Puddles and Pudding

No sooner had I gone to bed last night than my phone rang. On the other end, a friend was reading my last blog entry and scoffing at my suggestion that she toss out the pudding cups in her fridge and make her own. "No, really," I insisted. "It's easy... and a hundred times better than whatever you have in there now."

"Prove it," she said.

I was going to email her the recipe, but thought maybe I should post it instead, just in case you're a skeptic, too.

HOMEMADE VANILLA PUDDING

(This recipe is a variation of one my Grandmother taught me. I use cream and milk because I like the richness, but she skips the cream and just uses 1 1/2 c. milk. The important thing is use quality ingredients; if you use skim milk and margarine and imitation vanilla, you won't like the results. Promise.)

1/2 c. sugar
2 T. flour
pinch salt
1 c. cream
1/2 c. milk
1 egg
1 T. butter
1 t. vanilla (or 1/2 vanilla whole bean, seeded)

Stir together sugar and flour in heavy-bottomed saucepan. Add cold cream and milk and whisk carefully to combine. Heat pudding over medium heat and stir frequently until it boils. Once it boils, stir for one minute. Next crack your egg into a cereal bowl. Ladle a bit of the hot pudding mixture into the bowl with the egg. Stir fast until it is well incorporated. (This keeps the egg from scrambling in your pudding.) Now scrape your bowl of egg and pudding mixture back into the saucepan. Whisk until smooth and remove from heat as soon as it gets bubbly.
Stir in butter and vanilla.

You're done! Wasn't that simple? You can now ladle your homemade pudding into cups and refrigerate, or if you have a soar throat like I do, dish it up, add some pretty fruit (or shaved chocolate) on top, and eat it warm from the pan. Do this once and you'll never buy pudding cups again.

You know, I think there are days made for pudding. Days like today, in fact. This recipe was made simple all-the-more by the fact that it hasn't stopped raining here in days and days. There are puddles everywhere. In fact, NOAA lists the forecast for Freeman House like this:

Flash Flood Watch
Flood Statement
Hazardous Weather Outlook
Ice Storm Warning

Yikes! I refuse to get out. Good thing I have clean socks and a huge stack of books to snuggle in with. Hmmm. Where should I start?

Speaking of books, just this week my friend Lacy asked me about the status of the library at Freeman House. Turns out, just this week the sheetrockers left. As it went, the plaster that I had so carefully applied and painted wasn't holding up to the home's moisture/settling issues, so the whole room... for the first time... got fresh new sheetrock walls. It's ready to finish again, but I've been in no hurry to start. To give you an idea of why, well, that fireplace... um... it's almost as tall as I am. (The scaffolding is taller than I am!) The room is huge.

Gosh. What am I doing sitting here? Better hurry off. So much to do, so little initiative. Sort of like so many puddles, and so little pudding.

Upgrades

You can upgrade every aspect of your life without a lot of money

and with no more time than you're spending now.

Start... with the simplest of discernments,

choosing something that's just a bit delightful

over something that isn't.

-Victoria Moran

Today dawned with a rumble. After an overnight front, Freeman House is sitting on soggy, dreary, and chilly ground. (Guess my boots and rooted hydrangeas will have to wait for another day to play outside.) With an indoor Saturday in my future, I found I had some time to wander around. As I did, I realized: I love upgrades.

It's funny... we tend to think of upgrades as new cars and newer computers and plasma TVs, don't we? Upgrading usually means going from off-the-rack to designer duds. From college futons to showroom furniture. From public library to pricey book cafes. But please. I'm not sure about you, but my bank account is limited. Very limited. So before you go hollering, "Upgrades!? I can barely afford the standard grades!", hear me out. Upgrade in small areas, and you'll find a sweeter, happier quality of life almost instantaneously. I know I did.

A year ago, I read Moran's book, Creating a Charmed Life. At the risk of sounding dramatic, it changed my life in a noticeable way. Why? Because Victoria Moran is onto something, and as I began to look for small ways to upgrade my daily life, I noticed big changes. SMALL. WAYS. It works.

Case in point: I usually pick up a bouquet of grocery store flowers for myself on Valentine's Day. Seemed to help, I guess. But Valentine's Day 2005, I decided to shake things up. In the spirit of upgrading, instead of spending $17.99 on droopy, slimy, cut flowers, I bought 3 roses bushes. Cost the same. Only last summer, those rose bushes took off, and by late summer I had powdery pink and creamy white roses bathing in vases all over the house. Small upgrade? Yes. Big difference? You betcha!

Or... how about this? Instead of tossing out some pretty cotton nightgowns that have seen a few too many nights, I cut them up and began piecing together a quilt. (I did have to add in additional fabric, but still...) In another few weeks, I'll have a pretty, handmade quilt to use and later pass down, and I have a neater pajama drawer. Cost? About $7 and several cozy evenings in front of the TV.

Don't sew? I bet you eat! If you ask me, the easiest way to upgrade your life is by upgrading your food. Seriously. And no, I don't mean eating out. On the contrary, I'm suggesting giving the drive-thrus and local waiters a break and trying your own hand in the kitchen. Worked for me. Toss out the pudding cups and make your own pudding. Skip the packaged cookies and make your own, for heaven's sake. You miss them warm from the oven anyway, don't you? Try homemade soups - they're more delicious and healthy than canned. Make your own bread. Roast your own chicken. If, however, you are badly pressed for time or culinary skills, try this: next time you need a quick lunch, make my...

UPGRADED GRILLED CHEESE

2 slices bread - whatever kind you have on hand

4 slices cheese - again, whatever kind you have on hand

(I used Muenster and American, but that's me.)

1/4 c. mayonnaise (or Miracle Whip if you insist)

Herbs, olives, carmelized onions, roasted red peppers... whatever

Squeeze lemon juice

Olive oil

1. Cut crust off bread and cut slices in half, creating 2 smaller sandwiches.

2. Coat non-stick skillet with olive oil. Place over medium high heat.

3. In small bowl, combine mayonnaise with any herb, olive, or vegetable of your choice. (Today I used kalamata olives and thyme. I was in a olive/thyme mood.)

Next, squeeze or squirt in a teaspoon or so of lemon juice. Refrigerate to combine flavors, or if you're starved, go ahead and slather it on slices of bread.

4. Stack cheese on mayonnaised bread and assemble sandwich.

5. Place sandwiches in hot oil, pressing them down with a spatula or the bottom of another pan.

6. Cook 1-3 minutes per side.

7. Revel in your upgraded, grilled cheese genius.

Seriously, upgrading is easy. Buy yummy soaps and exotic toothpastes. Skip the movies and take in a play. Turn off the workout tape and take a walk. Replace one weekly shower with a bath. Turn off the TV and read. Get up and go to church.

I'm not sure how good your life is today, but have a hunch it could be even better. Heck... try it and let me know. Who couldn't stand a few necessary upgrades in 2007?

My Favorite Things

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens;

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens;

Brown paper packages tied up with strings;

These are a few of my favorite things.

- Oscar Hammerstein II, Richard Rodgers

I was driving, frantically, through traffic today when I was suddenly aware of two things: one, that I had turned the radio off; and two, that I was shamelessly belting out "raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens... these are a few OF MY FAAAAVORITE THINGS....". Hmm. Thank God it's Friday!



As soon as I finished my shameless singing (... and then I don't feel... so baaaa-aaaa-aa-aa-ad!), I started thinking of a few of my favorite things. I lost myself in them. It was strange how, once I was done, I felt amazingly de-stressed. (Wonder if it would work a second time?)

So... my favorites. Where would you start? I figured clean laundry was high atop my list. There's something so comforting... so right-with-the-world... when I see fresh towels, folded right off the clothesline.

Oh! And books. Slap nearly anything between two covers (within reason) and I'm game. Right now I'm reading Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. (The link's to the left.) It's truly inspiring for anyone who lives a creative life. When I'm not reading, betcha money I'll be watching TV... (Gilmore Girls or FoodNetwork... Nigella Lawson!); movies... (anything classic, girly, or lawyerish), or listening to music (Holly Brook and Tristan Prettyman are two my eternal favorites). Yea!

If we're talking products, I love Cindy Crawford's Meaningful Beauty. If you haven't tried it, do. It's a miracle. Also, you have to love the girls at Brickhouse Soap. (Again, link to the left.) Their handmade, organic soaps are so beautiful and yummy that people sometimes mistake them for food! I always keep a jar of the Lavender/Rosemary/Mint near the bath:






(I promise their soap doesn't match my wall color. But it does look like it here, doesn't it? Huh.)

