Ice

Sliding off the eave lines,
falling into the foliage,
glistening on the grass.

It's fierce and blustery,
driven, dripping,
clawing--
Half-way down
It turns to glass.

The Stars are Out

It's that time of the year again--the juniors are studying about famous missionaries from the 17th, 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries. One of the assignments for this project is creating a star to hang on our classroom ceiling--a star that represents each missionary and/or the country he or she served. These were mighty men and women, those who gave everything they had and gained...well more than stars.

Every year, as I study their lives again, I'm impressed by the great variety of backgrounds and abilities. It seems that the most important line on the resume for these critical applicants was the one that said: "willing to serve"

For example:

Amy Carmichael was from a wealthy family and she was criticized for mingling with the poor;
Mary Slessor's family was so poor, she saved from her missionary salary to keep them from starving in a slum back home in Scotland.





Adoniram Judson and William Carey were brilliant at language...and almost everything else;
Gladys Aylward couldn't pass her classes at missionary school and was told she should serve as a maid instead of aspiring to go to China.

A middle-aged, war-weary Corrie Ten Boom, survived the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp to found a home for the survivors of that terrible time;
Eric Liddell, young and athletic, supervised a group of students in a prisoner of war camp in China, then died of a brain tumor before the war was over and the children released.







David Livingstone blazed trails into the heart of Africa...then left his heart there to be buried with the people he loved; Lottie Moon gave away so much food to her beloved Chinese friends, that she had nothing left. She died on the ship home, weighing a mere fifty pounds.





George Mueller was a thief and a scoundrel in college, but after his life was changed forever, he founded and supported thousands of orphans, spending very little on himself. Count Zinzendorf was so serious and devoted to God, his family hired a special tutor to make sure he spent enough time with parties and frivolous pursuits during his college years.







Sundar Singh hiked on foot over the Himalaya trails into Tibet, preaching the gospel to anyone who would listen to a Holy Man. (Sadhu);
Betty Greene flew an airplane and founded a group of pilots who would ferry supplies and evacuate those who were ill or injured.
















Jim Elliot was a prolific writer who left moving and well-planned sermons in prayer journals;
Nate Saint was a pilot and aviation mechanic, who could build a plane from pieces left in baskets. They died side by side in the Amazon, speared by the people they were trying to reach with the gospel...





Ordinary people. Extraordinary lives. They shine.

Those who are wise shall shine
Like the brightness of the firmament,
And those who turn many to righteousness
Like the stars forever and ever. Daniel 12:3

The Old Man Himself

Well I'm sure a lot of little kids would like to know what he looks like in January, after the beard's been trimmed and the hustle and bustle of life has calmed down.

Foggy January Mornings

This is pretty much the way my week looked. Not just in the early morning drives to school, but in the worry and fear I carried like a haze around me. There are times when you don't know exactly what to do, but you know that doing nothing would be wrong. When you know that your decisions will affect those you care about, it makes the inside sky foggy.

"What do you say?"
"How do you tell them what to do?"
"If you give bad advice, will it ruin something beautiful in their lives?"

A few minutes ago I caught a look at myself in the restroom mirror. My face was still like this...clouded by streaks of uncertainty, my eyes dark with the purple clouds of a worried week, all streaky with silver sleeplessness.

Hopefully things will start looking better soon.
If I keep this up, I'll quickly become an old gray grouchy woman and have to start shaking my cane at the students.

Ouchie

When my grandchild, Mim, came marching in the door this morning, she came chin first, just waiting for me to say: "Oh my goodness! What happened to you!" I can assure you she got the reaction she desired.

She proudly told me that she had tripped and fallen on a cement step three days ago. Her mom, told me that at first they thought she must have broken her jaw, so they took her to an emergency care clinic. Mim filled in the details with: "I cried all the way there."
Anyway, she's fine and the swelling should go down in a few days.

Later, after lunch, while she was rolling around with this big exercise ball, she motioned for me to listen to something she had to say. Then she whispered:
"Aren't you going to break out the camera?"

People who survive trauma like to let others know all about it, and Mim is no exception.

