Gratitude for my Daddy

I've begun the Boundless Summer Challenge, and so far it has been more challenging than I expected.  More reading and writing and soul-searching, as opposed to just little tasks one could pull off in 10 minutes.  I've gone from excitement about it to a bit of resentful grumpiness at feeling like I "have" to meditate on truth and be changed by it in a day.  But I think as long as I remember it's a bit of a discipline, a means for grace and for God to change or teach me as He will, no matter my apparent success or not, then I shall enjoy it much more.

Part of today's assignment is for guys to try to show love to a woman in their life (wife, mother, sister, etc.) and for girls to demonstrate respect to a significant man (husband, dad, brother, etc).  I decided to make a list of things I respect about my Dad, which I will list as this week's blessings.  :-) 

 
It's odd - part of me feels like that's cheating... But no, it's actually a sort of integration and melding of things God's been nudging me towards lately - recording my blessings, and increased gratefulness for my family.  The life He calls us to is hard, but it's also much simpler than I usually make it. 

I know I missed last week - out of town.  And yes, I know today's not Monday, again  It's barely even Tuesday anymore! Ah well. ;-)
 

Why my Daddy is Amazing 

(an only-the-tip-of-the-iceberg list)

16.   Once, when I was away at college and had major car problems, my Daddy came and rescued me.  He took the car to a shop and got the problem fixed.  He also got me my first cell phone around then, so I wouldn't get stuck on some lonely road again without being able to call for help.  I knew when he said "Call me if you need anything" that he meant it, even if it meant driving a long way.  I felt so cherished. Thanks, Daddy.

17.  He drives all the way from Houston (8+ hours) just to visit us on random weekends.

18.  He used to play The Bug Game with us on the living room floor ages ago.  If you're wondering what The Bug Game is, good reader, I'm afraid it's rather beyond description.  Let's just say it involved wrestling, tickling, increasingly challenging levels, and at least four of us piled up on the "Bug" at some point.  We probably asked every night, to the point of extreme annoyance: "Daddy, are you tired?" (translation: not "Daddy, how was work? We care about you and hope you get some rest now" but actually "Do you have enough energy saved to be the Bug for our entertainment?")  It was always the highlight of the night when dear Daddy was not too tired to play.  Or, perhaps my grown-up eyes can see a bit better now... I'm sure you were actually still tired some of those times, Daddy, but you played with us anyways.    

19.  My Daddy is clever and great at fixing things.  He's an engineer, but not just of drilling rigs and computer programs.  He engineers things like homemade boats, and clamps, and who knows what else.  He's a very hard worker. 

20.  He was brave enough to have six kids, and helped my mom through the pain and sorrow of several miscarriages and losing little Elliot (who died several days after his birth).  I say it takes a brave man to keep on trusting God for whatever children He might want to give after that!  If he hadn't, if he had said, "Four is enough," then my two youngest brothers, Isaac and Whit, would not be here.

21.  He and my mom decided before any of us came along that they wanted to teach their kids at home... back before they even knew such a thing was called homeschooling.  I am ever so grateful they chose to be radical in that way, and I'm excited and hopefully to one day carry on that legacy of homeschooling and really knowing my kids.

22.  He and my mom did some deep theological study before us kids were born.  I know that's a huge reason why I grew up with such a biblical foundation, and probably partly why I find theology so interesting - it was talked about often at our house, outside, in the car, as we walked along the way...

23.  My Daddy taught himself Russian, y'all!  He went over there for work, and decided he'd rather make the effort to learn to speak to language, rather than go the boring way of always using interpreters.  He got so good, actually, that some Russians couldn't detect an American accent when he spoke! You know, once you're grown, it's supposedly far harder to learn a new language than it is for children.  Well, my Daddy laughed in the face of such odds, and learned one. Good example for me.  It's never too late to learn a language, or a new instrument, or any such thing.

24.  He has this awesome manly engineer handwriting.  :-) 

25.  He's got a great sense of humor.

26.  He likes a good cup of tea.

27.  Whenever he comes to see us, he usually brings us each a Breakfast-on-a-Bun in the morning.  Yum! :-)

28.  He's got the coolest blue-grey eyes.

29.  He reads my blog. :-)  Not just any dad would make that effort to know what his daughter's been doing, even amid all my rambling and non-informative posts.

30.  Even though he's not perfect (neither am I!), he's one of my heroes, striving for wisdom and faithfulness and goodness, doing what he can to take care of the people in his life.  I am so blessed to be your daughter. :-)  I am so blessed to call you Daddy.