Also, I love gardens. The sweetheart over at Farmgirl Fare (yep, link's to the left) is my daily inspiration. This former city girl grows anything that doesn't have parents. Truly! Following her advice, I'll be knee-deep in soil, compost, and seeds all day Saturday. Beginning in February, you can come by Freeman House anytime and pig out in the backyard garden. (And by the way, if you drop by now, you'll find ... er... um... dozens of pots everywhere. I'm rooting hydrangeas and climbing roses and some suprisingly healthy Lamb's Ear and Greek Oregano that have been on the property forever. I've also potted up pecans, which, after spending a few weeks in a deep, watery bucket, told me there's still something alive happening inside their shells. Therefore, they were planted.

Ah, yes. Favorite things. They are so comforting on a cold January day like this, aren't they? I could go on for hours. Oh... and speaking of favorite things, I have a pot of soup on my new (vintage) stove that's been bubbling for over an hour now. Guess I'll go slosh some in a bowl and settle into my favorite chair and pick up one of favorite pasttimes - knitting! quilting! - and call it a quiet Friday night. Good night, my favorite friends!

There is no need to go anywhere else to find peace.

You will find that deep place of silence

right in your room, your garden or even your bathtub.

- Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

Sleep in Peace

Have courage for the great sorrows of life

and patience for the small ones;

and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task,

go to sleep in peace. God is awake.

-Victor Hugo

Today was an unusually stressful day. Strange how those seemingly lie in wait to jump on us, huh? I own my own business, and as many small business owners will tell you, any upsets or changes can sometimes send shockwaves to several areas of your life, including your sleep, sanity, or (worse!) your bank account.

So sleep was hard to come by last night. Peaceful sleep was totally out of the question. I tossed and turned and worried and thought. Finally, I drifted off, only to awake at regular intervals to stare out the window and watch rustling pecan tree branches dance with the moon. It was still. It was quiet. I was worried.

I shouldn't have been. Why, you ask? No, it wasn't necessarily because my troubles were "small" sorrows that I had patience for. And it certainly wasn't because I am a "fixer" or a problem solver or a genius business woman. No, it doesn't have anything to do with me. Or the situation. I shouldn't have worried because even as I lie awake, thinking my little brain out, Someone else was awake. He was still. He was quiet. But He wasn't worried.

People sometimes ask why it's so important to be a Christian. Why it's worth my time or effort to seek out a relationship with a God that so many others do without. My answer is simple: because I can ultimately rest secure in the knowledge that regardless of my upsetting days or sleepless nights, my future... my life... is steadfast in the hands of a Heavenly Father who never sleeps or slumbers.

My God is awake.


I came home today and lit some candles and sat at the dining room table. As I sat there, staring at the flickering flames and flowers, I felt suddenly at peace, small sorrow and all. Something tells me I'll sleep peacefully tonight....

He who watches over you will not slumber;

indeed, He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

-Psalm 121

Freeman House Kitchen

In the childhood memories of every cook,

there's a large kitchen, a warm stove, a simmering pot and a mom.

-Barbara Costikyan

Okay, so it may have taken a year (or so), but Freeman House is finally starting to look like an actual, inhabitable home! While the kitchen is one of the last rooms to go in, (yes, I've gone crazy!), things and supplies are trickling in to get the kitchen underway. After weeks of scouring classified ads, used appliance stores and surplus warehouses, I finally found a stove that seemed to fit. I paid a little over $100 for it on eBay, and it works like nothing I've ever cooked on before. Love it!

Speaking of other things to love, I found a beautiful loaf of panettone bread (www.boudinbakery.com) and some fresh pears today and decided to whip up a bubbly batch of bread pudding. Yum! I'd share some with you, but our friendly neighborhood plumber - the man who gave me the organ - had a heart attack Sunday, so the bread pudding went, warm from the oven, to him. A few leftover pears did hang around, though. I guess I could share those, and the recipe:

Panettone Pear Bread Pudding

1 (4 lb.) loaf Panettone bread (or you could use 1 1/2 loaves French bread), cubed

4 eggs

3 cups milk (or half and half, cream... whatever you've got)

1 tsp. vanilla extract

1 tsp. cinnamon

1/2 tsp. nutmeg (optional... but it is a good way to use up all those holiday spices!)

1 pretty pear, finely sliced

1/2 stick butter

So okay. Grease a 8x8 (or whatever you have that's close) pan and fire the oven up to 450 F. Layer bread cubes and sliced pears in baking pan. In separate bowl, whisk together eggs, milk, vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Pour over bread and pears and press bread down until it gets fat and soggy with the egg mixture. Dot with butter. Place 8x8 pan in a 9x13 pan and put the whole thing in the oven. Now carefully pour hot tap water into the 9x13 pan until the water comes at least halfway up the bread and pudding mixture. (This creates a gentle water bath that bakes the delicate pudding at a steady, even temperature.)

Bake for 45-55 minutes at 450 F. You may want to check after 30 minutes or so to ensure your pudding isn't browning too quickly. If it is, cover with foil.

There you have it! Yummy, creamy winter goodness!

You know, everyone says the kitchen is the heart of the home, and truly, it is. But I'd even go so far as to say that kitchens can also be the heart of our mental homes. Odd, I think. What do you suppose it is that makes one room hold such a powerfully sweet space in our memories?

Anyway, it's good to be in the kitchen again - finished or not. Something about a clean stove and bubbling pots does recall bygone days and childhood memories of Mom... of feeling safe... of being loved. And if we aren't blessed to have those memories, there's nothing to stop us from creating them for another generation of watchful eyes and tiny hands, is there?

Every good and perfect gift [ovens! warm kitchens! sweet memories!] comes from above.

- James 1:17

Day Planner

Just because something doesn't do

What you planned it to do

Doesn't mean it's useless.

-Thomas Edison

I turned a corner this morning and smiled when I took in this sight. It was lovely. This picture of my day planner... well, this is my life. The fat, pink notebook holds bills and a photo slide of Italy and recipes and jotted-down ideas and reminders to call my attorney and take a pot of stew to Mary Darden. The wrench was tossed there last night to nag myself to fix my clothespin bag. (After all, I really needed to wash and hang all my towels out to dry now that the gray, gray days are gone. Whoopee!) And the fabric? Isn't it pretty? The fabric on the chair is some I'm quilting this winter. I finished ironing it and have been too busy (lazy?) to fold it up. Yep, this picture is my life.

Isn't it funny how we keep... or refuse to keep... day planners? How we sometimes feel like slaves to our planners and calendars? Sometimes it's overwhelming. Although mine is only one step up from a stone and a chisel, I like my paper spiral because it continually keeps me from embarrassing myself. I have a terrible memory. (Also, I don't have to plug my planner in at night. I'd probably forget anyway and end up with a dead day planner every day.)

While day planners are good scribble-calendars, they are also good diaries. I recently found a day planner from when I was in college and was delighted to read of people and places and things I'd forgotten. (Can you believe I actually had to write a final exam paper entitled Hell: Exothermic or Endothermic? Or that I had a huge crush on Mike Ozman? Or that I lived for 3 straight days on donut holes from Bosa's?) See? Day planners are like paper time capsules.

Yep, they're cool. But sometimes, though... sometimes we get too bogged down in keeping... and keeping up with... the daily grind. Some days it feels pointless, at least to me. After all, I plan and I plan and I plan, yet never had I had a day that was exactly as I expected it to be when I looked ahead to it in my day planner.

I'm not making much sense today, am I? Point is, I guess, that I love my fat pink notebook, and while it's good to plan, life is volatile. Uncooperative. It defiantly sneers at our plans and interrupts our routines. People are here one day and gone the next. (God rest the dear Treva Wallace!) Problems that seem so insurmountable today will simply be ink on a page someday. And life - even if it isn't what we plan - is still good.

I love the quote from Edison. I adore thinking about how some things he made for one purpose failed in the intended respect, yet turned out to be a solution for something entirely unexpected. Kinda like my favorite Bible verse for today - Proverbs 19:21. It goes something like: Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails.

Yep, my day planner is full. I'm all planned up, wrench and all. And yet... and yet... I'm good with the unexpected. The deviations. I'm good with the come-what-may. I'm good with Edison's theory on uselessness. After all, if it's the Lord's purpose that will ultimately prevail, how can any plan (or any life!)- fulfilled or likewise - be anything aside from lovely?

Gray, Gray Day

Gray skies are just clouds passing over.
-Duke Ellington

I can't recall a day that's been this gray. Even this tree on the way to Freeman House seemed beautifully dreary. If the new grass - which the weather has cruelly tricked into thinking it's spring - weren't green, I daresay we'd mistakenly miss the ground and step on the sky. What a gray, gray day.

If you ask me, I think people need more comforting in January than any other time. The holidays are over. A new year brings both expectations and let-downs. We can feel burdened, somehow - burdened by bills and certain people and obligations. Burdened by the pressure others put on us and the pressure we apply to ourselves. Besides, everything externally feels so cold and raw in January. What a gray, gray time.

Or maybe it's just me. If so, I guess I feel complicated and ridiculous right now. If not, welcome to my gray day! Why not revel in it with me? Let's lose ourselves in flannel sheets and dreamy music and warm cookies from the oven. And let's pull out fluffy pillows and hot tea and letters from friends and the movie Sense and Sensibility.

