As I have mentioned before, I went to college 7 years for my 4-year degree. Along the way, I was pressured to choose a major and started out with music therapy. I like music, I like the idea of helping people using music – seemed like a good fit. After a couple quarters of that, I decided to switch to social work although I don’t remember now why I rejected music therapy. I was still in the realm of helping people, though. During my brief tenure as a social work major, I needed to get some volunteer experience, so I decided to check out a place called Y.E.S., which stood for Youth Emergency Service. It was a 24-hour crisis help line. I didn’t like talking to strangers on the phone, I was the very last person you’d want around in a crisis, and I didn’t tend to handle unknown situations very well, but in an astounding moment of bravery or stupidity (probably both), I signed up for the training.

There were a few training sessions and I was in a small group of about 4-5 people getting trained. We learned about the kinds of phone calls we’d likely be getting, we learned what kinds of responses would be appropriate, we discussed what kinds of situations would be the most difficult for each of us to handle. The training sessions ended with something I feared and dreaded most of all: role playing. I HATE ROLE PLAYING! I had told the group that I thought it would really be difficult to talk to someone who was harming their own children, so of course that was the situation I had to handle during role playing.

Somehow I passed the training and started to get assigned hours at the center. I think we worked 2-4 hour shifts. It was located in an old house on the second floor. There were always at least two people on duty, and we were required to fill out forms for each phone interaction that we had. I wasn’t a praying person at that time, but I used to fervently hope that the phone wouldn’t ring while I was there. In spite of that, I had to handle some calls. One young man called and was beside himself with grief because his girlfriend had broken up with him after he got a haircut she didn’t like. We had been instructed not to give out counsel and advice, but merely to serve as a listening board, giving helpful feedback when appropriate. It was hard not to butt in, though. I suggested that perhaps a girlfriend that could cut off a relationship because of a haircut was perhaps not that great of a prize. Since we weren’t a Christian center and I wasn’t a Christian, I couldn’t even give any sort of meaningful, life-giving encouragement either.

Another time I got a call from a fellow who told me his troubles and everything I said to him seemed to hit the spot. “Put me in, coach, I’m hot!” was how I felt. He was very appreciative and kept me on the phone for quite a while. I filled out my form feeling like I’d done something truly helpful in this sad and sorry world. The next time I came in, my feedback form had been written on by our supervisor. The guy I had talked to was a regular – keeping us on the phone however he could was his way of being manipulative. I’d been had.

The only other call I remember distinctly was when a young mother called because she couldn’t stand hearing her baby cry anymore – it was making her so angry she was afraid she’d hurt her baby. She was a single mom. I don’t remember much of what we said during that call, but I think I commended her for reaching out rather than lashing out. Just talking to someone else seemed to help her sort things through and get a handle on her emotions. She understood how important it was to get help. It was a scary call for me to take. I hoped I’d done something truly helpful in this sad and sorry world, but I didn’t know how her story ended.

Within a few months, I knew that this was not the work for me. I felt unspeakable dread every time I had a shift. I remember confessing to a co-volunteer that I hated hearing the phone ring, and he was surprised. For him, each phone call was an opportunity to help someone. Perhaps that’s when I knew I was in the wrong place. When I left, my co-volunteers and supervisor seemed genuinely sad to see me go, but I felt like an oppressive weight had been lifted off my shoulders. It felt good to say NO to Y.E.S.

Tuesday True Stories has returned! I haven’t forgotten about telling my story about coming to faith. Part 4 will be coming soon!

I’ll probably delete this – wait a minute – is that the phone ringing? Must go hide…

There’s a robin’s nest out on our balcony, right above the lamp fixture. Each spring, the nest gets rebuilt and then occupied. We don’t go out there much in the spring, which works well for shy Mother Robin who is apt to bolt at the slightest appearance or noise from us.

A few days ago I happened to look out and saw two little gaping bird mouths soundlessly waiting for their afternoon snack. Oh boy, I thought to myself. The mother wasn’t there so this was the perfect time for me to go out on the balcony, position myself near the door with my camera and just wait for Mama to show up with the goods. I’ve taken photos before, but always had to do it through the screen window which isn’t nearly as nice. This way I was already out there and could stand perfectly still, thus not bringing alarm to Mother Robin.

