Trust

Who do I trust? What is trust? Why do I trust anybody anyway?

I think we trust people for several reasons: We have found them faithful in the past; we love them and our trust is an extension of our love; or we are desperate, because the world is amorphous and we like something solid to put our back against.

Who do I Trust?

I trust my husband--not to shut the door or turn off the light or put away the popcorn oil--but I trust him to love me, to help me when I need it and not to tell me how stupid I am if I turn left instead of right or lock my keys in the car or forget to put away the popcorn oil.

I trust my parents, because through the years I have watched them live out all the faith they taught me, reaching out, sharing: their home, their substance, their time. I’ve never questioned their love; there was never any need to.

I trust my children and grandchildren to live right, because I love them too much to lose them to life’s chaos, and I have seen ample evidence that their hearts are in the right place and that their feet are on the right path…even if they are dancing wildly all over it.

I trust my God, not to keep me from every inconvenience, but to steady my step, lift up my head, and take care of eternity when this is all over.

That’s why I woke up singing.

Our Sunday Scribblings prompt was Trust.

Let Those Sleeping Dogs Get Their Rest

Our Indonesian student, Sara Lee, is a solemn little girl who bursts out with sudden laughter whenever she catches a joke: "Oh I get it. I understand!" Then she makes little jokes of her own, behaving for all the world like an American teenager--not one of those who ignore all adults with an air of "only my friends on facebook are granted an audience...and then only if I choose to acknowledge them", but an open, "love to learn, love to share complaints and triumphs" kind of teenager who views people of all ages as potential friends.

Turtle is from Arkansas, a state he blames for all his linguistic anomalies, and he delights in tossing idioms to her so that he can explain them. A few weeks ago he had to explain the phrase: "let sleeping dogs lie." Later that day, when he was asking me questions about something in the past and getting off-putting, roundabout answers, Sara Lee, broke into the conversation with a light-hearted warning: "Don't wake up the dog!"

I think it will become a classic around here.

The World so Far Away and Close

About a dozen years ago I read a book by Don Richardson called Lords of the Earth. It featured the Yali and the Dani people of Irian Jaya(now called Papua) and gave an amazing view into tribal lifestyles and recent history. Over the years I've read the book a couple more times, along with some of Richardson's other works (Peace Child, and Eternity in Their Hearts).

Today, after meandering through a discussion in Bible class--a discussion about Jonathan Goforth and the Boxer Rebellion, then David Livingstone and Cameron Townsend and indigenous languages, one of our Indonesian students suddenly asked me if I had ever heard of the Dani tribe? I said yes, and told him about reading Lords of the Earth. He then informed me that he was a Dani. A real Dani. It was an amazing moment, almost like "the white rabbit" stepping out of the pages of Lewis Carroll's book--well not quite; Richardson's book isn't fiction, but it was still a weird feeling.

My World--Claye's Art Show

My daughter's senior art show was a great success. Lots of people came. We all milled around and visited and ate little cheesecake bites and strawberries and lunch meat and cheese. Here's a few blurry clips taken from the video in small pixels, but you can get some idea of her artwork.




Since the show had to have a title, she picked "My World".
What was supremely ironical was the theme and artwork of the guy she shared the show with: His was called "Fin del Mundo" or "End of the World". Here are the pictures of his art work. It made an interesting juxtaposition for the lobby of the Art Building.



and on to other ironies: Sunday Scribblings prompt for this week was "Art"

Valentine Limerick

It was written in silver graffiti:
"I can't live without you, my Sweetie,
I pine and I languish;
extinguish my anguish
and sail with me out to Tahiti"

Beneath it was painted in yellow:
"Although you're an eloquent fellow,
I cannot abide
a torrent or tide
And I'd rather have someone more mellow."

For Mad Kane's Valentine Challenge

I Just Don't Know Yet

I did walk by the alley again. The hole is nicely covered--level, no grass 0n it, just red dirt. The wood is still stacked beside it. I wondered though, maybe it never was a hole in the ground. Maybe the shadow cast by the noonday sun and the roof of the shed deceived me into thinking wet dirt and depth. My husband thinks I should forget it; it's a bunch of overactive imagination and too many detective books. And I could do that...if I only saw the wife, happily knitting or something. Still, I don't really want to walk over with a plate of cookies. It would look too suspicious. See, in the seven years I've lived here, I've only seen her twice. Once, sitting on the front porch in a rocker(I waved; she didn't) and once, standing in the driveway with lots of family members all around--a reunion or something. The husband is friendlier though. He and Turtle have chatted a few times, chiefly about his backyard building projects--a shop, complete with a little office, a nice cement driveway, and the shed. Also, Turtle bought a chipper, shredder from him at our last town-wide garage sale. He couldn't possibly be the kind to do mischief. Why, he even mows the back hill of our lawn occasionally--getting carried away after he mows his. I think I'll just have to wait until I catch a glimpse of his wife again. Then I'll feel relieved...but I probably won't stop reading those mysteries.

There is one thing though. When I drove down the street today, I looked toward that house into the narrow space between his house and his other neighbor's garage. What is he digging there? Sewer drainage leak? New basement sump pump system?Place to put a nosy neighbor?

Regrets

Most of my regrets come from things I said that offended someone. and most of those times I wasn't trying to be offensive. I was trying to say things in a more subtle way or a way that implied that I was just joking. It would have been better for me to have just kept my mouth shut.

But I wonder if right now, I'm not doing something I'll regret later. Maybe it's because I read too many mysteries, but I need to know: Did my neighbor just murder his wife?

Last night I clearly heard a gunshot. Well, I was sleeping, and suddenly awaked with a sense that someone had dropped a bomb on our peaceful little town. Then my husband said:

"Did y0u hear that gunshot?"
Ah, so that's what it was. "I think so; something woke me up. Was it a rifle?"
"Sounded like a pistol to me."
So I ran to check all the doors; they were locked. Reassured, I went back to bed noticing that the time was 3:34 A.M.

