Rah Rah Rah**

If you teach at a small school, a very small school located way out in the country in a podunky little town of under five-hundred folks, you rarely get to see the kind of fame that comes along with playing state championship games at the Big House in the State capitol.

This week was a rare week.

For the first time ever, our girls' basketball team made it to the play-offs. And, as if that wasn't enough, they crept forward, inch by inch, until they were taking on the undefeated champions who had knocked every other team down to the loser's bracket.

On Saturday, the stadium was full.

I've taught at this small private school for nineteen years now, so I wasn't at all surprised to see former students everywhere, some even coming from out-of state; many of them had been out of school for forty years or more, but they wouldn't have missed supporting the alma mater for anything.

It turned out to be a game worth watching, and talking about for a long time.

Now, I have a confession to make to those of you who don't know me--the real me: I'm not very athletic. Oh I know, I do the mandatory working out and walking routine, but that's to keep my blood pressure down.





I coach drama and academic team. I teach Bible, and sometimes Spanish or history or English, but I don't know the first thing about basketball. In fact, the only teams I've ever seen play are our own, and most of the time I've watched those from the concession stand.

I've never seen a game on television or watched a game in another town. It isn't really something I enjoy. However, these players are our girls. I know them. I watch them at school every day. They're not boastful, arrogant, crude or selfish. They are ladies. If any team deserved support, they did.

So I was there. Up in the stands, close to a railing I could vault over if I needed to escape the crowds in an attack of claustrophobia, holding on my lap a bag of books and my trusty nitro pills in case the stress brought on an attack of chest pain.

Across the arena, I could see the coach, a mild-mannered, Godly man, the one who opened the school every morning, made the coffee, met his team in the gym for early practice, then joined us in the teachers' workroom for morning devotions before he taught his first hour math class.

"Now, Lord," I hesitantly breathed inside, "I know I shouldn't pray for a winning game, because that's really a quandary when every last person over on that side is praying the opposite way, but that man really deserves an honor like this.

He's not a cussing, fuming, ranting, raving maniac. He's a true coach. And those girls are honorable, clean, sincere, patient girls. It would be wonderful if they could play today as well as they are able and show the state how many hours they have put into this moment."

And they did. It was an incredible game. Not flashy three-pointers for us, just consistent handling of the ball, intuitive knowledge of where the other players would be, basket after basket, responding to pressure, sportsmanship, smiles. The other team, while shaken at times, responded well too. They rallied against a huge lead and sank amazing three-pointers to bring the game to a heart-pounding last quarter. I managed to take deep breaths and barely avoid a fatal heart attack, but I wasn't sure for a few minutes there.

Finally... It was over. In a split second, I punched a button and sent a text message to a dozen people.  We won!

 No, I hadn't practiced for hours and hours; I hadn't touched the ball; I seldom saw a game. But these were my students. This was my school. And I felt as proud as our crazy cheer-leading guys in screaming blue and white and gold.

* Pictures used with permission by RES and Bluncks Studio

** With apologies to Sunday Scribblings whose prompt this week was "raw".

Fascinating Fire

Fierce, fascinating fire
A hero's flame
A dragon tamed
A flickering, flashing song
Intense, triumphant joy

Within the cauldron--cheers
Within the engine--power
And on the hearth it warms
Fierce, fascinating fire

But let it break the boundary wall
Trip a delicate, wavering toe
Out onto the dry, brown grasses
A city wails
Their effort fails
An all-destroying roar
And the smell of death and ashes!

For the Sunday Scribblings Prompt: Fire!

Trees

Last Sunday, when I mentioned to a gentleman at church that I frequently walk past his house in order to stare at a large tree in a nearby lot, he told me that behind his house, tucked away in a cul-de-sac and screened by the backs of several ordinary little homes, stood a massive native elm tree--who knows how old? The branches of this tree, he assured me, were as big as ordinary trunks, and the trunk was, he thought, too big for any two people to reach around.

Of course I had to go see it.

The grandchildren were visiting, so that made a good excuse to pack up my camera and go. Sure enough, there it was:  a very impressive tree.  We took a few pictures, then detoured home so we could visit the goats and the llamas.