Sure, it's a dreary, gray, gray day. But it's wonderful in its own right, isn't it? After all, would we appreciate the brilliant sunny days as much if God didn't occasionally show His gray? Would we feel as justified in making stew and being home-bound if these days didn't exist? I wouldn't.

So perhaps I should thank God, even for this gray, gray day. Comfort can be found - even on a January day like this. After all, the only difference between this gray, gray day and a brighter one is just the clouds passing over....

In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.

-I Thessalonians 5:18

Hide or Seek

Happy New Year!

So after a jolly Monday, I settled in New Year's night to write my resolutions. I thought I'd write 7 resolutions since it's 2007. Ten resolutions seemed too many, but 5 seemed too few. Anyway, I sat. And sat. Well, okay... obviously eating fewer carbs would go on there somewhere. I wrote it down. Oh! Also this year, I must be Super Adventure Girl. (I should be riding camels and swinging off ropes into murky ponds -see right - and backpacking through Europe. Duh!) Hmm... how to phrase that? I sat some more. Finally I gave up.

Did you write any resolutions this year??

Anyway, I did end up jotting down 7 resolutions - and framing them - before drifting off to Neverland. And as I looked down my list, I caught a theme. Geez, it was so obvious! I suddenly had a theme for my new year. It is...

...well. Wait. Remember hide and seek?

Remember that game we played ages and ages ago? You know, when we still had the time and energy to play? You would hide while I would count before yelling "READY OR NOT! HERE I COME!!!" (And admit it. If you were the seeker, you peeked, didn't you?) Ah, yes. Hide and seek. Remember it?

Yep, as I was reading my resolutions, the following realization reached up from the page and slapped me alongside the jaw: This year, I'll be a seeker.

I feel like I've wasted the majority of my 20s. What is it about this decade that is so difficult and unsettling? I mean, sure, I got an education. And a job. I even landed a lucrative career after trying my dream one on for size for 5 years. Still, though... still... it feels useless, somehow. Like I have little to show for it. So this year, I want that to change. But... how?

Silly resolutions. I started digging around. Since I have yet to come across a book that delivers a total turn-around how-to, I thought of other people I knew who'd gracefully made something of themselves. Hmm, I thought, thinking of one girl in particular. Maybe I should try it her way. But my circumstances are so different than hers. That wouldn't do.

After tossing aside several blah-blah books about being wonderful, out came the Bible. I thought I would start in Genesis, "in the beginning", what with the new year and all. And what do you know... I stumbled across the story of Rebekah. She was going through some hard times and needed a little help. So what did she do? She said, "If it is so, why then am I this way?" And she went to inquire of the Lord. (Genesis 25:22)

Omgosh. It was so simple. If she could seek out God, why couldn't I? If it was enough to see Rebekah through her life, why wouldn't it be enough for me?

So I decided right then. I decided that there are basically two kinds of Christians. There are the hiders, and there are the seekers. I've spent most of my 20s being a hider... ducking around and concealing myself... my convictions... my position, praying one moment that God will notice me and hoping the next that He won't. Depended on the day. No wonder I've felt so lost in a foolish game. Everyone knows it's the seekers who win! Not the hiders. It's the seekers who find what they're after.

Besides, new year's resolutions or not, my 20s... this game we call "life"... will someday come to an end. And ready or not, here He'll come.

Ah, yes. Silly old new year's resolutions. Although I now have 7, including eating fewer carbs and being Super Adventure Girl, there's one that trumps them all: seek God. Seek, seek, seek. And at the end of 2007 - at the end of it all - what could be more worthwhile?

Ask, and it shall be given you; SEEK, AND YE SHALL FIND; Knock, and it shall be opened unto you. -Matthew 7:7

Thoughts on New Year

If winter comes,
can spring be far behind?
-Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ah... winter. She's settled in at Freeman House, making my house creak and my nose and toes impossibly cold. I have the thermostats set on 61, and my new-ish heat pumps are working overtime to keep the indoor temperature there. I layer. Heavily. Even Mae is buried under covers to keep warm....

Did you have a wonderful Christmas? Hope so. Mine was peaceful and ... merry. It truly was merry. Friends so dear... family gathered near... all that. It was very Dickens-like. I'm thankful for a peaceful and uneventful holiday. (Those can be answers to prayers too, you know.)

But I'm relieved it's over. Christmas is already packed and stored away, replaced by new year's hats and confetti. Given the circumstances of my life this past year, I'm eagerly waiting for that midnight ball to drop. I've purchased bags and bags of multicolored confetti and noisemakers. What is it about a numbered square on a calendar that makes me feel as though I can start anew?

Someone stopped by Freeman House yesterday to ask if I had any new year's plans. I replied with a hearty "yes!". I've been hoarding movies, magazines, two new Amazon books, and a half gallon of Blue Bell. I plan to spend the entire day in my pink snowman pajamas watching Ingrid Bergman, tearing apart my spring seed catalogue and a biography of Jane Addams, and getting sick on Chocolate Brownieaholic... or some related flavor. (That way I have additional tonnage to low-carb off starting January 2nd. Happy sigh.)

Seriously, though. I'm thrilled to see 2006 go. It was a growing year, as growing years go. Good riddance! Now all we have left to do is bundle up, pray, and send this little winter on its way...

And you know what they say about winter, right? If it comes, can spring really be all that far behind?

Happy New Year! -b

Happy Merry Christmas!

Ah, the eve of Christmas Eve! The bustling has gradually slowed to a rhymic shuffle around Freeman House, and I'm pleased to report that all is ready for the holiday. Wish you could be here!

Today is actually a very relaxing day, in spite of the piles of sheetrock, scaffolding, and tools that have to be maneuvered around in the front half of the house. (In addition to the huge entryway tree... see right.) Men have been working on the ol' place all week, and the hallway and sitting room off my bedroom are nearly done! Yea! Anyway, this morning I brewed hot tea, took a long, leisurely bath in the clawfoot tub, and washed sheets and towels. Oh! Reminds me... they're still fluttering on the line underneath the magnolia tree! Better grab them before it gets too dark....

...Okay. Back. So, anyway, I opened and read all my Christmas cards on my outdoor patio while the Methodist church bells downtown played Christmas carols. Friends and their beautiful children all seem to be doing well. It's funny how Christmas cards - unlike anything else, it seems - record the evolution of a life... a family. One year my college friends are sending quick, stylish, girlie cards. Six years later, the cards are simple Kodak picture cards with grinning toddlers on the front, and there are typed newsletters enclosed, too. Times change, and I'm glad.

A last minute shopping run this afternoon produced some hand-quilted stockings, a stash of classic DVDs and an old, shabby chic flour tin. Score! I rushed home to stuff, wrap and distribute to the neighbors up and down the street. My walk, accompanied by Cornbread and Okra, my neighbor's dogs, took just over an hour. In and out. Fun.

Again, too bad you're not here. Tonight is homemade dinner followed by hot chocolate and carols at the organ. I love having friends and family around! Then the plan is to watch old holiday movies until bedtime. Yea! I hope the sheetrock allows for people to make it through the house without breaking their necks... or knocking over the tree.

Speaking of the tree, I was walking by it yesterday and noticed that an ornament was moving. Oh... wait... that's no ornament. There was a real, live BIRD sitting on my Christmas tree! I screamed and screamed. The bird flew into the library and the cat shot into the dining room. I slammed both doors to the library shut, but not before retrieving Maebelline (the cat) and putting her in there with the bird. After several minutes, I expected to open the door to find Maebelline standing over a still, silent bird. Ha! I cracked the door open just enough to poke my head in to see Mae lounging on the floor and the bird perched on the scaffolding. Shoot.

I finally realized that perhaps I could open one of the ancient library windows from the outside, (I could), so I pulled Mae out of the window as if the house was on fire, and ran screeching into the yard. The bird soon followed. Whew. Close call. I almost had an Alfred Hitchcock Christmas.

(By the way, one of my presents from the neighbors today was a wine cork/sealer kit. No wonder. I'm sure with all the weird-looking things I do -pulling my cat out of a library window and run screaming into the yard- the neighbors must think I drink. A lot. )

Ooooooh boy. Anyway, all is well here, and I say all this to say that our holidays -whether break-your-neck hectic, or lovely, leisurely, and peaceful - are too often taken for granted. We are blessed - truly blessed - beyond measure, whether we recognize it or not. Praise God for His goodness and His ultimate Gift! During this blessed, long Christmas weekend, I wish you all a special time full of peace, love, safe travels, sweet dreams, and much, much happiness and joy!

Happy, Merry Christmas! -Brin

Identity Story #1

So, okay. I know I should be writing Christmas blogs. I realize this is - oddly - timed. But the other day I saw a preview for this new show airing on NBC entitled Identity. I was strangely captivated....

