What We're Doing To Our Bibles

If you're a print Bible reading sort of person, you may be aware of the Bible journaling phase that's sweeping the print-Bible-reading-sort of-person nation. If you're new to this mad fad, I encourage you to take a second to Google or Pinterest search this. It's insane.

This is my Bible. Inspiration courtesy of genius on Tumblr.

For real, go search. In fact, I'm going to, too, because it's new and strange and you won't believe how talented some of these pages are.

....

Anyway. I am a print Bible reading sort of person, so I watched from the sidelines as these brave and careless people began writing, doodling, coloring, and doing all sorts of artsy things within the pages of their holy book. I wanted to dive in to this particular Bible weirdness, but I was raised Baptist. (Baptists don't dance, don't drink, and certainly don't color in their adult Bibles.) But then one day, I could stand it no longer. I have a study Bible that I would never draw in, but I have another that was a gift... more for casual reading. I picked up some colored pencils and began sketching something similar to a picture I saw on Tumblr. 

It was freeing. Like, kid drawing on the wall with nail polish, kind of freeing. It felt so rebellious and yet again, so right. Instantly, I was converted. 

Do you read the Bible? Do you ever write (journal, color, go crazy) in yours? This fall, I feel a renewed inspiration to spend time with my Bible, specifically in Genesis, Psalms, Daniel, Ezekiel and Revelations. I see much drama coming forth from- and on- these thin, delicate pages.

Speaking of thin and delicate, I picked up a few supplies to go with my underlining/highlighting/doodling/writing in the Bible phase. It should be noted that you can't begin "personalizing" your Bible with just any old rough, heavy pens and markers. So far, these color pencils are fantastic. Ditto for these no-bleed-through Bible highlighters. And don't try this for yourself without getting a hold of Micron's Bible Study Kit. What? I write with them for everything now. Love Micron pens.

Are you in on this Bible journaling and art thing? Would you rather walk the center aisle naked before you'd ever draw in your Bible? Tell me about it and we'll discuss. 

Happy Friday and weekend! -Brin

This post includes affiliate links. Because bloggers cannot live on Bread alone. (Haha. Bible joke.)

Waste Not, Want Not: A Rug for Millie

Millie needed a soft, comfy place to lounge this fall and winter. She just did. So I found a beautiful rug in the new Pottery Barn catalogue and drooled over it for about half an hour. That's all I did, though. Tiramisu taste on a 'Nilla wafer budget, you understand.

So I did what any resourceful (read: desperate) country girl would do: I rounded up an armload of old t-shirts and, with gleaming scissors held high above my head, sounded the charge! In no time I was surrounded by a mountain of t-shirts hacked into strips and confetti. I swept the confetti pieces under the couch and rolled each strip into softball-sized balls and found the largest crochet hook I could find. Then I turned on the TV and got down to business.

Don't judge me. I can't crochet. I mean, I don't know what in the world I'm doing. When I was ten, the girl at the blueberry farm - the one my Mom wanted me to be friends with - tried to teach me how to crochet potholders. I guess some of it stuck; I can read knitting patterns... and music... and part of the New Testament in Spanish... but I still can't read anything having to do with crochet. I just play with balls of t-shirt strips and a hook until, after three straight hours of the History Channel, I can lean over the arm of the couch and yell, Look! A rug for Millie!

The rug so far gobbled up seven t-shirts and measures roughly three feet across. So either I need more shirts or Millie will have to shrink. Before someone asks, I started at the bottom of each shirt, on the right side, and cut a continuous two-inch stripe, horizontally, up the body of the shirt. Like peeling an apple. Then I did something (?) with loops and that crochet hook until it looked like this. I really don't know what I did, (UPDATE: crocheters say I single crocheted through the back loops. Eureka! Thanks, crafty ladies!) so please don't ask for a pattern. If you do, I'll have to come to your house and steal all your t-shirts, especially if you have any plum, cranberry or golden raisin-colored ones. I want those colors next. *grin*

(For another Waste Not, Want Not idea, check out my Thrifty Nifty Napkins, where I cut up more old clothes to make household things.)

Dreaming, Living and Stomping

Dream as if you'll live forever.

Live as if you'll die today.

-James Dean

One of my dreams: to go grape stomping before I turned thirty. Grape stomping was the thing, Delaney Vineyards was the place, and today was the day.

It was a perfect day. I loved the colors best. The sky sat a heavy, muted shade of gray. The vines unfurled an emerald green. And the grapes? They blushed a blueberry blue. Piles and piles of blueberry blue.