Sure enough after a couple minutes, Mother showed up with a tasty worm, but she detected my presence immediately and perched on the railing on the other end of the balcony instead of going to the nest. I told myself that a little patience was all that was needed. I’d stand still and she’d overcome her objections. Five minutes went by. I was holding the camera up and had it all focused so there wouldn’t be any sudden movements when she came. The camera got heavier and heavier. I took the chance of moving it ever so slightly in her direction so I could get a photo.

She stood nervously in place, making regular “chip” sounds. Then she moved ever so slightly as well, but showed no signs of flying up to feed her poor hungry children. What a dilemma I had placed her in! Two instincts were at war now: the instinct to feed the babies, and the instinct to keep them safe when danger was lurking nearby. I admired her, I was frustrated with her. I waited five more minutes, ten more minutes…then I conceded defeat. I went back in the house and within 30 seconds she was up in that nest and I was taking photos through the screen window.

Well, in the new heaven and the new earth things will be different. Isaiah 11:6-8 says that:

The wolf shall dwell with the lamb,
and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat,
and the calf and the lion and the fattened calf together;
and a little child shall lead them.

The cow and the bear shall graze;
their young shall lie down together;
and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
The nursing child shall play over the hole of the cobra,
and the weaned child shall put his hand on the adder’s den.

…and the robin shall not be frightened by me and my camera.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning while the robin babies eat their wormy breakfast.

There’s really no reason why the sight of an indigo bunting should bring more excitement than the sight of a sparrow. But it does, doesn’t it? Would you go running to the window if someone said, “Look, a house sparrow!”

The only context I had for “indigo” as a child was in the colors of the rainbow: ROY G BIV. That’s a handy acronym that I’ve never forgotten. All those colors were very run-of-the-mill except “indigo.” It had a special mystique about it, if you’ll allow colors to have a mystique. Remember the Crayola Crayon boxes of 64 crayons? It was a pure delight to open up a new box of those; all those beautiful colors! I had a favorite, though, a crayon with such a wonderful color that I savored and favored it: midnight blue. Most of the 64 colors in the box were identified in the most purely prosaic terms: red, red-orange, red-violet, yellow, yellow-green, etc. But in amongst all those plain colors, midnight blue rose to poetic heights, calling to mind that evening color of the sky after the sun has gone down and only the stingy light of the stars remains. I can just imagine the Crayola Crayon employees jotting down names of the crayons very sensibly until the dreamy, poetic member of the team says, “let’s not say dark blue for this one – it reminds me of the sky at midnight. How about midnight blue?” Perhaps there was discussion at this point with some fool saying, “We don’t want to confuse the children with fanciful descriptions.” There will always be fools like that and they must be resisted and ignored.

I’ve gotten a little far afield from our indigo bunting. I think it’s our new red bird feeder that attracts it. Every time I see it, I’m thrilled all over again.

Where have you gone,
my sweet little bunting –
Your indigo feathers
I’m continually hunting.

I guess I’ll be bunting this post to the curb in the morning.

Some of you might be interested to see how I finished out the flash card set I was making for our granddaughter.

If it weren’t for the word “xylophone,” every alphabet book for children would be in trouble. I guess you can say “X as in Fox, or Box,” but it feels a little like cheating. My sister and I made an alphabet book in 1982 for our nephew using made-up words. We could have made up ANY word we wanted for X, but we gave it up as a lost cause. The X page simply said “X is a impossible letter which is meaningless and without worth.”

The best part of making these cards has been watching our granddaughter trying to pronounce them. She does a really good job and if there’s a word that’s not very familiar, she gives it her best shot. There’s something so adorable about that stage in which kids will try to pronounce pretty much everything you throw at them. I discovered when we had children that age that the word “ruler,” was one that brought endless entertainment…for me, anyway. “Woo-wah” was that way it came out. I still remember trying to teach the twins how to say the word “yellow,” which they pronounced “lellow.” Here’s how it went:
Me: Say “Yay!”
Twins: “Yay!!”
Me: Yay!
Twins: Yay!
Me: Yellow!!
Twins: Lellow!

Now that I’m done with the flash cards, I can get back to the watercolor classes and starting the next felt creature, which is a snail that delivers mail. Unless I get distracted with something else…

I’ll probably measure this post with a “woo-wah” in the morning and find it wanting.