I was so taken, in fact, that I had a dream last night about this woman. It played out in my dream like a sort of identity game... like I was supposed to guess who she was. Really weird, huh? I wish I could have recorded my dream so you see it, too. It was incredible, as dreams go.

So here's the deal. I'm writing identity blogs, apparently. And I'll bet you'll guess who these people are before I did.

Happy reading! - Brin


IDENTITY #1

Who am I? That's difficult to say. Perhaps I should start at the beginning. But where, exactly, does a beginning begin? My birth was not the commencement of my life. Not the life I now know. I suppose that for me – for my story – it begins here:

Same place. Different day.

Do I come here often? Yeah. I do. I come here every day for a drink. Not to sound melodramatic, but it’s called for – coming here and all. My life isn’t terrible, yet it isn’t especially remarkable. It’s life, or what I’ve made of it, anyway. So I’m here again. Same place. Different day.

I wait my turn. It’s not so busy today. I wish it were. There’s anonymity in numbers, and I find relief in the swallowing effect of a crowd. The regulars here can be shamelessly nosey, and I tire of their knowing glances – their tacky, judgmental stares. As if they are living perfect lives. I don’t think people grant allowances for the fact that life smiles on some, ignores most, and preys on a few.

And I’m among the few. Undoubtedly so. I’ve lived my share of failed marriages and messy relationships. Life doesn’t care. My heart seems to be in the right place, but ultimately, that never matters, does it? Men have their way and then go about them. Take this guy I’m living with now. He’s assuring but unsure. Solid but uncommittal. Present but neglectful. And me? I’m lonely. I’m lonely but I stay. Wouldn’t dare leave. Everyone knows how hard it is for a woman – even in this day and age - to make a good life for herself. No, I’m lonely, not stupid. I’ll stay.

Ah, my turn. Finally. It isn’t until I step up to retrieve my drink that I notice him. That man. Over there. See him? He’s not familiar. In fact, it occurs to me that he’s not from around here. He’s one of those type men who wouldn’t dare show himself at a place like this, you know? Wonder what he’s doing… hanging around.

I don’t wonder long. He approaches me slowly. Calmly. “Will you get me a drink?” he asks.

Oh, please. Figures. I don’t even look up. Not today. “From all appearances, you’re not from around here,” I say sarcastically. I can’t believe he’s hitting me up for a drink. Me, of all people.

He begins to talk… something about how I should know who he is and how I should be the one asking for a drink. Wow. Men. I reply as politely as I can and turn to leave.

Over my shoulder, I hear his voice. Apparently this man is determined to have a conversation. I refuse to look at him as he gestures toward my drink and persists with his barely coherent nonsense. Now he’s talking about how, if I asked him for a drink, he could give me something… some magical, living stuff, I suppose… that could take care of my thirst and make me live forever. Yeah. Hmm. If he's looking for money he picked the wrong girl. I close my eyes and wish there was somewhere else – anywhere else - to grab a drink in this town. I think I feel a headache coming on.

I hear myself say, “Okay, sir. Give me what you’ve got. Give me this… stuff… so I won’t have to keep coming here.”

The man doesn’t flinch. I feel him looking at me. I stare at my hands. “Go,” he says. “Get your husband and come back.”

Oh? Oh, really? Is this a joke? My cheeks burn. Someone around here got this stranger to pull one over on me. I’m done. I’m more embarrassed than angry when I shoot back, “I have no husband.”

“You’re right,” he says. “You have no husband. In fact, you’ve had five husbands, and the man you’re with now is not even your husband. You’re right.”

Time stops. His words hang in the air for what feels like an eternity. I feel myself exhale, and realize I must have been holding my breath. His words… this man’s words… it wasn’t what he said, but how he said it. It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t condemning. It was just… he just said it so… knowingly. So easily.

“Look,” I say slowly, evenly, still refusing to look his way. “It’s obvious you’re some kind of … prophet, or something….” My insides are screaming. How did he know? How could he? I'd gone to great lengths to ensure no one around here knew I was on future husband number six....

If he can read my thoughts, he doesn’t let on. If he’s a prophet, he doesn’t say. Instead, he tells me the things I know – the ways people around here do things - will change. I stand up straighter when he mentions God. I listen as he says that someday people will worship God in “spirit and truth”.

Oh. Okay. I get it now. For the first time, I turn to make eye contact. “Hey, I've heard this. I know that when this Messiah comes He will explain everything….”. I stop suddenly as our eyes lock.

“I am He,” He says.

I can’t look away. That look. Those eyes. Even as His words reach me, I know. It’s Him. He’s the One. The One for me. That look in His eyes… it’s as if He’s known me all along and loved me forever….

A tingle plays on the back of my neck before rushing to my toes. I can’t look away. I choke on a sob. This Man before me is no man. No man at all. Tears drip from my chin to the dirt between us as I realize I’m face to face with the Lover of my soul. And I want to tell Him. I want to tell Him that I’ve looked so hard… so long… for Him. I open my mouth to speak but have forgotten words. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Those eyes. He knows. He knows, and yet He found me. He found me here. The Christ… the Messiah… He found me....

Same place, very different day.

It wasn’t until that night that I realized I left my water jar behind. It wasn’t until the next week, as I continued retelling my story, that I began to shake – physically shake - at the remembrance of His promises. And it likely won’t be until eternity – if even then - that I’ll grasp the magnitude of the power and majesty of the Man I encountered that day.

I still come here. Every day. Some mornings I run, hoping He’ll be here, asking for a drink. Sometimes I wait here, hoping He’ll show up with that same knowing look in His eyes. Until then, you can find me here, telling my story.

And really, now that I tell you all this, I guess it’s not all that difficult to pinpoint where my beginning began. My birth was not the commencement of my life. My story begins with that day at the well. The day I met the One who told me everything I ever did. The day I met Jesus.

Who am I? My name’s not that important. But the day I met Jesus is. I suppose that’s why I’m the woman generations of Christians will simply come to know as “the woman at the well”.

Read my story in John 4.

The List

See, I have this list. It's entitled: Ten People To Meet Before I Croak. Maybe you have one, too, (albeit with a different title). These ten individuals are people I must meet before I die. Anything less is unacceptable.

It's strange, I think, how universal our fascination is with other people. Crushes, celebrities, authors, athletes... people can be absolutely engaging. Inspiring. Cute.

Enter #8 on my list: Rachael Ray.

I awoke yesterday with the dreadful realization that Wednesday was a Dallas doctor day. I had a colposcopy and an ECC scheduled for the afternoon. Yuck. I bribed myself to get out of bed with the promise of a patio lunch with my aunt at Terilli's. It worked. Before I knew it, the aunt and I were headed to Dallas.

Once in Big D, we ate and then hurried to Central Market, where we met a tweed-covered butter salesman from New Zealand. While I stocked up on jelly beans and knobs of ginger, my aunt bought some of his butter, although I'm pretty sure the purchase had far more to do with the salesman's accent than the quality of his grass-fed cow butter. No matter.

Upon leaving, my aunt hangs up her cell phone and announces we should check out my Aunt Lu's reported Rachael Ray book signing. It was later in the evening. I could barely breathe. "You know," I said as casually as I could, "Rachael Ray is one of my Ten People To Meet Before I Croak." My aunt wasn't surprised. I'm weird like that.

Time for the doctor. Suffice to say, it involved what looked like a terrorist/death row holding cell, complete with assorted sterilized torture devices. And when I saw what looked like one-foot long cuticle scissors, I squished my eyes together and prayed, "Please Lord. Please let me live. Please let me live long enough to meet Rachael Ray tonight." As the torture began, my mind became a sound stage for repeating the name "Rachael Ray" over and over. It must have been a reaction to the pain. Finally, I hobbled out a thoroughly examined woman, having conquered the worst of an Endocervical Curettage (ECC), and doubly determined to meet Rachael Ray.

An hour later, a book signing revealed a line of hundreds of culinary-genius fans, and walking past their chatter sounded like a multi-national replay of my mental exam room mantra. "Rachael Ray!" people yelled. "Rach!"

But not me. Or my aunt. We didn't have tickets. Apparently 300 golden tickets were distributed prior to the event, and we didn't have one. This would be harder than I thought.

Inside the book store, I "lucked" upon a misplaced Rachael Ray cookbook, and hurriedly bought it. Bypassing the hundreds waiting for signed copies, I walked up to the rope to behold #8 on my list, and was shocked at how cute and personable she was. I shamelessly took a picture - right as she lunged for her coffee cup. Guess that would be as close to Rachael Ray as I'd get.

Or would it?

Our picture place near the rope "happened" us upon none other than Kirk, Rachael Ray's driver. And although he was no butter salesman, my aunt struck up a conversation. After asking the poor guy as many questions as we could about Rachael, the driver had pity on us (I guess), and suddenly we were in line as the next group to meet Rachael Ray. So, we did. A fellow crazed fan snapped my picture with Rachael, with promises to email them. So far, no luck.

