I have an app on my iPad called “Paper.” I haven’t looked at it in years, but had occasion to revisit it yesterday and discovered many forgotten family treasures. The Paper App is set up in journals and I had created quite a few (this was about 6-7 years ago), one of which was devoted to poetry. I encouraged my children to contribute to this book and many of them did. I share with you now some of those stellar entries.

Gee, I’m glad we did that. I spent a happy hour last night reading through all the poetry and journal entries, looking at sketches, etc. Some of them were SO funny! We raised a family of artsy poetic humorists. And I’ve got the books to prove it. This might be seen as fodder for blackmail by some…

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, but nothing on the computer ever really goes away.

A frog with wanderlust, that was Mr. Fig Newton. All the other frogs were content to stay in the same little pond, year in and year out. But Fig, with his goofy little grin, thought there must be places to go and things to see and by golly, he was going to go there and see them!

Most frogs have no need of a boat – they swim perfectly well and don’t travel far. Fig was in no way daunted by his boatlessness. He was a plucky fellow and not easily dissuaded once he made up his mind. Why can’t more frogs have the courage and vision that Fig has? He had often thought this about himself, but it seemed to be sort of “tooting-my-own-horn” to make such a statement out loud. So he waited for me to say it. And now I have.

He began his wanderings the way frogs usually do – smoothly slipping through the pond waters, and jumping in great bounds on land until he found a river which would take him everywhere in the world (as far as he was concerned). Fig didn’t even have a name yet, if the truth be told. He was indistinguishable from any other frog at this point. But Providence favored his journey and he came immediately into the realm of the right sort of girl, one who wasn’t the least bit squeamish about frogs.

She picked him up and told him solemnly that he was to call her “Miss Lucy.” And after some reflection, she further decreed that he would be known as “Fig Newton.” It’s just as well that he didn’t know he was named after a pastry filled with fig paste – it might have dampened his spirits a bit.

Little Miss Lucy was the perfect patroness. She knit a tiny scarf for him so he wouldn’t get cold, and she fashioned a wee sailor’s hat for him to wear for the journey ahead. Of course she knew his heart’s desire was to sail down the river – she was a daughter of the river and knew how irresistible its songs were.

When the time came to part, Miss Lucy put out the boat she’d made for Fig with its cheery flag and sturdy oars. She even gave Fig a toy boat to play with when the open river wasn’t too demanding on his time. “Oh, Fig,” she said, “I will miss you. Please come back to me when you have seen all that you need to see. And be careful. Not everyone loves a frog with wanderlust.”

He tipped his hat to her and rowed away with the current, smiling his goofy smile. Places to go, things to see! But the daughter of the river, Miss Lucy, had tied an invisible string of affection around him that would someday bring him back.

* * * * * * * * *

This fanciful story is dedicated to my granddaughter, Miss Lucy. If she becomes the kind of girl who isn’t squeamish about frogs, she will not have taken after her grandmother. 🙂

Fig Newton Part 2
Fig Newton Part 3

I’ll probably delete this when Fig Newton finishes his travels.

I saw these last week on my walk. Apparently 2020 has been a disorienting year even for the shrubs. Like the apostle Paul, they are as one “untimely born.”

The buds, they were a-budding,
A-dormant they should be.
The rumors they heard of spring
Were just a fallacy.

Reporting on fake news in the shrubbery, I’m Lynniebee.

I’ll probably delete this…or will I? It’s so hard to know things for sure these days.

I can’t believe I’ve gotten this far into December and have not even breathed a word about Christmas or Advent yet. So here I am, breathing some words to you about it, or more accurately, breathing some photos to you. That metaphor got stranger the further I carried it.

It was a fairly bleak day when I went out on my walk today. In the mood-creating department of the weather kitchen, this was shaping up to be a foul brew. There’s something oppressive about these days when the clouds put us on lockdown in the great outdoors. But it’s hard to get too far into the doldrums when the neighborhood has decked its halls with boughs of holly and donned its gay apparel. By the time I got home, I was singing out loud (but not too loudly) “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”

I love seeing how many different versions of the holy family there are, and usually placed right next to Santa Claus or Frosty the Snowman. I like to think of these others as sidekicks to the true hero of the season: Jesus!

As the days get shorter and the darkness eats up more of the daylight, it’s a joy to contemplate that in the midst of all of that, “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in the land of the shadow of death, upon them a light has shined.” Isaiah 9:2

Why else do we put up Christmas lights outside and put lights on our Christmas trees inside?

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

My daughter and I used to play a game while driving on highways or county roads. We kept our eye out for certain types of side roads along the way that looked especially inviting. Sometimes it was a road leading uphill, beyond which you couldn’t see, but could imagine perhaps another world altogether being on the other side. Other times it might be a long curvy driveway that made us wonder if some sort of stately mansion lay at the end of it. Or maybe just a quaint little fairy-tale cottage. We both have rich imaginations, as you can tell. We never had time to turn aside to follow these paths, but then again, it wasn’t about going there. It was about the mystery, the yearning, and the possibilities.

I like to think that when death comes, it will be like the Lord beckoning me to follow one of those alluring paths, but this time to the world beyond, to see at last what has been just shrouded in mystery and yearning, to go at last to the place where all has been made new and right.

It makes me think of Gandalf’s wonderful encouragement to Pippin in “The Return of the King” movie before the battle in Gondor when all seems lost.

Pippin: I didn’t think it would end this way.