I wanted to take them all home and spill them from baskets and just look at them.

You couldn't, of course. It was harvest day at the vineyards and buckets and bins of grapes sat around waiting for their turn in the tumbler, a machine that separated the grapes from their stems. Men with large plastic shovels stood on top of the machine and scooped grapes into the hopper. I thought of those two scoops of raisins commercials and laughed.

I'm not sure what kind of grapes they use for raisins, but these weren't them. The grapes my friend and I saw today were headed for Delaney's wooden barrels, to ferment and age and become Merlot and Chardonnay wines.

After they were stomped, of course.

Stepping into a vat of mushed grapes is unlike any other feeling I've ever felt. Slushy and gritty, the mixture also ran fluid and slippery. Feeling that purple soup churn around my ankles reminded me of something one would experience in a spa. It was comforting, somehow. Almost therapeutic. I could have squished and stirred those grapes all day.

But I didn't. I lifted one foot out, then the other, and breathed a happy sigh. I did it. Under a stormy gray sky alongside twisting, emerald vines, I stomped grapes. Before I turned thirty. And it was as wonderful as I'd envisioned.

I'll drink (a wine sample) to that.

So here's to us. Here's to dreaming a little and living even more. -Brin

Life:Beautiful Winners

The answers were beautiful... the reasons why our lives - despite their challenges and heartbreaks - are beautiful. I loved them... each and every one. Your tellings made me smile, cry, and even gasp. They were wonderful. Thanks.

I wish I could send each 85 of you a subscription. But I'm no Oprah. So, in no particular order (at all), here are the randomly-drawn winners of the Life:Beautiful subscriptions, together with their comments:

APRIL
"I always think my life would be more beautiful perfectly arranged like that lovely picnic. But it is in the mess that the true beauty of God's provision -- husband, daughter, son that I couldn't imagine having just five years ago -- shines through."

POLLY
"What makes my life beautiful? These days its a phone call from my Marine son in Iraq. Just hearing him say *Hey, Mom*, and knowing that, at least for this moment, he is safe can light my entire week!"

JEAN
"Hmmm, there are so many beautiful things about life. One of them are those brief moments in the midst of crazy, hectic fun or sublime merriment where you pause, take a deep breath, glance around meaningfully, and realize just how blessed you really are--that profound stillness filled with thankfulness directed to the God who has graciously allowed us to enjoy all things."

Congrats, ladies! I'll be in contact shortly for your information and Life:Beautiful will be on its way to you soon thereafter.

To the rest of us - thanks for sharing your lives, your families, your hopes and your thoughts with me. It means more than you'll ever know. The community we have here at this blog is one of the many, many things that makes my life beautiful. God's blessings on you all! -Brin

You Ask, I Answer: The Many Sides of Me

I'm constantly tagged and nudged by folks for little blog games like, "Tell Us 7 Things About Yourself", etc. I played along once, but as a rule I generally ignore them. Not to be rude, I just don't have time.

But I continue to get comments and emails from folks who read my blog often... questions asking who I am, what I do, if I like this or if I've been there. Some questions are about my house, my background, and once, even what I do with my leftovers.

So let's do this: I'll summarize myself here and you'll see that, really, you're probably better off not asking. [laugh]

About me:

I have a dry, sarcastic, and self-deprecating sense of humor. But I love to laugh and find most things hilarious.

I quilt and knit and hate to exercise. I also just bought a kayak. Go figure.

I try to be in bed by 10 PM but I write best late, late at night.

I am constantly fluctuating between a low carb diet and a low fat/high carb diet. Don't figure.

I want a simple job... like baking cookies... but right now I'm determining "working interest" in a federal CO2 unit for an oil company. Beats me.

I love shopping for frilly skirts and love sundresses. But most days I wear jeans.

I recycle everything I can get my hands on, compost, and always look for ways to save energy. But I drive a Jeep SUV.

Over the weekend I watched CNN's full-length documentary We Were Warned: Out of Gas three times before composing an essay from the industry's point of view. Last night I watched the Bachelorette and bawled my eyes when she let Graham go. (The Moen ad guy? Is she crazy?)

I'm a serious homebody and would prefer to stay in any night over going out. But I travel over six months out of the year. Go figure.

At home, I teach Sunday School and adore my church. Yet churchy people creep me out.

I hate drinking water. I drink 75 oz. of water every day.

Dealing with money is my #1 Top Hated Thing, but I'm constantly buying stocks and moving money around. Much to the chagrin of the guy I pay to do those things.