"Can you do the Battle Song?"

I am currently drinking Earl Grey tea, reading Hope for Relationships stuff, hearing about the possible snow and ice tomorrow, and listening to the Narnia soundtrack.  And thinking of Samantha, who loved to come into my room while I was staying with her family in college, leap onto the bed, and beg to hear "the Battle song."

Marvelously good times. Don't you love it how certain songs can remind you so strongly of dear places and people and special times?

After a Summer's Silence

My dear friends, and whoever else might chance upon my blog:

The summer has come and gone, without seeing one new thing posted here. So, to summarize high points of our crazy wonderful lives,

• finished painting, yard-saleing, and moving!
  
• learned to park the suburban in the back, between the car and fence, without fear of wrecking (Hurrah!)
• led a journaling workshop for girls
  
• visited family in Colorado, old friends in New Mexico, and were visited by family in Texas.
• mother taught two weeks of art camp for kids at a museum, and I got to help!
  
• drove across parts of east Texas several times. Every other hill or so, my mother would say it was her favorite part of Texas. She said the same thing while we drove across New Mexico and Colorado, too... ;)
  
• watched the 7-and-1/2-hour-long Bleak House mini-series (*cough* twice *cough*) and plunged into the even-better book. Astonished and falling quite in love with Dickens' writing. Such characters he paints, and with such paint!
• wrote a good bit of my novel
  
• drank lots of coffee
  
• read lots of books
  
• watched too many movies while drinking tea with fellow conspirators, my mom and youngest brother
  
• made lunches
• cleaned (now and then)
  
• organized
  
• listened to audio dramas and books on tape/CD/MP3
• ate oranges
  
• discovered the most scrumptious chocolate coffee cake recipe
  
• sewed cloaks
  
• journaled
  
• played in rain
  
• laughed
  
• cried
• pondered
  
• puzzled
  
• and even went roller skating, with much fun and bruises

It was busy, varied, and I hope God-honoring. I'll try to come around more often. The fall writing bug has bitten me bad lately. And it's been rainy and cool, perfect writing weather! So beware! The main danger to my writing is finding too much good stuff to read. ;)

Remembering His Benefits

Bless the Lord, O my soul;
And all that is within me, bless His holy name.
Bless the Lord, O my soul,
And forget none of His benefits;
~Psalm 103:1,2~

Way back when I was a smallish child of six, I wrote my first journal entry.

Translation: “One day, me, Sam, and Mama went to a wedding.”

It was my first wedding to attend, and I was duly impressed (both with the ceremony and, of course, the cake and punch afterwards!) so I apparently thought it an event deserving of record. This morning I got out that first old journal to read, laugh over, and remember. I might share some especially funny entries later, if anyone would like to see them. :-)

I’ve been thinking – for all my years of journaling (my spelling and handwriting have improved just a little, and perhaps I'm more wordy now), how often have I deliberately written careful letters and thoughts for future generations? Am I actively seeking to record God’s providences in my life? Am I keeping a record of my life story to pass on to my children so they can see that God’s faithfulness? And am I seeking to always remember, myself?

I can look at that first journal entry now and be grateful for so much. Attending that wedding was one of many opportunities my mother took to teach me that marriage is wonderful and serious, a promise before God meant to last a lifetime. I’m sure I wore a dress, and I can be thankful that I was always provided with only modest clothes, no matter how young I was. I was six, and that made me remember that I’d already learned to read and started to write (some might look at my scribbling and phonetically-correct spelling and disagree!), and the “One day” beginning showed my early love of stories.

I’ve been reminded again just how surely thankfulness cures misery, boredom, and plain old grumpiness. Not saying a vague and hurried, “Thanks, God, for everything… now, make everything better, please.” Um, nope. Not that I would know that doesn’t work from experience. *cough*

Of course we can be brief in our prayers, and of course when we don’t know specifics of something, God does. But I think He likes us to be specific when we can. And it’s so good for us! I find this in the (to often procrastinated) joy of writing thank-you notes. To write them, to speak of specific things people have done for me, is to remember my blessings and how special people are to me.

And thanking the Lord, especially recording those blessings, is a great way to glorify and delight in Him.