Mim's Secret Hideout

Mim and Zaya have convinced me
that I shouldn't prune this tree when I do the yearly spring manicure of the front lawn.




They've discovered a secret world inside the tree,
and dragged two little carpet swatches
to pad the ground and keep pine needles out of their jeans.

There's room for an explorer with his solar-powered flashlight

and, of course, room for adults too. It wouldn't surprise me it they didn't get the entire family under there for a picture this spring.

Food

Our Sunday Scribblings prompt is "Food"

It came at a most trying time.
Every night as I go to bed, I'm thinking about what I'll eat for breakfast.
At school, during my fifth hour break, as I walk laps and climb stairs, I'm thinking about what I'll eat for supper. Yes, you guessed it. I'm counting calories and trying to avoid food like it's poison.

It's all because of that lightly tossed off resolution at the beginning of the year--ten pounds--hah!
Well, that ten pounds was easy; fell off in three weeks, but it's taken me a month to lose the next pound, and if I dare forget myself and forget to count calories, wobble wobble goes the needle on the scale, edging back up. It's pathetic. I'm so mad at food, I could eat a whole pizza by myself--pan pizza--supreme--with extra cheese!




http://keepingup-lilibeth.blogspot.com/2010/05/why-americans-are-fat.html
http://keepingup-lilibeth.blogspot.com/2008/01/ive-just-discovered-who-real-culprit-is.html

Why I Was Late to Work This Morning

When I first saw this promise of a sunrise,
I somehow knew that I'd be late today.
For I felt compelled to turn my face directly toward the East;
and meander through the country,
making stops along the way.

The air was damp from clouds
now flaming distant,
Reflecting orange against the morning blue,
And I saw the lines that streaked o'erhead;
I saw the roads beneath,
As side by side they raced along
to reach a day so new
it hadn't yet put forth a cry or whisper,
and blankets still were swaddled around its face. So I drove until I reached a meadow;
there beneath the trees. I waited, wondering all alone, for the sun to take its place

An Old Picture

My husband found a dilapidated tin full of old pictures. This one is Elaine, but I'm not sure who the baby is. I know it's not one of my children, because the only child of mine she ever met was the oldest, and Carina's hair was dark and curly. I'm wondering if this isn't a nephew or niece of mine?

Whoever the child is, I love the look on grandma's face...lots of love for a little Valentine.

Update: The baby is her first grandson, Philip.

A Thousand Years of Memories

 We went down to Arkansas for my niece's wedding and stayed for a couple of days with my husband's step mom and her little Chinese crested puppy dog Bella, who growled at Turtle every time he came through the door until he won her heart with little bites of beef jerky. Here she is, madly in love with the hand that fed her.

Time passed swiftly...as it has a habit of doing, and we found ourselves at my husband's home church, next to the quirky little bell tower that stands among the pines in front of the sanctuary.
It was here that we came to bury his father, Paul, several years ago, and were astounded and amazed when we entered the foyer and found friends from our church in Oklahoma who had driven the eight hours to be with us for the funeral.







It was also here, twenty seven years ago, that we arrived, in shock, grieving over the sudden death of his mother, Elaine. I'm older now than she was when she left us. It doesn't seem possible. She and Paul were faithful members of this church and she had taught the children's church for many years. Here is a little garden area and fountain dedicated to her memory. I took a picture of Zaya and Mim as they played by her fountain--two of the great-grandchildren she never met.








Inside the church, in a small dressing room, there was scurrying and bustling as the bridesmaids, the bride and the bride's mother all dressed in an excited hurry. Princess dress? Check. Jewelry? Check.
Nails? Hair? Feathers? Tennis shoes? ....
Whaaaat? Tennis Shoes?

Turtle, the minister, and Chuckles, his brother, and the father of the bride enjoyed catching up on old stories.

Five beautiful little girls dressed in black, white and red--and the ubiquitous converse foot ware--took care of the rings, the flowers, the books, hospitality, and gifts.

It was sunny outside, but still cool enough for a little snow to nestle midst the pine needles and quietly melt. Zaya and Mim are children of the plains; they were impressed by all the trees and played outside for a good part of the time.









