All week long Mom had been asking, “So, what do you want to do for your birthday?” All week long I’d been answering, “I don’t know.” In the back of my head I was thinking, “I’d like to do nothing for my birthday.” Not nothing as in I don’t want to do anything, but nothing like Winnie-the-Pooh means it. The kind of nothing that can be done while relaxing.
At breakfast, Papa assigned me a weedeating task and I sighed inwardly. I should have asked to do nothing. Instead a shouldered the weedeater and marched out to the tick-infested woods. And returned tick-infested. I thank the Lord that chiggers don’t bite me. And I’m immune to poison ivy. And mosquito bites vanish in a matter of hours from my skin. In the realm of ichiness, ticks are my only enemies. Usually they are easily vanquished, no matter how numerous. What followed was a shower during which I got a brilliant idea.
With Emily coming in the afternoon, wouldn’t it be lovely if she and I could go knock around town, maybe do some thrift-store shopping and just generally do nothing for the afternoon? With soggy hair and a crooked smile, I suggested my plan to Mom as she fried hamburger. I expected her to declare “What a lovely idea!” Instead she half-shook her head. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea or not.”
I swallowed my tongue. In fact, I think it slid all the way down the back of my throat and down through my nervous system into my left foot where it sat feeling like a heavy lead-weight. Hadn’t she been asking all week what I wanted to do? And we were doing absolutely nothing. The kind of nothing that simply means not a thing. I rounded up my scattered thoughts before I asked, “Were you planning something?” She kind of shrugged. “Not exactly. I just had a little thing I thought we might do. We’ll see about it.”
Emily was due to arrive any time when I finally ventured again to ask Mom what she was thinking. “Well,” she said, “It’s probably okay. See what Emily wants to do when she gets here.”
I bobbed my head. Emily’s pretty easy to get along with. Usually.
In came Emily. I was in the rapping mood and started talking a hundred miles an hour. “Hey! How are you? I was thinking…I know you just came from town, but would you be up for a little goofing off? We could look for some business shirts to go with those jackets you’ve got.” “Well,” said Emily, “that might be okay.” In an instant I was off again, “Oh! But before we go, look at this bag of clothes from Amber C and see if you like any.” Emily agreed and began digging through clothes while I sat by watching.
A red pick-up pulled up into our nifty little parking lot. I glanced out the window and did a double take. “That’s funny,” I knew it wasn’t Tim and Lindsey, though I was expecting them later. “It looks like…it can’t be…it…really looks like…who in the…? It is!” And that was all I said. Then I split a grin almost big enough to swallow myself. And I just stood by my bedroom door grinning as the girl scrunched in the middle seat of the pick-up stretched her long arms and climbed out.
Just a little something Mom had planned. Just a little something called Tabitha and Cliff.
“Now you can go into town if you want,” Mom flashed me a smile as she came out the door. “Were you surprised?”
I had no clue. Absolutely none. Even though a few almost hints had been dropped. Why in the world would I suspect that Tabby and Cliff were coming all the way down just for my birthday?
With Cliff’s permission to steal his wife, we piled into Emily’s car and headed into town where we pretty much did nothing. I couldn’t have had a better birthday if I’d have planned it.
Showing posts with label birthdays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birthdays. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I can’t seem to catch up and I hate to move on, leaving behind all the unimportant little things that happen. I’m silly, but dates just stick out in my mind and today makes exactly a year and a half in Arkansas. I realized I’m beginning to conform to the culture. Sunday night, Grandma Sandy offered me a Coke and I asked her “What kind?” She looked at me blankly before answering, “Well…Cherry.”
Just a few things of possible interest before I move on:
Freckles got herself caught in a trap. We rescued her, certain she’d be feeling pretty mellow for the next few days. No such happening. Apparently it was a pretty pathetic trap.
Jacindarella boarded a plane and moved to Peru, with a long-term goal of winding up in Bolivia.
Dathan moved back to Arkansas, one semester short of graduating with his master’s degree, under rather interesting circumstances—involving false accusations and an unjust campus judiciary system. That didn’t stop him from filming several new Homely Hobo videos.