Here, the shepherd-poet David remembers God’s benefits to him:

Who pardons all your iniquities;
Who heals all your diseases;
Who redeems your life from the pit;
Who crowns you with lovingkindess and compassion;
Who satisfies your years with good things,
So that your youth is renewed like the eagle.
~Psalm 103:3-5~

A truly thankful heart is a delight, because it focuses on what we’ve already been given, on remembering, on pondering God’s faithfulness. Even if it’s only through the clumsy scribbles of a child, our Father is glorified. And though we’re only on earth for part the Great Story, even our frail hands can help in the telling.

(Image: Frodo writing in the Red Book, from The Return of the King)

Hiding

In footie pajamas or Sunday best, us kids were often called upon to give recitations when I was little. We lined up on the raised brick in front of the fireplace, singing rousing versions of "The Battle of New Orleans" or "Great Granddad." To the last, we always added the crucial "Hm, musta stuck to him!"

Why did these memories awake? This morning's Bible reading.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say to the LORD, "My refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust."

We memorized a good bit of Psalm 91, and it was often part of the recitals. We spouted it off quickly, as children often do with any memorized words But the lyrical quality of the first glorious sentence stayed with me.

And images quietly engraved themselves.

Fiery arrows raining down.

Huge wings to hide under.

Over my childhood years, these wings grew in my mind. They protected and nurtured like those of Fledge the winged horse, though of course much bigger. Like the golden wings of the great eagle in Rescuers Down Under, though these wings never needed rescuing.

Part of my "grown-up" self is revolted at the idea of comparing God with something birdlike. Birds can be rather nasty, even mean. But perhaps angels had wings before birds even were, so wings may not be essentially bird-ish. And maybe birds are only meant to reflect in some small yet tangible aspect something about their Maker.

He wants me to run and hide under His wings now, as readily as that child on the fireplace brick.

A hunter, a weaver, and the great outdoors

As I walked back along the road this Monday, Dusty’s soft horsy nose and whiskers tickled my hand. We plodded in the quiet spring afternoon, tiredly content from the ride. The weather was warm, but breezy and pleasant. Wide grassland stretched out on either side, the once-flaxen waves of grass turning wonderfully green in earnest. I sigh, and breath in the air, filling my lungs as one can only outside.

Suddenly I was arrested by a soft, commanding scent nestling into my nose and head, echoing in shadowy corners of memory. It hinted of flowers, of earth warmed in sun, of the green things breathing and shooting up after the past week’s rain whispered “Spring!” But it’s more. Something about the smell made me think of a certain little house on a rutted back road, on the edge of a small thicket surrounded by fields. It was the place of walks with grandparents now gone, of their deep laughs and solemn prayers. The smell calls me back…

In cowboy hat, boots, and gentle blue eyes, Granddaddy would sit on the porch with a coffee mug every morning hours before the sun peeped up. I don’t think he usually brought a book. He just sat there. When I was little I thought that would be so boring. I was an early riser too, but it only meant more time for my current Black Stallion book or historical fiction adventure!

Now I can admire that stillness.

What went through his mind? Did he reflect on years of farming, hunting, growing girls, growing algebra students, Sunday school and choir practice? Was it his special time to talk the Creator as he watched His world come alive? Granddaddy was normally stiller than any wild creature who might wander across the yard. Bird, fox, deer, coon, he knew them all. Even the hunter in him was loving, tender with all wild and growing things, never killing recklessly or wastefully.

I learned early on that Disney and I could never agree on the inherent badness of hunters and guns.

Grandmother, too, loved the outdoors. She went on walks every day, until soon before she died. Oatmeal was cooked every morning without fail. When we grandkids visited, she fed us well. But sweets or ice cream were only the rare treat Granddaddy brought out. They were hearty, healthy, going on hunting and hiking trips in the mountains with their Jeep Cherokee even in their mid-sixties. It was a surprise when they left within about a year of each other. Her raven-black hair was only beginning to gray, and his mind has been sharp and active only months before.

Grandmother may have been wrinkled, but she could shoot the shuttle across the warp of the loom like a marksman. Which she was. She helped Granddaddy with whatever he was building at the moment, and always amazed me when her thin arms lifted what I thought heavy.

When my family came to visit, some time was spent inside, watching Granddaddy’s beloved collection of Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, John Wayne, and other classics. Or we would lie on beds, on the couch, and read. The hardwood floor was fun, especially slippery in socks.

But outdoors was the place of adventures. There were the huge tangled pines to climb, our clothes and hair getting all sticky with sap and scratched with the rough bark that called us to go just a bit higher. There were the wandering paths, weaving between mesquites and brush and around prickly pear patches, not long, but enough to make us brave explorers.

