Farewell to this post,
Tomorrow’s ghost…

We raised six children, five boys and one girl, an adventure that is almost unparalleled. When I was growing up (in a family also of six children), my parents occasionally had what they called “family council,” where we’d gather to discuss items of family interest. At some point, my husband and I decided to do the same. He was president in perpetuity of this council and I was the secretary, dutifully taking notes.

The first meeting was on June 8th, 1997 when our oldest was 9 years old and our youngest wasn’t yet born. The last meeting was on December 30, 2016 when our oldest was 28 and our youngest was 18. Sometimes the meetings were weekly; sometimes months (or even years) would go by between meetings. Sometimes we held votes on things, other times the parents used their power of “divine fiat.” (So it is written, so it shall be done!)

Here’s how the meetings went. Hubby opened with prayer and then went around the table asking the various participants if they wanted any topics on the agenda. Typical topics in those early years coming from the kids would be things like what desserts to have in the next week, the desire to get a dog for a pet (this came up often over the years), grievances with a sibling, summer vacation plans, requests for computer games, reports on their activities, etc.

Typical issues from the parents were the generally fun-wrecking topics of obedience training, chores, setting down of family rules, reports on the progress made when we were trying to work on some family issue, setting forth computer and TV watching schedules, etc. But we also brought up prayer requests, special privileges granted, commendations to the children on things well done, fun events in the future, and movie night plans.

Looking over the minutes from these meetings is a hoot. Here’s a sample from our first meeting:
Item #7. Breakfast topics: There will be a 2-bowl limit on cold cereal – anyone still hungry can have a piece of toast. If there is any fighting over cereal boxes, they’ll be removed. No breakfast after 8:30 a.m.

Yes, these are the types of things that we wrangled over as part of a large family.

At that first meeting, we also established a family program that endured for many years: the Boy Of The Week (BOTW), which had to be amended to Child of the Week when Ruth got old enough to participate. From my minutes, “Privileges include having the seat next to Ruthie in the car, being Cook’s Helper all week, being chosen to pray at the table (unless Mom or Dad are praying), helping make a special treat during the week, going on errands alone with Mom or Dad, and helping set and clear the table. We established seating rotation for the van and for the dining room table.”

Sounds like a well-oiled machine, doesn’t it? Well, as any of our kids will tell you, our household wasn’t so much of a well-oiled machine as it was a rollicking ride in a bumpy jalopy. Oh, the many arguments, fights and tears over the years. But oh, what joy we had along the way. Those wonderful Family Council Minutes are a snapshot of a family that was not perfect by a long shot, but which toiled together regularly to pray, work through problems, tell our stories, and create treasured traditions.

I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Meeting adjourned.

Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD,
the fruit of the womb is a reward.
Like arrows in the hand of a warrior,
So are the children of one’s youth.
Happy is the man who has his quiver full of them;
They shall not be ashamed,
But shall speak with their enemies in the gate.
Psalm 127 3-5

I’ll probably take a motion to delete this post in the morning. Seconded?

The Snake: A Story in Three Parts.

Part 1: The snake sighed. Another snake enthusiast had come to peer into his aquarium, watching his every move. Was nothing sacred? Was there to be no privacy? Time for slithering, sliding and hiding.

Part 2: Maybe he could get the hapless curator to put up a sign: “Stop Staring at the Snake. It Makes Him Nervous.” The snake knew that this would make SOME people just press their faces closer to the glass, especially with their fancy black boxes with clicking noises.

Part 3. The snake wondered if there was still a Snake Stakeout going on. Really, these people are relentlesssssss, he hissed to himself. “I’ll just poke my head out a tiny bit to see…”. Click. Click.

Sigh…

So, the old aphorism about there being no privacy for snakes in glass houses is true. Never heard that one? It might not be that old. Okay, I just made it up. Sigh…

I’ll probably slither away and hide this blog post in the morning.

My husband and I continue to take walks, more or less daily, and I was planning today to share some winter photos accompanied by vaguely poetic thoughts. If that’s something you’d just as soon skip, you have been spared.

I’ve always been fascinated by my dreams and often spend the first part of waking up trying to remember them, going over the details in my mind. Many times, this is like trying to grasp a wisp of smoke as it dissipates. On good days, I remember fragments of them; on the best days, whole stories emerge from the dream ether.

My kind and patient husband is usually the recipient of my dream tellings, but out of the generosity of my heart, I’m going to share the strange doings in my mind from last night.

There was a man that I knew who was sad and it seemed important that I find out the cause of his sadness. Suddenly, his sadness turned to anger and he got hold of a steamroller so he could steamroll over the red Ferrari of someone whom he blamed for his troubles. This caused quite a kerfuffle in my dream, since the poor fellow was actually in the Ferrari. You’ll be glad to know that the Ferrari owner escaped the awful fate of being flattened.

