Tag Archives: mylife

Sharpen Your Elbows

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Yesterday was the opening of the annual book fair held at our local university. 

There is a premium – five dollars – to shop the first two hours.  A group of twenty book hounds, bookstore owners, Ebay buyers and folks who just love book bargains gather in the hallway waiting for the door to open.  In the hallway it is all geniality, camaraderie, amiability, and laughter.  We all know each other by sight; we have a annual appointment together.

Once the threshold was crossed, the laughter abruptly fell silent and it was all business.  Fierce. Intense. Serious.  To our dismay, we found the books haphazardly piled on tables.  One bookstore owner impressed me by organizing the table before him, lining up the books on their end so the others could easily read the titles.  (I made a mental note to more frequently patronize his store.)  This year quite a few “early birds” had cell phones and were calling ISBNs home to check book prices, I suppose.  One guy was working his Blackberry. 

An old acquaintance worked on my sanctification, wanting to chat – chat! – and catch up on years of living while out of the corner of my eye I saw books snatched up right and left.   Should old acquaintance be forgot?

Frankly, the sale was a disappointment.  Most of the books were culled from the university library’s sociology and psychology section.  The new group organizing the sale did precious little publicity; thus there were only a few privately donated books. In the past I have found books by Lloyd-Jones, Nancy Wilson, and Jonathan Edwards; they were not culled from the university library. No such luck, uh, providence, yesterday.

A good portion of my purchases are books I already own but can’t resist buying for others.  Two such books are written by William Zinsser:  On Writing Well and Writing to Learn.  I read On Writing Well in March, and highly recommend it. If you write, you need this book.  If you’ve read it, you need to re-read it.  Rick Steves, the travel guide, wrote:

I learned to write by giving talks…I read one book – On Writing Well by William Zinsser.  When I feel like I should read another book to fine-tune my writing, I read Zinsser again.  

So I’m going to give this lovely pair of books away to one of you. Two free books!  Leave a comment and I’ll pick a name out of a hat.  I’m happy to send them overseas, so don’t be shy Sonja in South Africa or Alfonso in Spain *or Hope in Brazil* (wink).   I’ll pick a winner next Friday, May 2. 

Yay!  I love to give books away!

Fun with Words

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Every home needs a good encyclopedia of  Word and Phrase Origins.  This is the one in our house. It is a handy reference when you wonder how the phrase there is more than one way to skin a cat came into being.  I looked up bought the farm this morning. Before you knew it I was reading Bodleian Library, poppycock, lollygagging and lose face to my breathless audience.

If you assembled the right group of people – I like to call them word birds, but some say word nerds – (and I dare say some of you qualify, eh?) you could spend a jolly good time passing the book around, randomly reading an entry, laughing and talking about it. Add a glass of wine or steaming cup of tea, a plate of scones in the middle of the room, and you have the makings of a party I would want to host or attend. 

“Put the book down, Carol.” the once booming, still-strengthening voice of my husband brings me back to life.  We have details to deal with.  Each one on its own is minuscule, but combined they can a force to reckon with. Remember cleaning the grout?  I’m easily distracted today, but word and phrase origins is one delightful distraction.
  

Plymouth Brethren

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What do
the missionary Jim Elliot,
the evangelist Luis Palau,
the author Ken Follett,
the poet Luci Shaw,
the entertainer Garrison Keillor,
the Sojourners activist Jim Wallis,
Moody Radio Pastor Don Cole
and I
have in common? 

We were all raised in Plymouth Brethren assemblies. 

My grandpa was Jim Elliot’s Bible Study leader at Wheaton; Jim Wallis’ father was my camp director for all the summers of my youth; Don Cole will always have a warm dwelling in my heart.  His wife Naomi was the first woman to hug me after my mom’s death. My grandpa was an old-time traveling preacher who started dozens of Plymouth Brethren assemblies across America.  My father taught at the assembly Bible College (Emmaus), managed a Bible Camp in the summer, and preached at chapels and conferences.  My brother David is a full time worker at an assembly in Pennsylvania and preaches across the east.  He was even invited to Scotland to preach!  My roots run deep in the Plymouth Brethren.

