I was at the grocery store today and while checking out, the clerk asked me how my day was going so far. I gave a positive review and tacked on the statement that generally I like Mondays. He gave me a funny look and said, “Well, you’re alone in that!”
Mondays have gotten a bad rap. For many people it’s when they start their work week again. For students, it means starting up with a new school week. I guess if you hate your job or hate school, you’d have a good reason to hate Mondays. Even if that’s the case, it may be the attitude that needs adjusting, not the day.
Monday isn’t the first day of the week – that position is already filled by Sunday. And when Sunday is a day of worship and rest, it can prepare you to hit the ground running on Monday with renewed energy and a cheerful heart even when the task ahead is unpleasant and daunting. At least that’s how it often works for me.
I’ve had hard Mondays, crabby Mondays, tedious Mondays and bluesy Mondays, but whatever kind of Monday I’m having, if it follows on the heels of a day of worship, good fellowship and a rest from my usual labors, I feel prepared to handle it, come what may.
How about you?
I’ll let you know in the morning if I’ve gone through with my plans to delete this post. But until then, assume nothing.
Synopsis of the story thus far: Our frog hero, Fig Newton, met a little girl on the river named Lucy, who knitted him a scarf, made him a sailor’s hat, made him a little boat and reluctantly said goodbye to him so he could go see the world. Along the way, Fig was thinking through his trip when he ran across a bear carrying another girl. The bear was Grimpus Leatherfoot and the girl, Miss Agra Glendalough. They decided to travel along with him, walking by the riverside since his boat was too small for them. He spent some time thinking about what he’d want to do and see before returning home. Later, he was singing in the boat by himself and was accosted by a fox named Phineas who stole his boat, leaving Figgy sitting on the riverbank, bereft. When Grimpus and Agra returned, Fig indulged in some self-pity, receiving a much needed rebuke from Miss Agra. Suitably chastened and in better spirits, he told them of the theft. Grimpus recognized the description of the thief as Phineas Fox and recommended that they give chase immediately. (See Parts 1-6 if you want the gritty details).
Fig Newton had thought of Grimpus Leatherfoot as a slow and lumbering old bear, but found that he had a pretty piece of work keeping up with Grimpus, even with his bounding hops on those “springy legs.” They followed the river as best they could, but sometimes the brush was too thick even for Grimpus to crash through, so of necessity they had to take some detours. Miss Agra hung on for dear life, but Grimpus was running on all fours and she wasn’t used to laying down in the carry pouch. With all the bouncing, she began to feel quite ill.
“Stop! Grimpus, stop!” she called out in distress. Neither the bear nor Fig heard her at first, but eventually she threw up on Grimpus’s fur, which had the desired effect. They halted in the middle of a small clearing, Grimpus making apologies for the bouncing and Agra making apologies for the mess in his fur, while Fig stood nearby hopping up and down impatiently. Finally, he could stand it no further.
“All apologies seem to have been given and accepted – let us not tarry here too much longer and lose the trail. We don’t know how long the wretched fox will be staying on this part of the river – if it splits up ahead, we won’t know which direction he’s gone. Let’s go!”
But in spite of Figgy’s sense of urgency, certain realities needed to be faced. They could not go on at the pace that they had been, no indeed. They were still close enough to the river for Grimpus to go jump in and give his fur a good washing, which he did (I dare say you’d do the same). Afterward, they took stock of the situation, noting the strengths and weakness of their position.
Strengths: Grimpus was somewhat familiar with the territory, the party was well motivated to continue the hunt, the fox couldn’t go very fast in the Lucky Lucy, so he probably couldn’t get irretrievably too far ahead of them. Trusting to Providence, they needn’t panic and lose heart.
Weaknesses: They couldn’t outrun the fox at this rate. They would have to be more clever than him, learn of his strategy and “outfox” him. And to do this, Grimpus said, they’d need the help of a renowned denizen of the forest, someone whose influence and contacts spread far and wide, who commanded the loyalty of many others who could be their eyes, ears and feet in this chase.