My heritage has grown in odd twists. Rather like the mesquite trees around here. It’s no coincidence, no mere chance that I've grown up with delight in windblown hair and dusty clothes, seeing reflections of my Creator God’s genius and imagination in every spider’s web or wildflower. Even in smells, and a horse's breathy soft nose.

Blanket

I’m a great fan of comfort things. Some of these include my puppy (who is technically not “real,” but remember Woody and Buzz). Whinnie-the-Pooh books. Mashed potatoes. And since I was two, my yellow blanket.

Soft, like woven fuzz. Synthetic, but more instantly snuggly than Great-grandmother’s smooth quilts I now love in a different way. My blanket was edged for a while with a silky border, I think, which gradually loosed itself and dragged about still attached. I had to have it to sleep. It was cozy for watching movies, for cold days of reading ensconced in the brown Ronald Reagan chair, for making multi-chambered tents over tables and chairs to store books and pillows and Playmobile and brothers.

At night, especially when wearing sweats or fuzzy pajamas, it was exciting to move and rub against the blanket, to see tiny sparks of light in the dark. I went to sleep with the light on back then, but under the comforter, or if I woke later on when the house was dark, I could see the electricity flash. Threadlike. As though my blanket came alive.

Sam had a yellow blanket. I think his was a paler yellow. He probably had his from when he was a baby, but the story is that little two-year-old Rael wanted to have a blanket like big brother. His fell apart first, and the remains had to be smuggled out to the dumpster and not mentioned for a time. I think I was older, maybe eleven, when I realized mine had the same symptoms as Sam’s mysteriously raptured blanket. Or maybe I knew where it had gone. Knowing that it would only keep falling to shreds before my eyes, I bravely volunteered it up, keeping only a few small remnants.

During the day, it was the greatest thing for wild hair. It would slip off the yellow monster’s head, and my day-old braid gave up frizzy strands like sunbeams. Only they were brown; the blanket was sunny.

I still like blankets and their flexabilities, as you can see in this picture of me wearing one my Grandmother wove on her huge loom. For a recent birthday, I recieved the snuggest of blankets from my other Grandma. It has a fleece-like side and a brushed suede-like side, and though it’s not big, it’s one of the warmest things. Great for Lord of the Rings marathons, or warm quiet-times with Bible and journal at the dinner table, or for wearing about the house with a pin, pretending it’s a Britain-woman’s fur cloak, my hair thrown about in wild cascades. (It's much longer now than in this picture.)

I think a soft blanket is the childish cousin of grown-up quilts. They don’t always know how to behave, to lie flat and trim and proper. Their fluff can stick with you. So untidy! Yet for story time, play, or simple comfort, they are quite at home.

Eplanation of our presidential chair: My mom bought it at a junk store the day Reagan (her favorite modern-day president) was first inaugurated. It's quite the family heirloom now! Here’s an oldish picture, though with no yellow blanket.

No idea what I'm reading there, but if you look closely, you can see the nose of my ever-faithful pup who is reading along. I'll have to do a piece on her someday: she's a facinating character, and has had many adventures.

Lion calling

“I love an Untamed Lion, He’s calling me to come

My cold heart, how it hesitates, I want to turn and run

His power is dangerous, His power is endless love”

~Michelle Tumes~

(Image from wallpaper on NarniaStory.com)

It is often surprising to look back through your life and see what kinds of things really affected you. Sometimes it is big events, but often it is a collection of small moments that can have the most impact on what we think and do. In my life, I have been changed by a series of books called The Chronicles of Narnia, or more specifically, by a character in them, a lion named Aslan.

I was probably about eight years old when I got my first taste of Narnia, playing at my friend Sarah’s house. Remember the carefree days when you could just go play at a friend’s house for half a day, with nothing planned and nothing bigger to worry about than annoying brothers who came too? Anyway, Sarah and I had wandered inside from the swings, munching on huge pieces of homemade mint-chocolate candy (oh, that was soooo good!) and we decided to watch one of their library movies. Now none of us ever really watched TV, and movies were a big deal, so of course when Sarah’s brother and sister and my three brothers got wind of our plan, they all had to come and help us decide what to watch. I think the choice was between a girl movie like Anne of Green Gables, probably what Sarah and I would have chosen if left to ourselves, and a movie I had never heard of before called The Silver Chair. Sarah’s older brother, Aaron, tried to describe it. “It’s really neat! Two kids go to another world, and there are giants and dragons and they go underground and there are all these weird earthmen, and it’s great!” Sarah, on the other hand, kept reminding him of how scary it was and assuring us that we wouldn’t like it. But they let us decide because we were the guests. Needless to say, my brothers have never been daunted by the word “scary.” “Girly,” yes, but “scary” never! I was also curious to see something new, so when the vote came out in favor of The Silver Chair, Sarah and I stuck around to watch it, even though our movie had been taken over.

