like a Star Wars character. He thought so, too.

 

These are the compost bins. I take out the kitchen vegetable waste and tea bags when the countertop bin is full. Right now, that goes into the left-hand bin.  After dumping in the contents, I add a layer of leaves. The right-hand bin’s contents are decaying, at this point. I put the rocks on the top to remind me not to put new stuff in that one. When the left bin gets full, I’ll move the rocks over, and it will be time to empty the other bin, which should have some nice compost that I can put on the garden.

 

I learned a few years ago that the pecan leaves aren’t the best choice for making compost. I use the oak leaves from a tree in the front yard. Those are leaves. The pecan tree has leaflets. The pecan leaflets have a heavier central stem and there are leaves all along that stem. When the oak leaves decay away, they decay pretty completely. When the pecan leaflets decay, there are those heavy stems left. They don’t make very good compost.

I’ve spent lots of time the past few days, raking up all the oak leaves and carting them, in a yard waste bin, to the back of the yard. I swept up the leaves that had fallen over the curb. I raked the leaves, from my tree, from my next-door neighbor’s yard. (She does not at all complain about the leaves in her yard. She’s a lovely neighbor. I just want all those leaves.)

 

Now I have a wonderful, if gargantuan, pile of nice oak leaves, all ready to add to the bin.

 

I also raked up lots and lots of pecan leaves. That tree is in the back yard, and has been dropping leaves for a while, but it’s not done. I’ve put those leaves in our green recycle bins. We have a large bin and a small bin. As of this afternoon, they are both full to the brim. Monday is our trash pickup day. But, this coming Monday, it’s blue bin day (recycling). Our green bins won’t be emptied until the next Monday.

I’ve looked up into the pecan tree, and there seems to be quite a few leaves up there, still. I’ve got a couple of bins where I can temporarily keep leaves, but I’m not sure they’re big enough for what’s left on the tree. And, they always seem to take up more space that I thought they would.

The oak tree that’s shed its leaves is at the front of the side yard. In the center of the front yard, there’s a red oak tree that has just barely begin to drop leaves. The year we moved into this house, in the fall, that tree still had its leaves, and kept most of them, through the winter. I was afraid the tree had died. But, in the early spring, it dropped the leaves and quickly began to put out new ones. That was more than ten years ago. It’s still strong and sturdy. It’s dropped a few leaves, but it’s certainly not done.

 

Bring your melody, O mountains and hills; trees of the forest and field, harmonize your praise!

Psalm 148:9 (The Passion Translation)

 

I like to think about my trees working together, harmonizing.

I Said I Didn’t Want It, But No One Paid Any Attention

| Faithfulness, Kindness, Love, Patience, Self-Control

I’ve been doing stuff with kids at church for quite some time: Children’s Choir, Preschool Choir, Wednesday night activities, and, finally, Preschool Sunday School.

I’ve had different configurations of groups. At the beginning, it was 4-year-olds. Then, we grouped Threes into the mix. Then, it was just Threes. Then it just varied for a few years, based on how many kids and how many adults and what sorts of spaces. For the last several years, it’s been Three-year-olds, Pre-Ks, and Kindergartners. A few years ago, I thought: “I’ll keep teaching Sunday School as long as I have Peter in my room.”

Fall, a year ago, Peter, as a first-grader, moved up to the Younger Elementary class. But, I had looked at the incoming Threes, and they were so very cute that I thought, “Okay. One more year. And THAT’S ALL!” They were just as charming as they were cute, and things went along quite nicely until mid-March, when everything came to a halt.

Each week, I would mail them the pages that they would have taken home from church, along with a note, or a game, or some cookies, or some crayons, or some stickers. At some point, I told the Children’s Minister that I would be done at the end of August. “Every part of me hurts,” I said. “My hands hurt. My knees hurt.” And, truly, I felt like I would soon be a liability instead of an asset. I also said that I didn’t want a deal, or a thing, or anything or the sort. I would just be done. She thought that the members of the Children’s committee should know, and I thought that they really didn’t. Because, I didn’t want a deal or a thing. And I thought that was that.

That was NOT that.

I got an e-mailed Agenda for an upcoming ZOOM Children’s Committee meeting which included an item “Gayle’s Announcement.” So, not exactly a private thing any more.

Someone at the meeting thought I needed a deal. The first thing that popped up was a post on Facebook, with a rather LARGE photo of me and the line “Shhhh. Don’t tell! We want to thank Gayle Lintz for 42 years of teaching Preschool Sunday School, by writing her letters, which we will give her later.” (Or something like that)

I e-mailed the Children’s Minister and said, “I AM on Facebook. FYI.”