The only pie I'll eat is chocolate. But I don't like meringue and don't eat the chocolate part, either.

I love eating out, but I travel with a crock pot, a hot plate, and a toaster oven so I never have to. (Huh?)

The idea of being tied down scares me. At 25, I bought a home.

As a lover of fine cuisine, I dream of pancetta-crusted pork tenderloin with a rosemary/shiraz reduction. My wish for my final meal? Taco Bell bean burritos with Fire sauce. (See comments for what I want inscribed on my tombstone someday.)

I listen to Christmas music all year. By December I'm tired of it and listen to Coldplay or something.

I love snow and mountains and cold weather. I live in Texas.

My favorite movies (right now) are Pride and Prejudice (with Keira Knightley) and Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Favorite TV shows are History Channel documentaries and Pushing Daisies. (What?)

And last, but not least, I tell myself every day that I'm going to hit "delete" on this blog and happily walk away. And here I am, telling you even more about myself. :)

Okay. So there's me. (And before anyone asks, I told the lady who asked about my leftovers that I eat them or compost them. And yes, I find this terribly funny and am laughing even now.)

Oh. And I'm convinced I'm sacrificing my retirement by giving too much money away. We draw for magazine subscriptions tomorrow. (!) See you then. -Brin

Life:Beautiful

Snow? In June? No. [Grin] Cottonwood fuzzies. They're piling up along the roads and fences, pretending to be snowdrifts. They're not fooling Millie. She runs through them at top speed leaving a cloud of cotton in her trail. She turned to me this morning on our walk and I nearly fell over laughing; she looked like Santa's best dog, what with all the beard-like fuzz hanging from her lower lip.

It's magical here today. I've noticed dozens of folks having picnics and cookouts. What a way to spend a Colorado Friday! I swung by the market after passing everyone by and bought scads of cucumbers, mint and yogurt for a sweet little summer dish that's calling my name. (I'll share the recipe tomorrow.)

Doesn't a picnic sound glorious on a day like today? I found the perfect spot... the place where we'd surely enjoy a gourmet supper this evening if only you were here. It's down by my old cabin and a stone's throw from the river. I love it there. You would, too. I'm sure you would.

Yep. There. I have a blue embroidered table cloth and pretty, cornflower-blue dishes. It would be airy and light and relaxing and deeply, deeply satisfying, just like those picnics they show in Life:Beautiful. Have you seen this magazine? No? Really?

Okay. Comment below and tell me what makes your life beautiful... from the simple to the complicated... from the ordinary to the rare. (Be sure to leave your name!) Tell me what makes your life beautiful and Millie will draw three names on Wednesday so three of you can get a free year's subscription to this breath-taking, soul-reviving magazine.

Life:Beautiful? Definitely. Hope your weekend - picnic or no - is beautiful as well. -Brin

The Raft of the Rail/Raft Adventure

It all begins so calmly. Beautiful afternoon... sun at your back... still, placid river... laughing life-jacket wearers beaming with anticipation.

Then it all goes crazy.

Soon after we hopped off the train, we snapped on our life preservers and tripped our way onto a raft, ready to ride back down the same river we viewed from our rail car. I had never been rafting before. I was ready. Really ready. I wanted big waves and harrowing rock misses and a tale of river adventure and survival.

For the most part, I got it.

I would have been happy to show you more, but here's the thing: you can't hold on for dear life and take pictures with your disposable, underwater camera at the same time. You want to, but you can't. The only pictures you come up with are right before the wave smashes you in the face... before you're gasping from the 41 F degree water... and while you're bracing for another hit.

Or during those precious moments you're trying to admire the scenery before you get to those splashes and rocks ahead.

I joked with the guy in front of me, promising him that all 27 of the rafting pictures I took were of his elbow. "But it's tan and looks fine from this angle," I assured him. He was a Texan, too. During the ride I took great comfort in that, and the fact that I wasn't the only one clinging to the "chicken line" on the side of the raft.

Told you. Even here, when it finally calmed down to a smooth sail to the shore - just beyond the bridge - I was still clinging to the chicken line.

Truly one of my Most Fun Days Ever. I could rail and raft every single day of my life. Or... you know... most of them. Some of them. Okay, on those days I wouldn't mind getting into the shower with a bra full of coal specks and shorts full of sand. Those days would be great.

The Rail/Raft Adventure. Won't soon forget it. Not sure I want to, either....

