Tag Archives: mylife

God Be At Mine End

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One of my octogenarian friends, a dear friend’s mom, has been sick this week.  Yesterday brought news that her body is shutting down and her time left is measured in days and hours.  I drove out to see her, to tell her one last time that I loved her, and to say goodbye.  She was awake and even told me about The Mapmaker’s Wife, the book she’s in the middle of reading.

I chose selected music of John Rutter’s Gloria CD to bathe me during the twenty minute car drive. The  last four selections are superlative, beyond-the-beyonds-good.  If you click on the link you can hear all but the last line of this lovely blending of words and music.

God Be In My Head

God be in my head and in my understanding.
God be in mine eyes and in my looking.
God be in my mouth and in my speaking.
God be in my heart and in my thinking.
God be at mine end and in my departing.

                    from the Sarum Primer, 1545

Confessions of a Book Hoarder

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My dad was a packrat.  He saved paper in any form.

He saved magazines.  At any time in my childhood I could peruse five years of Newsweek, Grit, Ebony and Moody Monthly.  

He saved receipts.  A box in the pantry was always overflowing with receipts from Jewel, Dominics, Kroger and A & P.  This seemed very normal to me; as a young bride I started my own box overflowing with Safeway and Albertsons receipts.  When I witnessed my mother-in-law crumple a receipt and throw it away, I asked the obvious in a shocked voice, “Did you just throw that away?”  When she asked for a reason to keep a record of a milk and eggs purchase, I was unable to produce one. I quickly converted to the ranks of receipt crumplers.

He saved books.  Bless his soul, he saved books.  When my dad died his personal library was estimated at 6,000 volumes.  Then we discovered that he had double-shelved books and  the number was closer to 12,000.  To his credit, he knew where they were and could find what he was looking for.  There was a shelf of books in Russian.  He knew several languages, but Russian wasn’t one of them!  That, my friend, is an optimist!

This is not a bash-your-dad post.  It is from my dad that I gained a love of books, of literature, of the printed page.  You could not pry from me the books with his inscription on the flyleaf.  Nevertheless, I am my father’s daughter.  My name is Carol and I’m a bookaholic.

But I have been probing my thinking with questions.  I’ve been processing it with a dear friend in a parallel situation. As I approach the half-century mark I am faced with those pesky limitations of mortality. 

When, exactly, do I plan to read all these books? 

Which ones I will read again? 

Which are treasures to be passed down to my children?

Which (how many) books do they really want?

Because the cold, hard truth is that my father’s books became a burden.  People spent long hours– days, weeks — cataloging, sorting, and packaging those books.  Part of his library was a legacy; an even larger part was a headache. 

I will continue to buy books.  If my public library was more extensive I wouldn’t need to buy so many. But I won’t keep every book I buy.  Read it, write down quotes, and Let. It. Go.  I intend to continue the weeding process and to clear out the wood, straw and stubble leaving space for the gold.   

Jewels

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This
weekend was one filled with precious jewels.  We were part of a
missions conference and the speakers were the jewels I speak of.  Their
faces and words were shards of light which glinted and gleamed as they
spoke.
                
They were beautiful.  I don’t have space to describe each one; I will highlight two couples.

Gordon and Elizabeth, both
MKs themselves, have invested their lives in children affected by
leprosy in India.  Gordon (born the week before my father in 1922) met
Ghandi before Ghandi was assassinated. 

Elizabeth has the
dignity and poise of Elisabeth Elliot.  A sari is her dress where ever
she goes.  Humility, contentment, and joy radiate from their
countenances.  She puts on her wedding dress each anniversary to celebrate!! 
All those days that they loved each other, served together, sacrificed
and gave of themselves — all those days form a glorious patina of
grace.  Just being in their presence is a gift.

Ed and Maxine
were a special treat.  Ed is the man who led our pastor to the Lord
when Terry was 20.  For years our church family has heard repeated
stories about this great man.  To meet him and hear his side of those
same stories, to witness the reunion of this Paul and Timothy bound us
all together. 

Isn’t that how love works?  You incorporate the memories
of your loved one into your own chapters and verses; you own the stuff that is part of them. Ed challenged us and exposed
us to growing churches in many parts of the world.                     
                                  

Singing together again

Several of us have been getting to know Maxine through her blog Roseteacup.
 It was my first experience of meeting an online friend in real life
(IRL).  She is a precious jewel.  It took an effort not to hog her for
myself.

  
All xanga bloggers Sisters and good friends

When He cometh, when He cometh
To take up His jewels,
All His jewels, precious jewels,
His loved and His own.

Like a star in the morning,
His bright crown adorning,
They shall shine in their beauty,
Bright gems for His crown.

Guys Holding Babies

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“He’s just like his dad,” she said. “He loves to hold babies.”