The Earth Groans

A groaning earth swells up... and we,
tossed and trampled, fall shaken to our knees.
He is the rock.

Icy winds scream overhead...and we,
shivering and solemn, stand cowering in the snow.
He is our refuge.

Fires rage, alarms ring out
We lose the ones we lived for...and we,
Surviving residents of a relentless world,
stand numb--alone and hollow.
He is our comfort.

We live in a world of beauty and bitterness
creation at war, a savage pit...
prone to upheavals and rages, and tumults
He is the hand who steadies us
until the day when He becomes
The only way out.

Even so, Come, Lord Jesus.

It's that Crazy Time Again

Homecoming Week...dressing up, painting, acting a little maniacal.
Our theme is "City"...from "City set on a hill cannot be hid." I think the decorators used a little poetic license with the theme, however, because they turned the halls into inner city streets--yellow line down the middle, graffiti everywhere, and black lights hanging above. Today was "white-out" day; tomorrow will be "black-out". Although it was difficult to find all white clothes, almost everybody wore some thing white...which showed to advantage under the black lights. I loved the colorful graffiti on the lockers, which are interesting anyway because students use them to set up cubicles of private space. I asked Emily if I could take a picture of hers, and she acquiesced graciously.

Now I'll admit that it is more difficult to present a lecture to a room full of students in togas and insulated pajamas, but it isn't impossible...and...since it only happens a couple of weeks out of the year, I'll put up with it, just for the fun of making memories. I think it gives students an opportunity to be daring in a safe way.

Windmills in the Sunset

Such Angels

The fifteen boys in my Bible class this year are like stallions--full of energy and enthusiasm. If they are discussing the assignment, they discuss it with vigor; playing chess or Stratego, likewise; taking advantage of a few freetime minutes...well they enjoy themselves. Fortunately, the powers that be have seen fit to give me efficient reins. It is our privilege to go first to lunch...that is, if the teacher feels the class deserves to go to lunch early and is "ready" to go to lunch. The first video is taken at the end of class during a few minutes of the aforementioned "free time". The second is taken two minutes later, as the second hand of the clock approaches lunch time.

A Bouquet of Girls

I've promised my last hour class that they could star in their own post. Of course, I'm not going to use their real names...so the question arises: "What shall I call them?"

Now naming is one of my favorite things to do. In fact, if having children and raising children had not been so time consuming, expensive and fraught with difficulty, I would have had at least fourteen, just so I could name them. (As it was, I did give each of my own children three formal names, and a couple of nicknames.) I'm not going to have any more children to name, so this is a great opportunity to be expressive. I've decided to give them all flower names.

On the back row we see Saffron and Evanna, standing tall in the sunshine.
Planted in front are: Elodie, Jasmine, Kalina, Acacia, Tulip, Roselaine, and Columbine.
Such a sweet little bouquet!

January Sky

Don't be deceived by this cuddly-looking little pink sky. It's cold out there. This was our early morning view. At seven twenty, we stopped to add extra gas to the tank (just in case we got blown off the road by a roaring wind and were forced to run the heater to stay unfrozen in this below zero wind chill factor)

Still, all my riders were anxious to get to school and not skip the day like so many schools in the capitol are doing. After all, we have basketball games tonight. Life is an exciting prospect...
...and, most importantly, it's Tori's birthday! She brought cookies for the class; she is old enough for make-up and a facebook account. Fortunately, the weather can't put a freeze on all that!

Wheels Turning

Most of the time when I find myself saying to my students, "Do you understand?" it means I feel certain they don't. They have a certain blank stare that sings: "Oh I'm far far off in another place, and the words you say bounce off my face". At times like these I feel that I'm making about as much sense as a scolding prairie dog preaching from his little hillock of earth.

But every now and then ...there's a different atmosphere in the room--wheels turning. As a teacher, I've come to appreciate that certain look in the eyes of students. It's invigorating to see an idea catching hold of a brain or sometimes a lot of brains at once and pulling them along. The students even look different at such times, for they sit quite still, paralyzed with the new knowledge. Suddenly, they are eager for silence, wanting the truth to sink into their brain and find other situations to affect. Then they start to wonder at the different light it brings to each of those. It's a great feeling when the bell rings on totally quiet moments such as these, and nobody moves.