At around 8:30 this morning, as I carried out some garbage, I heard my neighbor's door open and saw a man come from the back door with a large lunch pail. I couldn't see his face clearly enough to know if it was the neighbor or someone more sinister.

This morning, Turtle dropped me off at the gym and drove out of town to visit a parishioner who was ill. I told him I'd walk back. On my way back, I stopped at the police station and reported the shot to a gently reproving white-haired gentleman; he said I should have called last night when I heard it, so they could have sent a squad car around. I looked properly abashed and gave him my name and address. Then, he decided to allay any regrets I might feel for the delay by letting me know that there is a man who lives northwest of me who sometimes shoots armadillos that get into his garden at night. Surely that must be it...but my bedroom window faces south...still.

When I got to the creek that crosses our road, I looked up and down it, both ways, not wanting to see a body...but you know, those mystery stories again. I walked north a ways checking the little creek--or what I could see of it through the winter-bare trees, and that brought me to the alley that runs behind my house.

Passing by my neighbor's house, I noticed a woodshed he has out back. A couple cords of wood
shield the view from my house, but from the alley, I saw a large, rectangular hole dug in the ground. About that time an ambulance siren went off, and a neighborhood dog set up a howl to match. I sped up and reached the safety of my locked house.

Do you think I will regret not going to look in that hole a bit closer?
Maybe, I should slip back over there.

Our Sunday Scribblings prompt was "Regrets".

Imaginary Friends

We keep a little red dress hanging in the guest room closet. It's my granddaughter Mim's dress, and she insists on wearing it the entire time she is here. Last Saturday she also found a pair of antlers laying on the couch (I'm not sure where they came from, but perhaps they spawned in the attic) Anyway, Mim is a real video enthusiast, and wants to perform every time she sees my camera. Here are a couple of cute interviews. The first one is about doll babies and imaginary friends.


In the second, she says the books of the New Testament and sings Amazing Grace. If you know Mim, you might like to see them.

Whatever happened to Jeanine Burnside?

Once, when I was young, I lived in Puebla, Mexico, on a farm outside the city. A visiting family came to church one Sunday morning, and Jeanine was in my class--a little girl, outspoken and laughing and so very American. Whether they lived in our city for a summer, two weeks, or a couple of days--that I don't remember. I just remember that right away, we hit it off. She was freckled, and funny, and full of ambition, and we played together for hours. That was the summer my little sisters and I had turned our camp trailer into an orphanage for lost dolls--all the cabinets were bunk beds with blankets hanging down and an occasional plastic foot. So when Jeanine came over we all played refugee camp. Outside we traveled--by foot and by bike-- on perilous foothills along the wide "river" and under the pines taking the longest detour around the edges of the farm to bring the wretched, abandoned doll babies to the safety of our home. There we fed them and swaddled them and put them to bed where they lay contentedly while we "adults" discussed world shaking events and gave them an occasional pat. Jeanine had just read a new book and was raving all about it. I still see her great green eyes and the dramatic way she moved her little hands in wonder. Such stories! Such lands! Such dangers far removed from our world!

Later, of course, I sought the book in the English speaker's library--a tiny room tucked behind a metal gate midst the three and four story buildings downtown. And the miracle was that I found it, for there weren't too many books on those shelves, particularly not children's books, not by the incomparable CS. Lewis.

I've often wondered what happened to Jeanine. She grew up, I suppose, and only faintly remembered that pine-fenced farm on the outskirts of a foreign city where little girls saved starving doll children from the evils of the world, while listening to tales of Aslan and Dragons on the Lone Islands far from Narnia.

Written for Sunday Scribblings

Sneezes, Sniffles, and Sinuses

That would be a catchy little name for a medicine shop that specialized in cold and flu remedies. And there are enough of those kinds of products out there to fill one.

Sometimes I give a quote to my seniors for interpretation; then we discuss what it means. Here's my quote for the day:

"If many remedies are suggested, it means the disease is incurable."

I feel like crawling back to bed...so this is a short little post. I'll write more when my head stops throbbing. Here's hoping all my itis's don't turn to oses's.

Thin Lady On Treadmill Who is not Me...Sigh

Well, I've been exercising faithfully for a month, putting up with no end of people coming into the gym and wearing out the equipment. For example, the other night, when Turtle and I ventured up for a workout, there were nine people huffing and puffing up there. Thankfully, the one who plays the loudest, most obnoxious music--all about the virtues of whiskey, easy women, and taking drugs--wasn't there to lambast us with her high brow selections, but lots of other people were. One man set the treadmill to ten miles an hour and to the highest incline. He was trying to impress the playing field, I think, with his thunderously pounding, shock-absorbing, black tennis shoes, and show his wife how utterly tough and manly he could be--for the four minutes he stayed on. I've finished two books and begun and rejected two others as unsuited for treadmill reading, (they have to be exciting enough to keep me from noticing the time). I've made friends with a couple of fellow exercisers who are pretty nice people. Still. Alas. I haven't lost any weight--well no more than I could attibute to a water pill. That's the bad news. The good news is this: My blood pressure is down. I've weaned off the medicine and it is staying down on its own. So... progress, I think. I may have lots of padding, but at least it is firmer fat.

Gravity Won--and it Slipped from our Grasp

Well our high hopes were ultimately dashed by an artist type.