On one hand I was hooked. Any story about two children who get into another world just in time to escape school bullies is interesting, but that was just the beginning. It was a whole new and exciting world, but with many elements of the fairy tales that I loved. There were castles and giants, talking animals and dwarves, and an evil witch who stole away a prince and kept him under her spell. Pretty basic fairy-tale ingredients so far. Nevertheless, it was somehow more serious, more real, you might say, than any fairy tale I knew of. Perhaps most captivating was Aslan, the great talking lion who brought the children into Narnia, the other world, and gave them the task of finding the lost prince.

As I was saying, on one hand I thought it was quite interesting. On the other hand, I must say I did not fall in love with Narnia when I saw the movie. For one thing, it was made by BBC, whose movies tend to be low budget. It seems to me that, for some kinds of movies, the special effects or lack thereof don’t matter that much, but when it’s obvious that talking animals are people in suits and that a flying owl (person in a suit) is not really flying, it’s a bit disappointing. (That’s why I’m so excited that now they are planning to make the whole series into movies. I think the recent Lord of the Rings movies are wonderful examples of successfully taking a fantasy story from a book and making it believable on screen with the help of technology and computer graphics.) Still, when I was about eight that sort of thing didn’t bother me that much. Perhaps what made me not love it right off was the fact that, not only was the Silver Chair in the middle of the series and therefore confusing, but it was also the most dreary and depressing story, even though it has a good ending.

To get back to the story, we finished the movie and, despite what I have just said, we thought it was interesting. The Grubens told us it was part of a series of books that we should read, the first one having the funny name of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Later we went home, and that night I had an experience that implanted itself in my memory like few other things ever have.

Before I go on, let me explain a crucial scene of the Silver Chair. The two children and their Narnian friend, a creature named Puddleglum, travele for weeks over bad terrain, through miserable weather, and across dangerous lands on their search for the lost prince. The Lion, Aslan, had given Jill signs to memorize that would tell them the way to go, but gradually she ceases to repeat them. Finally she almost forgets them completely, because she’s so anxious to get somewhere warm with good food and a hot bath. Against Puddleglum’s better judgement they eventually seek lodging in the castle of some seemingly friendly giants. Everything seems fine until that night.

And then came the deadest hour of the night and nothing stirred but mice in the house of the giants. At that hour there came to Jill a dream. It seemed to her that she awoke in the same room and saw the fire, sunk low and red, and in the firelight the great wooden horse [a toy horse to giants, but huge to Jill]. And the horse came of its own will, rolling on its wheels across the carpet, and stood at her head. And now it was no longer a horse, but a lion as big as the horse. And then it was not a toy lion, but a real lion. The Real Lion, just as she had seen him on the mountain beyond the world’s end. And a smell of all sweet-smelling things there are, filled the room. But there was some trouble in Jill’s mind, though she could not think what it was, and the tears streamed down her face and wet the pillow. The Lion told her to repeat the Signs, and she found that she had forgotten them all. At that, a great horror came over her. (C. S. Lewis, The Silver Chair)

Then the Lion shows her the next thing they should have been looking for and in the morning they get back to their quest. But the point I want to make is that this scene stood out to me, and we’ll see why.

At home that night, I couldn’t really get to sleep for a long time. I drifted in and out of wakefulness; it was one of those times when dreams feel just as real when you are awake as when you are asleep. I had my own room, and I was alone. Or, maybe not so alone. The Lion was there, and He would not leave. I would open my eyes and look at the light in the hallway, and He didn’t go away. Then I would scrunch my eyes shut and burrow my face in my pillow. That was worse. I saw Him then even clearer, with that huge mane and those deep golden eyes that looked and knew me. It was terrible. I would call it a nightmare, because I was so miserable, but still I knew that He wasn’t bad. So what was the problem? I don’t know that I can explain it, but He wanted something from me. I felt a bit like Jill. I was afraid, and I may have cried, but I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong. What was it He said to me? It’s funny how we remember emotions and feelings longer and easier than we remember words. But now that I think about it, I do remember, at least a little. He was probing, seeking, calling me: “What about you, Rael?” It was frightening, because then I knew that he was more that a character in a story. He was real and he would not be ignored, but I didn’t know whom in this world He was yet. Somehow I eventually got to sleep.