My nice book of appreciation.

So, it wasn’t quite so secret after all. Then, the next plan was that the letters would be received and collected and given to me. The Children’s Minister recently contacted me and said that they’d like to give those to me during an upcoming worship service. At this point we’ve not been having worship services with a congregation. The staff comes and opens up the place on Sunday morning. There are instrumentalists (piano, organ, guitar, drums/percussion, and horn). There are four choir members who sing (all masked up) from the sanctuary platform while we participate from home via video. There are Scripture readings and a sermon and announcements and prayers. Last Sunday, we went, too. Kevin and April and Peter came for the weekend, also. We sat on one row, towards the front, all masked up. At the end of the service, I went up front and got a lovely book that had all the kind things that people had written for me.

 

 

 

 

And then . . .  I got this. And, for real, I was horrified. Because, over the years, various people have lobbied for just such a thing for one nursery teacher or elementary teacher or preschool teacher or another, and the general attitude as been that there have been many competent, capable, loving teachers through the years and we just cannot cover the walls with all of their names. So, I’m setting a precedent? I believe my response, when they picked it up to show me, was NOOOOOOOO. They were unmoved.

They said it went through the Children’s Committee and the Coordinating Council and I don’t know who all else. And it is a done deal.

 

 

I had insisted, when they said they wanted me to show up (to get those letters), that I wanted to speak. And, boy, did I speak. I talked about how, just because I’ve done the same thing for so many years, it doesn’t seem extraordinary, because so many people in the church have done a variety of things for many years, the sum total of which are just as significant as doing one thing for years. “Everybody does something,” I said. And I gave examples of the sorts of things that members of our church family have done, such as serving on committees, being deacons, being part of the choir (which means Wednesday night rehearsals and Sunday morning anthems), giving financially, praying diligently, and more. “Everybody does something,” I said. “EVERYBODY does something.” And I meant it.

 

 

 

 

Kevin took this photo, after everything was finished, to send to Jeremy, to show him how I feel about this. It’s so large I don’t know exactly where they plan to put it. Maybe they didn’t get that far in their thinking.

As we were leaving, Kevin pointed out the plaque that is on the organ, that honors a long-time organist. (You can actually see the edge of it in the photo above.) Then, in the hallway, he also reminded me of the photo hanging there, that recognizes a church member who, for many, many years, would cheerfully greet everyone who walked into the church and give them a hug.

Across the hallway from that photo, there’s a large plaque honoring the church’s first pastor. And, down in the Fellowship Hall, another portrait honoring a man who donated the money to renovate the that space. And, a large photo recognizing a beloved Minister of Education is upstairs in a meeting room.

So, while it does feel rather awkward, really awkward, I’m trying to become accustomed to the idea.

 

“Wonderful!” his master replied. “You are a good and faithful servant … Come and share in my happiness!”

from Matthew 25:21 (Contemporary English Version)

 

In an interesting, and amusing, mixup, three or four weeks ago, at the end of the video worship service, the Associate Pastor reminded people to send their letters to the church to be gathered to give me in a few weeks. And, again, I thought that they’ve just completely given up on any idea of those being a surprise. This past Sunday, he told me (in case I hadn’t heard it for myself) about that gaffe. He said that after the video streaming was shut off, other staff members came up to him, wide-eyed, to ask why he’d made that announcement, reminding him that is was supposed to be a surprise. He reminded them that there had been announcements and reminders in the church’s e-mailed newsletter for several weeks. Unbeknownst to him, the office staff had been creating special, sans-surprise, newsletters to be e-mailed to both me and David. And I, as always, very much enjoy a good, funny story. So, it all worked out.

In Which I’m Getting Stuff Done

| Patience, Self-Control

I’ve been cleaning out some spaces. The closet in the room that’s also my office has been pretty packed. First, there’s a filing cabinet on one side. My dad bought it from his workplace when they were replacing older ones. This one has deep, sturdy drawers. When my folks got new carpeting (quite a few years ago), the carpet layers moved furniture from one room, laid carpet, then replaced the furniture. Things went fine until they got to the closet with the filing cabinet. They were unable to budge it, and said it would have to be emptied so they could lay the final bit of carpet. The difficulty was my dad’s deep and abiding interest in pennies. He’d been a coin collector for years and the bulk of his collection was in safe deposit boxes at their bank. But, he’d kept the pennies in the filing cabinet, along with copies of his speeches from Toastmaters and various and sundry other things. Daddy and I hauled bank bags of pennies from the cabinet’s drawers and stashed them around the room, which, by then, had been re-carpeted and the furniture replaced. The carpet layers were able to move the much lighter filing cabinet, lay down the last bit of carpet, and replace cabinet. Daddy and I put all those pennies back into the filing cabinet, where they stayed for many more years.