But I met Rachael! I shook her hand. I even told her that she was on my list. (I didn't mention that she was #8, though.) "Rock on," Rachael said. "Awesome. You can knock me off the list now!" Indeed I could....

After staring at her illegible signature with a smiley-face "YUM-O!" scrawled in my new cookbook, I began thinking of all the cool things I could have said to her. Or asked her. I could have asked her how to store ginger. Or if she ever uses New Zealand butter. Or how she can have published 140 burger recipes and still be smaller than a sixth grader. Or...

... but I didn't. I mutated into a star-stricken dork with nothing better to offer Rachael than the fact that she was on my list. Gosh. Idiot.

It's funny... the people we admire. It's curious, the things we find enamoring in people. It's sad, the priority we place glimpsing/meeting/impressing ... people. I hope I can apply that same enthusiasm to someday meeting - face to face - my Creator. Rachael Ray's Creator.

I can't wait. Truly, I can't! Until that day, I've decided that I'll try to think now of cool questions to ask Him. Like... what Jesus did between the ages of 12 and 33. And where the Ark of the Covenant was all this time. Heaven forbid - literally - that I, along with hundreds and hundreds of God fans, get my chance to shake His hand someday and the best I can come up with is:

"I love you. You're on my list."

My 10-Year-Old Self

If you spent the day with your 10-year old self, what would she (he) think of you?

That question, posed to me so innocently awhile back, hit me in the stomach. My 27-year old self paused. Hmmmm. What would I think of me? How would my 10-year old self perceive the grown-up me? Would I think I was kind? Rude? Fun? Stuffy? Smart? Idiotic?

Would I like myself?

I woke up thinking about it again today. Surely, I think, she would like my closet. I noted with satisfaction my gigantic mountain of Container Store boxes, all filled with beautiful shoes, and thought that she would be enamored with my shoe collection. Cool.

In the living room, I noted my DVD stash. Certainly there was plenty there to keep my 10-year old self spellbound. Beauty and the Beast... Charlie Brown... Little Women... Polar Express... Clue... Uptown Girls. Movies? Check!

Oh... and books. I have dozens of fun and educational children books... many from when I was ten. I know she'd love those.

In the kitchen, maybe my 10-year old self would help me make cookies. Big, beautiful snowflake cookies with sparkly sugar tops. Of course, no cookie would be complete without a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. So... okay. My 10-year old self would be thrilled with the kitchen.

But all that... it's just stuff. Just things I own. It's not really me. And the question was would she like me, not my accumulation of junk.

Huh. Okay.

I was still thinking about it when I pulled into the overcrowded, chaotic mega-mart to grab some Christmas things. Inside, I passed a swarm of kids with dried snaught on their faces. A few of us made eye contact and I wondered: Do I looked perturbed? Do I look tired? Can children tell the difference? A little girl glanced up at me. I smiled. She, after all, might have been friends with my 10-year old self.

Rounding the milk/yogurt/sour cream/juice, etc. aisle, I nearly crashed into the back of my own basket. There, in front of me, atop a throne of bright red Coca-Cola, was Santa Claus. His beard was crooked and he was impossibly young, but his cheeks were rosy and his boots were shiny, so he was Santa alright. I hesitated, then began to wheel briskly by him.

"HO, HO, HO, Merry Christmas," Santa bellowed as I walked by. I stopped.

"Merry Christmas, Santa," I said, looking Santa square in the beard.

"And what would you like for Christmas this year?" Santa asked.

"ME?" I questioned, looking around. Surely impossibly young Santa wasn't talking to me.

But he was.

I almost snickered and wheeled away. Or I could have given him a don't-you-dare-hit-on-me-Santa look, and then wheeled away. But I didn't. Instead I left my cart by the yogurt and walked up to his Coca-Cola throne.

"What do I want for Christmas?" I asked.

Santa nodded.

I almost said I wanted a wireless internet router. Or a garden cart. Or a dishwasher.

But I didn't. Instead, I heard myself whisper:

"I want to be the kind of woman my 10-year old self would be proud of."

That's the real trouble with the world,

Too many people grow up.

They forget.

They don't remember what it's like

To be ten years old.

-Walt Disney

Stable Background

I love Christmas. I love everything about Christmas. So tonight, not being able to stand any more outdated Thanksgiving cheer, I turned on some seasonal music and hauled down my Christmas boxes. I was giddy. Especially when I open the nativity box.

Last year, my Grandmother - the same one who bestowed upon me the now infamous toothpick holder - culled her Christmas collection. I was excited to get one of her nativity sets. The one I've displayed for a thousand Christmases is one I bargained for years ago in a market in Mexico. It's carved from soapstone, and baby Jesus is missing half His face. (Maebelline, my cat, abducted baby Jesus and His manger back in 2004. I freaked out for a week before finding Him under the bed. That night, I told Maebelline she'd better repent of swiping and biting Jesus or she'd have a lot to answer for. Let's hope she did.)

That aside, suffice to say that I was due a new nativity scene. Sentimental or not, you just can't display a gnawed-on baby Jesus.

So the new one went up tonight. I carefully arranged the figures atop a piece of furniture Mae never jumps on, and retired to the living room where I began watching television. Within moments, I was yawning to a show that mentioned a set of twins: one successful, one trouble. The psychologist and the host argued the whole nature versus nurture issue, and I switched the channel. Predictable stuff. I thought they'd proved long ago that we, as humans, are a product of both nature and nurture...

I walked back into the entryway and looked at my nativity. Sure was pretty. And as I stared at baby Jesus, I realized: forget nature. Forget nurture. It's all about a stable background.

Hear me out. I believe the Bible is clear that we are all born with a sin nature. "All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God," Romans says. Even perfectionists are a joke. We're all sinners. Me. (Especially me.) You. We all mess up. I guess that's why we all had such a fundamental, all-encompassing need for... baby Jesus. Talk about a nurturer. Sure, children with affectionate, doting parents statistically tend to grow up to be more loving, responsible adults than their ignored, neglected counterparts. But all of us, regardless of upbringing, need a Savior. A "Comforter". An ultimate nurturer...

A stable background.

I'm not sure where you started out, but it's kind of irrelevant, don't you think? I mean, all of us... you, me, everyone... has the same chance - the same access - to the Child born in that manger so many Christmases ago. We may not have had stable, nurturing backgrounds, so He offered His. God became man - was born in a stable - just so we could come to know the nurturing love He offers. I could bore you all day with my past, but the truth is, nothing really matters save the day when, as a child, I accepted Jesus as my Savior; the day I realized His stable background could become my stable future.

Yep, that nativity means a lot to me. It's the embodiment of a level playing field. It's the hope of emotionally banged-up, bruised, and hurting grown-up children everywhere. And the neat thing this Christmas? A stable background... well, it's yours for the taking, too.

Just ask that Child in the manger.

The Toothpicks and The Nutcracker

It's odd what people remember about you when you're gone. Take, for example, what we remember about Laura Ellen Pearson Caviness and the great Peter Tchaikovsky...

My Thanksgiving week was weird and wonderful. The week started with a grand performance of E.T.A. Hoffmann's The Nutcracker as set to music by Tchaikovsky. My aunt and I bundled up and drove to the Strand in Shreveport, Louisiana, to catch the night performance. It was spellbinding, and I didn't take a single breath during the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies. (If you ever get a chance to see the Moscow Ballet, go. Even if they're doing a ballet rendition of Hee-Haw. Go. Those Russians know how to dance.)

I got home from the performance and went to bed. Then I got up. I'd read The Nutcracker years before, but I was suddenly curious about the author. What was his story? How did he meet up with Tchaikovsky? The dork in me had to know.

So I found out. Turns out E.T.A. Hoffmann was a civil servant turned composer/musician who nearly starved to death before publishing The Nutcracker and the King of Mice in 1816. His version was much darker than we know it today. It was so twisted, in fact, that Tchaikovsky refused to compose for the piece until a French writer edited the story and added a Sugar Plum Fairy. (I should add, too, that Tchaikovsky was bribed with the promise of the production of his opera Iolanthe should he complete the ballet.)

Anyway, Tchaikovsky finished the music for The Nutcracker in 1892. He hated it. It was "all ugliness," he wrote. The public at the time agreed. His opera was deemed a success, but the newspapers poked fun of his ballet.

Odd how 100 years later that's all the average person remembers of Tchaikovsky. Bet he never would've guessed it.

Just like my own Great-Great-Grandmother probably never would have guessed that in 2006 she would be remembered for her toothpicks. My family made a quick trip to Paris to clean out my Great-Grandmother's home, and my Grandmother returned with a "surprise" for me. From behind her back she produced a tiny, cut-glass toothpick holder. "This used to sit on the dining room table in Paris when I was a little girl," she said softly. "Your Great-Great-Grandmother, Laura Ellen Pearson Caviness, kept it stuffed with toothpicks," she added.