The Rail of the Rail/Raft Adventure

The Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad.... the D&SNG. I boarded, sleepily, on Saturday morning for a coal-powered ride up the mountains.

Three words for you. No, four: time of my life.

It wasn't a stretch to feel like a character in an Agatha Christie mystery, what with the old, coal-fed chugchugchug... the depot and the tickets... the mishmash of passengers... the smoking, black engine... the shrill, familiar whistle. We stopped four times on the way up the mountains: once to pick up hikers, twice for water, and once for riduculous passengers who hopped off at a water stop. They braked the train - mid tracks - so the people could catch up and all aboard! again. Then we were off.

I adored the scenery. God's brilliant, gorgeous scenery:

The nature landscape wasn't half bad, either.

[Grin]

The snow-dusted mountain tops were my favorite. I blinked as snow melted and merged with waterfalls that splashed into streams tucked deep inside the valleys of the rock. It was too much beauty for words.

I would loved to have thrown the brake - at least once - and just stopped it all and stared. I could have stared until my eyes burned holes through my head. Why hadn't I been here before? Surely God passes through here each day, if only to stop and shake His head and say, "Wow, it is good."

I'm going back another Saturday with a book and an iced coffee; I just want to sit and ride and look and quietly absorb.

Unless Conductor Jared is aboard. Then I'll have to plan a third rail ride.

Oh well. [wink]

This One's For the Boys... (Or, Trash Talk)

(The rest of y'all should kindly look away while the Texas in me comes out. Thanks.)

Okay fellas, here's the deal: I'm tired of all of you.

Perhaps you need a gentle reminder of just who you're bugging to death with your blog comments and emails and cards and texts and showing up with your hair fixed better than mine. Listen up: while I may be a Chocolate Chocolate Chip cookie-baking, pantyhose-wearing sweetie by day, I'm a Turkish-speaking, shotgun-loading meanie by night.

Yup. That's right. Don't mess with Texas... er... um... girls. Yeah. Don't mess with Texas girls. If we like you boys, we may make you fat. And if we don't, we just might make you dead.

Y'all run along now and leave me and my shotgun alone, you hear?

(And by the way, the pictures aren't blurry because I'm a shaky shot. No, they're blurry because I was laughing so hard I could hardly hold a shotgun and take a picture of my great new shoes without falling over.)

For the Love of the Game

Maybe it's because I grew up a Daddy's girl. With three brothers. In Texas. Or maybe it's because I was around it all the time, me being the granddaughter and niece of coaches. Or maybe I got it from my Great Grandmother Elizabeth, who was known throughout Hunt County for her chicken and dumplings, her coconut pie, and her loyal support of the "'boys".

Regardless of the reason, here's the fact: I love football. I'm a Dallas Cowboys fan to the bone. And even though our defense broke my heart and we're all watching the Super Bowl from home this year, I'll still be watching. Because it's all about the game, baby. All for the love of the game.

And the cheese dip. Let's not forget the Texas Cheese Dip:

1 lb. Breakfast Sausage
(J. C. Potter is king around here. Even Troy's on the website.)
1 small onion, diced
1 can Rotel tomatoes (Hot)
1 lb. Kraft Velveeta, cut into 1 inch cubes

This couldn’t be easier. Brown sausage and onions together in skillet over medium-high heat. (I use reduced-fat sausage so there's no need to spoon off fat. But if you need to, certainly do that here.) Drain can of Rotel tomatoes and stir into sausage and onion mixture. Reduce heat to low and add Velveeta, stirring every 5 minutes or until melted. Garnish with cilantro, pico de gallo, or chopped jalapeno. Serve with tortilla chips.

Of course, this can also be done in the crockpot. Brown sausage and onions as directed and dump all ingredients into a crockpot set on low. Stir occasionally. Serve when melted.

Love this dip. It's truly what we Texans dig into. I'm serving this up tonight at Freeman House alongside Bacon Wrapped Chicken Tenderloins with Avocado Ranch Sauce, oven-grilled pizzas, and brownies. Should be a great night.

Wish you were here. Although you're probably glad you're not considering we'll actually be watching the game and I'll be as responsive as those sports-loving husbands on the Home Depot commercials.

And just when you thought you knew me. *wink*

Ghost Hunters

Well, what do you know? It's been a week since we talked and I've ended up with a free Friday night. So how about we spend it together and I tell you about the little adventure I had a week ago?

Cool. Hope you like a good ghost story...