We hosted the area tournament today; the top two teams would go to state. My team played well--the best they ever have, and managed to win the first two games, one easily; one not so easily. The third round showed great promise, as they managed to take an early lead over the top-seeded team, but they slowed in the third quarter and lost. Since we had already won over the runner-up team, we weren't extremely worried about them...I guess we should have been. The excelled at history and art and current events; we excelled at math, science, and sports. Unfortunately, there was a sixty second round called: famous artists and their works. They took it, and got nine out of ten correct, which gave them a nearly impossible lead, if not numerically, at least psychologically. So the other team won. We felt a little deflated. No state tournament this year.

On the bright side, I was proud of my team! They played well; they kept a good attitude; and they were good hosts. Several of them helped me set the rooms up, fix food for the hospitality room, keep time and score, and clean up after it was all over. In perspective, of the thirty teams in our area, we were ranked third. Thanks, Team! I appreciate you!

The Exodus Museum--Once Again.

Once again I’m reviewing and remembering as the junior high Bible classes take down their Exodus museum. All the murals and the monuments, the maps and the models turn into portable bundles, some to treasure and store away, others to cram into the dumpster behind the gym. That time in the wilderness will soon be forgotten as we move into the anarchy of the Judges and the turbulent times of Saul and Samuel. There, on the wall, was the golden calf, commandments broken at his feet. Next to the door were Amalekites in Lego, tiny robes bound around them with little rubber bands for braces. Moses stood between Hur and Aaron as they held his little plastic hands to the sky. The three signs were given to Moses, the quail fluttered on their mobile, and the waters of Rephidim gushed from their paper mache rock. Plagues tormented in abundance—frogs, darkness, a blood-cursed Nile, dying cattle, locust, hail and fire and boils—and little clay houses stood helpless in Goshen under the assailing mural scowl of Pharaoh, while the Passover meal sat quietly on the table, ready to eat in an instant and give strength for the journey. There was a model of the tabernacle and its golden furniture; the Ten Commandments, caligraphed on paper mache; and a mural of Korah falling into an awesome crack in the earth. The walls of the Red Sea closed in around us, while fish and sea creatures loomed under an occasional spray of mischievous water. The burning bush fluttered in the wind of fire. Signs everywhere proclaimed the stations and a salt map showed the way to travel. Fun, yes, but also learning. We sampled unleaven bread from the Passover meal and a token “sugar cookie” manna. Nobody danced around the golden calf, and we didn’t grind it into powder for the class to drink, but we do remember the story. And in the process we also learned that plaster works better than paper mache. Ah yes, reviewing and remembering….like so many Israelites did for years of celebrating Passover and the Feast of Tabernacles. Like them I have to smile and say, “God has been good to us.”

I managed to capture about half the students and projects for the video. Here are a few highlights...if I can get it to post.

The 200th Post

I've been blogging just over a year, and today I noticed that this would be the 200th post.
Well, since this is a milestone, I should have something dramatic to say.
Something witty.
Something apropos.

Well, this is the only thing that comes to my mind: "I can't believe I have actually written this much stuff--silly and serious; well-thought out and spontaneous; lyrical and stilted; meaningful and trivial; for a broad audience and for a narrow one (sometimes only for myself and it would have better been left in my mind and not on the internet blackboard for the world to read).

I tried to archive the whole blog, so I wouldn't lose it in a crash, and it proved difficult.
Just imagine if all the conversations we had were archived like this...in their entirety, no corrections or "I thought better's".
What a silly mess for God to sort through...that's what I say.

"Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Thy sight, Oh Lord, my Strength and my Redeemer!"

This Little Girl is Growing

On December 3, I wrote about this baby girl, born prematurely to a couple of my former students. She weighed just over two pounds, but was breathing on her own. Now, after 40 days, she is doing well, and almost ready to go home. What a precious gift--the life God gave us! Her auntie--one of my seniors--posted this picture on her blog.

Ahhh

Guess who got to the gym first today.



Well, after the first thirty minutes, two nice ladies showed up, with three little children who sat quietly by the television and watched cartoons. I went over to turn off the music for them, but they insisted that it was great music and I should leave it playing. The children were right by the TV and it wouldn't bother them at all. They they started walking and bike riding. After another ten minutes the commando ladies came in and started lifting weights--over in the "get buff-stay tough" section. If the music annoyed them, they didn't let on. When my time on the treadmill was finished, I gathered all my stuff, including the CD and made an exit.

Invasion of the Philistines

It's happened. Other people have decided to exercise too. That in itself isn’t so tragic, I guess. I mean, this is America where everyone has the right to eat too much, get overly fat, whine about it and finally drag their bodies to a place where there are mirrors all around to push one onto the torture machines of exercise. They have the right to exercise. Granted. They could have all gone to any number of health clubs and gyms in this area—bustling rings of activity with trainers and other loud, chatty, sweaty patrons.

They could have, but no. They chose to invade mine-- Aargh!--my quiet little exercise room on the village square. Why? It's only one long room, with windows on the square, antiquated, fuddy-duddy. There is even a mural on the wall overlooking the heavy-duty weight lifting area where the boys acquire buffness. It’s a serene painting of an English garden tea party—all greens and flowers and staid and soothing. It’s not at all suited for their type of exercise. Surely they could have gone somewhere else! But no.

I walk into my normally quiet gym, looking forward to forty-five minutes of Mendelssohn and a good book, and what do I see? Two ambitious middle-aged ladies punching away at their impending senior status with teen-age-like angst. They are running on my treadmill, pounding at 3.5 miles an hour. The radio is blaring some sort of rock/hip/rap mumbled screams and--worse--the big screen television is on at the same time. News. Advertisements. Propaganda. Can't tell which is which. In a few minutes a man walks in. Imagine. Four people. At once. I'm overwhelmed. In a state of shock, jerking inwardly as I'm slammed by the beats of the blaring radio, I numbly finish my routine on the exercise machines and stumble over to my treadmill to see if there is any tread left. Alas. Both machines are still busy being abused and talked all over by the commandos. I try the gazelle-looking machine instead. Up, down, up, down as I try to walk. It feels like I'm riding on a camel. Reading is impossible. They are jabbering—loudly so they can hear each other over the media din--about how quiet it was when they got here and how they couldn’t exercise without some noise. After ten minutes, I give up and flee the gym in utter frustration.