We spent the month of January milking the neighbor’s cow while Olga was in Russia trying to straighten out citizenship issues. Josh Potts was right: milk comes from Wal-mart. The stuff I squeezed from the lumpy udder of Maxine was pure and undiluted labor: unfiltered, unpasturized, unhomoginized. It’s been sometime since my milking days.
President Obama was sworn into office and lied through his teeth when he swore to uphold and defend the constitution. Every action since has been in total opposition of his oath. Hillary Clinton was appointed Secretary of State and Kansas’ own witch of a governor, Kathleen Sibelius has been appointed to his cabinet. I shudder, I quake, I groan. One thing it certainly accomplishes is turning my mind away from politics and back to the nitty gritty of seeking hearts for Christ.
Mom and Papa celebrated their 31st wedding anniversary. In honor of the special occasion, dinner and entertainment were provided by Wynkyn, Blinkyn and Nod aka Stop, Drop and Roll aka Larry, Curly and Mo aka Sin, Cosin and Tangent aka Knife, Fork and Spoon aka Uno, Dos and Tres aka A, B and C etc, etc, etc.
We’re now a family of night owls. Well, sort of. Papa was put on second shift at ConAgra, meaning he works from right after lunch until eleven at night. That’s a little different schedule from heading out for work at 5 AM. But we’re enjoying having the mornings together.
Tommy got himself fired for overstaying at our house. Over speaker phone. We almost felt sorry for him before he confessed that it was a set-up he and his boss had hatched to prank us.
Lydia turned twelve and in honor of her birthday she hosted a tea party. Unfortunately, she has no young lady friends her own age, so her special event was attended by a group of terribly excited young men—between the ages of 20 and 30.
Josiah finished the front deck for our house. Finished with finesse, I must add. It’s simply beautiful, even devoid of his original plan for a grand staircase. We hauled in a load of gravel and added a parking lot out front.
Nathaniel turned twenty-five. Twenty-five sounds so old. At least for my brother.
I set a new personal running record: five miles in fifty-four minutes.
Josiah’s been writing rap for some time now and it’s been steadily growing better. He brings pieces to me, pleading for help and the concept finally rubbed off. I never intended to show my first attempt in that genre to anyone but him, but he enjoyed rapping it so much he wanted to show it to Zach and then the cat was out of the bag. I’ve never labored over a piece of poetry, but that style certainly requires effort, so I take off my hat to those who make a regular habit of it.
Judy was admitted to the hospital for a blockage in her stomach and gave all of us something of a scare. I’ll confess I had no clue whether or not she’d ever come home again, but the Lord cleared up the blockage and brought her home safely. Of course, their car gave up the ghost not long ago, so life is a tight circle of daily happenings for them.
This week I navigated the streets of the Kansas City metropolis in snowy weather all by myself. Well, Josiah was with me, but he’s no help when it comes to navigation. It’d been nearly a year since I’d seen my grandma—my Mom’s mom, so we decided to make the trip. “This is so much fun,” said my eighty-two-year-old grandma who runs a hundred miles an hour (as long as her pacemaker battery is charged), “I’m so glad we get to spend time together without any adults present.” Because at twenty-one, eighteen and eighty-two, we’re all still kids.
That’s all the measurable changes. My mind has been busy running a million different directions. I started over again in the Old Testament in January and I just wrapped up Second Chronicles. I’m always in awe of the concept that I am God’s temple—and He has chosen to indwell me. I find myself lying awake at night trying to fathom God—His size, His majesty, His eternity, His beauty, His power, His glory, His love. It’s when people try to accuse me of being smart that I feel most stupid, knowing I lack wisdom and understanding and feeling foolish in my vain efforts to understand God or to plan His ways. But always, always His ways are good. Dissatisfaction and restlessness have been pervading my attitude for the past several months—some for my spiritual good, some reflective of my selfish tendencies. I can’t bear the thought of mediocrity, or status quo Christianity, so different from the life of Christ. I rage against the expectations of the world, and also of conservative Christendom that seems so content with so much safety, tranquility and comfort and would counsel me to be as well. Yet, how am I set apart and holy? In my raging, I forget that idealism can be a lovely thing when applied to oneself, but a devastating poison when prescribed for others. And I neglect to remember that God was no fool when He placed me exactly where He placed me and that my part is to joyfully submit to my authorities and to sing His praise with every tone in my body and trust Him to orchestrate the majestic symphony of time. I always come back to the same lessons, like a dog chasing her tail, alternately confused and enthusiastic. Obviously, I didn’t earn God’s favor.