These are my memories of growing up Plymouth Brethren 30-50 years ago.  Change is a constant; a visit to a PB assembly today will certainly be different.

The Plymouth Brethren are very scholarly.  Their influence on evangelical culture is inescapable. They believe in New Testament principles of the church: a plurality of elders, no clergy/laity (no paid pastor, no membership),  no denominational structure, and women wear head coverings (not every woman does anymore).

The assembly was the center of our family’s culture.  We attended Breaking of Bread and Family Bible Hour on Sunday morning, Gospel Service Sunday night, Prayer Meeting Wednesday night, Awana Thursday night, and Young Peoples on Friday.

The weekly Breaking of Bread service went like this:  Women wore head coverings.  When I was an infant wearing hats was in vogue (think Jackie Kennedy); as I grew older we kept a lace mantilla (black, white, navy or ecru) in the pocket of our Bible holder and bobby pinned that to our hair. Loaners were in the back for visitors.

After we took our place in the pew there was silence.  A man, led by the Spirit, would stand and give out an exhortation, or devotional, or just read some Scripture.  Moments of silence seasoned the time.  When a man called out a hymn, the designated hymn-starter would sing the first phrase and we sang the hymn a capella. Towards the end of the service we would pass a broken loaf of bread (never crackers) and one large silver goblet, a common cup from which we sipped.
 
Family Bible Hour was similar to a typical evangelical church service.  Hymns (picked out two minutes before the service, scribbled on a torn paper from the bulletin and given to musicians), announcements and a sermon. There was never an offering passed.  With no “pastor” we relied on visiting preachers or preaching from men in our assembly.  What this meant is that each sermon stood alone and wasn’t connected to the sermon before or after. We heard many different styles of delivery, exegesis and application.  

Careful in particulars, Plymouth Brethren strive to maintain their theological distinctives in their speech.  This lends itself to a jargon, with acceptable and forbidden discouraged terminology. 

Movement         instead of              Denomination
Assembly / Chapel                         Church
Elder or Full Time Worker              Pastor
Meeting                                        Service
Fellowship                                     Membership

          Breaking of Bread                          Communion

PBs (we say Peebs as short-hand) stress the different dispensations of history, believer baptism, strong world mission emphasis, serious Bible study, simplicity in worship, and pre-trib rapture.  When my grandfather started tent meetings in a new city he usually began with a Bible study on end times in Revelation.  When it wasn’t Revelation, it was Daniel.

Weak points:
I got the idea that we were the only true Christians.  I was reprimanded at camp for telling a girl who went to a Free Methodist church that Methodists weren’t Christians.  Blech.  Forgive me, girl whose name I can’t remember. I’d say we were ingrown.

Separation from the world was stressed to the point that we often lived within a Christian ghetto (except for  support of government education). It was easy to measure holiness by pharisaical standards: we didn’t drink, smoke, cuss.  With the rapture about to occur any day, we didn’t worry about engaging or improving our culture. 

Knowledge, by itself, is dangerous.  It often bred nitpicky, arrogant attitudes. Being right often trumped other Christian virtues such as love, graciousness, forbearance, sacrifice.  I know that I took pleasure in being smart (or fast at looking up Bible verses) and failed to exhibit wisdom by living out what I knew.

There was an element of patriarchal authority that was disrespectful of women.  There is good patriarchy and bonehead patriarchy; I have seen both exhibited in the Brethren.

Gratitude:

I will always be grateful for my upbringing:  for the high view of God, the high view of Scripture, for Jesus Loves Me, for weekly communion, for learning to meditate in silence, for a capella hymns, for regular visits from missionaries, for a heritage of men and women who invested themselves in the care and maintenance of souls.