Fig and Miss Agra listened attentively to this last bit of intelligence, excited and curious. Grimpus paused for effect. Once again, Figgy couldn’t wait. “We’re with you, old bear, but don’t stop now! Just who is this illustrious fellow who can be the balm to all of our troubles?”
A commanding voice came from behind Figgy. “Impatience never won any battles, my young frog. Wisdom comes from listening, planning and waiting for the right moment.”
Fig Newton turned around and beheld the astonishing sight of a rather unimpressive looking hedgehog sitting in a sleigh, of all things. He wore a green tam on his head which gave him a sporty look. At first the frog wasn’t sure by what mechanism the sleigh could move on these trails, but upon closer inspection, he saw four mice harnessed to it. Miss Agra clapped her hands in delight at the whole scene, feeling suddenly much restored and encouraged.
“Good day, Colonel Purslane, sir.” Grimpus came to attention. To Fig and Miss Agra he said, “Nothing happens in this forest that the Colonel doesn’t know about. We shall tell him our story and if he takes an interest, we could not find a better ally. But when he speaks, I’d recommend that you listen and not interrupt.” This last comment he directed to Fig Newton and if frogs could blush, he would have. But they’re cold blooded and have to show their embarrassments in other ways, so he looked down at his webbed feet and wished he could hop away.
That’s all for Part 7, my friends. I’ve been writing this at a snail’s pace, only adding installments as I’ve added more felt creatures to the collection. I’m on a sewing break, so who knows when we’ll find out what happens next?
It was an ugly plant. It hadn’t bloomed for a couple years and I kept forgetting to water it. Then I’d overwater it. The very presence of this plant in my house was a silent reproach to me and my black thumb.
But I couldn’t quite make myself just throw it in the compost heap. It seemed brutal to do something that intentional.
So I did the next best thing. We went out of town for three weeks in the fall and I left it outside on the back stoop. I also left a note for our neighbors saying something like “Don’t bother watering the potted plants outside – I’m letting them die off before winter.” There! That’ll take care of it, I thought. By the time we get back, it’ll be a fait accompli.
But it wasn’t. Our neighbor accidentally knocked it over and the whole thing fell out. He took pity on it, stuffed it all back in the pot and then watered it. We got back and there it was, barely living, still a silent reproach.
I sighed and carried it inside. Clearly, it was not going to be so easy for me to get rid of it. I didn’t want it sitting with the rest of my indoor plants, though (all two of them) – so I decided “out of sight, out of mind.” I put it in one of the empty bedrooms and closed the door, forgetting about it for weeks on end and then overwatering as usual. The plant sat in virtual darkness the whole time, only getting light from the window on these short winter days.
But what I didn’t know was that this was just what the plant needed to thrive – lots of darkness in a cool room with a little neglect thrown in. And then it happened.
Wouldn’t you welcome all your afflictions and trials if you knew this was going to be the result? Good news for you: it is.
Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. James 1:2-4
I’ll probably put this in a dark room and neglect it in the morning.
Use it or lose, they say. This seems to apply to all sorts of things, but you don’t pay much attention to it until you’ve entered a certain age bracket and then it gets serious. Muscles you took for granted now have to be regularly used or they wither and atrophy away. Singing that was effortless now requires practice to sound half as good as you did in your prime. And the brain cells – who knew they were going to be such traitors in your latter years? All your devices seem to know what’s going on, as you get more and more suggestions to play word games like crossword and WORDsearch in an effort to stave off the inevitable declining of the gray matter. I thought aging was going to be like being sent out to pasture to graze, but it turns out to be more like hard work.
So I’m in the classroom again. I signed up for two online art classes through Udemy: Beginning Watercolor Essentials and The Drawing Masterclass. Both classes are starting very basic, but I’m excited about going on to more sophisticated projects. Here’s where we started out in the watercolor class:
The leaf. We’re supposed to be learning how to show a gradation of color by mixing more and more water in it. Seemed simple, but wasn’t. I like the paint puddles almost as much as the leaves.