After my parents were both gone, and my sister and I had gone through the house, deciding what each of us would keep and what would be part of an estate sale, David and I moved in. I kept the nice big filing cabinet in the closet and used it for my own files. I also store all my other office stuff, like paper and file folders and index cards and things like that on shelves on the opposite side of the closet. There’s a small chest on that side, too, which has rolls of contact paper and empty picture frames in the drawers.

The space has been crammed with stuff I used for teaching everyone from community college students to Sunday School teachers to preschoolers. I’ve been going through things. Rigorously.

I can now see the closet’s floor. Yes, I can. It’s been quite a while. Maybe as long ago as when the closet was re-carpeted.

When I look at the bags and boxes of things I’ve removed from the closet, it’s immense. I’m not quite sure if I could put it all back in there. But, I’m not going to try. What has come out is staying out. The closet rather reminds me of the Tardis, which is the blue telephone booth that Dr. Who travels around in. Everyone who goes into the Tardis is astonished by how much bigger than a phone booth the place is. The official explanation that the alien Doctor gives to puzzled companions is that the Tardis is “dimensionally transcendental.” That means that the inside and the outside of the ship exist in separate dimensions. Dimensions allow scientists to locate something in space and time.

Dimensional transcendentalism was the state wherein an object’s interior was bigger than its exterior, an effect made possible by transdimensional engineering. I don’t understand any of that. I’m just pretty sure that I couldn’t possibly get all the stuff that came out of the closet back into the closet. And I do not plan to try.

 

There is a time for finding and losing, keeping and giving …

Ecclesiastes 3:6 (Contemporary English Version)

 

 

And, in other news:

Squirrels. Again.

| Patience, Self-Control

I’ve talked about squirrels before, including a comment from an exterminator that people only think squirrels are cute because of their bushy tails, and, without those cute tails, they’d just look like big rats.

Anyway, I’m not all that fond of them, and, as of Thursday morning, I’m not fond of them at all.

They’ve been racing around the back yard, frantically searching for pecans. They stop, mid-race, and begin to burrow for buried pecans. There are no buried pecans. This is, apparently, a non-pecan year for us. Last year, even with marauding squirrels, we had some pecans. Not tons. But some. This year–nothing. Nada. Nary a nut. The squirrels haven’t noticed. Or, they just don’t believe it’s true. No nuts this year.

Which does NOT keep them from gamely trying. After rummaging around in the yard, they’re now trying the patio plants. Where there are also no pecans. I purchased, from the nursery, some spray that’s supposed to be a squirrel deterrent. It’s a safe product (won’t harm humans, or, for that matter, squirrels); it’s just supposed to be obnoxious to them. It doesn’t appear to be all that annoying to them, but I keep trying. I spray it on the patio plants. I spray it around the perimeter of the patio. It smells bad to me, but it seems not to have that effect on squirrels. But I was particularly irritated yesterday morning when I walk outside and found . . .

The Before Photo

Oh, no. There’s NOT a “Before” photo. Only an “After” photo.

 

There are pits in the dirt of many of the patio pots, where squirrels have been digging. You know, just in case there might be a crunchy pecan in there.

 

And don’t even say, “Well, they were there first.” No, they were not here first. When all the houses in this area were built, it was pretty much prairie. There wasn’t a tree anywhere near, and certainly not a pecan tree. And, I suppose you’ll say, well, when your dad dug a big ol’ hole into which he planted a pecan tree, he was just asking for it. I’m pretty sure that, when he planted that tree, there weren’t any squirrels. Yet.

I wonder if, next fall, I could get ahead of the game and strew a bunch of peanuts around the yard, the squirrels would be preoccupied with them, and leave alone whatever pecans there might be. It could work out for the squirrels, as getting peanuts out of a peanut shell would be much easier than pecans.

 

God made all sorts of wild animals and cattle and reptiles. And God was pleased with what he had done.

Genesis 1:25 (The Living. Bible)

 

I guess this means that I should be pleased, also. I’m trying.