Today I'm going to be the first there--right after school. I'll fly. Just you wait. When they come in I'll have the CD blaring Hebrides! Ha ha! Take that, you Philistines!

Some Serious Christmas Video

Zaya is the one saying his line (of course) but the second line is not Mim's, as she was still too young for a line of her own. Ah well, child, maybe next year. You can see her playing with her red skirt there at the end.

Christmas Photo--Hazel's Bows

At Still Waters Run Deep, my cousin posted a Christmas picture of her twin daughters wearing party hats. This picture is proof that: "It runs in the family" and that "They are perfectly normal girls."

A Thursday Thirteen Meme

Follow the instructions to come up with 13 pseudonyms for yourself. The following are mine:

1. Your rock star name (first pet, current car)
Sneezix La Saber

2. Your gangsta name (favorite ice cream flavor, favorite type of shoe)
Coconut Crocs

3. Your Native American name (favorite color, favorite animal)
Scarlet Kitten

4. Your soap opera name (middle name, city where you were born)
Annie Magnolia (Not exactly true, but internet anonymity must be considered)

5. Your Star Wars name (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 of your first name)
Lixli (See #4)

6. Superhero name (2nd favorite color, favorite drink)
Emerald Coffee (yeech!)

7. NASCAR name (Made from names of your grandfathers)
Lloyd Elijah Paul

8. Your cooking show host name (A cooking activity, a favorite vegetable)
Broiling Potatoes

9. TV weather anchor name (your 5th grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter) Montezuma Monroe

10. Science Fiction Writer Pseudonym ( a planet name, an descriptive adjective beginning with the same letter)
Mars Magnanimous

11. Spy name (your favorite season/holiday, flower)
Spring Lilacs

12. Cartoon name: (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now)
Banana Belt

13. Hippie name (what you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree)
Toast Oak

Beautiful Bows Handmade by Hazel...and a Tiny Bit of a Song for You

This Christmas all the packages at my parents' house looked like they had been professionally wrapped; It was Hazel again. She had spent hours making elaborate bows--flowers and teensy little bows inside of bows. Well, see for yourself. They were exquisite. Before we opened the presents, we sang together...twenty four voices in the den. It was great...well, I'm sure it lacked something musically, but for earnestness it was superb. After that we visited, or played "Sorry" or "Apples to Apples", or sneaked into the kitchen for little slivers of coconut pie (in the hope that multiple small slices would confuse the calorie count into making an exception to the laws of mathematics--a vain hope, I might add, but it seemed rational in the fog of the day.)

She Loves Video Cameras and Frilly Red Dresses

I've discovered a new program on my computer--windows movie maker. So far I've learned to string a bunch of little videos together, chopping off the endings which, in this case, are all the same: She bounds toward me asking: "Now can I see it?" So here are a bunch of videos of the granddaughter.

I Believe...

...That life matters.
We are not little blobs of energy bumping blindly around in a plasma screen, nor yet are we cogs on a giant machine, following our fate in a grinding, grueling march to the grave, but we are alive. We are humans, created and capable of creation, destined and able to determine our own destiny, fallen, yet able to grasp the hand of our maker and stand again.

...That God matters.
We do not understand this love we find within us, until we have come home to our Father, and felt his love; we don't know mercy, until we see his supreme gift on the cross; we cannot see, until He has opened our eyes.

...That death matters.
We were not meant to die, to age, to falter; but we do. And so we find the door to eternity. What lies beyond is determined by the choices we made in life, by the hand we hold.

So life matters.


Our Sunday Scribblings Prompt was I Believe.

It's That Time of Year When...

...sweet remorse sets in because of all the overindulgences of the great November/December sugarfest. I sat here struggling with the woes of my computer (which sounds like more exercise than it is)consoling myself with an occasional teaspoon full of vanilla coconut spoon fudge, and finally decided it was time to face the inevitable. So I waddled up to the little gym on the square and slogged away for an hour--one round with the exercising machine dragons and nine chapters on the treadmill. For me, that's the only way to do it. Set the machine and start reading a good book. I don't know how long I walked past the end of the program and into the cool down cycle...Hey, it was an interesting book, although a little too eerie for my taste. What I really needed was a cheery, English countryside mystery a la Chesterton or Sayers or Christie. Dekker is a great author, but I prefer books that don't keep me looking over my shoulder. If things are happening to people far removed in social station or locale it doesn't seem as threatening, but this author uses names of towns I've been to, and his people are just ordinary citizens of the earth, people who eat too much candy at Christmas and go exercise to pay the price.

My Computer is a Barren Wasteland

Yikes.
It all started when I asked for an external hard drive for Christmas. (Yes, I'm a little weird that way). Well, the computer was just too full to function well, and, even though it is getting old, by computer standards--one year equals twenty, I thought if I just gave it some more room to grow, it would serve me faithfully for a few more years.

So I hooked up the mass storage device. In doing so, I had to plug the printer into the front usb port, because there are only two in back (That should tell you). I had the good sense to transfer all the documents over to the new drive. Then I had another idea--transfer all the program files and reboot the computer. Then I could pull all the program files back and Voila---more room without all the junk. Well.

I rebooted.

I didn't lose the documents.
I lost everything else.
All my windows updates.
My printer.
My e-mail letters and addresses.
Every software program.

Reinstalling is a major pain. I've been setting at the computer for two days and still don't have much to show for it. My printer doesn't work yet. THERE ARE TWO MILLION LINKS TO DOWNLOAD UPDATES AND FREE DRIVERS AND THEY ALL LEAD TO SOFTWARE THAT DOES NOTHING BUT SELL ITS DIAGNOSTIC SELF.