Just a few things of possible interest before I move on:
Freckles got herself caught in a trap. We rescued her, certain she’d be feeling pretty mellow for the next few days. No such happening. Apparently it was a pretty pathetic trap.
Jacindarella boarded a plane and moved to Peru, with a long-term goal of winding up in Bolivia.
Dathan moved back to Arkansas, one semester short of graduating with his master’s degree, under rather interesting circumstances—involving false accusations and an unjust campus judiciary system. That didn’t stop him from filming several new Homely Hobo videos.
We spent the month of January milking the neighbor’s cow while Olga was in Russia trying to straighten out citizenship issues. Josh Potts was right: milk comes from Wal-mart. The stuff I squeezed from the lumpy udder of Maxine was pure and undiluted labor: unfiltered, unpasturized, unhomoginized. It’s been sometime since my milking days.
President Obama was sworn into office and lied through his teeth when he swore to uphold and defend the constitution. Every action since has been in total opposition of his oath. Hillary Clinton was appointed Secretary of State and Kansas’ own witch of a governor, Kathleen Sibelius has been appointed to his cabinet. I shudder, I quake, I groan. One thing it certainly accomplishes is turning my mind away from politics and back to the nitty gritty of seeking hearts for Christ.
Mom and Papa celebrated their 31st wedding anniversary. In honor of the special occasion, dinner and entertainment were provided by Wynkyn, Blinkyn and Nod aka Stop, Drop and Roll aka Larry, Curly and Mo aka Sin, Cosin and Tangent aka Knife, Fork and Spoon aka Uno, Dos and Tres aka A, B and C etc, etc, etc.
We’re now a family of night owls. Well, sort of. Papa was put on second shift at ConAgra, meaning he works from right after lunch until eleven at night. That’s a little different schedule from heading out for work at 5 AM. But we’re enjoying having the mornings together.
Tommy got himself fired for overstaying at our house. Over speaker phone. We almost felt sorry for him before he confessed that it was a set-up he and his boss had hatched to prank us.
Lydia turned twelve and in honor of her birthday she hosted a tea party. Unfortunately, she has no young lady friends her own age, so her special event was attended by a group of terribly excited young men—between the ages of 20 and 30.
Josiah finished the front deck for our house. Finished with finesse, I must add. It’s simply beautiful, even devoid of his original plan for a grand staircase. We hauled in a load of gravel and added a parking lot out front.
Nathaniel turned twenty-five. Twenty-five sounds so old. At least for my brother.
I set a new personal running record: five miles in fifty-four minutes.
Josiah’s been writing rap for some time now and it’s been steadily growing better. He brings pieces to me, pleading for help and the concept finally rubbed off. I never intended to show my first attempt in that genre to anyone but him, but he enjoyed rapping it so much he wanted to show it to Zach and then the cat was out of the bag. I’ve never labored over a piece of poetry, but that style certainly requires effort, so I take off my hat to those who make a regular habit of it.
Judy was admitted to the hospital for a blockage in her stomach and gave all of us something of a scare. I’ll confess I had no clue whether or not she’d ever come home again, but the Lord cleared up the blockage and brought her home safely. Of course, their car gave up the ghost not long ago, so life is a tight circle of daily happenings for them.
This week I navigated the streets of the Kansas City metropolis in snowy weather all by myself. Well, Josiah was with me, but he’s no help when it comes to navigation. It’d been nearly a year since I’d seen my grandma—my Mom’s mom, so we decided to make the trip. “This is so much fun,” said my eighty-two-year-old grandma who runs a hundred miles an hour (as long as her pacemaker battery is charged), “I’m so glad we get to spend time together without any adults present.” Because at twenty-one, eighteen and eighty-two, we’re all still kids.