Thy Bountiful Care

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our front yard with the street at top

Our drive to church is through rugged country.  The road cinches around the side of a mountain like a too small belt on a too big man. The deep canyon falls off to the right.  Curt cranes his head, looking for elk, eagles, what have you; I am the self-appointed scanner of the road who tries through telepathy and jerking hand signals to keep the car between the dotted yellow line on the left and the solid white line on the right.  I need to carry a little notebook to mark down all the sights that grace our eyes. Perhaps, cough cough, if we started earlier , we could take some pictures.  From my memory of last week:

Elk up to their thighs in deep snow, foraging for food, 5 – 10
Bald eagles, perhaps 8
Hawks, too many to count, mostly red-tail
Wild turkeys, in small clutches and a large group of ~70
Wild geese by the hundreds in lower fields, pecking at the grain
Deer, too many to count
Cows, too many to count
Horses, dozens
Great blue heron, 2
Mallards swimming in the river
LBJs – my husband’s ornithology teacher’s designation for common birds: little brown jobs

the lower left corner is the road

Thy bountiful care what tongue can recite?
It breathes in the air; it shines in the light;
it streams from the hills, it descends to the plain;
and sweetly distils in the dew and the rain.

         



The Sad Ugly Boot Story

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To make a short story long:

What differences my husband and I have had over economics usually has stemmed from our families’ disparate philosophies of purchasing. 

I grew up with K-Mart Blue Light Specials, hand-me-downs and scavenging.  Bottom line: cost. 

My husband was raised buying Sear’s Best.  Bottom line: the best quality you can afford.

We have worked through most of the quirks that arise from our differences.  When we see a Dollar store Curt says, “Break the cycle, Carol, break the cycle” and flat out REFUSES to stop!  I still gasp when he buys gortex hunting pants…”for HOW MUCH?” 

Buying shoes (for us as individuals and for our children) threw us into the midst of the cost vs. quality conundrum.  I just groan at the thought of paying more than $15 for a pair of shoes. Still.  When Curt was teaching, standing on a cement floor all day, we paid obscene amounts for Rockport shoes on his $18,000 salary. 

When it came to snow boots there was only one brand worth considering: Sorels with removable felt liners.  I argued “They’re just little boys! How did my four brothers survive without Sorels?”  Curt was unmoved.  I gulped and started to watch for sales.  So we bought Sorels every year for our growing kids; we scored two pairs at a garage sale but canceled that out eight years later by buying a size we already owned.  The powers that be decided that I needed a pair of Sorels for my dear big feet. Moi?  Si vous plait!

I think I objected to their ugliness even as we plunked down the bucks.  But there were some winters when they most certainly kept my feet warm.  Here’s the kicker: when the boys reached that size, they had to wear these ugly white boots that year!  (guffaw, guffaw)  Dear Christopher was attending public school when his feet reached women’s size 10 and he took no end of guff from his classmates.  He had to suck it up and grin and bear it.  When I was a child we called that “good missionary training.”

Those ugly white boots have been hibernating for at least four or five years, banished to some secret cubby in the garage.  But DH retrieved them today so I could start walking outside in between afternoon blizzards.  Dear Dana convinced me to join her on the Idita-walk.   I have access to a free gym, but there’s something wonderfully bracing about the fresh air and plowing through the snow feeling like Madam Shackleton.  I’m listening to Einstein while I walk which is an utterly ludicrous proposition.  Not that I’ll “Get It”; perhaps quantum physics will distract me.  Maybe I’ll snap some pictures.  The Idita-walk officially begins February 1. I’m already cheating and adding today’s minutes in the total. Check my progress on the sidebar box.

Walk 1049 minutes the next two months.  Care to join us?

An Evening with Eric Bibb

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“Marital bliss and conjugal harmony are not
normally considered suitable topics for the blues.”

Eric Bibb is not your normal accoustic blues singer/songwriter.  He writes love songs to his wife which are soaked in passion, fun and fidelity.  He honors his parents…publicly.  He takes the funky chords and rhythms of the blues, turns the lyrics on their head, and transforms them into sounds of grace and gratefulness.  It is gospel-infused blues.