It was a dark and stormy night. No seriously. It really was. A friend called and said her husband was out of town on a business trip and would I like to stay in a historical, haunted hotel with her Friday night? Um, sure I would. I was due for a little excitement. After all, we all know what a boring life I lead. (Cough)
So we met last Friday in Jefferson, Texas. It's one of my favorite towns; the shopping is great, the food is great, the houses are great, the people are great, and the history is... really great. Amber and I dumped our stuff in Room 18 of the old Jefferson Hotel and decided to hit the town.

But of course, it was February. Not a lot going on. We walked a bit and talked non-stop and had dinner and then Amber mentioned the town lantern tour at 8 PM. Was I game even though it was cold and raining? Sure. We walked to the steps of the old museum and that's when I saw the sign: Historic Ghost Walk.


I'd heard about the Ghost Walk before. Jodi Breckenridge, the tour guide, is a smart - if not skeptical - guide and her walks are heavy on the history of the town's people and places. I liked her immediately and decided I would enjoy Jodi's telling of the history and legends of all the old homes and buildings.

So off we went. First to the old McGarity's Saloon. Then to the old hotels, including the one that Steven Spielberg himself got so creeped out in that he checked out at 2 AM and said he would never be back. Yeah. Then on to the Big Cypress Coffee Shop (old funeral home and brothel) and up the street to the Schluter House... the biggest, most scariest house in the country:

Or, whatever. I held my white-rimmed umbrella and stood in the rain looking at the old house. It's beautiful. Creepy, considering the context in which I was viewing it, but beautiful. (And for the record, I have no idea what that bright, squiggly line is.)

The tour wrapped up and we headed back to the hotel, eager to dry off and get warm. Along the tour, Amber and I struck up a conversation with some guys from Fort Worth. They were ghost hunters, they told us, and had all that EVP recorders and KII meters and everything. Furthermore, they were going back out at 3 o'clock that morning and would like for us to join them. They'd come by our room at 2:45 AM to get us.
Back in the room, Amber and I cautiously considered their invitation:

Me: Hey, do you think we should go romping around at 3 AM with a couple of strangers?

Amber: (Looking hard at me.) I don't know. Larry will kill me.

Me: You think they're killers and will use those meter things to electrocute us before dumping our bodies in the bayou?

Amber: Could be. But they look pretty harmless.

Me: I could get my pepper spray out of the car. And here, let's hide a note in the room for the police to find if we go missing. (Scribbling on a coaster: Gone out with the people in Room 24. If we don't come back, they killed us. Think they're from Fort Worth. My will is in my safe.)

Yep. We so went. And it was even creepier at 3 in the morning:


I have to say - I was brave, wasn't I, Amber? I mean, it takes a lot more than an old house to scare me. I walked to the door of this one... the one that used to be a general store back around the turn of the century... and my umbrella and I stood there looking in. I didn't even run when the three of them started shrieking that they saw "orbs" in the picture. "The orbs are moving toward you! BRRIIIINNNNNNN! The ORBS!" Amber yelled.

I think she forgot she doesn't really believe in ghosts. Only, while Amber was holding my camera she did manage to catch a shadowy image on film. It looked like a young woman with dark hair. "Look at this!" I said, holding it out for Amber to see. It was almost morning and the sun was almost up.

"Is that a PERSON?" Amber gasped.

"Yes," I said, astonished. "I think this was when I gave you my camera so I could take yours down into that place by the trees where they used to hang escaped slaves. I'm going to take it home and see if I can't lighten the image to see what it is...".


It was me. Me standing under a street light on the lookout for ghosts. Only I was the ghost. (Amber, next time I'm not taking off with your camera and its cool "twilight" setting. Only it was a lot of fun, wasn't it? And the ghost in Room 18 didn't throw anything out of the closet at us. And the Fort Worth ghost hunters didn't kill us at all!)

Hey, I told you it was a ghost story. I didn't tell you it would be a scary ghost story. (Laugh)

Enjoy your weekend. I hope to check in again with y'all before I fly.... -Brin

New Year's Ramble...

I hope you love birds too. It is economical.

It saves going to heaven.

- Emily Dickinson

Although Emily Dickinson's my favorite poet, and I've spent hour upon mellifluous hour reading her verses, I've never understood this poem. I like it, but never quite understood it. What did she mean when she said loving birds is economical? And why would a love of birds ever save going to heaven? It all sounds a bit reckless and irreverent. Ah well. I appreciate Emily's terse, morose mind... and I do like birds. So there. Guess we've covered that.