Why can't I leave well enough alone?

Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence

This Christmas carol is probably the oldest one we have on record. We know that it at least dates back to the 5th century and is taken from the Liturgy of St. James. I don't know who wrote it, or what it sounded like in the original Greek, but it certainly expresses the awe I feel at Christmas.

King of Heaven.
Came to Earth
To restore our hearts to Heaven.

Hallelujah!

Let all mortal flesh keep silence,
and with fear and trembling stand;
ponder nothing earthly-minded,
for with blessing in his hand,
Christ our God to earth descendeth,
our full homage to demand.

2. King of kings, yet born of Mary,
as of old on earth he stood,
Lord of lords, in human vesture,
in the body and the blood;
he will give to all the faithful
his own self for heavenly food.

3. Rank on rank the host of heaven
spreads its vanguard on the way,
as the Light of light descendeth
from the realms of endless day,
that the powers of hell may vanish
as the darkness clears away.

4. At his feet the six-winged seraph,
cherubim, with sleepless eye,
veil their faces to the presence,
as with ceaseless voice they cry:
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Alleluia, Lord Most High!

Graham Cracker Cream Coconut Confections

Are you one of those kinds of people who buy the jello cheesecake instant mixes and add your own cherry pie topping but use the already made graham cracker crusts that have the neat little turn over and crimp tops and then wonder what to do with the sacks of pulverized graham crackers that come with the box of cheese cake mix? If you are not, then stop reading this. Now. (because that means you probably make your own "from scratch" cheese cakes which take skill, patience, and hours of work and taste heavenly). So go read the news or something; you can read this blog another day when you can relate better.

All right.

I should just have my type of cook reading this blog now. Let's see. Where were we?
Ah yes. The left over little bags of crumbs (which, by the way are terribly hard to shape into a perfectly shaped pie crust the way the back of the box says...hence the already made crusts). I cannot bear to throw those sacks away, so usually they languish in the top drawer of my pantry hoping for an inspiration...sometimes I remember to throw them out after a few months. Today, I ventured upon a new plan: make something with them while they are fresh!

So I made them into cookies. I took two sacks of crumbs, added a half stick of soft butter, a cup of sugar and a 1/2 cup of cream. Then I finished off the vanilla and sprinkled them with cinnamon. To about half the batch, I added the rest of the coconut (from last night's venture into fudgery).
This should give me two kinds of cookies. They are in the oven right now...baking at 375 for I'm not sure how many minutes. I'll keep checking them and let you know how they turn out. Should be interesting.

Ok. This is what I found out so far. Twelve minutes is too long. Try ten. They are golden brown with a great tan on top of that. The good news is...they taste great...at least the coconut ones do. The others are flat and very mushy looking. I haven't had the heart to try them yet. I'm letting them cool and seeing if they harden.

I turned down the oven to 300 and threw in the rest of the dough--coconut included--but this time I didn't form them into balls first--why, when they all run together like that. I plan to cut this one into strips and call it "bars". I set the timer for ten minutes and I'll let you know sometime later how they turn out. Ah, cooking is such an adventure for the fearless.

Update:

The graham cracker crumb coconut bars were great--It took 20 minutes at 300 degrees. The hopeless looking little piles of cookie goo that didn't have coconut in them look the worst...but taste so good I had to hide them from myself. (That wouldn't work if my memory weren't failing). They would be like ambrosia if you ate them while drinking a glass of cold milk.

Next time I'll do the same thing, but cut back on the butter. They seemed too greasy. I'm thinking only 1/4 stick or maybe none at all. The heavy whipping cream probably has enough oil in it. That's my guess.

Three Kinds of Fudge

Well I went on a fudge cooking marathon last night to fill some little tubs and distribute them among the church people who are still home and haven't run off to visit grandchildren. If any of you know me, you realized long ago that I'm not a very good cook...but I try with intrepidity:
So the conclusion of the matter is this: I have three kinds of fudge in the tubs: thin, soft, chocolate pecan slabs, little balls of vanilla, coconut "spoon" fudge (It didn't set up...but it's still the best tasting of the lot); and tall, stiff--very stiff cut it with a jack hammer if you dare--chocolate, peanut butter, pecan, whole bunch of marshmallows, marble fudge. There!
Who says I can't cook.

A Song From Sara Lee

No, her name is not really Sara Lee, but that's what the students all call her instead of trying to pronounce her real name. Last night at the school Christmas program she sang a solo for the first time. In fact, this is the first time she has ever been in choir and the first time she has been away from home...for any length of time.

Sara arrived a little late for school this fall, visas and such taking forever, but she has settled into dorm life on weeknights. On weekends she shares her life with another family and with us. This month it's our turn for Sara.

"We're going to Texas for Christmas Day," I told her last night.
"Oh, Cool!" she replied in perfect Oklahoma teen slang."

Anyway, she wanted her family--back in tropical Indonesia--to hear her sing, and I was anxious for them to see how lovely her voice sounded in the stillness of the gym, so I took my trusty little video camera to record the event.

I know, the picture is dark; you can't see her face....etc. etc. but I was having to lean over into the crowd between sending the shepherds and prompting the wise men to begin their wending way to follow a star.



Here are the Lyrics to the song: "Breath of Heaven", sometimes called Mary's Song, by Chris Eaton and Amy Grant. I only recorded the first verse and chorus, because I was afraid to make the video too long for e-mail.

