Do you remember Cat Stevens? He showed up in one of my dreams recently as a street performer in Northfield, though I haven’t thought of him for years. I certainly never expected my subconscious to bring him in for a role in the strange stories that play out while I’m asleep. Years ago, when I was in college, I remember having a dream in which Mick Jagger showed up and knew me, which made perfect sense, as things do when you are dreaming.
I read once that it’s not uncommon for people to dream about people that have some sort of leadership role in their lives, from politicians to pastors. I’ve often had pastors show up in my dreams in the context of a church service. In one of those dreams, my husband and I were in charge of communion and things were going awry. I was supposed to be getting the bread ready, but when I went to go find it, all I could find were some old towels. Somebody else had a basket full of beautiful rolls and agreed to let us use them.
Another time I dreamed that I was at some sort of church function, at the end of which we formed into small prayer circles of three people each. When the time came to pray, everyone starting singing this beautiful song “God the Three in One.” Each person in the trio had their own part and everyone sang except me, since I didn’t know it. I listened and marveled at the way everyone’s voices were unique and yet blended perfectly. The whole thing was so trinitarian – groups of three each singing their own part to make one lovely song. How I desperately wanted to remember how to sing that song after I woke up!
On the theme of church dreams, I dreamed once that I had decided to visit some other churches. One church was very informal. The young pastor took time during the church service to explain how they could make more money by selling some sort of apple dessert. He had a large pan and was demonstrating how much space in it should be used for the apple dessert – a much larger portion than previously. When it came to prayer time, he spoke as if addressing someone who needed correction. “We’re unhappy about what’s happened to Mildred, Lord; we’re rather miffed at You…” I laughed about that one so hard when I told my husband about it after waking up.
Good grief! What an odd mind I must have to cobble together such bizarre stories to run amok in the night seasons. I’d love to hear about any of the odd dreams that you’ve had, if you dare share them.
I’m dreaming of a blog post that lost its way and didn’t wake up in the morning.
My husband and I went to two very different gatherings today, but the heart of both was the same.
The first was up in St. Paul where thousands of us gathered to pray and to grieve the loss of so many innocents.
The death toll is staggering and continues to rise in this unseen war where the bodies don’t sprawl out on battlefields, but in rooms where small lives are easily extinguished. We sang “Amazing Grace,”heard rousing speeches, and were sobered to hear that over 12,000 unborn children were killed in 2022 in Minnesota and the preliminary statistics from 2023 suggest that number reached 17,000.
Arise, O LORD, Do not let man prevail; Let the nations be judged in Your sight. Put them in fear, O LORD, That the nations may know themselves to be but men. Psalm 9:19-20
The second gathering was at the pregnancy resource center in our small town where 20-25 of us came together for the same purpose: prayer.
In short (to bring you up to date), Fig Newton, the frog, has gone on an adventure in his boat, the Lucky Lucy. He met a bear named Grimpus who was traveling with a little girl named Miss Agra. Fig made a list of things he wanted to accomplish on his adventures, a plan which was suddenly upended by the theft of his boat by a fox named Phineas. Grimpus, Miss Agra and Fig ran to try to get the boat back, but couldn’t keep up. Stopping to figure out how to proceed, they met up with Colonel Purslane, a hedgehog who promised to help them find Fig’s boat and apprehend the villainous fox. Colonel Purslane suggested they consult with Clive, the snail who delivered the mail. In the meantime, Willow the rabbit caught sight of Phineas going down the river and wondered what he was up to.
For the next part of the story, we actually have to backtrack a little.
Earlier in the day:
Phineas Fox was out for a morning walk on a windy day by the river, thinking about the eggs in Farmer Goodfellow’s hen house. He used to have easy access to the eggs, but the farmer had recently shored up his defenses. My, how Phineas missed those eggs! He never took them all – he was happy to have just a share in Farmer Goodfellow’s largess – and he generally left the hens alone. It was a shock to find himself barred from entrance when he’d been so very considerate. What was the world coming to? He was working through some possible solutions to his problem, when suddenly…
“Help! Oh, help! My babies! Someone please help!!!”
Good gracious, thought Phineas. Who’s making such a din and ruining my cogitations? He peered around a bush to see the offender and beheld the sight of Mrs. Twig, a rather plump-ish squirrel, running around in circles by the riverside. He was about to turn around when she caught sight of him. “Phineas Fox! I never thought I’d be glad to see a rascal like you – come here!”