I only thought of Emily and the bird poem today because it seems this same little creature has perched around since New Year's Eve. First he was in the melting snow outside the front door. Then I spotted him with several buddies in the backyard tree. Now he's on the hose hanger just outside my bedroom balcony. Curious fellow. I'm wondering if all the dancing and laughing and praying in the midnight snow turned me into some sort of Mary Lennox. Or perhaps just gave me a touch of the flu. Which would explain why I've spent an entire blog post rambling on about literature and birds.

Anyway, hope your January first was lovely. I'm looking forward to this new year we have together. I hope you love it too. It will be economical. It will not, however we may try, save going to heaven. Just thought you should know.

Aliens in the Snow

A happy life is simply the sum

of many small, happy moments.

-Penny Krugman

The overnight forecast called for 3 inches of snow, and the view outside my bedroom window this morning did not disappoint. I layered clothes underneath the roomiest wind suit I have and dashed outdoors. One of my roommates followed. "Let's make snow angels!" I yelled, running for the snow-strewn yard.

"Um... why don't you?" she said.

So I did. I fell - buttocks first - into a couple of inches of snow and positioned myself to begin angel-ing. Visions of perfectly-skirted, halo-crowned snow angels danced in my head as I began twitching and flapping about like a recovering addict. Ouch. Ouch! The sensation was similar to that of scraping my bare hands and body over cold, crushed glass. "Ooowwwww!" I howled. "Owwwwwwwwww!..."

My roommate nearly dropped her camera in the snow she was laughing so hard. "Oh. Ha. Stinkin'. Ha," I retorted, trying to get up carefully so I didn't disturb my Best Ever Angel in the History of Snow Angels. As I dusted snow off my backside, the roommate took a few more pictures. And as I turned to survey my halo-crowned angel, she said:

"It looks like an alien."

It was the grass, I told her. I'll make one on the sidewalk and it'll be beautiful. You'll see....

...

"Nope," she said. "Still looks like an alien."

A bell bottom-wearing, small-headed alien, who was booted off the snow UFO and landed, buttocks first, in our backyard.

Oh how we laughed. I laughed until it hurt. I laughed until it was either laugh or drink my Peppermint Christmas coffee, and then I had to quit laughing to gulp my coffee. Which made me laugh even harder.

It's true. It's so totally, completely, assuredly, 100%-edly, guaranteed true: a happy life is the sum of many happy moments, lumped together and added up to equal a life that is, day by day, truly happy. I like that. That I can do....

...Even if I do make aliens in the snow.

Christmas is Coming

Today I want to be here, in a glitter-roofed, church-turned-cottage with a pink gingham fence and one lonely tree. From my church-turned-cottage, tucked deep inside a countryside of silver-blue quilted hills and gingerbread-smelling dales, I'll be bundled 'neath fluffy white covers, watching snow fall to the ground. And just before I go to sleep, as the winter fire slowly dies, I'll hear it whispered in the candy cane wind: Christmas is coming. Christmas is coming.

When I awake, I'll wander the silver-blue quilted hills with my puppy, Sugar Plum. When our noses turn pink, we'll scamper home for wide mugs of hot chocolate with fluffy marshmallows topped with sprinkles and cream. After warming our feet by the fire, Sugar Plum will nap as I spin pink and white candy canes from lumps of glittered sugar. And while I work, over the sounds of boiling candy and warm, puppy sighs, I'll softly hum and gently sing: Christmas is coming... Christmas is coming...

As the sun yawns and begins droop, Sugar Plum and I will climb the wooden stairs to the church-turned-cottage's Tower of Christmas. There, amidst boxes and bows, we'll find twinkle lights and lolly pops and shiny, ribboned balls. Together we'll trudge down the stairs, climb high atop our candy cane ladder, and trim our lonely tree. And as darkness falls over the silver-blue quilted hills and gingerbread-smelling dales, the twinkling tree and shiny, ribboned ornaments will sweetly bear the sign: Christmas is coming! Christmas is coming!

And soon it will be dark again... the starry, childhood kind of dark that has you lighting long, twisty candles in each window and settling deep, deep into a ragged, old chair. And as the stars shine down and the Christmas moon watches, Sugar Plum and I will sit here - here in our glitter-roofed, candles-in-the-windows, church-turned-cottage, and fill our Christmas stockings and say our Christmas prayers.

You can come too, you know, to the hill and dale countryside and its church-turned-cottage with a pink gingham fence and one lonely tree. Sugar Plum and I have your mug and bed and candle and chair by the fire right here. But please do hurry....

...Christmas is coming. Christmas is coming!