And things were even more basic in the Drawing class:
Kris and I are also taking an online class through Hillsdale College called “Constitution 101.” We had the first lecture this morning, entitled “The Theory of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.” We took notes and everything, but Kris couldn’t offer to carry my books since it’s online. Oh well. We took the first quiz and got 9 out of 10 right.
Let’s hope that this shifts the balance of the brain cells in the right direction. The next step would be learning to use new technology, but that’s for another day.
I’ll probably delete this during class in the morning.
As I wrote earlier, I wanted to take some time this year to tell the story of how I came to faith in Christ – the truest story I can tell. So here is the first installment.
Our first meeting was not propitious. At least it wasn’t for me. He was the subject of a painting in the entryway of the church, and I was the timid girl who had to pass by Him week after week. It was one of those paintings in which the eyes of the subject on canvas seem to follow you as you move. How do artists do that, anyway? It’s really creepy. At least it was for me. But I was only three or four years old, maybe five. My mother was the church organist – or was she the church choir director? – so this was the church we went to at the time. I have vague memories of being taken down to the basement of the church for Sunday School lessons. No doubt someone was trying to impart some scriptural truths to us, but I do not remember any of it. My lasting memory was of running past that painting of Jesus as fast as I could. I did not like Him looking at me, His eyes following me. I did not know that you cannot run from God’s gaze as easily as you can run from a painting.
An atheist is one who denies the existence of God, or of any kind of deity. I have heard it said that an atheist has two primary tenets: 1. There is no God. 2. I hate him.
Ha ha! Let me just state for the record that I was never an atheist. All through childhood if you had asked me if there was a God, I would have probably looked at you blankly, but I had an instinctual sense that there was someone to cry out to in times of trouble, the kinds of trouble that a young person in my relatively safe universe encountered. I would make silent pleadings to whomever might be listening when I was frightened, when I was late for the bus and didn’t want to miss it, when I desperately wanted to win someone’s favor or attention, when I was confused and/or lost. I didn’t know if anyone was listening, but I wanted to believe that there was an invisible someone who could be applied to in time of need that had the power to do something for me. Someone who saw me, who heard me, who knew me. And when I lied or did something wrong, I also had an instinctual sense that even though no one else knew, Someone knew. This is the common grace of my conscience at work, of course, but our consciences are created things, part of the way God made us. We ignore them to our peril.
The extent of religion in our home was that of singing grace before supper. “For health and strength and daily food, we give Thee thanks, O Lord.” We were a musical family and sang it as a round, which was fun. I don’t remember the Bible ever being read or talked about, but my parents were very moral people and certainly taught us the difference between right and wrong. I didn’t know anyone else that talked about religious things, either, until third grade at the elementary school. Enter Sharon Stendal, a new girl that it turned out was just back in the United States for a year while her parents were taking a year sabbatical from their missionary work in Bogota, Colombia. Sharon spoke to me quite openly about faith in Jesus Christ, but in quiet, natural ways – it was just a part of her life. I didn’t pay much attention to it, actually, but something must have sunk in, since I’ve never forgotten her. She and I were very close friends – what a sorrow it was for me to say goodbye to her at the end of the year. We promised to write to each other and I think a letter or two did go back and forth between us. I wish I still had those letters; I wish we had not lost touch.
Our family changed churches when my mother got a job directing the choir at a different church. I got my first Bible there, given to me by Reverend Conover, for learning all the books in the Bible. He had a funny joke that he used to use on all of the kids – he’d ask us to find the book of Hepzibah and then he’d slap his knee and laugh, for there was no such book. I didn’t place much value in that Bible, but later on, it became important, which just goes to show you that God never lets His Word return to Him empty.