I'm privileged to witness this often in high school students. But over Christmas, I watched it over and over as my five year old grandson played with a little microscope. He was mesmerized by all the new things he saw...and weren't you? Think about it--the first time you saw the ocean? the mountains? the Grand Canyon? a large cave with curtains of rock and stalactites hanging down? a bat's wing? We live in an amazingly intricate world and there is such wonder to quieten us in awe. So, here the little fellow sits, huddled on the floor with his microscope quietly marveling, as the twenty-two other people in the room talk boisterously, play loud games and lively ones, snack on too much sugary stuff, and catch up on a year's worth of each other's lives.

The Year in Skies

Thursday Thirteen

The part of the country where I live isn't really famous for its scenery. No tourists come driving through to ooh and aah over fields, cows, and little creek beds with muddy red water dribbling through them. So I feel a secret joy in seeing great beauty here...the sun coming up...the rain moving in...the fog surrounding...it's all delightful to me. Here are pictures I've taken of the sky: from January through December and beyond...

January--a great orange, ripple
of clouds in the early morning
















February--winds and windmills in a
white whirl of low-hanging clouds
















March--new wheat rising under cool
clouds, greening the land















April--the sweet promise of rain on thirsty wheat














May-- loud storms, bouncing hail pellets,
thunderous tornadoes















June--quiet blue skies over harvested fields,
maybe a tired tuft of cloud.



















July--the sun sinking behind the city, bronzing
clouds with a wearying heat















August--days full of rain, and the world smiled,
wonderful, wrapping mists of moisture














September--soil dry, red dirt, steel sky















October--fog on the bridges and whisper gray













November--thick clouds rolling, masses of cold
pushing the bright yellow sunlight from the fields
















December--Pink sky, very early morning...
a snowy stillness on Christmas Day.















A final picture to make 13. This one was taken by one of my students on our way to school one morning. So how did she get such a good picture of the moon from a moving vehicle? Well, truthfully, that's not the moon; that's the sun.

Princess and the Frog.

This is Mim, the princess. The video is Mim, the frog.

The scenario: They have turned the boxes from Christmas presents into "The Deep". Zaya has announced that he is a tube worm near a chimney, where the water is much too hot for Mim's frog, but she ignores his scientific limitations and swims down to pay him a visit.

Mim: Hello. Ribbett. Ribbet. Ribbet. Aaaack.
He throwed up on you. Aaaack. Aaaack.

Zaya: Ug.

Mim: Hey, don’t break him.

Zaya: OK. I think I’ll be a parrot fish. OK?

(Mr. Frog): Ug aaaaa aaaa…aaaa uuuu I throwed up on you.

Mim: (correcting her frog) It isn’t nice to throw up on people.

(Mr. Frog): It IS nice to throw up on people…especially you…because my mother frog told me it was nice to throw up on people…it really is.

Delicious

Cherry cheesecake, pumpkin pie, vanilla fudge,
Peanut brittle, gooey lemon pudding sludge
Nutter butters dipped in scrumptious chocolate stuff
Pumpkin rolls...heaven knows I've had enough.

For the cheery little cheesecake promptly settled in my chin
The vanilla fudge (I only had a taste)
And the wicked chocolate stuff
( tears are falling; this is tough)
Has been permanently added to my waist.

Our Sunday Scribblings Prompt was Delicious

Family Christmas

Well, we were all there (except for the North Carolina/Chicago seven) celebrating Christmas together with Mom and Dad. The living room was crowded; the food was much too delicious; the noise level like that of a patio cafe next to a roller coaster. It was great.



If you aren't family, you'll probably want to skip this one. I've noticed that videos about people you don't know are usually boring, and--even if you do know the people--not something you just want to watch over and over. Ah well. If you made it through this one, you might want to watch this other one, as Mim decorates an oblivious Zaya. From his reaction, you can see that he's probably used to this kind of distraction while he's reading a new book.