I have traveled
Many moonless night
Cold and Weary
With a babe inside
And I wonder
What I've done
Holy Father,
You have come and
Chosen me now
To carry your son

I am waiting
in a silent prayer
I am frightened
by the load I bear
In a world as cold as stone
Must I walk this path alone
Be with me now
Be with me now

[chorus:]
-----------------------------------
Breath of Heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of Heaven

Breath of Heaven
Lighten my darkness
Pour over me, your holiness
For you are holy,
Breath of Heaven

Do you wonder
As you watch my face
If a wiser one, should have had my place
But I offer-all I am
For the mercy-of your plan
Help me be strong
Help me
Help me

Panama Streets for a Picture Meme

Babystepper tagged me. I have to post the sixth picture from the sixth picture folder in my Main Picture folder, only mine aren't quite that simple.

So, after a few dead ends on the picture folders--cul de sacs where there were not six folders, and picture folders called stuff and such, I finally located a picture folder that had six folders in it. I grabbed the sixth picture from that folder and voila.

This is a picture taken in Panama a few years ago on Elijah's mission trip. The older man is a Kuna native who operates a taxi service (the pickup behind him).
The young kid acting weird--um--cool-- is an American teenager .

So whom do I tag. I know. I'll tag you lurkers. This is a great chance for you to break into some really serious blogging with an assignment anyone can do. Go to your picture folder (It's called "my pictures" on most people's computers) and pick the sixth folder. Open it. Post the sixth picture from that folder and explain why in the world that picture is on your computer. Have fun.

P.S. a lurker is someone who reads blogs but never comments.

Silliness in Song while Studying for Semester Tests Tomorrow

Blame the Math Teacher.
He started it all by jotting down a math carol on the board for his dedicated Algebra I students. It went like this:

Math is fun. We like to do it.
fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.
It brings joy when we get through it.
fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.
All our homework, it is fun.
fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.
We are sad when it is done.
fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.

So I had to write one on the other side of the board before my Christian Studies IV students got into the room.

(To the tune of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.")

It's time for some philosophy; it's time for ethics class
We're filling out our study sheets; and oh, we hope we pass
An anarchist, a hedonist, and an iconoclast,
Oh where is our comfort and joy; comfort and joy;
Oh where is our comfort and joy.

Then the sophomores came in, and well, you know how it goes.
Everybody wants their carol.

(To the tune of "Walking in a Winter Wonderland")

Sophomores sing, loud and giggly,
and their notes, they are squiggly,
They can't study today
So tomorrow they'll pray
Walking in Semester Testing Land

We have a verse. Who's going to say it?
There'll be a prayer. Who's going to pray it?
I think that it's time
to stop all this rhyme.
Walking in a Semester Wonderland.

Then the seventh and eighth grade boys requested Jingle Bells.

Junior high boys' Bible class
Keeps me on my toes
Trying to find a question that
not anybody knows--oh!
Junior high boys' Bible class
What a noisy bunch.
Always have their hands held high
until it's time for lunch.

And the Juniors...who were dreadfully sleepy today; I hope they are not all coming down with mononucleosis or African trypanosomiasis, although the chances of that are slim in this icy weather.

Have yourselves a merry little nap time
Rest there on your desks
Just pretend I'm not up here reviewing tests.
And have yourselves a nap time of the very best.

(Well, we did accomplish something. We voted to bring a Dr. Pepper the day of the test...just so they can stay awake through that. ) Yawn. I think maybe I'll bring one too.

And finally...my tiny little girls class at the end of the day. They usually make good grades on everything, and they are intense when it comes to study time...so I had to wait until I got home to write one for them. Maybe they will log on and read it.

Once again--(To the tune of Jingle Bells)

We'll study til we drop....and even then won't stop
We'll learn these names and then...we'll learn them all again.
And when we see the test
We'll do our very best
As long as you don't deviate and ask about the rest.

Oh study sheets, study sheets,
All you need to know.
Never mind the textbooks
Let's throw them in the snow-oh!
If she wickedly throws in a lot of other stuff
We'll gleefully point this out to her
And so we'll call her bluff!

(Oops. Junior high students: if you are reading this, remember that section on the study guide that says simply: Know everything about Noah, Abraham, Jacob, Joseph and Moses. That's formidable. Oh, and bring your timelines to class. I'll let you use them for part of the test.)

Your Loving Teacher,
The Silly Rhymer Strikes Again

Bittersweet

Well. The games were canceled due to the icy roads. Not that I really minded. We do have semester tests beginning tomorrow and the last thing the students and teachers needed was to start the whole thing off with a four hour basketball gamefest and a five hour concession stand marathon. There is a little problem, however, with what to do with the 90 hamburger buns I bought last evening in anticipation of this large-scale-money-making fund raiser for my juniors who will be seniors next year and throw away all this hard earned cash on a self-indulgent senior trip they will never forget.

Maybe we can sell them to the cafeteria--along with the chips, lettuce, and tomatoes. (the burgers, that is, not the juniors)
Everything else we'll sell to the seniors. After all, it is their turn to do concessions after the break. I'm going to celebrate by staying away from games and grading papers...or blogging...or paying bills...or washing clothes...or just padding around the house in my jammies and crocs. I'm sure it will be terribly hard on me, but I'll manage somehow.

I Knew Instantly That There Would Be Another Stuffed Reindeer in the Room...

...because it happens every year about this time.

No, we don't collect penguins, or snowflakes or even angels or shepherds or sheep, but at some point in our history as a family (maybe it was the year Dairy Queen gave beany bag reindeer with kids meals) we started collecting four-footed, prancing, pawing, caribou. Of course, personalities being the way they are, my husband, Turtle, contracted an obsession for them. So, every year the red, plastic vat in the attic comes bumping and thumping its way down dusty stairs and my living room is infested with silly, sleigh-pullers. . . and every year, another one pokes its silly little snout out from between the others. It's a tradition I tolerate, at best. The latest one is particularly goofy looking. (He's the last one in the video)

Oh well, at least I don't have a fat, jolly, white-bearded man in a red suit booming loudly in the darkness behind them. Oh wait...I do. Now maybe that's why he...hmmm.