Well, being called a rascal wasn’t exactly very motivating, but it occurred to Phineas that helping Mrs. Twig with her dilemma might help him with his, so he rushed over. “How might I be of assistance, Mrs. Twig?”
“Oh, it’s terrible, just terrible! I was down here gathering acorns for my darling children when a sudden gust of wind blew their nest right out of the tree and into the river! It’s never happened before – never! The nest landed right side up, thank the Lord, but I can’t possibly get to them and the river current is taking them away! Mr. Twig is away on business, so you’ve got to help me!”
“I’d be happy to offer my services, Mrs. Twig…” Phineas let the sentence dangle meaningfully.
Mrs. Twig’s eyes narrowed and she cried out, “There’s no time to waste then – get going!”
Phineas stayed where he was. “One doesn’t like to put a price on the value of saving your precious progeny, but after all, I’ll have to go to considerable trouble to save them. Isn’t that worth something to you?”
Mrs. Twig chittered furiously as she jumped up and down in frustration. “I should have known. Well, what is it that you want?”
“Do you know Farmer Goodfellow’s henhouse? I’m accustomed to having some of those delicious eggs every day and he has just locked me out,” Phineas said, hoping to evoke a sympathetic response.
“I won’t steal eggs for you, Phineas,” Mrs. Twig said immediately, “but I could probably find a way to get them honestly. I’ll get you two eggs every day for the next week.”
“My dear lady, I don’t care in the least how you get them. But isn’t one week of eggs selling your beautiful children just a little short? I was thinking of a month’s supply.” Oh, he was a smooth operator, that Phineas.
“Fine, four weeks, but no deliveries on Sundays. Will that do?” Mrs. Twig was beside herself with impatience at this infernal dithering.
“Perfectly satisfactory, Mrs. Twig. Ne’er fear – once Phineas Fox is on the job, the job will get done!” And with that pretty little speech, he ran off along the riverside in the direction of the river current.
As Phineas ran, looking for some sign of the squirrel babies in their nest, he was thinking ahead to how he’d rescue them out of the water once he’d found them and was muttering to himself “…I could swim out to them but it will be a messy business trying to get them ashore. If only I had a…” At this point, he stopped, amazed with the workings of Providence. For just as he’d been thinking about a boat, a splendid little boat appeared before him as he rounded a bend in the river.
He stopped short to assess the situation. The boat was occupied by a frog with a dapper hat who appeared to be singing to himself. Why, the fellow was so enamored with his own singing he hadn’t even noticed the squirrel babies drifting by! Phineas considered asking the little soloist for some help, but didn’t want to enter into another round of negotiations. He certainly didn’t intend to share his booty with a frog, no matter how well he sang.
Phineas reached for his bola and began winding it up. “Whump, whump, whump…” and bam! Right on target! The frog was knocked out of the boat and sputtering in the water, not having a clue yet what struck him. Phineas grabbed his bola out of the water, stepped into the boat and began using the oars to propel the boat away. He’d just need to “borrow” the boat for a short time on his errand of mercy, he reasoned to himself, so he really wasn’t doing anything wrong.
“Wait! You can’t take my boat!” the little froggie cried out. Phineas tied his bola sash around his waist and turned to face him. “Allow me to introduce myself – I am Phineas Fox, and although I sincerely regret relieving you of your handsome boat, I am in need of it.” He thought that might resolve things nicely, but the frog appeared to have a different opinion about the transaction and swam toward the boat, probably hoping to take it back. Phineas clipped him on the head with one of the oars – an unfortunate measure, but he couldn’t afford to get into a fight with the scrappy frog. Phineas felt a touch of guilt at this and as he was rowing the boat swiftly downriver around the next bend, he called out, “Oh, by the way, your singing was top notch! I quite enjoyed the concert! Ne’er fear – I’ll return your fine boat to you when I’m done with it!”
Satisfied that he’d made the best of a difficult situation, Phineas pulled at the oars and it wasn’t long before he saw the squirrel nest whirling in circles ahead of him. Oh, this was almost too easy, he thought, hoping it wouldn’t make Mrs. Twig renegotiate the price when she realized how quickly he’d been able to achieve the rescue of her babies. But that was when he saw the rocks ahead and realized the water was becoming more turbulent. Oh, dear!