When I was in fourth or fifth grade there, I unfortunately got swept up in what was called “Confirmation Class.” To say that I hated it would be an understatement. I didn’t know any of the kids at this church – they were in a completely different school district – and from my perspective, they were a very close-knit clique-y group. I felt excluded and being naturally very shy, I didn’t try very hard to fit in. I had no interest in the content of the class, either. Then Lori G. came along, another misfit. She befriended me and quickly persuaded me that neither of us need suffer the tortures of Confirmation Class any longer. She had done some reconnaissance and discovered that the nursery was not in use during our class time. We hatched our wicked plan and carried it out: each week we’d meet in the hallway outside the class and then make our way surreptitiously to the nursery where we’d shut ourselves in and play quietly. At the end of class time, we’d go and meet our parents and nobody suspected a thing. Ah, those were fun times. My conscience bothered me a little at this hooky playing – I was an inveterate rule follower – but Lori was made of bolder stuff and it was easy for me to ride the Hooky Train with her at the controls.
We went on in this way for weeks, but inevitably the teacher took note of our continued absence, made some inquiries, and we were found out, much to our dismay. We had to slink back into class as known law-breakers. My mother asked me about it later at home, perplexed at this uncharacteristic behavior. I still remember the conversation – we were in my Mom and Dad’s bedroom. I told her how much I hated the class, I cried and begged her not to make me go to it. “Please, please don’t make me go!” What would you have done if you’d been her? To my surprise, she gave in and I was given a glorious reprieve. Oh, happy day! Looking back, I realize now that she didn’t put a whole lot of stock in the whole religion thing and was probably very sympathetic to my feelings. I was done with God for the time being.
But God wasn’t done with me yet, not by a long shot.
I’ll probably delete this in the morning, unless I’m playing hooky.
I dismantled the Christmas tree the other day. Sigh… it seems like just yesterday I was mantling it. When shorn of all its baubles and lights, it’s still a handsome presence in the house.
I know some people like to take down all their Christmas things before the end of the year, but I like to wait at least until the end of Christmas season, which technically is January 6, AKA Epiphany.
The naked tree didn’t sit in the living room for long – the man of the house took it to the back yard where it can pretend that it’s still rooted in the earth and maybe even provide shelter for birds. This is what Christmas trees do when they’re put out to pasture. We have friends who take some of the wood of their Christmas tree and shape it into a cross to display during Lent and Easter. That’s pretty clever if you ask me. After all, the manger scene led to Golgotha.
I miss you, my dear Christmas tree. See you next year!
I’ll probably delete this in the morning, but not by the light of the Christmas tree…
It shouldn’t come as a big surprise to any of you that I love to read. I usually have a book by my bedside that I turn to at bedtime and it’s not uncommon for me to be reading several books concurrently. You’d think that would get confusing, but somehow it doesn’t.
I read a poem by Emily Dickinson this morning in which she referred to books as her “kinsmen of the shelf.” I sense a kindred spirit there. She says, “Unto my books – so good to turn – far ends of tired days…” Yep, she’s got a book or two on her bedside table as well.
In 2019 I decided to join the Goodreads Book Reading Challenge and set a goal of 100 books for the year, which I accomplished. I did the same in 2020 and 2021, but by the end of 2021 I realized that having such an insanely high goal was turning reading into a chore, plus I was adding in a private goal of writing a short review for each one. When I asked myself, “Why am I doing this?” I didn’t have a good answer. I set a goal of 36 books in 2022, thinking that 3 books per month was reasonable and would keep reading enjoyable. Why even join the Book Reading Challenge in the first place? It’s a valid question. There’s something satisfying about setting a goal and meeting it – that’s all I’ve got. Plus when you get to the end, there’s quite a bit of exciting hoo-ha that goes on: confetti and cheers, that sort of thing.
Got a book you want to recommend adding to my list in 2022? Now’s your chance!
I might just delete this in the morning. I might not. It’ll be a game-day decision.