Our Sunday Scribblings Prompt was "I Knew Instantly"

Speaking of Traditions

I've been thinking about Christmas traditions...because, well...it's that time of the year again. I suppose our most lasting family tradition was one started by my father and mother when I was about ten years old. Every Christmas Eve we went caroling in the nursing homes and the hospitals--just our family, and, as we all got older, some of the sons-in-law and grandchildren.

Dad played the accordion and walked behind us, and we sang as we walked up and down the halls. Occasionally, a family member would invite us into the room to sing for a loved one, and there were always people at the nursing homes who would sing along with the familiar carols. It was, and still is, good for us to think about others, and it was a fine thing to do together; it didn't take very long, but brought a bright few moments into the lives of those too ill or too forgotten to go home for Christmas Day.

Thanks, Dad and Mom, for making this a family tradition.
It has lasted over forty years.

Schnetka--A Traditional Breakfast Food

Our Sunday Scribblings Prompt was Tradition so...

(I actually found this entry from earlier, and I'm posting it again. There's a recipe at the end for all of you adventurous souls with a sweet tooth.)

The school where I teach is located about fifteen miles away, in a tiny community. Every morning, five students and I get to drive there together, and talk about our day while driving into the sunrise. This morning we discovered that three of my commuters had NEVER tasted schnetka. Amazing. How could someone live in this community and not have tasted this little breakfast dainty? After that, nothing would suffice but that I be talked into stopping and buying some. When I pulled up to the door of the small cafe on main street--the only main street--the only cafe-- the first thing I noticed was a sign which said: "Sorry, we are closed." While I searched all the neatly printed little homemade signs for one which told me when they were open, the door opened and two of the local farmers asked what I needed. When I asked for a list of hours, one of them said,

"Come on in."
"Oh, are you open?"
"Well, we are only semi-open. If you want coffee and schnetka, we are open enough for that."

"Actually, I wanted six schnetka for my students."
"Well come on in and help yourself. They are over there on the bar."

I helped myself, finding a carry-out box, loading the pastry treats into it, and depositing my cash into a bucket on the table. The two men told me that they come drink coffee here every morning. Other residents do too. This keeps the cafe semi-open. Well, that's good to know. I think I'll make Thursdays "Schnetka days".

Small towns...I love them. And I love schnetka too. Who wouldn't?

Schnetka Recipe--This is a cinnamon, sugary, creamy, pie crusted, delicious pastry. It's best served warm along with a nice cup of tea or coffee.

4 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 tsp. salt
1 cup Crisco
1cup water (as needed to make dough)

1 cup sugar
1Tbls.cinnamon
1/2 cup of brown sugar

1cup sugar
1 cup cream
1tsp vanilla


Mix together flour, 1 cup sugar, 1tsp salt, Crisco, and water and roll out on flat surface to make a 20 by 22 inch rectangle.
Spread with butter, sprinkle with 1 cup of sugar mixed with 2 T cinnamon. Sprinkle 1/3 cup of brown sugar over the top.
Cut into 4 by 4 and 1/2 inch squares and roll each square.
Spray an 11 by 15 inch pan heavily with baking spray or grease it well.
Place schnetka on pan leaving small space between them. ( A jelly roll pan works great)
Mix together 1 cup of cream, 1 cup of sugar, and 1 tsp of vanilla. Pour this mixture over the top of schnetka.
Sprinkle with more sugar.
Bake at 375 degrees for 30 to 40 minutes (depending on type of pan)
Remove the schnetka from the pan immediately, turning them out on a plate or tray. Here's roughly what they look like. Sorry you can't taste them.

An older spelling is schnitke, or schnetke.

The Sparrow of His Eye

Yesterday I told you about the birth of little Rachel and I was remembering my niece, who had been born prematurely also. That niece is an artist now and has just finished this picture of a sparrow. It was on her blog. Strangely enough, the blog I sent you to see yesterday--written by the little baby's aunt--is called "Sparrow Flies", and quotes the verse about "His eye being on the sparrow." Isn't life ironic?

Little Girl

Two of my former students got married--hey it happens quite often here--and we were all excited to find out this fall that they were expecting their first child around the middle of February. Well, to make a long story shorter...the little girl came early and weighs 2lbs 1.5 oz. Her new auntie is a senior this year in my class, and she is bringing pictures every day. It so much reminds me of when I was a new auntie and my own niece was a 2lb baby. The pictures are amazing. She has posted a couple of them here, so I stole one for you to see.

Go Read this Poem

A few months ago, Elijah wrote a poem from the viewpoint of the Prodigal. I've been nagging him to put it on his "very seldom written in" blog. (He posts as Blackstubble--an alias, just like Elijah is an alias). Well, anyway, he finally put it up today. Here's the post. You might as well accept the fact that moms brag on stuff their kids do. It comes in our mom contract.

Winter

Our Sunday Scribblings Prompt was "Winter"

The coldest winters I ever spent were in Gunnison, Colorado.
True...true... with the sun shining brightly, and hardly any wind, it didn't always look cold. But it was.

I remember crossing the Gunnison River on the way to school. Some days it was generating steam like a nuclear power plant...chunks of ice floating throughout. The steering wheel under my gloved hands was so cold it made my bones hurt, and the seat beneath me was firm, like a bench of stone. Even though the engine had been plugged in all night, the car was slow to shift gears--fluids were like refrigerated honey, I guess.

My daughter had learned the hard way not to wash her hair in the morning. One morning it froze on the way out to the school bus. Not realizing that, she reached up and grabbed it, only to feel a chunk of hair break off into her hand.