Gandalf: End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path, one that we must all take. The gray rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.

Pippin: What? Gandalf? See what?

Gandalf: White shores, and beyond, far green country under a swift sunrise.

Pippin: Well, that isn’t so bad.

Gandalf: No. No it isn’t.

* * * * * *

One begins to understand why the book of Revelation ends with John saying “Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus!”

I’ll probably delete this in the morning…

Soft, fringed, extravagant plumes
For flight, for warmth, like colorful blooms,
For attracting just the right kind of mate,
And keeping one dry ’til the storms abate.
The shaft is the part that goes up the middle
The vane, like the teeth of a comb but less brittle.

A bird takes for granted in all kinds of weathers
The boon of having all kinds of feathers.
And when they fall off by the side of the road
The bird flies on, having lightened its load.
The wind picks them up and casts them adrift
The dry stalk holds them in a ballet lift

And there they stand, having done their duty –
Seemingly useless, still objects of beauty.

He will cover you with His feathers,
And under His wings, you will find refuge.
Psalm 91:4

I’ll probably delete this when the feather flies by itself, borne aloft on the morning breezes.

I pretty much hit the ground running when I learned how to read. I actually remember what it was like to have my parents read to me when the pages still looked like a lot of black marks on pages with pictures. It was a wondrous thing when I could read them myself. You could hardly keep me away from books at that point. I still remember reading The Little Lame Prince aloud to my mother when I was in the practicing phase of reading. And then sometime in 5th or 6th grade I read The Yearling by Rawlings – the first book that made me cry. I spent many a summer’s day inside, sprawled on a comfy chair, reading. My mom used to have to make me go outside and play.

I’m always vaguely shocked when I meet someone who doesn’t enjoy reading. When we started hiring babysitters for our children, one of our first regulars was an 8th grader named Tiffany. I drove her home one night and asked, conversationally, what books she liked to read.

“Oh,” she said, “I don’t read anything unless it’s assigned at school.” I nearly swerved off the road at this revelation.

“Well,” I said, not giving up, “what books have you been assigned in school that you enjoyed?”

“I don’t enjoy reading at all – I just do it because I have to,” was her reply.

“You mean you’ve never read for pleasure?” I asked, all astonishment.

“Nope.”

In vain, I gave her a few suggestions to get her started on the wonderful adventure of reading, but I could tell by her response that it was falling on deaf ears. It was a self-inflicted poverty that I couldn’t fathom.

As a young person I favored fiction books, but now as I’m getting older I often gravitate to non-fiction. Last year I decided to join the Goodreads Book Reading Challenge and set a goal of 100 books for the year. It was harder than I thought to achieve it, partly because listing all the books I read on a public site caused me to choose fewer “fluffy” books. I also set a challenge for myself to write a short review for each book. I’ve discovered that the older I get, the faster I forget what I’ve read, so I thought it would be a good idea to keep a record of what the book was about and whether or not I liked it.

I’m doing the Goodreads BRC again this year – 100 books – but I’ve fallen a little behind. With less than one month left to go, I’ve got 13 books still to read. Think I’ll make it? My husband likes to joke that I should grab a few Dr. Seuss books to get my numbers up quickly. Funny guy.

Here’s a stack that I’m working through right now:

The ancient looking one with all the tape on it is Pilgrim’s Progress, which I’m reading through with my daughter. The poetry book on the top The Temple is one that Kris and I are reading through together. I’d love to hear what books you’re reading right now. Maybe I can add them to my list for 2021!

Thanks for reading my meanderings about reading today.

I’ll probably just think about deleting this post in the morning.

Some of you may have noticed that I ended up taking a break last week. The combination of traveling and Thanksgiving week coalesced into a logjam of busy-ness that effectively shut the door to blogdom. All that is to say, I was too busy. And I hope that you were busy in that wonderful, blessed way, too.

I have a few books that I’m trying to finish before the end of the year, one of them being Devotions – selected poems of Mary Oliver. She has such a gifted way of stringing words together to create beautiful images. I read the poem “Some Herons” recently that contained these lines:

The water
was the kind of dark silk
that has silver lines
shot through it
when it is touched by the wind

The day after reading that, I walked by a pond and saw exactly what she was describing, but I never would have come up with the words.

And then I thought of the well-crafted poem of Alfred, Lord Tennyson called The Eagle:

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

The wrinkled sea…or in this case, the wrinkled pond.

Those descriptions really enhanced my ability to see the water with new eyes. This is the kind of poetry I can enjoy and understand.

Over the last couple of years I’ve made it my business to become acquainted with poetry and poets, having disregarded the whole genre for most of my life. I’ve read acclaimed and lauded poems that seemed like somebody reached their hand into a bowl of words and flung them on the page, for all the sense they made to me. But I am learning that reading poetry is sometimes work – you can’t give up after one reading. Sometimes it’s worth it to read again, to try to ferret out the meaning. And yet, I appreciate the poems that are immediately accessible to me, when the poet takes words that I know well and puts them together in wondrous ways that evoke a response of recognition.

It’s been an interesting journey. Tell me what poets and poems you love, so I can put them on my list!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning…

Grandma Time
Hello, sweet girly!
Let’s get acquainted again
You’re my favorite. ❤️

I’ll probably [not] delete this in the morning.

Shoe/Shoo Haiku
If the shoe says “shoo!”
And the fly cries “shoe!” too.
What should they both do?

It’s haiku week…again!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.