So that was weird enough, but it gets weirder.

I found out that the sad man was taking care of a baby girl named “Rhombadot.” And he was pronouncing it “RAHM-ba-DOT.” I became fixated with the idea that it was might be a French word and should therefore be pronounced “Rhom-ba-doh,” (long ‘o’). “Are you sure, it’s not pronounced Rhombadoh?” I asked him helpfully. “It’s Rhombadot,” he insisted. So I found the woman who’d actually given birth to the child. She confirmed that the name was “Rhombadot.” “Are you sure it’s not “Rhombadoh?” She got irritated with me and said, “I don’t know!”

I told my husband this dream while we were out walking and I was laughing so hard I almost couldn’t talk. Where does my mind come up with this stuff? Rhombadot? Steamrollers? Red Ferraris?

The world of dreams is a topsy-turvy one, indeed.

I wrote about dreams on my previous blog years ago, so if you’re interested in more on that topic, here’s the link: http://fari-blog.blogspot.com/2012/04/wishful-dreaming.html.

I’ll probably – oh, I’m still laughing so hard about the Rhomadot/Rhomadoh controversy I can’t even finish that sentence. 😂

The watercolor lessons continue (ha ha – originally mistyped that as watercolor lesions, which is an appalling gathering of words). I started with leaves, went boldly on to jellyfish (with a pit stop for some speed poetry) and then climbed out of the water to paint some smiling turtles.

I could fill a paragraph with the things I did wrong on that assignment, but why ruin it for you? It’s a happy turtle and in the end, that’s the most important part.

After that, the ocean called to me and I dove in to paint some seahorses.

I should mention that this is a watercolor course on Udemy taught by Broderick Wong. I’m really enjoying the class. I like the projects, the pacing and the (trying desperately to think of another ‘p’ word so I can have a nice bit of alliteration)…prowess of the teacher. Proficiency of the teacher?

The Seahorse
Unsaddled, unbridled, untamable beast
The sea monster Hippocampus has been released
It’s a knight in sea armor with a prehensile tail
It’s an underwater ship with a curvy sail
It’s a camouflaging critter just waiting for prey
Unsuspecting crustaceans are the menu today.
They keep a dark secret – I really shouldn’t tell,
But these water-dwelling beasties don’t swim very well.
When it’s time for babies, the mare is no slouch,
She puts all the eggs in Dad’s handy brood pouch.
It’s a wonder, a marvel, an ingenious design –
The Creator is pleased with his Seahorse Line.

That’s a wrap!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, pursuing the elusive Horse O’ the Sea.

Elisabeth Elliot has often commented on how formative it was for her spiritually to be in contact with missionaries while she was growing up. If you listen to her podcast like I do (speeches and talks delivered while she was still living), various themes emerge on a regular basis, one of which is her recommendation that Christians read biographies of missionaries. I heard her say it again today and decided that it’s time for me to re-visit some of the biographies we have in our home that I read many years ago.

It’s been so long since I’ve read these that I have only the barest glimmers of specific memories of them. The one about C.T. Studd looked like it would be a yawner, but I remember enjoying it quite a lot. I haven’t read most of the set in white on the right – just the one about George Muller. I think we bought that set to read to the kids – might be a little too late, now.

We also have on our shelf a biography of Dawson Trotman, the man who started The Navigators, which became a campus Christian group. I might read it again, but recall the section in his book in which he felt he couldn’t start his day without three hours of prayer (starting at some hour of the morning before the sun had even thought about rising). It’s hard not to feel a little deflated upon reading that sort of example. And then there’s our book about Martin Luther by Roland Bainton. Teeny tiny print in a very old, dilapidated paperback. Probably not going to tackle that one again either, since I’m at an age when the size of the letters has become very important.

Please give me your recommendations for biographies to read – either of missionaries or of any great men and women of the faith.

Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us,
let us also lay aside every encumbrance
and the sin which so easily entangles us,
and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.
Hebrews 12:1

I’ll probably delete this in the morning if I’m not too busy reading.

What is it that causes one to become a hermit? I’m talking about those who choose to avoid society, not those who choose hermitage as a religious pursuit.

I’ve continued to read through Emily Dickinson’s poems and bought an accompanying book about Emily Dickinson as a gardener. It was in the latter book I learned that in her late 20’s/early 30’s she withdrew from society, associating only with close family. She was an odd duck, to be sure – perhaps it was her recognition of being so different from everyone else that drew her inward. Or maybe it was her poetry-inflamed soul that could not cope with small talk and meeting new people. The gardening book has some excerpts from her letters – she seemed unable to write in plain prose. Every thought she had was made up of poetic connections.