I took the toothpick holder over to my Grandmother's picture of Laura Ellen Pearson Caviness, trying to put a face with a toothpick holder. Laura Caviness reminded me of Laura Ingalls Wilder. Weird. I could just see my Laura running through the prairie with a handful of toothpicks.

On my way out the door this morning, I reminded myself to grab some toothpicks. You know, to stuff my new toothpick holder. It can't just sit on my dining room table all empty-looking.

I'd hate to be remembered in 2206 as the girl who bored people with the history of The Nutcracker yet couldn't remember to fill her own toothpick holder....

Bridge to Thanksgiving

I will give You thanks with all my heart; I will sing praises to You.... and give thanks to Your name for Your lovingkindness and Your truth.
-Psalm 138:1-2

Thanksgiving. It's all we hear this week. Be thankful. Give thanks. And we will, too. I mean, someone will say the blessing before we eat....

Ummm... We are missing Thanksgiving.

I was sitting in church Sunday listening to the Thanksgiving message. Our pastor has just returned from doing some work in Kenya, and he related a story of the indigenous people killing two goats (a feast, indeed) and offering our pastor the head. To eat. I inwardly gagged as he described the ceremony in which these folks devoured whole goats. No thanks. My idea of a feast is cheeseburger with a side of cheeseburger. But I'll settle for turkey and dressing tomorrow. You know, if I must.

Anyway, our preacher went on to say that during their time away, a fellow pastor was asked if he was rich. No, the pastor said, laughing, Not hardly.

Do you have a house? the same man asked.

Yes, yes, I have a house, the preacher replied.

How many rooms? continued the man.

Three bedrooms, a garage... the preacher answered.

You have a car? the man asked, incredulously.

Yes, my wife and I both have one.

What about children?

Two, replied the preacher. One's in college and one's still at home.

You all healthy? Not sick?

No, no, everyone's fine, the preacher said kindly.

Sir, you are RICH, the man said, awestruck.

It hit home. I would say the same if someone were to ask me if I'm rich: ha, not hardly. But... I have a huge house - all to myself. I have high-speed internet and a nice vehicle and great clothes and comfortable furniture. My family is healthy and safe. Suddenly my plans for a flat panel TV and spa bathroom seem as shallow as those goat fire-pits in Kenya.

We are rich beyond measure. Why in the world are we not thankful? Going through the motion of this week, it seems like I'm on one side of the water, and a spirit of true Thanksgiving is on the other. I need a bridge. A bridge to Thanksgiving.

I complain too often. My house is cold, I grumble. So I go out and buy insulation. (Sure, I don't read the directions and end up with black, sticky fingers for a week, but still. Insulation is in.) And I moan, I need money. For what? (I caught The Nutcracker at the Strand this week. I have plenty of food in the fridge. No one should pity me. I'm not needy. At all.)

Point is, I'm blessed. My salvation is secure and until then, my needs will be covered. So why in the world does my voice join in with the chorus of complaining crap that daily reaches God's ears?

I consulted my Bible. It seems to say that the answer to Thanksgiving... to being in the true spirit of Thanksgiving... is to meaningfully say those words that were drilled (beaten) into us as kids: thank you.

Thank you, God, for Your provision. Your salvation. Your lovingkindness (that's a cool word), and Your truth. You are faithful, and I am grateful.

There. Even as I type it, I feel all Thanksgivingy inside. I could be a pilgrim. The more thanks I proclaim, the more thankful I become.

Pass the turkey. We've relocated the bridge to Thanksgiving.

Doors of Thanksgiving

They didn't have a door to welcome them home. Not even a door.

So I'm reading this book about the years leading up to the first Thanksgiving. (You know, the first "official" one... in 1621.) I was reading of how these people... these normal, every day folks... walked aboard a boat and set sail with the collective dream of living and worshiping their God in freedom and truth. I've read it all before. We all have. It's the Thanksgiving story.

But I'm reading along, considering the Pilgrims' horrible voyage, and a black and white picture dances into my mind. It's odd. I suppose I've always had this mental picture of dirty, poorly-clothed Pilgrims sliding around inside a dirty, leaky Mayflower, hudling together and singing hymns. (You can almost see them there, eating bug-infested food and wishing for a bath and fighting back tears as they prepared to toss yet another of their dead overboard.) But then... but then... they landed at Plymouth. Finally! Home.

Only... it really wasn't. Their home was across the ocean. The picture I viewed in my mind was like a crackly, black and white reel that watched as these men and women silently clamored out of their leaky ship in time to see nothing but water behind them and dead overgrowth before them. I've been to Plymouth Rock. That shore is desolate. I mean, the Pilgrims were home, but... not. There was no front door to walk through. No floor to crash on. No leftover stuffing to look forward to.

I can't imagine. No front doors. No homes. Where were they to sleep? According to history, William Bradford wrote that on November 11, 1620, when the Pilgrims finally dropped anchor at Plymouth, he "stood half amazed at this poor people's present condition,... Being thus past the vast ocean, and a sea of troubles.... they had now no friends to welcome them nor inns to entertain or refresh their weather-beaten bodies. What could now sustain them but the Spirit of God and His grace?"

Indeed, what could?

This week, we'll all be thinking of what we're grateful for. So I'll tell you: I'm grateful for the doors in my life. The door (pictured above) that leads into the kitchen at Freeman House. The door at my folks' house. The door at my job and grocery store. The door of my church. And maybe, too, the door God opened to allow these normal, every day men and women to seek a door-less greeting on those desolate Plymouth shores.

By the way, I should add that William Bradford went on to write about the Pilgrim's landing that cold November day. He said that after they tumbled off the Mayflower - with not a single door in sight - "...they fell upon their knees and blessed the God of heaven who had brought them over the vast and furious ocean, and delivered them from all the perils and miseries thereof, again to set their feet on the firm and stable earth."

I pray for blessings on the doors in your life. Happy Thanksgiving! B

The Dress

I don't care what it looked like, what size it was, or where you got it. It doesn't matter if it cost you the world or cost you nothing. I don't think a girl EVER forgets her wedding dress.

My wedding dress memories will always be bittersweet. But no matter. I loved my dress. I've kept it for awhile, wondering how to store it... where to keep it... which closet to smush it in. It's a hard thing to let go of... you want to keep it, yet keep it out of the way. But finally - this week - I gave up. I decided to let it go.

What to do with a wedding dress that holds so many memories? I moved it around Freeman House as I thought it over. Of course, I could always consign it. It didn't have to be altered, so it's very likely someone else could wear it on her big day. But, then again, it seemed disrespectful to sell it somehow. I always hoped I could pass my dress down to my daughter... or maybe granddaughter, if it came to that. (My own Grandmother used parts of her wedding dress to make angel dolls for her granddaughters. I keep mine in my top dresser drawer, and see it each morning when I dress.) But in my situation, there will be no daughters. No granddaughters. No, there's no reason to keep it. I must let it go.

So I wrapped it as beautifully as I could and boxed it up. Then I started making some calls. I discovered that Brides Against Breast Cancer has a donation program that privately sells wedding dresses to benefit brides fighting, or recovering from, breast cancer. That did it. After doing some checking, I addressed my special box to Portland and walked to the Post Office.

I was brave. I didn't cry (or even whimper) as the postal employee checked off the usual questions: "Priority mail? Signature confirmation? Insurance?" No, no, no. Please hurry before I collapse over the velvet waiting rope and cry on your floor. And please see that my beautiful dress gets to someone who can use it to win her fight with cancer....

On the Post Office sidewalk, I lost it.

Bittersweet. My wedding dress memories will always be bittersweet. But thinking of another woman conquering... triumphing... living... makes the dress seem sweeter still.

If you have a dress, veil, or any wedding apparel you'd like to donate, check out the Brides Against Breast Cancer program at: www.makingmemories.org.

Banners

I was thinking today about banners.

Strange thing to think about, I know. It's just that I drive past this quaint country church every morning and am puzzled by the building's lack of identification, save this sign: His banner over me is love. That's all it says. No "First Political Baptist". Or "First Un-United Methodist". Or "We-Hate-Instruments Church of Christ". Nothing. Nothing except, His banner over me is love.

What a curious thing to spell out on the front of a church, I always think.

But this morning, I didn't have time to dwell. I was speeding off to work, listening to election coverage/results. Yawn. Sounded to me like everyone hates everyone else, and took turns today criticizing and labeling everyone else. I even heard some donkey (democrat) on NPR say he would march through the street with a banner declaring the "culture of corruption" was over.

Banner. There was that word again. It was bugging me.