 

She was describing my grandson, but a memory of my own dad flashed into my mind. He would stand at the back of the chapel, a baby cradled in his arm as he shook hands with folks leaving.  Even though he had carried around seven babies of his own, if there was a baby in the room, he delighted in holding it. 

I’m thankful to have grown up in a culture, in a community, in a family that valued, cherished and loved on babies.  I’m thankful now to be part of a community of friends who teach both their sons and daughters to hold their little siblings, to comfort them when they are distressed, to give of themselves to these little ones.  In fact, around our parts it is such a common blessing that it almost goes without notice.  

But I look. And I see. 

I see the Matthews and the Lukes and the Adams and the Dannys and the Steves and the Gabriels and the Michaels and the Nathans and the Jesses and the Micahs – all those older brothers who comfortably and naturally tote the little tots who are their sisters and brothers.

Because, you see, I was once the little baby who was held and cherished and protected.  I had my own Dave and Johnny and Jimmy and Danny who found joy in carrying me from the car to the house, who picked me up when I was too tired to trudge forward, whose arms went prickly dead while cradling my sleeping form through a church service. 

We often think of the nurturing of children as a strictly female occupation.  But there is a particular security in being noticed and graciously treated by a father, a grandpa, an uncle, a big brother. 

If I were evaluating a potential husband I would watch closely when he was around children.  Certainly there are different levels of ease depending on how much experience and time he has been around little ones.  But there is a general disposition which will come out.  And a friendly exchange, a playful banter between a three year old and that potential husband would melt my heart faster than a dozen roses or a box of chocolates any day of the year.


 
My beloved holding our second son after he cut the cord, etc.

It is such a joy to watch my son as a daddy; he’s one of the best!

My dad holding his firstborn.   JWH, October 3, 1922 – February 14, 1987

The Opus of Opera

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Opus (n. singular) – work
Opera (n. plural of opus) – works, theatrical performance set to music

The Opus of Opera is baaaad Latin.  What I mean to communicate in the title is the toil it takes to put an opera on, Labor Operum.   Opus means creative work.  So please excuse my Latin and let’s move on.

Some of you know that my brother is an opera singer, a tenor to be specific.   Guess what?  Next week, I get to be an opera singer for one night!  The Portland Opera is sending a team out to the hinterlands to  put on  an abridged version of Carmen by Bizet.  The local Children’s Choir, the Community Choir and the university Chamber Choir will sing the chorus parts of the final act.

We’ve been rehearsing, getting the music memorized, singing ourselves silly with the final, famous chorus. Altos are singing high Es and F#s at full-bore!  I’ve been looking for a sample of the dum DEE da dum dum tune we’re singing and this is the closest I could get.  Go to Disc 2, track 2, Les Voici La Quadrille.  Alas, we’re singing a perfectly wretched English translation.  I’ve always wanted a chance to use my high school French.

Next week we rehease with the Opera Company and learn to move and dance on stage while we sing.  There is safety in numbers, right? Yikes!  Oh, what great fun it will be for this middle-aged mama!

Intentional Television

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The first 29 years of my life were lived without a television in the house.  As a teen-ager I didn’t miss TV, but I hated being weird; I was allergic to otherness.  One day in high school the teacher decided to do an on-the-spot survey of TV viewing habits.  One by one, she queried the class and students gave the hours watched the day before.  The usual replies were between two and four hours. I cringed as she came closer to calling on me.  Joe Fritz, the guy in front of me, had been sick the day before and figured he watched 8 1/2 hours. 

“Carol?” she droned.  “How much did you watch?”

I looked a little off to her left and said, “None.”

This threw her off her stride, but evidently interested her.  “Wait a minute. Were you not home yesterday?”

I bit the inside of my cheek.  “No. I was home.”

“Is your TV broke?”

“Um…no.”  [Please, please don’t make me admit I don’t have a TV]  With each question I slid a quarter of an inch lower in my seat.  I focused my attention on a spot on the floor.

“Well, how much did you watch the day before?”

Better face the music.  Big sigh. I looked up and admitted,  “None….we don’t have a TV.”

“You DON”T HAVE A TV?”  She searched for a diplomatic way to ask about our financial status.

“Carol, is there a reason your family doesn’t have a TV?”

“Yes there is.  My dad doesn’t want one.”

A similar conversation a few years ago made me laugh instead of cringe.  I was at my desk at the pharmacy where I work entering numbers on Excel.  There were two twenty-something co-workers in the office.  One is what my husband calls a Chatty Cathy.

“[celebrity’s name] had a baby girl yesterday.”

I kept working and replied, “Oh. Good.  [pause]  Is she one of our customers?”