Inside, there wasn't a lot for them to do as we waited for the guests to arrive.
We visited.
Art read fairy princess stories to Mim.














Zaya read his new book--the Time Machine. Looking around, I felt a bit like I was in a time machine too.

Wasn't it just last year that I rocked my grandchildren's mom in this very spot?  And wasn't it just a few years before that, we had a wedding shower in this church, and I remember that the oh-so-naive and confident little new bride was me.

The older I get, the more I understand the Psalmist, who said:

         For a thousand years in Your sight
         Are like yesterday when it is past,
         And like a watch in the night.

Psalm 90:4

Deeds of Daring Don't

Inside I'm a dreamer, it's true
But the dreams that I dream, I don't do
Lost caverns are deep
High mountains are steep
Those conquests I've left up to you*

And the Snow Goes Sliding Away...Dusted with Red Oklahoma Dirt

Parade of Plastic Daisies

Since it's only 2 degrees outside today, and snow is blowing everywhere, our orders are: stay home, stay inside, drink hot chocolate, and read a book. Wow! What a dreadful sentence. Just imagine all the grief it'll cause me to comply.
Ok, I'm kidding. My kindle and hot coffee are waiting. Now why did I put away that Christmas tree last week?

I think my neighbors up the street had the right idea when they planted these winter daisies. Later today, I'm going to bundle up properly and see how they are faring in the snow.

Bony Branches

I once beheld
cerulean skies of summer
while standing under bony boughs
of sleepy winter trees










They twisted in a languid stretch,
to soak in rays of saffron
Their hands extended longingly
as far as they could reach


There was no place
for doves to hide above me,
Nor did they seem concerned to be
without their leafy screens

I understood their fearlessness,
and felt their sense of safety,
 As paralyzed with wonder,
I breathed the same warm breeze.

I took all these pictures--and a few more--yesterday evening and this afternoon as I went walking around our little town. Trees are just a fascinating subject for me: the young, beautifully designed ones, growing in balanced harmonious sculptures, and the old ones, maimed by countless ice storms, yet sprouting forth with stubborn new limbs to form exotic shapes against the sky. Anyway, here are a few more for your viewing delight.

One Warm Walking Day

Thanks God,
for the sudden flame-peach sunrise
In the midst of winter--one, warm, walking day,
And tree limbs, naked, stretching out to touch it--
The blue! the yellow! After all that gray!
For pearls of pigeons spearing through the sky
like silver beads on slender strands of chain
exploding with a joy that leaves me humbled,
Thanks for the fact that You would even deign
to answer a prayer I knew I shouldn't pray,
When I asked--in the winter--for one, warm, walking day.

Salamanders

Zaya is allergic to everything furry--dogs, cats, rabbits, hamsters, even mice. Yet he loves animals and wants a pet, even if it has to be a fish. This fall his parents bought him a Tokay gecko. Unfortunately they didn't read the fine print at the animal store and found themselves with a vicious "pit bull" of the gecko family, a creature that's fun to look at, but can't be petted and cuddled. So, after a visit to the high school science room today, Zaya has decided that he wants a Salamander. He says they are cute. Well, maybe they are in a plastic, slimy sort of way.

Time and Eternity

Everywhere we run we hit the walls of time.
Harsh deadlines rising grimly to remind us
But aren't dimensions meant to give us freedom?
How is it this anomaly confines us?

We run on lines, we swim on planes,
We jump and dive through ups and downs of space.
Every new dimension
adds new roads--both to and fro.
We have a choice; the arrows point both ways.

Until we get to time, the broken blessing.
Time is a ray and not a normal line,
A one-way escalator built in segments to the end.
And we're carried...sometimes seeing, sometimes blind.

So I bear a desperate knowledge that compels me,
While running with the wind against my face
To savor each sensation, for I know this very minute
I'll not ever see again--not in this place.

As those I love desert the earth, I fathom
That our mortality is the curse that's broken time,
It's now a cage, a box, a moving pathway
Of stairs you can descend, but never climb.

And then eternity spreads vast around me
An awesome universe of endless joy
And looking back, confused by all this freedom,
I finally understand: Time was the door.