I looked it up. Banners, that is. I found that the earliest mention of banners occurred in the Old Testament, where Exodus 17:15 refers to them as a rallying point in a battle. Then I read that the Japanese used them in the 15th and 16th centuries. They were apparently big in the Crusades, too, and even made an appearance in our own Civil War. I guess in battle a banner is a clear indication of whose side you're on. Of what you stand for. In the midst of battle, or in the dead of night, a banner is a visual reminder of what you're willing to do for the cause for which you stand.

Huh. Song of Solomon 2:4 says, His banner over me is love. Take Song of Solomon as an allegory for the love God has for us - His children - and what you get is a visual picture of God marching with a banner that simply says...

...Love.

I nearly cried at the thought that if God were to organize a parade and invite us to march alongside Him, the only thing that blowing banner above our heads would read is: love. That if God were to organize a modern day rally, the only sign He'd be holding would say: love. That if a reporter were to ask God to spell out His platform... His agenda... He'd smile into the camera and pat His campaign button, which would simply read: love.

And when that same reporter asked about His record in office, He'd point to the cross...

Love.

I'm going through a really difficult time. My marriage is ending, and the remains are not pretty. The marriage wasn't either. It has been, and will likely continue to be, a hard-fought battle.

I suppose that's why the message on this little church sign followed me around all day. It's a visual reminder of what God paints on His banners. Of what God is willing to do for you... for me.

His banner over me is love.

My cloud of battle-dust may dim,
His veil of splendor curtain Him;
And in the midnight of my fear
I may not feel Him standing near:
But, as I lift mine eyes above,
His banner over me is love.
Gerald Massey, 1863

Halloween

It was a dark and stormy night.

(Or, it could have been. It was dark anyways.)

Okay. So... it was a dark and not-stormy night. Last night. I sat alone in Freeman House, decked-out in rubber-duck flannel pajamas. I sat in the dining room, contemplating my yearly Christian Halloween dilemma. Should I participate in the church's fall carnival? Watch The Birds and It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, until I fall asleep? Sit at the organ, light only one candle, and scare children to death by playing the creeeepiest music ever when they knocked upon my door?

Mwa-ha-ha!!

(And I must say... last year, at Halloween, I had several parents come to the door. Their little ghosts and Disney princesses stood huddled together under the street light in front of the house, too terrified to come close. I think one passed out and another choked on his candy when "the lady in the scary house" came to the door. Priceless.)

Anyway, it was a dark and not-yet-stormy night, and I sat clad in rubber-duck pajamas pondering my 2006 Halloween situation... when....

...thumpthump...

Just like that. Two little thumps, back-to-back. I straightened up in my chair. The thumping came from the library. I would go check, but two things stopped me: one, there's no electricity in the library; and two, it was a dark and not-stormy night. No way was I opening that creaky door off the hall and venturing into that big, dark room. No way.

...thump... thump... CRAAAASH!

I jumped from the chair. The cat ran under the chair. The old house echoed with the noise.

...clang... swish swish....

I would have called the cops, but last time I heard screaming under the house and called the police, it turned out that a real, live donkey was trapped underneath. (Yeah. I couldn't make this stuff up.) I've never seen uniformed cops laugh so hard. In fact, I avoid making eye contact with any of them when I go to City Hall now to pay the water bill. They know. They all know.

...silence.

The silence was more terrifying than the thumping, crashing, clanging, and swishing. The thing... whatever or whoever it was... was still, too. Listening. Waiting. It was a stand off. In my house.

I lowered my duck butt back into the chair. I waited. And waited. And waited....

About 3 o'clock this morning, I awoke. Silence. I figured the fact I was still alive was reason enough to attempt to reach my bed. I tiptoed to the hall and stared across at the closed library door. It was dark. Silent. I looked down the long, empty hall. It was dark. Silent.

I ran.

When I awoke some three hours later, the house was still silent, but the dark was starting to crack a little. I crept to the library door and listened.

...silence...

I placed my shaking hand on the knob and flung it as hard as I could.

There was no one there. I smiled. Chuckled, even. I went in and sat down on a stack of sheetrock and felt almost giddy. No one was there. An evil hobo was not living in my library. An escaped murderer was not sleeping in the library. Why had I worried? I'd probably imagined it all anyway.

But then, I noticed. I noticed this trail of ... prints... in the sheetrock dust. They outlined a path out of - and back into - the library closet. Animal prints. Little buggers. Raccoon? Squirrel? Giant Halloween Eve rat? Maybe you can tell.

All I know is that it was a dark and almost-stormy night last night. And I in my duck pajamas, and my trusty old cat, were just settling down for Halloween Eve nap, when out in the library there arose such a clatter...

And apparently the creatures were stirring... maybe even, a giant mouse.

Showers... er... um... Bath... Blessings

OhgoshOhgoshOhgosh... Freeman House finally has a bath!

You couldn't find a happier person right now. Or a cleaner one. After bathing outdoors (or trying to bathe indoors - in a sink) for over a year, I have a bathtub. Freeman House finally has its old clawfoot tub back. It's newly restored, even. See?

It's funny; if you'd have asked me two years ago to name the blessings in my life, a bathtub would not have been among them. Today, it's Blessing # 4. I'm glad God cares about our everydays. It's nice to pray to the God who cares about baths. (Of course, I guess He can smell, too. He was probably just tired of smelling me....)

So, in honor of my bath blessing from above, I sat it in last night. I sat in it this morning. In fact, I only got out to snap this picture. My hands are so pruney I can barely type. I may stay in here forever. In fact, when I die, please just throw a towel over me and bury me in the tub.

You know, I've always said there's little a good book or brownie can't cure. Please add "bath" to that list, too. I should now read: "There's little a good book, brownie, or bath can't cure."

Awh yes. That should do it...

Have a good weekend, everyone, from my bath to yours!

"I will bless them.... I will send down showers in season; there will be showers of blessing." -Ezekiel 34:26

ONE WAY

"Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way. Walk in it." -Isaiah 30:21

I like Isaiah. I like the way the Scripture within that book seems to grab at you from its tissue paper-like page, promising victory and guidance and companionship via an all-powerful Deity. I love the assurances Isaiah often relates. I love the hope it gives. But tonight I'm dining with doubt. Tonight I'm supping with skepticism. After all, what happens when we can't hear a "voice"? What do we do when "the way" isn't self-evident? Or, horror of horrors, what if there's more than ONE WAY?

Not to snub Isaiah for the ramblings of Robert Frost, but, like the beloved poet, my life is diverging into two roads. I must make a decision - very soon - that will impact the course of the rest of my life. Really. And the way I see it, I have two choices: the road less traveled, and the road most traveled. And, like Frost, I'm also certain my choice will make all the difference. So where's my sign that points to my ONE WAY? Where's that voice behind me?

Remember that movie with... oh, it was Gwyneth Paltrow, wasn't it?... that had the different endings? (Something with doors or windows or revolving doors or .... Man! I'm getting old. Please pass the Ginkgo Biloba.) Anyway, remember the movie had vastly different outcomes that hinged on her split-second decision? I fear moments like that - those all-defining, life-encompassing moments that dictate the remainder of our future. I fear them. I loathe them. And yet, here one is, shattering my serenity....

Two roads. One choice. And no voice behind me.

When I was a kid, I wondered if I'd have a made-for-heaven movie waiting on me when I died. I pictured God holding the remote... angels passing out popcorn... and people who knew me best clamoring to get a good cloud-seat. After all, this would be a once-in-all-of-eternity viewing of my earthly life. The un-cut, un-edited version. (Here, I reasoned, my Dad would finally find out who really drove the 3-wheeler into the front of the house. And here, I realized, I'd finally find out if I really was supposed to take over for Barbara Walters.) But later, as I grew older, I worried: would my choice of colleges be one of those moments where God would stand, pause the picture, and elaborate on how my life disintegrated upon that very decision? Would my cloud-seated spectators wince and gasp as they viewed the alternative ending to my life... what I could have been... could have done... had I only chosen the ONE WAY?

Again, two roads. One choice. Where is that voice that's supposed to be behind me?

I don't know about you, but I'm finding myself in a hushed, ears-peeled state of prayer. That's why, when my Jeep rambled by this sign, I had to stop and snap a picture. ONE WAY, the sign says, go left. THE WAY, Isaiah says, walk in it.

If only it were that easy.

But, hey. Hey. Maybe it is. Just maybe it is. As I meditate on that verse, I notice how Isaiah tells God's people how "gracious He will be when you cry for help". (Isaiah 30:19.) How "as soon as He hears, He will answer you," and "whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice...."

You know, maybe the point isn't the ONE WAY. Maybe it's not all about the minutia of our lives or our tedious decisions. Not at all. Maybe it's all about whether we cry for help and then boldly choose a direction - right or left... traveled or less traveled - and then listen for that voice behind us and walk in it.

Yeah. Maybe that's it. Maybe Isaiah is onto something....

ONE WAY. ONE WAY?? It's something to think about. And in the meantime, I have a road to choose.

Autumn

Autumn is my favorite.