As part of my college training to be a dietitian, I had to take some sort of food service administration class. There was a campus cafeteria and part of our training was in practical experience. One day I was assigned to work part of the breakfast shift at the cafeteria. I was relieved that I was actually just going to be shadowing the regular cook, since I didn’t really know much about the finer details of making eggs to order. I followed the regular guy around with my hands hanging uselessly at my sides. It was going really well until he informed me that he wanted to take a cigarette break. PANIC! I hoped nobody would come while he was gone, but a fellow came over wanting an egg over easy. I wasn’t actually sure what this was, but it seemed self-descriptive and I didn’t want to tell him I was clueless. I bustled around confidently with an air of “I’ve done this a million times,” and cracked the eggs efficiently onto the griddle. Then my desire to do it right overcame my pride and I broke down and asked the customer when I should turn them. He kindly stuck around and talked me through it, probably wondering why I’d been hired. I was a nervous wreck until the cook came back.

My next practical experience came when several of us were asked to help in the main kitchen working on baking and cooking more substantial items. I was assigned to make the sour cream raisin pies. My instructor and supervisor, Louise Mullan, came over to tell me that this was Dean McFarland’s favorite dessert. He always came over to eat on the days that sour cream raisin pies were featured. Miss Mullan was a bit of a toady when it came to Dean McFarland, but she was a genuinely nice lady. The recipe wasn’t too difficult to follow and I was pleased with the three pies that I made and put in the fridge to be put out the next day.

I was assigned to the kitchen again the next day and came in happy and full of the milk of human kindness…until Miss Mullan asked to speak to me privately in her office. She was upset and looked as somber as if someone had died. I was alarmed without knowing why. She shut the door and turned to me, saying reproachfully, “We had to throw out the sour cream raisin pies you made. Dean McFarland took a piece and brought it back – it was inedible. You put in too much gelatin and they were tough as rubber. I know you didn’t mean to, but it was an awful mistake and I was embarrassed to have to take responsibility for your carelessness.” As Scooby Doo would say, “Ruh Roh.”

I apologized, I groveled, I volunteered to make them again, but the stakes were too high. I knew the Dean by this time and I think he might have been chagrined to know the fuss that was made about this incident. Still, I think Miss Mullan was well within her rights to read me the riot act. This was her turf and she did, indeed, take responsibility for the mistake instead of blaming it on me. I’d like to tell you that I was never careless again in reading a recipe, but that wouldn’t be true.

One last point: sour cream and raisins do not belong together in a pie. Can I get an amen?

There’s no raisin for me to delete this blog post pie tomorrow.

I’ve been going through all our photo albums picking out photos of our oldest son for a slide show for his wedding. I came across this one and just loved everything about it: my funky cat slippers and his sweet little bare feet, me with my hair bow and him wearing a blanket like a cape, and over and through everything, the companionship of our reading together. He learned to read fairly easily and entered into the world of books just like I remember doing at his age. We were both prone to staying up late reading, unable to put a book down.

Things haven’t changed that much – we both still love to read. But now, we don’t get to sit cuddled together on the couch while we do it. Those were good times.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning unless I’ve stayed up late reading and forget about it.

Yes, it’s true – my thumb hurts. Of course, this is not something you care about, but I’m going to tell you about it anyway. Here’s how it went down…

It was a dark and stormy night. Just kidding. But we do need to go back a few weeks. Our cat was having an extended stay at our son’s house and one day I was down the basement talking to a friend on the phone when I saw it – a mouse. “Eek!” I said, or something like that.

This was no ordinary mouse. It didn’t even have the wherewithal to run away when I got closer to it. It appeared to be entering its sunset years and I half expected to see it using a tiny mouse cane. It crept to the edge of the room and stopped moving, as if it realized the gig was up and there was no use trying to escape. A sense of dejection and resignation emanated from the wee creature.

Nevertheless, I put my live-in Pest Control Expert on the case and he quickly set up a couple mouse traps. The mouse, probably surprised that death wasn’t as imminent as it thought, left the scene and did not give in to the enticement of peanut butter on the trap.

Two weeks went by and the mouse and traps were forgotten. Then the cat came back. (Those of you who went to camps as children are now hopelessly stuck singing the words “the very next day…” I’m sorry – it couldn’t be helped.)