We just spent a sparkling … magical … enchanted … perfect (as in “how could this be any better?”) evening with Eric Bibb.  Unforgettable.  That smile.  Those chords.  That voice.  Those words.

Our family discovered Eric Bibb last summer; in October we saw a few performances on Youtube.  “If he ever comes within driving distance, we need to go see him,” said my non-concert-going husband.  Well.  One afternoon in December when I should have been writing Christmas cards, I decided on a whim to check Eric’s touring schedule.  He was singing in Paris, Dublin, Cambridge, New York, Chicago, Montana …and Sandpoint, Idaho?  5 1/2 hours away, considered a Sunday drive in our parts.   We didn’t count on one of the biggest snow storms in recent history, so the driving took considerably longer.

I told some friends and we booked a table for 15 at the café where he was playing. The small venue,space for 125 people, was glowing, soft lights inside, huge snow flakes outside.  Long time fans, like the people at the table next to us who had flown up from California for the concert, and folks who had never heard of him joined together for a meal and music. 

When he took the stage, two arm lengths away from me, all the ambiance faded into the background and the music dominated.  We were a responsive audience, calling out favorites, hooting at an amazing guitar riff, listening intently to the ballads and clapping with the thumpin’ songs.  He was humbly delighted with our enthusiasm and promised to come back to Sandpoint.  The kindness of the Lord was evident the entire trip.

Shingle by shingle, I’m patching up the roof,

Row by row, bringin’ in the crop,

Love makes a change, I’m living the proof

New water’s in the well, and I’m grateful for every drop.

My son took a movie from our digital camera.  The graphics are sub par but the sound is pretty good (*other than the fact that there is more audience noise…closer to the camera).  Check it out.   Eric’s newest CD “Evening With Eric Bibb” is his only live concert.  If you like this song, get the CD.        



Wedding, Friends and All Things Wonderful

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Wedding music.

I have seen a spectrum of styles, various instruments, a few many-splendored glories and a few fiascoes (including the soloist who had pitch issues to begin with and ended with my threat to boycott accompanying his free-style, note-bending, ad-libbing, Donna Summersesque rendition of The Lord’s Prayer).

But nothing will ever surpass the clarity, the simplicity, the potency of one cello playing The Church’s One Foundation as the bridesmaids walked down the aisle. 

… from heav’n he came and sought her to be his holy bride;
with his own blood he bought her, and for her life he died.

All the joy and solemnity of the incipient ceremony, the thrill of anticipation, the relief of arriving at this place in this moment with these people, were distilled in the dulcet tones of the cello.  A hush descended; the sisters radiant in their turquoise dresses entered with regal dignity; the words from the hymn echoed and re-echoed in my thoughts. That was the defining moment for me.  It was the first time I’ve thought about Christ while I’ve watched a procession of bridesmaids.

The wedding sermon was superb.  You, gentle reader, are blessed because you may read it here.  I timed it:  six minutes to read.  Print it out and read it with your family.  More beauty.  More wonder. More mystery.  

The entire day was magnificent.  A coming together of friends and families near and far to witness the ceremony and rejoice at the reception.  Both families delighted with their new son/daughter/sister/brother.  A traditional southern New Year’s Day meal — and I l-o-v-e-d the steamed collards and black-eyed peas, not to mention the pulled pork.  I think I could be very happy living in the South. 

A glorious wedding brings to fruition all the years of labor and prayer and care and guidance that went into the bearing and bringing up of a child.  It is such a day of rejoicing for the parents and grandparents and all the onlookers who have watched the growth in the bride or groom’s life.        

Our beloved pastor and friend, the groom’s dad, giving a father’s blessing

The bride’s mom, a jewel beyond compare


Lindsey and Jon


You know these people don’t you?

And I was blessed to meet, in real life, Dana of Hidden Art.  Who can say when or where we met?  I think her first comment here was on March 9, 2006. At that time we didn’t have a clue that there were connections lurking underneath the framework of our online friendship.  Dana is every bit the gracious, classy, articulate woman you would expect.  Being with Dana makes you want to sit up a little straighter, because you want to, not because she’s giving you a look.  She inspires you to be a lady, to be beautiful, to be articulate.