Zaya Plays Jingle Bells at Great-Grandparents' House

Almost two years ago, on my eighteenth post, I included a video of my three year old grandson "playing" on the piano. Here he is at five, playing jingle bells, still very concerned over the right timing.

He Felt Cold

He felt cold.
The first strange thing…
And he shivered like a God had never done.
He felt hunger from the journey
Such an unfamiliar weakness
Something wanting
Something needed
And—as feelings go—another unknown one.
He felt rigid pain, swaddled cramping.
Heard the sounds of sobs and shouting,
He saw those too poor to matter as they gathered mute and awed
And the smell of field and fold knelt around his newborn soul
As they worshiped him and wondered how a baby could be God.
No one interfered to hinder their first uncertain touch:
“He’s a human! and so fragile!”
“He's a human--one of us!”
“Why would God trade endless splendor for a vapor and decay?”

He felt cold.
It was morning.
Another first—a very early, cold and hungry Christmas Day.







I wrote this very early Monday morning--December 21, 2009...and adapted it for the
Three Word Wednesday Prompt-Rigid, Journey, Hinder I posted it here, because I wanted it to be up for Christmas Day.

Oh the Weather Outside is Frightful...

And the weatherman was rightful




Outside or inside? You choose.





There were a few brave enough to enjoy the blizzard, but they only lasted for a few minutes--the wind, the chill factor, the white-out road conditions, the drifts. All in all it was appalling outdoors and cosy inside. So, not much of a choice, really.

Elijah's Christmas Program

Last Thursday, Turtle and I were able to attend our son's first Christmas program...well the first program he put together as a teacher. He had 91 fourth-grade students participating; that's a lot of little children. Even stacked neatly on the bleachers of a huge auditorium stage, behaving beautifully without fights and fidgets, they looked like they would be a challenge to teach. The program being Christmas Around the World, the children sang songs in English, Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, and Japanese. One little boy played drums; another two played guitar (for Silent Night), six little girls played on marimbas, and they all sang. Elijah accompanied on the guitar, piano, accordion, and trumpet(not all at the same time). It was quite enjoyable. I tried to get a picture of all 91 of the students up there, but it had to be rather small, so I took a close up of Elijah and two little boys;it looks like they have a tie-coordinating thing going on. His next program will be in the spring and will feature his third graders. At the end of the year, his fifth graders will have their turn to perform. His job isn't one most people would appreciate having, but I'm sure it means a lot to the children and to their parents. I'm proud of Elijah at times like this.

Names of Christ Tree

Here's a tree created by my sophomores in the Life of Christ class. We are studying mostly from the book of John--all those "I Am" passages--so we decorated a tree with the names of Christ. You have to use your imagination a little, but if you can't figure them out, they are labeled.

Cowlicks

I have a cowlick on my forehead which doesn't mean I've spent a lot of time ranching, but when I tried to find another word for it, the thesaurus went bankrupt. Surely, I thought, there has to be a more professional term, so I googled it, and all I got was this:

cow·lick (kou'lĭk')
n. A projecting tuft of hair on the head that grows in a different direction from the rest of the hair and will not lie flat.

Well, in my case, that definition doesn't quite fit. My cowlick is more of a complete swirl--a whirlpool of hair that would be a problem anywhere, but is particularly annoying when it sits right at the hairline on my forehead.

In vain my mother wrestled with that cowlick: curling, cutting, combing, crying. Nothing helped for long. It was a continual frustration to her. As I got older, I learned to harness the wild swirl, cutting bangs that would shoot over to the side and follow the insistent command of the cowlick, thus taming it by surrender, if there is such a thing.

Thankfully, neither of my daughters inherited the curly Charybdis, but when I saw my granddaughter Mim for the first time at the hospital...I knew that the gene must have slipped through somehow...the swirly, unruly...aw well!

The other day, I was combing Mim's hair.
"Grandma," she said, half explaining; half complaining, "I've got a hole in my hair".

"Sorry,Mimsy," I consoled her, "I know all about that crazy cowlick"

Turtle the Fearless

I know this is a pretty bad video but I wanted you to see something:
Look in the back...to the left of the tree.
See that gray-haired man playing with the young people at our Christmas program?