There's something about the fall that grabs me every year. Maybe it's autumn's stillness - the way trees whisper and leaves dance and new becomes old - that reassures me. Or maybe I sympathize with autumn's decay... its helplessness as it watches itself turn beautiful... then tattered... then gone. Whatever the reason, autumn is my favorite.

In fact, I'm thinking of taking a foliage trip. The idea of bundling up and wearing mittens and drinking gallons of hot chocolate and taking in the burning-colored leaves appeals to me right now. I guess I even got an early start Thursday when I took in this sight in the Ozark Mountains. (Hey! Maybe I could turn leaf-peeping into a younger version of bird-watching. You know... make it cool again. We could sell "autumn is cool" t-shirts and leaf-flavored bottled water and things.)

Or not.

Really, I think I like autumn the best because it's such a visual reminder that we have a gorgeous and glorious heavenly Father. A harmonious, all-knowing season keeper. And as I consider how today's leaves fall to make room for tomorrow's growth, I think, surely, surely, Someone who can orchestrate this season can turn the decay in my life into something new... something beautiful... again.

Surely He can. Surely He can....

"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." -George Elliot

While We Wait...

Waiting, waiting, waiting. All my life, I've been waiting for my life to begin, as if somehow my life was ahead of me, and someday I would arrive at it.
-Camryn Manheim

Waiting. It is what we do. We spend our lives waiting. I'm curious what number God would offer if I could only tap Him on the shoulder and ask, "Please, God... do You know how much time I've spent so far just... waiting?"

Camryn Manheim may have a lot of holes in her ears, but not in her reasoning. I agree with her; we spend our lives waiting.

We wait at traffic lights and grocery stores and doctors' offices.
We wait until Friday, payday, and Christmas day.
We wait for a spouse, then children, then grandchildren.
We wait for guidance or patience or ... God.
We wait... and wait... and wait....

This morning, I waited for my bath water to get hot. Then (having left my hair dryer two states away), I waited for my hair to dry. At Sonic, I waited in the drive-thru before pulling out to wait for a wreck to clear. I waited for hundreds of miles to roll by. When a trooper pulled me over, I waited for him to run my tags. Then I waited for him to write me a warning. (And it says, under the violation part, "speed over 70". Umm... yeah. I think they should at least have to write your actual speed. "Speed over 70" seems like the guy was too busy gorging on jelly donuts and listening to his new Jeff Foxworthy CD to note my actual speed.) Anway, once home, I waited for dinner to boil (note to self: don't buy the Kraft Asian noodles again. Kraft does good cheese, not good Asian.) Then I waited for bathroom grout to be groutable enough to grout my new tiles so that tomorrow the plumber can come and install the clawfoot bathtub I've waited 13 months to use. (Just so I can get up another day and wait for my bath water to get hot....)

Waiting for my point?

It's this: that somewhere, in all this waiting, is life. My life. Your life. Somewhere... amid all our grocery lines and paydays and hopes for somedays... is the life we've been waiting for. Sure, it may not look like we expected. And sure, we may still be waiting to arrive at the life we always imagined, but in the meantime, life isn't waiting on us. It's here. Now. And it doesn't perch on park benches waiting for us to happen by and invite it to tag along.

Waiting, waiting, waiting. I'm waiting, too. And even though I should be good at it by now, it's the hardest thing to do...

"And now, O Lord, what do I wait for? My hope is in You." Psalm 39:7

Wanderjahr

If I was a true optimist, I would call it an "adventure".

If I was a poet, I'd call it my Wanderjahr... my time spent wandering or traveling itinerantly.

But today I'm not an optimist. Today I'm not a poet. So I'll call it like I see it: today, I am - lost.

This past week, I woke to find myself in a place I never thought I'd be. I've stumbled onto a road I never thought I'd find myself traveling. But my denial... my bewilderment... my disappointment... none of it changes the reality of my circumstances. I am lost. I am in the midst of an unpoetic, unwelcome wanderjahr.

And I'm not graceful enough - not polished enough - to deny it. There's so much pressure as a modern, educated individual... as a modern, educated Christian - to maintain the facade of a perfectly-blessed life. To maintain the ideal of a graceful existence and divinely-led walk - even when your life is seemingly in shambles and your very core is shaken. And sometimes, even when acknowledging that you are blessed... abundantly blessed... and you do live grace-filled existence, you just want to cry out: yes, but I hurt too! I struggle too! I wonder... and wander.. too!

And I am. I do.

I won't speak for all modern, education Christians out there. I wouldn't dare. But I will speak for myself: life isn't perfect. My life sure isn't. Even as a Christian, life is hard. I hurt. I struggle. I wonder. I wander.

Some days, I wake to find myself in my own personal wanderjahr. Is my life divinely led? Yes, maybe. Is it divinely accompanied? Yes, assuredly. But you see, my comfort for today and my strength for tomorrow hinges on one ever-present, never-changing fact: that my itinerant travels - like those of the early nation of Israel - are never time spent alone.

I snapped this picture one day when I found myself starting out on a new chapter of my life. I liked the way the heavens nearly broke open above the barren landscape... above that desolate road. It reminded me... and reminds me to this day... about God's promise to Joshua. About God's promise to me. The promise that says that no matter the struggle... no matter the hurt... no matter the feeling of being... lost... no matter where my unwelcome wanderjahr leads ... I am divinely accompanied.

We wanderjahrers (!) are divinely accompanied.

I will never desert you, nor will I ever forsake you. -Hebrews 13:5

The House Helper... with Pattern

 

Ah, the knitted, round cloths. These are a staple at Freeman House- so much so that I've begun calling them House Helpers. I use them for everything around the house.

Ah, the knitted, round cloths. These are a staple at Freeman House- so much so that I've begun calling them House Helpers. I use them for everything around the house. I dust with them. I wash and dry dishes with them. I scrub windows with them and wipe mirrors with them and clean, clean, clean with them. They're perfect, and oh so pretty drying beside the sink or hanging from the clothesline.

Do you knit? If not, do you know someone who does? Find them, or find your knitting needles, and whip up a few of these. Make them for yourself. Make them for friends. (Christmas 2004 was all about three of these tied with a bow and a bottle of Bath & Body Works Anti-Bacterial Soap and given as gifts. Big hit.)

House HelpersWorsted Weight Cotton (100% cotton)
Size 8 or 9 Knitting Needles

Pattern:

Cast on 15 sts
*Knit 1 row
k 3, yo, k 11, leaving 1 st on needle
Turn, knit across
k 3, yo, k 11, leaving 2 sts on needle
Turn, knit across
k 3, yo, k 11, leaving 3 sts on needle
Turn, knit across
bo 3 sts, k 2, yo, k 8, leaving 4 sts on needle
Turn, knit across
k 3, yo, k 8, leaving 5 sts on needle
Turn, knit across
k 3, yo, k 8, leaving 6 sts on needle
Turn, knit across
bo 3 sts, k 2, yo, k 5, leaving 7 sts on needle
Turn, knit across
k 3, yo, k 5, leaving 8 sts on needle
Turn, knit across
k 3, yo, k 5, leaving 9 sts on needle
Turn, knit across
bo 3 sts, knit to end (15 stitches)*
Bind off all sts

Repeat sections * to * six times more (for a total of 7 sections or 21 points). Draw up center of cloth and sew together first and last rows. Weave in ends.

And there you have it! I hope you enjoy these cloths as much as I (and my gift recipients!) have. Happy knitting!  -Brin

The Immutable Moon

When I admire the wonders of a sunset or the beauty of the moon, my soul expands in worship of the Creator. -Mohandas Gandhi


I was looking at the moon last night. I was thinking... praying... hoping I was being heard - hoping this particular prayer wasn't getting stuck in God's inbox. This prayer was important, and I needed God's ear.

I stood there - underneath that brilliant moon - for some time. It was strangely comforting. I was comforted because even though my problems and prayers have changed with the circumstances in my life, that brilliant moon never changes. I mean, sure - some nights the moon is barely a sliver in the sky, but regardless of how big or small (or near or far) it seems - its presence is constant. It's always there. The same moon I played under as a child, wished upon as a teenager, and married under as an adult... it hasn't changed.

That's something. When you think about it, there are very few things in life that are permanent. Think back five years. Ten years. What's in your life today- or is not in your life today- that wasn't (was?) there then? More than likely, you can think of something. Like one of my favorite singers says, everything is temporary if you give it enough time.

But I'm glad. I'm glad some things are fleeting. Life would be unnavigable if everything and everyone stuck around forever. And yet... and yet... I'm thankful some things are immutable. Like the Creator. The Creator who decorated His sky with a sun to guide us by day and a moon to comfort us by night.

So as I stood last night... looking at the moon... appreciating its enduring beauty... I gave thanks for the temporary - and the permanent - in my life. [Change is nothing to fear, and constants are nothing to snub.] And just as I did, I felt my soul expand... expand in worship, and in awe... of my Creator.