It occurred to me that the cat might find those traps worth investigating, so I moved them off the floor and put them on the counter by the washing machine. At the time, I was patting myself on the back for being so smart as to remember the traps at all. I saved the cat’s life! And in the back of my mind, a teeny, tiny voice was saying something like “That might not be the best place for those traps.” I ignored it.

Today I grabbed a tape dispenser on that counter and didn’t see the trap by it until – THWACK!

My thumb hurts…and now you know the whole story.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, because the fact that my thumb hurts is really irrelevant to the entire world.

Back when we were in our child rearing years, we used to read the Psalms regularly with our children and wanted to have them get a thorough familiarity with them. One of the things we did was to let them choose a “title” for each Psalm based on some of the wording of it or something that seemed important about it. Psalm 1 was entitled “Contrast,” since it illustrated a contrast between the righteous man and the ungodly man. We also worked on memorizing one verse from each Psalm. It was a big project (150 Psalms!) and hard to keep up with, to be honest. We did end up with our own titles for each of the Psalms, but the verse memorizing was a little spotty.

Some of the titles were rather quirky. Psalm 96 became the Ent Psalm, because of the verse “Then all the trees of the woods will rejoice before the LORD.” You’d have to be acquainted with Lord of the Rings to understand that one. We also entitled one of the psalms “Legolas,” because of the mention of arrows (another LOTR reference). Psalm 18 was called “Superman” because there’s a verse that says “For by You I can run against a troop; by my God I can leap over a wall.” Occasionally I had to nix a title, but I allowed a fair amount of leeway because it gave them more of a sense of interest and “ownership” of the psalms.

Psalm 36 had the title “Fountain,” for verse 9: “For with You is the fountain of life; In Your light we see light.” And now we get to the subject of this blog post (finally!). We have two water fountains on our property, which seems like an embarrassment of riches. The fellow that built this house put them in – a hobby of his, apparently. There’s something so mesmerizing and calming about moving water. It’s a lovely sound and an even lovelier sight to see a fountain. And when the sun shines through it, the light intensifies and sparkles, constantly moving with the water.

Six years ago, both fountains had to be “retired” – temporarily we thought, because each needed some repair or parts replaced. But as the years went on, the project never rose to the top and the fountains became a distant memory. Until this year… Praise the Lord and hallelujah! My husband got the back yard fountain going a couple days ago and soon the larger one in the front will be back in business.

I realized that every time I thought about fountains, that verse from Psalm 36 would come to my mind. I guess even if the kids have forgotten those titles, some of them stuck with me. A fountain is continually replenishing the water flow, over and over and over. How sweet to think about the Lord giving us a fountain of life in Christ, continually replenishing His grace to us. In His light, we see light.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning to the refreshing sound of our water fountain. Ahhh…

I’m running short on time today, so I thought I’d share with you the first answer to my Storyworth questions (the Mother’s Day gift I got from my kids). The question was: Where did you go on vacations as a child?

When I was very young, my parents took us to a cabin on Tripp Lake. My only memories of that place were that the refrigerator was really loud and kept me awake at night and the lake was very shallow for quite a distance from shore. No doubt that was part of its appeal to parents with many young children.

My father worked with a fellow who owned a cabin on Palmer Lake, which was near where my dad’s parents lived. For a time we went to that cabin for a week every summer. It was isolated and very rustic. The water in the kitchen sink operated by a pump that had to be primed. There was no indoor plumbing, either – you know what that means. I count it a badge of honor that I learned to use outhouses so early in my life, but I never used them without feeling a high degree of nervousness and distaste. The cabin at Palmer Lake had a loft which was where us kids slept. Eventually all six of us siblings were there, so I’m sure that bedtime was accompanied by plenty of shenanigans. My oldest sister probably was accorded the privilege of sleeping down in the main living room. We had a dock and a swimming area, but it was really more of a fishing lake. The swimming area was filled with disgusting weeds that clung to your legs and made it hard to touch bottom because that meant standing on them. Ugh. I learned how to dive off that dock, a trial for everyone concerned. My method of learning how to dive started with me telling everyone that I was going to dive off the dock. Then I would run down the dock and stop at the edge, saying, “Wait!!” What seemed so possible at the beginning caught up with me as a nearly impossible task at the end of the dock. After that, I’d remonstrate with myself for being such a chicken and I’d start the whole thing over again. I think it was several days before I finally got up the nerve to fling myself off the dock head first in some semblance of a dive. For years I got teased about that “Wait!” that came with every attempt. It’s sort of symbolic of how I approach trying new things, though.