That’s all the measurable changes. My mind has been busy running a million different directions. I started over again in the Old Testament in January and I just wrapped up Second Chronicles. I’m always in awe of the concept that I am God’s temple—and He has chosen to indwell me. I find myself lying awake at night trying to fathom God—His size, His majesty, His eternity, His beauty, His power, His glory, His love. It’s when people try to accuse me of being smart that I feel most stupid, knowing I lack wisdom and understanding and feeling foolish in my vain efforts to understand God or to plan His ways. But always, always His ways are good. Dissatisfaction and restlessness have been pervading my attitude for the past several months—some for my spiritual good, some reflective of my selfish tendencies. I can’t bear the thought of mediocrity, or status quo Christianity, so different from the life of Christ. I rage against the expectations of the world, and also of conservative Christendom that seems so content with so much safety, tranquility and comfort and would counsel me to be as well. Yet, how am I set apart and holy? In my raging, I forget that idealism can be a lovely thing when applied to oneself, but a devastating poison when prescribed for others. And I neglect to remember that God was no fool when He placed me exactly where He placed me and that my part is to joyfully submit to my authorities and to sing His praise with every tone in my body and trust Him to orchestrate the majestic symphony of time. I always come back to the same lessons, like a dog chasing her tail, alternately confused and enthusiastic. Obviously, I didn’t earn God’s favor.
Enjoying the Ease of E
Ethnic—Because the Italian restaurant Helen and Paul took us to in downtown Tulsa was terribly authentic.
Exotic—Because Calimari didn’t look terribly appetizing, but proved to be quite palatable. Especially the babies. “It tastes like fried spiders,” I encouragingly informed a dubious Lauren. She never did work up the appetite to try the babies.
Electricity—Because we were without it at Nathaniel and Lauren’s—for more than a day. Gathered in the hallway, we sang scripture by the light of a lantern and listened to storm warnings on a battery weather-radio.
Evelyn—Because she’s a light in a dark place—and she had the same birthday as I do! Turning seventy-eight, shut into a nursing home, yet cheerful and encouraging when Lauren and I visited her. She held our hands and prayed over us before we left, bringing tears to my eyes.
Exxon—Because they apparently still believe in the caste system. Two restrooms: one marked “ladies”, the other “women.”
Excited—Because Lauren and I are gung-ho for starting a joint blog for young women—married and single. Be watching for announcements in the future!
Economics—Because “Settlers of Catan” was a study in old-school economics—bartering, shipping and trading. When the guys had talked about it in the past, I’d done the whole “smile and nod” trick, since I thought it sounded boring. It wasn’t. Strategizing on the best way to get rid of excess wheat or attempting to convince the others they needed more sheep (“Tim, you’d look fabulous in wool!” or “Josiah, have you ever had mutton with mint leaves?”) proved more entertaining than I’d imagined.
Encouraging—Because having Ashley here from New Jersey was a pleasant happening. She seems so far away and yet, we can reconnect on the same level as if nothing has happened in between.
Exhausted—Because, starting with the well pump’s failure on my birthday, we’ve had incident after incident. Last week, with Papa home on vacation, we tackled enough projects to make me feel like I’d accomplished a lifetime of useful things. And yet, it doesn’t seem as though we actually came out ahead in the long-haul.
Embarrassed—Because my very first day cleaning the neighbor’s house, I broke a candle. One of those terribly valuable ones that come in a canning jar and smell like blue coconut.
Everything else—Because it will just have to go unnoted. The past several weeks have been a whirlwind—I feel like I’ve hardly been home! I keep thinking the next day will bring a breather—a chance to get quiet and just enjoy the Lord, but each day turns out crazier than the last one! How did David grow so close to the Lord while fleeing from Saul? And how did Jesus survive with multitudes clamoring after Him constantly?
End—Because this is it for now, folks.
Exotic—Because Calimari didn’t look terribly appetizing, but proved to be quite palatable. Especially the babies. “It tastes like fried spiders,” I encouragingly informed a dubious Lauren. She never did work up the appetite to try the babies.
Electricity—Because we were without it at Nathaniel and Lauren’s—for more than a day. Gathered in the hallway, we sang scripture by the light of a lantern and listened to storm warnings on a battery weather-radio.
Evelyn—Because she’s a light in a dark place—and she had the same birthday as I do! Turning seventy-eight, shut into a nursing home, yet cheerful and encouraging when Lauren and I visited her. She held our hands and prayed over us before we left, bringing tears to my eyes.
Exxon—Because they apparently still believe in the caste system. Two restrooms: one marked “ladies”, the other “women.”