That's my husband.

He hadn't touched his lips to a trombone for twenty five years, but he borrowed this one to play Silent Night up there with the "once-a-year" youth ensemble.

Why?

Well you see that little girl standing next to him? It's her first year in band. At practice the other night she was in tears--feeling totally incompetent and all alone. So they brought her to pastor for comfort.

There's nothing that gets to Turtle more than a little child who is crying, so he promised that he would find a trombone and play it at the program with her.
I think she looks perfectly self-assured now, and, although he says he completely had to improvise the ending, I couldn't tell it. His great sense of compassion was more important to me than perfection, and I was proud of him.

Our Sunday Scribblings prompt was Brave

The Sonneteer Strikes Out at Pumpkin Rolls

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I learned in high school that anyone who writes 144 sonnets can claim the cultured title of “sonneteer”. No one ever specified any criteria as to the artistic merit of these poems, only that they had to follow the right rules of length, rhythm, rhyme. So, of course, I took up the challenge—wouldn’t any senior?

There came a day in early spring when I wrote my last one…and promptly gave up sonnets forever. Nobody gave me any prizes for my amateur efforts, in fact few people ever saw them, but I have lived the rest of my life with the inner gratification that only comes from the knowledge that one is a true sonneteer. Surely that must have helped me through a difficult time. (I just can’t think at the moment which one.)

Well, today, ten minutes ago, in fact, I scaled another mountain, won another title…and somewhere there should be bands playing….at least a drum roll…

I just made my 144^th pumpkin roll this year, and yes, I can safely say I’m an expert in that field. I can tell you what a pumpkin roll looks like when you forget the sugar—thin and not too tasty; when you accidently put in twice as many eggs as you should—thick and delicious but absolutely impervious to rolling. I’ve seen gooey, runny…lumpy, funny. Thick and thin ones, doubled-in ones, on the floor ones, out the door ones…and with that I announce my retirement as a pumpkin roll chef. It’s over. Forever.

Ode to a Pumpkin Rolleteer

I've seen a cloud of powdered sugar rise
Whenever a sheet of pumpkin cake turns out,
And lightly--oh so lovely--how it lies
In sticky splendor, dusted all about.

I've cracked a hundred eggs; I've whipped them too,
And balanced sugar with a lemon dash,
Yet, whether all alone, or with a crew,
I've wondered if the work was worth the cash.

My kitchen's really sticky and my floor
Is altogether speckled reddish-brown.
My feet refuse to function anymore;
And I'm not standing up. I'm sitting down.

In vain say "Pretty please with sugar on it"
No pumpkin rolls. I'd rather write a sonnet.

And that aptly expresses how I feel about pumpkin rolls at the moment.

Serli and the Satay

Our Indonesian exchange student is a big fan of tomato catsup. She has to have a bottle of it on the table for every meal. Not that she really likes catsup, mind you; she only uses it to disguise the taste of American food, which tastes strange to her, and seems rather barbarous. Two weeks ago I served barbecued ribs. One look at those bones sticking out and she couldn't bring herself to eat them, not even with catsup.

Anyway, she found a recipe for an Indonesian dish called Satay--skewered, seasoned chicken bits served with rice and a peanut butter-based sauce. Tonight we bought the ingredients for her and she prepared it. For once, there was no catsup on the table. Turtle threatened to spice it up a little with barbecue sauce, and she promptly told him that it would ruin a good dish and that if he wanted to eat her chicken he absolutely could not use it. After all, nobody has to disguise the taste of that wonderful Indonesian food.

It was pretty good. I'll give her that.

Still in the Game

Here are some clips of my dad, playing tennis with his son-in-law and his grandsons on Thanksgiving Day. They didn't exactly tear up the court out there, but, since my dad is almost 83 years old, I was just thankful that it was possible at all.

My dad is a pretty awesome guy, and I'm sure, having inherited his genetic qualities, I'll be out on the court myself when I'm a great-grandmother.
Oh wait.
I've never played tennis.
Well, I'll probably be reading up a storm, tearing up the library.
Just you wait and see.





Sunday Scribblings--Games