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.
Hello, friends! I took a writing hiatus while our children were home for Christmas and a happy hiatus it was. Why doesn’t Hallmark make cards for that kind of event? Happy Hiatus! I’d buy one.
Thus begins a new writing year on this blog. As each new year comes along, I like to set writing goals, which is a weird thing that writers do. Last year I decided to do a different type of writing each day of the week, but this year I’m saying “bah, humbug” to that goal. I’m kicking it out and sending it to the dungeon where it will sit in damp obscurity collecting mold, and where its pitiful mewling cries will not be heard. I shall call it the “Bah Humbug Dungeon,” a place I may have need of in the future. Without knowing it I think I have used this dungeon in the past and its cells are full of old goals like “Lose Weight,” “Exercise Daily” and “Do Artwork Every Day.” Bah Humbug!!
So this year, my blog entries will be more free form. I’ll still take photos and write thoughtful or nonsensical commentary about them with the occasional poem breaking through. I’ll also put forth a short fiction piece now and then. I’m particularly interested in finishing my Tales of Fig Newton. I had fun with True Stories last year, so I’ll continue to crank some of those out, but this year I want to tell my own True Story, the best True Story I have, which is how I came to faith in Christ. I’ll tell it in serial form, hopefully leaving you on the edge of your seats with each entry. I may add book reviews and quotes. I’m open to suggestions on other content.
If you enjoy my blog, feel free to recommend it to someone else that you think would also enjoy my style of writing. Also, I absolutely LOVE getting feedback from you, so don’t hold back. Unless your feedback is negative and mean, in which case permission to hold back is freely given. But I can’t imagine any of you needing that kind of permission.
Happy New Year!
I’ll probably throw this blog post into the Bah Humbug Dungeon in the morning.
But may it never be that I would boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world. Galatians 6:14
What a squirrel wants, a squirrel eats Its teeth gnaw away ‘til it’s done What a squirrel starts, it always completes
Acorns and pine nuts are tasty treats, Black walnuts are second to none What a squirrel wants, a squirrel eats
The squirrel is clever, its feet are like cleats, The race once begun is won What a squirrel starts, it always completes.
The birds have a feeder with nuts and seeds The pole is but a fun run, What a squirrel wants, a squirrel eats.
Its vast stores of energy it never depletes No matter the quarry’s a ton, What a squirrel starts, it always completes.
It sees something fiery from the streets, A gourd as bright as the sun, What a squirrel wants, a squirrel eats, What a squirrel starts, it always completes.
If you’ve been reading my blog for awhile you might recognize that poem form as a villanelle. If you haven’t, now you know. This is the third one I’ve written and although the rules are simple, it doesn’t leave a lot of wiggle room. Anyway, aren’t those charming photos? I took them from my kitchen while the squirrel was outside chomping away, oblivious to my intrusive presence.
This has been Thursday Verse Day with Lynniebeemuseoday.
I’ll probably delete when it’s complete with all the right beats and without cheat sheets. Now I wish I’d used the word “cheats” in my poem…
Lynniebeemuseoday 