The older I get, the more I am a homebody. I like being home. When we go traveling, as much as I enjoy seeing other places and meeting up with friends and family, I am drawn back home as if attached to an invisible tether. But love of home doesn’t equate to a desire to give up on the society of others. I wonder if Emily’s self-imposed isolation was a refuge or a prison? Maybe a little of both.

Just some musings for today.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning as long as I can stay home to do it.

Here’s a little survey for you jigsaw puzzlers. Others of you can weigh in on this important topic as well. The question before us is this: How long after completing a puzzle do you dismantle it?

A. Immediately. As soon as the last piece is in, the puzzle goes back into the box.
B. Never. Get some of that puzzle glue and make it into a permanent “poster” for display.
C. Leave it on the table until you start the next one, no matter how long or short a time period that is.
D. Leave it out until you have guests coming over with young children.
E. Leave it assembled for just as long a time as it took you to put it together.
F. Other (specify, please)

Of course, most of you are probably as sick as surveys as I am. Every time you do anything, you get a survey by mail, email or text afterward with people wanting you to tell them how they did. Ugh. I always ignore those. How about you?

I’ll probably delete this in the morning and then send you a survey asking you a lot of questions about it.

I’m reading a book of letters between John and Abigail Adams called My Dearest Friend.

John Adams had to be gone a lot during the Revolutionary War for the Constitutional Convention and Abigail had to hold down the fort at home in the Boston area. He was up to his eyeballs with long, tedious meetings and she was dealing with lying awake at night because of the sound of cannons firing nearby. He wrote the following about his experience with Congress and I wonder how much different it is now:

“I am wearied to Death with the Life I lead. The Business of the Congress is tedious, beyond Expression. …Business is drawn and spun out to immeasurable Length. I believe that if it was moved and seconded that we should come to a Resolution that three and two make five, we should be entertained with Logick and Rhetorick Law, History, Politicks, and Mathematicks, concerning the Subject for two whole Days, and then We should pass the Resolution unanimously in the Affirmative.”

He offered up advice on educating their children and gave his thoughts on the management of the property, while she kept him up to date on her thoughts about the war, what was happening locally, and the toll that illness was taking on their family and friends. Her mother died while he was out of town and she wrote meaningfully and eloquently about her grief, pouring out words of great loss, while at the same time being able to say, “Still I have many blessings left, many comforts to be thankful for and rejoice in. I am not left to mourn as one without hope. My dear parent knew in whom she had Believed…and departed the world with an easy tranquility, trusting in the merits of a Redeemer.”

She worried that perhaps all this writing about her grief was giving relief to her wounded heart at the cost of adding pain to his: “My pen is always freer than my tongue. I have wrote many things to you that I suppose I never could have talk’d.”

That’s when I knew that I was reading the words of a friend. It has ever been the way with me that things that are difficult to express out loud are easier to write on paper (or type on a screen).

C.S. Lewis said, “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.”

Abigail Adams, friendship was born when I read your words. I look forward to meeting you in eternity.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, my keyboard being freer than my tongue.

When my grandfather was honorably discharged from the Army on December 14, 1918, he was permitted to take with him various items of clothing that he was wearing: belt, breeches, coat, hat, leggings, overcoat, shoes and a flannel shirt. These were to be returned within four months on Uncle Sam’s dime. I guess they let him keep the underwear. This makes me wonder what he was wearing when he entered service and why he didn’t just get those clothes back? Do they still discharge people in army-issued clothing that has to be returned?

Grandpa Harry was returning to his wife and a newborn daughter whom he hadn’t met yet. He signed some of his letters before arriving back home, “Daddy Boy,” and my Grandma signed hers “Mother Girl.” These people were OLD when I met them (ha ha – not much older than I am now) so I am charmed by this glimpse into their days as a young married couple.

My grandpa used to enjoy telling a story to his daughters about their mother, my Grandma Lois. Apparently when Harry and Lois were in high school, there was a rival for Lois’s affections, a football player that went by the nickname “Dad.” This fellow bragged to Lois about his fitness and encouraged her to punch him in the stomach. She didn’t want to, but he insisted, so she did, and knocked him out cold!

I may have told that story on my blog before, but it bears repeating, doesn’t it? I’m trying to think of any colorful stories my grandchildren might learn about me someday that would bear repeating. There must be something…

I’ll probably delete this in the morning (which isn’t a very colorful story, but it can’t be helped).

For in [Christ] all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell,
and through him to reconcile to himself all things,
whether on earth or in heaven,
making peace by the blood of his cross.
Colossians 1:19-20

The Lord bless you and keep you.