Our squirrel friend, Mrs. Twig, is now ready for her part in the story about Fig Newton and friends.
Mrs. Twig’s knitted basket is supposed to be filled with knitted acorns. Bah! Why would I knit acorns when I can find some perfectly lovely natural acorns practically right outside my door at the right time of year? Besides, it looked like a lot of bother knitting tiny acorn caps and making tiny wool balls. So her basket is filled with faux acorns until I can find some real ones.
But that’s not Mrs. Twig’s dilemma. For that, you’ll have to stay tuned for the next part of the story. Hopefully tomorrow!
Faux acorns, faux blog posts – all will be deleted in time.
It’s me again, the lazy artist. I had two more people volunteer to be the motivating agents for me to break out the watercolors. That was about 4-5 weeks ago. I recently finished one of those paintings and sent it on and have been thinking about the next one. It’s a good thing I don’t have to make my living doing this.
I began with the idea of a door and sort of went from there. Kind of surprised me what I ended up with, actually. That’s a delightful thing about the creative process – you never know where it may lead.
No admittance except on blog business…in the morning.
I went to get a bone density scan today; it’s almost like a whole set of medical things accumulate and come due all at once when you turn 65. Anyway, I went in and handed off the little labels to the young woman at the desk. She took them and said, “youcabeseedednsummon’llcuhgeddya.” I pondered this mysterious assortment of squashed-together syllables on my way to the waiting room and came up with a translation of “You can be seated and someone will come and get you.” There is no Duo-Lingo course for this kind of thing – you just have to do your best with what you’ve got.
I started up weight training again after having quit due to the Great and Unwarranted Shutdowns of 2020. Yes, I said that – don’t argue with me in the comments, please. I feel very timid in the weight room and hoped to have it all to myself. A fellow about my age came in and made use of the spinning machine that was right by the last weight machine. Rats – I couldn’t use that while he was there. Why not, you ask? Because I had to figure them out again and was too shy to do it in front of someone else. Then another fellow came in, a young and very muscular individual who was listening to music with earbuds and singing along rather robustly every now and then. At first I thought he was chatting us up, but no. I finished up early and slunk away home. It’s a start!
When the weather warms up, I’ll catch up with the morning deletions. Until then…brrrr!
What do you think of when you hear the word “plague?” Some of us might go directly to the Old Testament plagues: pestilence, blight, famine, locusts, etc.
I was reading in the book of 1 Kings recently and was struck by a phrase the Solomon tucked into the middle of a long prayer of dedication after the temple was completed.
“Whatever prayer, whatever supplication is made by anyone, or by all Your people Israel, when each one knows the plague of his own heart, and spreads out his hands toward the temple, then hear in heaven…and forgive…and give to everyone according to all his ways, whose heart You know (for You alone know the hearts of all the sons of men)…
Ah, suddenly the plague is getting very personal. No longer a thing that comes from without, this is the inward plague that resides in our hearts, the sins that uniquely characterize us. It reminded me of Jeremiah 17:9:
“The heart is more deceitful than all else and is desperately sick. Who can understand it?”
Who indeed? The Lord alone knows the hearts of men. I don’t know what your besetting sins are, but I know the plague of my own heart and so does He. And through Christ, He hears in heaven and forgives.
ALLELUIA!
The sun sets on the post and it will not rise in the morning.
Speaking of illumination (which I was earlier this week), behold these clouds on fire, lit into flames by the setting sun.
Perhaps it was a sky like this that inspired George Croly to write the last verse of the hymn “Spirit of God, Descend upon My Heart”
Teach me to love Thee as Thine angels love, One holy passion filling all my frame; The kindling of the heav’n descended Dove, My heart an altar, and Thy love the flame.
Ah, now I am verklempt.
When the internet sets tonight, this post will be all aflame.
My older sister died in 1987, nearly 40 years ago now. Last summer, my brother-in-law was cleaning out his basement and when he came across her collection of shells, he asked if I wanted them. “Sure!” In my mind, this was a small shoebox-sized collection. When I picked them up a couple months later, he gave me two largish boxes. So now I have shells. Lots and lots of shells. So many shells.