We didn’t have the freedom to just sit and talk non-stop until the evening after the wedding.  I loved relaxing together and letting our conversation meander where it would. Another bonus was meeting her parents, lovely folk.  I am inspired by her mother who took up painting after she turned 50 and is now an accomplished artist.  I loved introducing Dana to my loved ones. 

I plan to join Dana and Cindy and others reading Economics in One Lesson by Henry Hazlitt. 

2008 began gloriously.  I believe it’s going to be a great year.

Rattlesnake Travelog

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“Are you going Rattlesnake?”

AAA and Mapquest won’t direct you to this road,
the most direct way from point A to point B,
which traverses a series of canyons.

See for yourself why the highway is called Rattlesnake.

In the left third of the picture below the highway snakes around the mountains.

It is a fun drive in the summer in a itty-bitty sports car.

Even in the winter, it is SO worth it for a wedding.

Tomorrow: the wedding and another blog friend story.

“What I had experienced was a symphony in the wilderness.
Those who never learned to walk
will never know its beauty.
Only those who choose to get lost in it,
cutting all ties to civilization,
can know what I mean.
Only those who return to the elemental world
can knows its beauty and grandeur–
and man’s essential unity with it.”
~ William O. Douglas

In Real Life

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The incredulous looks matched the higher pitched tones in the voices.  “You’re kidding, right?”  “It’s kind of like a blind date, isn’t it?”  “That’s kind of scary.” “Wow.” 

These responses followed my excited announcement that my online friend and her family were coming and spending a night with us.  No, we’ve never met; we’ve just read each other’s blog and emailed.  Hey, we talked on the phone last week.  Okay, I’ll grant it that we both took some risks…but there was never any doubt that we would have a jolly good time together. 

Jolly good time….oh my.  It was like we’d been old friends forever. Our husbands had this male bonding thing going on.  There must be a new category of men now: husbands of bloggers.  The kids had a heyday throwing snowballs and taking sled rides in the dark. 

I don’t know what the guys talked about – theology, families, work? – but talk they did.   The women talked about connections: books we’ve read, music, Latin, mutual online friends (which ones we know in real life, etc.), our church situations, our families near and extended, on and on.  

We spoke wistfully of  how much fun it would be to have a reunion gathering of special blog friends.  We discovered that one of my husband’s college roommates attended their wedding.  Who would have guessed?

Di and I stayed up talking into what is normally called the wee hours. Our own circle of quiet included whispered talk in the kitchen trying not to disturb the guys sacked out on the living room floor. We took up the thread again this morning.

And before we were ready to say good-bye, they had to leave.  A happy ache has settled into my heart.  

 

Fishing on Boxing Day

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Feather-weight snowflake-nuggets are slowing floating down from the sky.
Snow whitens.
Snow beautifies.
Snow covers.
Snow insulates.

Snow outside = cozy inside.

It would be a perfect day to snuggle up with a good book.
But I’m working on my fishing skills.
Specifically my casting.
As in, “Cast all your cares on Him for He careth for you.”

Because snow is a hazard maker.
There is much traveling for loved ones today and in the week to come.
The tally today: two flat tires, one flight caught at the last minute,
one son stranded in the snow *unstuck, hooray*, waiting for safe arrivals,
and planning for safe departures.

This adapted from the Sailor’s Prayer, LBP:

When dangerous storms arise,
hold Thy guarding hand
over our ship and its entire crew,
and dispel all fear and terror by the knowledge
that Thou art mightier than the mightiest snowstorm [waves],
and that Thou canst protect Thy children
in the raging wind and frozen ice [billows].

May Thy peace keep my whole spirit,
that my soul and body be preserved blameless
unto the great day of Thy coming,
my Redeemer and Lord.
Amen.

While casting is a good fishing skill, patience is a prerequisite.
Patience, perspective and proportion.
Snows, like fish, come and go.
The Word of the Lord remains sure and steady.