Excited—Because Lauren and I are gung-ho for starting a joint blog for young women—married and single. Be watching for announcements in the future!
Economics—Because “Settlers of Catan” was a study in old-school economics—bartering, shipping and trading. When the guys had talked about it in the past, I’d done the whole “smile and nod” trick, since I thought it sounded boring. It wasn’t. Strategizing on the best way to get rid of excess wheat or attempting to convince the others they needed more sheep (“Tim, you’d look fabulous in wool!” or “Josiah, have you ever had mutton with mint leaves?”) proved more entertaining than I’d imagined.
Encouraging—Because having Ashley here from New Jersey was a pleasant happening. She seems so far away and yet, we can reconnect on the same level as if nothing has happened in between.
Exhausted—Because, starting with the well pump’s failure on my birthday, we’ve had incident after incident. Last week, with Papa home on vacation, we tackled enough projects to make me feel like I’d accomplished a lifetime of useful things. And yet, it doesn’t seem as though we actually came out ahead in the long-haul.
Embarrassed—Because my very first day cleaning the neighbor’s house, I broke a candle. One of those terribly valuable ones that come in a canning jar and smell like blue coconut.
Everything else—Because it will just have to go unnoted. The past several weeks have been a whirlwind—I feel like I’ve hardly been home! I keep thinking the next day will bring a breather—a chance to get quiet and just enjoy the Lord, but each day turns out crazier than the last one! How did David grow so close to the Lord while fleeing from Saul? And how did Jesus survive with multitudes clamoring after Him constantly?
End—Because this is it for now, folks.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
The deer in this region must all be a part of a “Befriend Your Neighbors, the Humans” club. They camp in our front yard, hang out on the edge of our woods, use specific crosswalks at all hours of the day and tonight, as Josiah and I walked along the road, two of them peered curiously back at us from the horse pen where they were contentedly grazing alongside the horses.
Wal-mart is seeing more of me than I’d ever wish on anyone. And I can’t claim I’m enjoying putting the poor store through such misery, either. Mom and I took Nick in to work this morning, did a bit of shopping and price comparing, and came home in time for me to have a couple of hours at home before I turned around and headed back in to pick him up.
The discussion around the supper table included the date of Zach’s birthday—coming right up and deserving a special surprise. The sixteenth, Mom insisted. The twenty-first, Nick countered. “He said it was the nineteenth,” I contradicted, and won. My memory is hardly to be envied. I can peg birthdays when asked, recount conversations, describe outfits, hairdos and even list eye colors, but I can’t seem to remember to do simple tasks. And what we ate for supper last night is a mystery to me, even though I fixed it. Which means I might serve apples three meals in a row, if not reminded. I know I simple need to work on prioritizing my memory—setting mental alarms for important assigned tasks instead of clinging to random facts and figures. How do I organize this mass storage device into something truly useful?
My computer speakers are wafting the strains of the Lord of the Rings soundtrack—melancholy claims a large portion of the emotions in these pieces. My spirit responds to the sorrow, the huge feeling of loss. Somehow in my heart I can almost glimpse what Eden must have been like—in complete fellowship with God, walking with Him daily, sharing thoughts, learning His ways, in innocence, joy and purity. Here that fellowship is shattered, broken, restored to a dim reality by Jesus, but the longing for full fellowship overwhelms me, bittersweet. I long to hide from the battles facing me, the decisions awaiting me, the pain and scars that come from living in a broken world. I long to flee the reality of what I have been called to do: sacrifice my life, war against principalities who hate me with a hatred that shrivels my flesh, and desperately, relentlessly seek the Way the Truth and the Life. Only can I triumph through the power of the eternal God. Only can I hope through the truth of His resurrection, that promises to me a share in His victory. Only through His righteousness can this fallen world ever be redeemed.
Lord, helpless e’en to seek Thy face
I cling to Thy redeeming grace.
Awash in my unworthiness,
Who am I that Thou should bless?
But Thou dost bless with life in Thee
That stretches to eternity,
This gift, Thou would forget to send
Only could Thy own life end.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Parking a camper on a concrete slab with a water hook-up, campfire grill, and propane heating is cheating—but it sure beats roughing it.