For now, they’re residing on a bed that doesn’t get used, but I can’t keep them there forever. I understand why my sister collected them. They’re gorgeous.
If you ask a scientist how shells are created, you’ll get a very tidy explanation about how mollusks make shells using specialized cells in the outermost layer of tissue on their bodies, called a mantle. Keep reading and you’ll be delving into a complex world of specialized cells, secretions, proteins and minerals like calcium carbonate. So yes, the usual soulless but accurate compilation of information. I’m reminded of what C.S. Lewis wrote in the book Voyage of the Dawn Treader when the travelers meet an old man named Ramandu. He tells them he used to be a star, which prompts Eustace to say “In our world, a star is a huge ball of flaming gas.” To which Ramandu replies, “Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of…”
So what are shells? When the Lord made mollusks, He looked upon their soft bodies and gave them a way to protect their vulnerable flesh. Even the most mundane shells are marvelous works from the Great Artist’s workshop. He did not build slums for them, but masterpieces of beautiful architecture. Because that who He is. That’s what He does.
(Technically, the starfish isn’t a shell. It’s not a fish either. Some scientists prefer the name “sea star,” which brings us nicely back to the discussion of stars. But all that is neither here nor there. It’s part of the collection -that’s what’s important.)
I am pondering what to do with this largess of shells. Display them? Sell them? Paint them? Use them in craft projects? Give them away? What would you do?
This blog mollusk will not survive without a protective shell.
One of my sons gave me a book for Christmas called “The Bible of Illuminated Letters.” Even though the instructions call for all sorts of hoopla that I’ll probably never do (like mixing your own colors and using gold leaf), it’s a very appealing art form, so I decided to give it a try when I sent him a thank-you note.
The “T” was from the Celtic chapter of the book; there are lots of others to choose from but I decided to start with the easiest.
“Illuminate” means “to make something visible or bright by shining light on it.” The earliest forms of illuminated manuscripts were for religious use in the monasteries of medieval Europe. How fitting to illuminate the words of Him who is our light.
And there will no longer be night; they have no need for lamplight or sunlight, because the Lord God will illumine them; and they will reign forever and ever. Revelation 22:5
You know what’s going to happen to this post in the morning…
I can’t remember when I started biting my nails, but photos indicate that it started early. Why does one do this? Those of you who have never bitten your nails probably recoil at the thought. It’s kind of a weird habit when you think about it. Which you shouldn’t. My mom applied some nasty tasting stuff to my nails to get me to quit, but I just got used to the taste and kept right on with it.
When I got engaged, my husband-to-be expressed a desire have me pick out an engagement ring. “Oh, I don’t want an engagement ring,” I said, “It’ll draw attention to my hands.” Those unsightly nail-bitten hands! He ignored this bit of vanity and I quit biting my nails for a while to make them more worthy of the ring. But old habits die hard and over the years I’ve returned to it off and on.
I had an insight recently that if I made my nails pretty, I wouldn’t be nearly so tempted to bite them. I purchased a nice color of nail polish and one morning before church I did the deed, looking forward to the no-doubt elegant looking nails I’d be sporting. The result looked like I’d commandeered the nearest 5-year-old to do it for me and unfortunately I didn’t have time to undo it. Also, I had deceived myself as to the length of my nails, a deception that was completely undone when they were covered with dark red polish.
I laughed so hard! Vanity, vanity, all is vanity. But I haven’t given up yet.
On to the topic of inflation. I’ve been detecting a disturbing kind of inflation, one that can’t be detected when you buy groceries or gas. Here’s part of a discussion I was listening to:
Man #1, upon hearing something he agreed with: “Oh, a hundred percent!” Man #2, after more discussion and hearing something he agreed with as well: “Yes! A thousand percent!” Man #1, a couple minutes later in the discussion: “I agree, one million percent!”
Friends, what is happening here? Can’t we be satisfied with one hundred percent anymore? And if that’s not enough, we are suddenly needing to be “beyond grateful” and “beyond excited.” Why? What happens when “beyond grateful” is no longer grateful enough?
This is an inflation you can do something about. Don’t let it happen to you.
Musings have been brought to you by Lynniebeemuseoday.
I one-hundred-percent (but no more) plan on deleting this in the morning.
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