Every child instinctively likes to dance. Put on some music and watch your toddlers start to move with their funny little ways of bobbing up and down, interspersed with interesting jerks and twists. I was no exception. Here I am at around 2 years of age, obviously having found the perfect dance partner.
But the urge to dance didn’t die out as I got older. When I was in my teens, I used to wait until everyone was gone from the house so I could try out my impromptu dance routines. This didn’t happen as often as I’d like since there were eight souls living in our house, but occasionally the coast was clear. I’d close the curtains, turn on the music (LOUD) and dance from one side of the room to the other doing fancy moves, leaps and turns, etc. I really thought I was something else. Part of me wanted to open up those curtains in case someone should go by – why should I hide my talent under a bushel? But the other part of me, the sane part, knew that I might not get the acclaim that I conjured up in my delusions of grandeur. What if someone guffawed, or worse, threw some rotten tomatoes at my efforts? No, better to keep this a solo act without an audience.
I don’t get many opportunities to dance these days, but recently saw an ad for an app that has short, uncomplicated dance moves as a way of exercise. I hate exercise, but I love to dance. I also hate spending money on something I can do myself, so I decided to give it a try in the privacy of our living room, just like the old days.
I quickly found out that I’m not a teenager anymore. After about 60 seconds I was out of breath. Then my knees began to hiss and jeer, threatening to shut the whole operation down. There was no leaping and jumping, that’s for sure. The dance playlist that I’d randomly chosen sounded vaguely obscene – oops, I should have chosen one from an earlier, more innocent era. Oh, and I left the curtains open, having realized somewhere along the line that people are not, in fact, just roaming around hoping to see somebody in their house dancing. Still, if I’d spotted anyone, I would have quit instantly, just in case. No use taking any chances.
Would I do it again? Absolutely! Will I tell any of you when I’m about to commence this madness? Absolutely not! Better keep this a solo act without an audience.
I’ll probably close the curtains and delete this in the morning. Don’t look.
Sometimes the simplest prayer is the most eloquent. I went out to get our mail today and had to fight through the cold winds and blowing snow to get it.
These kinds of days always bring back to my mind very vividly the day that I was on my way home from an airport run over 10 years ago. As I neared the exit for my home, I began to muse about making pancakes for the kids for breakfast since it was still early. I made a lane change and just like that, my car hit black ice and began going off the road, swiveling around as it went. “Lord, help me!” I cried aloud in my distress – three words I barely had time the time to say before the car came to a rest off the side of the road. I had clobbered my head on the rear view mirror and bent my glasses up pretty well, but it could have been a lot worse. There were no other cars in my way as I went careening across the road. And as I sat there waiting for the tow truck watching the oncoming traffic going over that same black ice, no one else slid off and into my car as I feared would happen. As I looked around, I realized that I was very close to an opening in the embankment that would have sent my car downward and could have resulted in much worse injuries – maybe even death.
I was shaken, very shaken. My neighbor called the tow truck for me and came to pick me up, since my husband was out of town. Our car was totaled and got deposited in our driveway as a visible reminder of the accident. A few days later, I had to get into our van and drive up to the airport to pick up Kris and I almost couldn’t do it. Post-traumatic stress is a real thing, I discovered as I replayed the accident again and again in my mind.
But through it all, I could see over and over again how the Lord had protected me, delivered me, and helped me. Three words? That’s all I needed.
I’ll probably delete this in the morning, especially if the wind is howling and the snow is creeping across the road.
There are days when living in a cold, wintry world is like living in a land of enchantment. It’s tempting to think that I could be happy going south for the winter. I wouldn’t miss the days of below zero wind chill. But I’d miss the sun dogs that only come out to play on those days.
I wouldn’t miss the slippery ice beneath my feet. But I’d miss the delicate beauty of hoarfrost.
I wouldn’t miss wearing all those extra layers of clothing, but I’d miss the pleasure of a hot cup of tea.
What would you miss?
I’ll probably send this blog post south for the winter in the morning.
Lynniebeemuseoday 