We wore long underwear beneath our clothes...all winter long, even under the long dresses that we wore to church, where we sat on heated pews. Nobody stayed home because of the weather. I remember one Sunday when the temperature was thirty six degrees below zero. We were all there. Just another Gunnison cold day.

With winter came white streets. They stayed white until April, and those who cleared the snow had to pile it high in a snow yard, because it would never melt, not until May or June even. There was lots of sledding and ice skating and snowboarding in the cold, cold sunshine, but if you held your coffee cup in your hand too long, you would see it ice over on top.

In the basement, frost began creeping up all the outside walls, making us realize why water lines needed to be buried deeper than ten feet.

Summer was slow to arrive and always seemed like an uncomfortable visitor, cringing under occasional snow flurries that were dashed in her face. Dahlias bloomed with a crisp intensity, bold and beautiful, throwing all the energy they possessed into the few short weeks they were outside...so did all the other flowers. There was no spring...just less wintery winter. . .fall was golden aspen leaves sprinkled liberally with snow dust...short and powerless to stop the coming cold white world of winter.

So how did we survive four years there? Well, inside was reasonably warm...standing around the fire...and the people were warm...no winter in those friendships. It makes all the difference.

Escape Into No Man's Land.

The angel leads the way
dividing the darkness
with his light sword

Then a weary man walking, and
a donkey bearing a wife worrying,
holding gently her mortal baby boy

The very one who once lit stars
and commanded angels to sing.

Now he nods quietly in the darkness
as the angel leads them on
away from a sobbing Bethlehem


The picture is from Kevin Ryan's website.

An Angel, a Joseph, and a Mary

That's all who came to children's church today. Everybody was gone for Thanksgiving with one parent or another...or one grandparent or another.

Advent began with Wonderful Counselor, and one of the children dressed as a prophet to light the candle while the scripture was being read, so I talked the other two into dressing up in their Christmas program outfits so I could take their picture.

I love this time of the year--re-enactments and rememberings. We made clothespin dolls and dressed them with scraps of vividly colored felt--oddly enough--a Joseph, a Mary, and an angel, complete with a star-twined halo.

Early in the Morning

They are sleeping.
All over the house.
Beds are full...and so are all the couches.
I'm sitting quietly in the dark...in the den...typing as softly as I can.
Schnetka are in the oven...on warm...bubbling quietly.
I went to bed before ten...after calling my parents to make sure they made it safely home.
It's a thing with me.
I don't know how late they all stayed up, but I remember hearing the saxophone playing before I turned on the overhead fan/ambient noise and faded away.
Well, in my defense, I had been up since five, so I could put the turkey and ham into the oven hours before I needed to and make sure they almost burned. Fortunately, the only thing that burned was the pan of honey glazed carrots and, as I said at the time, if you are going to burn anything on Thanksgiving Day, it might as well be carrots.
Almost all the family was here--we were just missing seven--those North Carolina people and the Chicago five. So the twenty one of us played games and took pictures and just enjoyed the time together...not to mention all the pies and cheesecakes and chocolate and snickerdoodles.
It was lovely--the weather crisp and cool, the leaves crunchy.
Thanks, God, for such a peaceful time in our small pocket of the world.
Happy Thanksgiving!

Babysitting Brave Boys

Last week I got to do something special.

We have a banquet every year to promote the school and raise funds. It's great food, and a good speaker, and I usually host a table, but this year I kept the nursery--not just little babies, mind you, but toddlers and elementary aged children as well. There were supposed to be eleven youngsters, but we ended up with seven--six little boys and a girl. They came in like a freight train, and proceeded to derail--toppling all the nursery toys with them. All the quiet tracing and coloring activities I had planned to do had to wait for a lull in the energy level. Fortunately, I had a group of student helper/volunteers...one helper per child, if you count Turtle and me. It was great!

They ate pizza; (we got plates from the banquet room). They ignored the chocolate chip cookies and got excited about coloring a long mural with markers and pasting fall leaves all over a hastily drawn tree. We had to watch them every second, however. These two little angels in the first video were occupied with dishes and setting the table (man style). I turned my back on them to get something and they decided to make the slide more exciting by "jacking" it up on blocks. One of the students called me and I was in time to stop them from launching themselves over their newly elevated creation, but they were on the ladder already...who knows what would have ensued...and then again, they acted like they had done this before. Kids.

Mad Kane's Humor Blog

In times like these...stock market going wild, people scurrying around with question marks on their faces...well you can't be serious every minute, or your body will explode with ulcers. I stumbled upon this site once where a retired lawyer invites people to write limericks and haiku. Today her topic was : Dentists, so I slogged out a verse reminding me of a particular dental disaster I endured about three years ago, when a dentist pulled out a tooth without ex-raying first and ended up fracturing my jaw and creating a hole through to my sinus cavity. Needless to say, I switched dentists, but on cold days my face still hurts from the trauma. Anyway, what do you do? Laugh about it. Here is my limerick... and the haiku.

At first I considered my cavity
A disaster of no special gravity
But the dentist—Forsooth--
Wrenched out the whole tooth.
In an instant of mental depravity

“Million dollar smile!”
“Puts money where your mouth is”
Disproportionate.

Don't Be a Stranger Now, Ya Hear?

The loneliest part of moving to a new place is not being seen...

fading into the sidewalk as their glances shoot through you to a friend they see behind.

No hurried "however are ya's",
No "hey, I was just thinkin' about ya's"
Not even the veriest, teeniest, little blink of a nod
that says "I know who you be, just can't talk now."

Only the cursory glance from the civil,
The uncaring, scowl from the rude,
And the blind stare of those who hate by apathy.

But overhead the same bright sun on the leaves, and you know by night you'll recognize the same glorious moon.

Well...
God is no stranger.

For Sunday Scribblings.