This morning, John Paul was permitted to have sole charge of my behavior during the meeting. My behavior was excellent, and his was too. He really is a good kid, and since I knew that his parents held him to a very high standard for a two-year-old, I did not blench from flicking his hands when they found wandering pleasures in teasing someone else or playing with his shoes. And he exhibited a very strong tendency toward self-discipline when he flicked his own hand to prevent it from getting into mischief. That little man is a charmer.
Emily’s birthday was beautiful. A beautiful day for a beautiful girl and beautiful outfits. April, Jacinda, Lindsey, Shoko and I decided to most appropriate apparel for the occasion was whatever looked the worst. I voted Lindsey the best-dressed hill-billy in the state of Arkansas, and that’s a pretty high calling since there are some pretty well-dressed hill-billies here. She poked pink plastic cups inside her two pig-tails for a truly top-knotch hair-do. And we elicited a few admiring glances while rendezvousing on the Tech campus. Emily’s family is sweet, quiet, and very good at making delicious food. Her grandparents can’t possibly be in their 80’s. I decided without a doubt that some day, sixty-five years from now, it would be a phenomenal blessing from the Lord to find myself married to a man like her grandpa.
The Sperry’s made our camping a family threesome and added a little more age and activity to the schedule. They have five kiddos, all homeschooled, from the age of two to the age of eighteen. Katherine, the oldest, grins almost as frequently as April, giggles almost as much as I do, and has a metabolism that could power a nuclear plant. Unfortunately, she’s still a couple of inches taller than I am—a mistake which I must forgive in light of her nobler qualities.
My new, old, little, big brother Zach followed us home, wagging his tail. That is, until his poor old Babe overheated and we had to rescue him.
My shower tonight was beyond description. It seems I have a new obsession—showers. Truly, in a place of cold, smoky, dustiness, getting clean feels heavenly. I pray I am at least as enthusiastic about purifying myself from spiritual grime.
Lord, Thou knelt to wash my feet
And promised me a paracleet
To purify me by Thy letter
Free me from my sinful fetters.
Lord, I wash now seven times
To cleanse my soul of guilt and grime
In the water Thou has spoken
Will my filthy heart be broken.
This morning, John Paul was permitted to have sole charge of my behavior during the meeting. My behavior was excellent, and his was too. He really is a good kid, and since I knew that his parents held him to a very high standard for a two-year-old, I did not blench from flicking his hands when they found wandering pleasures in teasing someone else or playing with his shoes. And he exhibited a very strong tendency toward self-discipline when he flicked his own hand to prevent it from getting into mischief. That little man is a charmer.
Emily’s birthday was beautiful. A beautiful day for a beautiful girl and beautiful outfits. April, Jacinda, Lindsey, Shoko and I decided to most appropriate apparel for the occasion was whatever looked the worst. I voted Lindsey the best-dressed hill-billy in the state of Arkansas, and that’s a pretty high calling since there are some pretty well-dressed hill-billies here. She poked pink plastic cups inside her two pig-tails for a truly top-knotch hair-do. And we elicited a few admiring glances while rendezvousing on the Tech campus. Emily’s family is sweet, quiet, and very good at making delicious food. Her grandparents can’t possibly be in their 80’s. I decided without a doubt that some day, sixty-five years from now, it would be a phenomenal blessing from the Lord to find myself married to a man like her grandpa.
The Sperry’s made our camping a family threesome and added a little more age and activity to the schedule. They have five kiddos, all homeschooled, from the age of two to the age of eighteen. Katherine, the oldest, grins almost as frequently as April, giggles almost as much as I do, and has a metabolism that could power a nuclear plant. Unfortunately, she’s still a couple of inches taller than I am—a mistake which I must forgive in light of her nobler qualities.
My new, old, little, big brother Zach followed us home, wagging his tail. That is, until his poor old Babe overheated and we had to rescue him.
My shower tonight was beyond description. It seems I have a new obsession—showers. Truly, in a place of cold, smoky, dustiness, getting clean feels heavenly. I pray I am at least as enthusiastic about purifying myself from spiritual grime.
Lord, Thou knelt to wash my feet
And promised me a paracleet
To purify me by Thy letter
Free me from my sinful fetters.
Lord, I wash now seven times
To cleanse my soul of guilt and grime
In the water Thou has spoken
Will my filthy heart be broken.