Pepsi came spewing out of her mouth as she choked and said, “Carol. You don’t know who […] is?”

I paused and looked at her.  “Should I know who she is?”

The twenty-something intern jumped in.  “Don’t you watch Friends?”

“Well, I’ve seen a few minutes here and there, but I’ve never watched an entire episode.  I’m sorry, but I’m unfamiliar with […]”

The shock of it all disoriented them.  They shook their heads trying to process the wonder of it.  Giggles kept erupting from them over the next half hour. I chuckled, shrugged, smiled, and sat up straighter as I continued with my number crunching.

~          ~          ~         ~          ~           ~

This is not a screed against watching television. 

This is a rant against mindless viewing habits.

 Roseteacup’s comment “TV is a thief to be reckoned with” has been reverberating through my week.  After we got a TV, the pendulum swung and for a period our viewing diet was omnivorous.  We considered getting rid of the TV, but favored controlling it over chucking it.  We established (and re-established – you know how slippage happens) some household rules:

1.   The kids do not have open access to the TV.  They need permission to even turn it on.

2.   Watching TV during a meal is a rare exception.  There is something precious about eating around a table and talking to one another.  When the World Series is on, we’ll eat while watching the game in the living room.  It’s fun, but it’s not normal.

3.  The TV is never on for background noise.  The world is full of beautiful music to listen to.  Silence allows you to mull over ideas.  Serenity is nigh impossible with a TV on.

4.  People always trump programs.  When someone knocks on the door the TV goes off.  No. matter. what. We honor our visitor by listening and looking at them with our full attention.   When we talk on the phone we leave the room if the TV is on. 

5.  Decide the level of intake in advance.  When we’re tired, weary, bored, etc. the default response is not to turn the television on.  It grips, it sucks, it scoops you in – but it rarely satisfies.

We have found this to be a part of life which requires regular, systematic evaluation.  There are some great shows to watch.  But they don’t always remain great shows to watch.  Television is a medium which delivers some that is profitable and much that is wretched. Too many times I have watched a program that was substandard, but was too passive, too engaged (or is it disengaged?), to click Off.  When I go to a nursing home I notice the comatose habits of the residents in front of the box; I **so** don’t want that to be the way I live life at age 75. 

Thoughts?  Any yeahbuts? 

A Father’s Blessing

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Curt’s words to Carson and Taryn:

A Father’s Blessing

May God bless you with faith,
for without faith it is impossible to please God.

May God bless you with repentance,
because every faithful man and every faithful woman remains a sinner.

May God bless you with courage,
to reject the foolishness of the world and to keep the law of God in all of life.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen.

New Year’s Eve Connections & Better Posture

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We departed from the usual home-with-a-DVD style and celebrated New Year’s Eve at a party.  This morning my husband told me that we were the oldest ones there.  !!!!!  My, my, my.  We joined several families and took over a lovely restaurant which is closed during the winter season.   A local young man invited a score of  NSA (New Saint Andrews) students and grads to join in the festivities.  Musicians, good ones, abounded and we had a great time of listening and singing, chatting, and game playing.  Nourishing soups and crusty breads took the chill off the evening.

I met a young lady whose father is famous.  Instead of the potentially wearisome question, “Are you so and so’s daughter?” I delighted in mentioning ever-so-casually, “Your aunt is my friend.”  Her jaw dropped.  It was the niece of  Dana at Hidden Art.   Now, I’m easily amused; but this is the closest I’ve gotten to meeting one of my online friends in real life (is IRL an acronym?).  I know, a niece in Oregon in not the same as the aunt in Georgia.  But it was a delightful connection and it was fun to be fans together of a lovely lady who, in my mind, is the hallmark of the modern gracious southern lady. 

One of my resolutions this year is to improve my posture.  Slumping is so unattractive; I tend to slump, especially at the computer.  I recently learned a great tip from an intern choir director.  Lift both hands straight above your head.  Lower your arms but keep your shoulders and chest in the same position.  It is a great posture refresher.  A dear lady named Precious, who employed me to clean her house when I was in the 8th grade, used to admonish me, “Look at the third story, Carol!  Keep your shoulders back and your chin up.”  Can you recommend any other exercises for good posture?

Killer Sudoku

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Call it sibling rivalry.  When I saw my two older brothers working on this level of Sudoku, I had to prove that I could do it too decided to give myself a challenge.   Why is Sudoku so engaging?  I did finish my first 16 x 16 grid.  All it took was time.  Lots of it! 

Do you Sudoku?

The Wind and The Wedding

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[I don’t have one picture from the wedding on our camera.  Hey bros or friends, if you have one, could you email it to me so I could insert it here?]