Other than that, our vacations were either to Duluth, where my mother and father had grown up, or to campgrounds at county and state parks. With a large family on a schoolteacher’s salary, vacations were done on a budget – we always camped. Dad would circle each campground very carefully before picking a site – it had to have plenty of shade and nice level ground, and also isolated from others, if possible. Being near the bathrooms was a plus. Mom and Dad had a pop-up tent trailer which slept 6, and the older kids usually put up a separate tent. We hardly ever left the state of Minnesota (see previous comment about budget vacations), but had a lot of fun. I do recall one camping trip to the Chicago area. Here are a few specific (but not necessarily fun) vacation memories:

1. The infamous camping trip to a campground in the area where we live now. It was raining when we arrived, raining when we set up the trailer and tents, and it rained unrelentingly for at least two days. We’d been trapped in our tents the entire time playing cards. My dad, who was not easily defeated, finally gave up and gave the order to pack up, take the tents down and go home. Worst Camping Trip Ever.

2. Dad took just me and my older sister on a camping trip and I got sick with a fever our first night out. We were in a campground occupied by some young men who were partying pretty hard and very loudly late into the night. In my sleep, I overheard all the ruckus which included my dad going over there and confronting them, but my fevered imagination turned it into a very threatening scene in which my dad had to fight them. In reality, I think he did go over and ask them to pipe down, but no fight ensued.

3. The glorious trip to the Boundary Waters with my dad and two sisters. That was one of my favorite vacations! Paddling through pristine lakes, the sound of the oars dipping in water, the loons at night, taking our drinking water right out of the deepest parts of the lakes, doing portages, finding driftwood to bring home for our mom to put in her gardens, the simple meals, reading Mary Stewart’s books about Merlin, giggling with my sisters at night…all memories I cherish. God bless my dad for being willing to take a trip like that with three females.

That’s the story for today!

I’ll probably…you know.

Things have finally gotten merry around here. We had one day of sweltering August last week, but we now have a May worth boasting about. Allow me to introduce the articles of evidence (I’m channeling Hamilton Burger):

Article A: The goldfinch party arrived for their spring repast.

Article B: The indigo bunting came to call. One hopes it was not rudely eating our cilantro and parsley seeds.

Article C: The apple tree is in bloom. For further evidence, I submit these close ups:

Now if only we can keep those devilish Japanese beetles away from our apple trees this year. Hubby has a plan which involves the number 7. That’s all I can say – wouldn’t want them to get wind of it.

What are the evidences of the Merry Month of May at your home?

Did any of you see the lunar eclipse and the blood moon last night? We missed the whole thing, completely oblivious.

I’ll probably submit articles of evidence to convict this blog post in the morning.

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight
Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning..

Yesterday morning, we had an unusual sky going on – definitely a warning of things to come.

And lo, it came to pass later in the day. Another humdinger of a storm passed through town. The tornado sirens were sounding and I thought about whether or not I should start hauling all our photo albums downstairs. I decided not to, which turned out okay this time.

They ask but our Delight-
The Darlings of the Soil
And grant us all their Countenance
For a penurious smile.
Emily Dickinson

I read that poem yesterday morning and it made me think of pansies, who are definitely “darlings of the soil,” with something like a countenance. Thanks to our neighbors we have a beautiful pot of them by our front door. They ask for my delight and I give it to them.

Lastly, I need to redeem myself with a better photo of Mr. Gnome performing his duty of lighting up his little corner of the world in our back yard.

Mr. Gnome, Mr. Gnome
Lighting up his earthy home
Sitting atop that rich black loam
That constitutes his biome.

He scares away the grumbly Grome
And the shrieking, frightful furtive Floam
He protects us from the tiny Thome
And the slippery slimy Salladome

Oh thank you, thank you, Mr. Gnome!
Lynniebee

Well, that certainly turned into something surprising. You never know what your brain is going to concoct on the fly in a moment of need.

Call me when you see a grumbly Grome and I’ll delete this post, especially if it’s in the morning.