That was definitely not the end, though time passed and Narnia slipped to the back of our minds. Then one Christmas we found The Chronicles of Narnia in our stockings, and soon they became our favorite books. We still have that set, but it is falling apart. When I first read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, I finally realized who this mysterious Lion was. He gives his life sacrificially to save a traitor, and then shows His power over death by coming back to life. Sound familiar? I was so excited when I found out that I already knew Aslan, only by a different name. At the end of one of the books, when he tells two children they will never come back to Narnia, they express what is so special about being in Narnia, whether there in the flesh or only in imagination.

“It isn’t Narnia, you know,” sobbed Lucy. It’s you. We shan’t meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?”

“But you shall meet me, dear one,” said Aslan.

“Are ---are you there too, Sir?” said Edmund

“I am,” said Aslan. “But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.” (C. S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader)

And that is the very reason I have been so deeply impacted by a children’s fantasy series. By learning to love and know Aslan more in Narnia, I love and know Him in this world by another name so much more than I did before. One thing that I’ve learned about him is that He calls and teaches His children. Now I believe He was showing me that night that He would not be ignored or forgotten. When I am doing something I shouldn’t or forgetting to do something I should, He will let me suffer the consequences, because He loves me and wants me to grow, even if it hurts at first. As Mr. Beaver says about Him to the children, “Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.” I am learning that He is the one who I can fear and love at the same time.

I could go on about all the many other things I have learned from Aslan, but I will not. First, it would take a long time, and second, it would leave less for you to find out on your own. This is only my story, after all. If you want to attempt to read The Chronicles of Narnia and remain unchanged, go ahead and try. I’m about ready to read them again!

Addendum: I wrote this in my first semester of college, about four years ago. Now, in my next to last semester, I actually am reading the Chronicles again, this time for a C.S. Lewis class! It’s been a pleasure, and if I have time I’d love to post insights and quotes gained this time around. My teacher, Dr Tony Ash, is wonderful. Like Lewis, he’s rather balding, though usually he wears oddly-patterned sweaters instead of shabby suits. I was anxious at first, because having a horrid professor teach one of my favorite authors would have been misery. I needn’t have feared, for he is quite the authentic Lewis enthusiast. Wise, patient, twinkle-eyed, he reads us quotes till my delighted heart laughs for joy and sighs in longing. Again, I am being drawn near the Lion. And as I have grown, I find Him still bigger.

“I love an Untame Lion, His music fills my dreams

I’m filled with longing for a place, a place I’ve never seen

He’s calling, I want Him so, He’s calling, I can’t let go”

~Michelle Tumes~

Small Blessings

A Valentine's Day spent lifting up a dear friend walking through a dark valley, many states away. Sprinkled white flakes from the Heavens, bringing whispering hope: Wait on Me for blessings; you've no idea what I'll do next! Was the Lion's mane shaking out the snow on me, wild eyes glimmering tears of pain, yet also shining from joyful depths?

A flock of fifteen turkeys trailing off the corrugated dusty road, offended that my loud Oldsmobile would force quicker waddling, and make them forget what they were saying to each other. But surely they wanted to be in the pasture among craggy mesquites, dried brush... There are only so many seeds and such one can find on a road, right?

Sitting in a friend's house after the kids are asleep, waiting for the married couple to return from their date. Trying to read Dracula, dozing off, and jerking awake at the cookoo clock's abrupt clanging. Wishing for a cozy bed, but afraid to stretch on the couch and give in. Looking over at Sally, with her delicate long Sheltie nose curled up near her tail, my couch companion now that she's stopped staring out the back door at unseen terrors.

Coming home to an empty but cozy house, loading dishes while listening to Adventures in Odyssey, snacking on Ezekiel bread and homemade bean dip, slipping on comfy PJs. Building a fire in the wood-burning stove, for warmth and enjoyment, and watching the flames dance and the bed of coals settle and spread like a glowing-hot pile of pirate's hoard.

Thank you, Lord, for dappled things, and each small so-much-more You continually pour out. May I see, and listen, and thank You ever more.