Condensed Version:   Last Thursday night a huge windstorm hit the Puget Sound region which left 1.5 million people without power.  One of the worst areas affected was the rural community near Taryn’s house and the site of the wedding.  Flights were canceled, our motel was without power, the restaurant providing food for the rehearsal dinner was without power, the winery (site of wedding) was without power.  The day before the wedding we were scrambling to find a place for the wedding.  Three hours before the rehearsal we were searching for a place to rehearse.  The Lord provided those places and the wedding on Sunday evening was exquisite.


Cedar (and rhody) uprooted in Taryn’s front yard

Details:  Jessie, my gifted florist daughter-in-law, and I traveled Thursday to Taryn’s house so Jessie could begin arranging flowers for the wedding.  The flowers were delivered safely just hours before the storm descended. We stayed in a motorhome that night as the tempest roared (the Advent winds begin to stir with sea-like sounds in our Scotch fir).  The wind groaned and shook the RV.  We woke early and surveyed the damage: a huge cedar down in the front yard and four trees down in the back pasture.  A different angle and the tree could have easily landed on the master bedroom and turned the weekend to tragedy. The horses were alive and hadn’t gotten out. There was no power; Taryn’s family had a gas stove that provided heat.

As Friday unfolded, the extent of the storm became manifest.  It soon became evident that we would need to start developing a Plan B.  The cell phones were constantly in use as we worked through endless details in succession, one after another. [I humbly recant my rant about loathing cell phones.] We found a Costco that had power where we could at least purchase food to feed the group assembling at the house.  This Costco had gas for sale and there was a line a mile long in both directions.  Welcome to Soviet Russia!   The off-ramp from the highway moved at a snail’s pace, at the rate it takes to fill a car tank with gas.  Back at Taryn’s house we grilled burgers, lit candles, and ended up sleeping on the dining room floor in borrowed blankets and sleeping bags. 

The Saturday morning dawn was quiet and dark.  Sea-Tac had reopened and my siblings were arriving.  We trekked down to pick them up, in yuckky, non-showered bodies.  A 1907 hotel in downtown Seattle had rooms and power so we dropped people off and worked our way back to homebase.  Don’t even get me started on Seattle traffic.

A friend with bridal connections suggested a facility for the wedding that was available Sunday evening, but not available for a rehearsal Saturday night.  Cell phones roamed and the search for a rehearsal continued.  A church graciously allowed us to use their sanctuary and all the participants in the rehearsal were notified of the change.  We started making phone calls to the 200 guests to inform them of the new venue. 

On Sunday afternoon Jessie did the most spectacular job making the new room perfect for the wedding.  She harvested greens from the downed cedar and firs and arranged them with magnificent skill.  The wood paneled walls were decorated with swags; the fireplace and mantel provided a focal point; bouquets of red and white roses, calla lilies, white daisies and deep red roses in tall, slender vases were on every table.  The soft light of  votive candles, dozens and dozens of them, made the room twinkle and glow. 

The sweet, clear tones from a harp and violin played Christmas carols as the prelude.  There was a hush as the mothers were ushered in to the tender notes of Silent Night.  Taryn was radiant on her father’s arm as they proceeded down the aisle to the music of O Holy Night.  Both fathers spoke words of blessing to the couple. Our pastor, Bonnie’s husband, gave one of the best wedding sermons I’ve ever heard.  My brother Dan sang, lovely as usual. Vows were made, rings exchanged, communion received, pronouncement made, the kiss, and then the smiles…… Carson and Taryn were incapable of straight faces.  Smiles and laughter and good cheer and celebration and  Joy to the world.

~   ~   ~  slices of joy ~   ~   ~

•  the moment before I took Collin’s arm to walk the aisle, Taryn’s mom leaned over and whispered, “You know what this means?  We’re relatives now.”

•  singing Be Thou My Vision with wobbly voice thick with tears of joy

•  watching all the groomsmen sing the first verse of Be Thou My Vision from memory.  There is something about men singing which melts me.  These young men were handsome, manly, and quite comfortable singing a hymn. 

•  dancing with my husband, eyes full of wordless wonder

•  standing with Taryn’s mom, arms around each other, watching our kids dance, soaking in the moment

•  the body of Christ ministering in countless ways.  People pitched in to help and friends far away prayed. It’s so good to be part of community where burdens and joys are gladly shared.

•  memorized scripture which came to my frazzled mind and comforted me:

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord. 

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. 
In all thy ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct thy paths.

He gives us beauty for ashes,
the oil of joy for mourning,
a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness,
that we might be trees of righteousness,
the planting of the Lord,
that He might be glorified.


•  sharing the experience with all but one of my siblings.  Deep belly laughs punctuated our time together.  Here is a random family picture of us at the hotel together. I’m in the middle, my brother Dan is by the window trying to get wireless connection to find a motel closer to the wedding.