"In what way exactly are we to love our enemies?" Today upon reading my daughter-in-law Kim’s blog about Easter, I asked this question, not for the first time thinking of a few particular enemies. At first I answered myself, "As Jesus loved His enemies, of course!" But after that, it was "Who were His enemies, anyway?" and "How did He show love to them."
I was the first one who came to mind. Let's face it, before I covenanted with Jesus, I was God’s enemy. Well, then how did He love me? He died on the cross for me, paying for my sins. "But I can't do that for someone else, Only Jesus, who is God, is worthy to pay for sin."
True, but He was resurrected to life, so as a living Savior, how does He love me now?" More than anything, I think He has patience with me. He covers my sins with a multitude of His love. He forgives me daily, hourly, minutely - seventy times seven - absolves me of the foolish little straying, and the awful ugly transgression. He intercedes with the Father on my behalf, over and over. He hears and answers my prayers - according to His will, yes; but also sometimes just to be kind. He heals me and raises me from sickness. Any obedience that I have, He provides. He gives me His testimony. He lavishes daily bread on me, both spiritual and material. He opens up the scriptures, feeds me on them, and speaks to me through them.
When I go to the house of worship, He blesses me with His presence, in hymn, in prayer, in preaching. And when I take the bread and wine, He sits down with me - and He sups with me. He joins me to other believers. He never will leave me – no not ever.
Though these, by far, are not all, I take them out and look at each, one by one. A few, I think to myself, I could manage toward a friend, but for an enemy? How can I ever forgive an enemy as Christ forgives me? Or love him or her that fully? I know the scripture. If I want forgiveness, I have to forgive. "For if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: But if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." Laid on the table, that is a shocking statement.
Can I truly say I forgive and love my enemies as Jesus has forgiven and loved me?" I don't think I can pass this one off! Jesus is serious about the issue of forgiveness. Well, there can be only one answer, "With man (me) this is impossible. But with God, all things are possible." And I might add, with God many things are mysterious. It is then a mysterious, but possible process - with God. That forgiveness, that divine forgiveness I lack toward my enemy, can serve to open the door to more of His provision and grace. But I must ask.
And I say unto you, Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asks receives; and he that seeks finds; and to him that knocks it shall be opened. If a son shall ask bread of any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone? or if he ask a fish, will he for a fish give him a serpent? Or if he shall ask an egg, will he offer him a scorpion? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him? Luke 11:11-11:13
Monday, April 17, 2006
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Another book
If you happen to peruse my son Nathan's blog site you may recognize the name of the book I have just started reading - advice to writers titled "From Where You Dream" by Robert Olen Butler. With a slight difference in the author's middle name, that is, you may recognize it. Owen and Olen at various web sites seem to be interchangeable with no explanation as to why. This book jacket says Olen.
Residing most of yesterday on my car seat, the book rode with me to the store, my mom's apartment, and the beauty shop to get a permanent. Until after about 9:30 last night, I was able to snatch only a line or two at red lights, then a chapter before bed through sleepy eyes. Even though this book is non-fiction, it is about fiction and I think I am experiencing that suspension of unbelief , so necessary to the reader of fiction. In other words so far he has captured my conviction.
And while I am reading slowly, trying to digest as I go, there are already a few tentative consequences of my trying to write like Professor Butler recommends, without my head getting in the way. That should be easy as my head rarely gets in the way of anything.
Well, I think it did get in the way a little, but hey, this is my first effort:
There’s more to everything than we can see,
Something just under the bark of the tree.
A person in there, looking out from my cat -
The ululation of the shadow.
~~~~~~~
They can’t take Him out of light ripping through water.
~~~~~~~
Some people’s words are sudsy; hundreds and hundreds of frothy tiny bubbles crowding one another, and still more to come
- others, square and solid heavy stones dropping on us one at a time, for hours.
~~~~~~~
On the one side of the brain respect, honor, duty, industry, and virtue triumph over great odds. It is man.
On the other side a woman, Grace, sees something better just beyond the shoulder of the ordinary failure. It is man.
Residing most of yesterday on my car seat, the book rode with me to the store, my mom's apartment, and the beauty shop to get a permanent. Until after about 9:30 last night, I was able to snatch only a line or two at red lights, then a chapter before bed through sleepy eyes. Even though this book is non-fiction, it is about fiction and I think I am experiencing that suspension of unbelief , so necessary to the reader of fiction. In other words so far he has captured my conviction.
And while I am reading slowly, trying to digest as I go, there are already a few tentative consequences of my trying to write like Professor Butler recommends, without my head getting in the way. That should be easy as my head rarely gets in the way of anything.
Well, I think it did get in the way a little, but hey, this is my first effort:
There’s more to everything than we can see,
Something just under the bark of the tree.
A person in there, looking out from my cat -
The ululation of the shadow.
~~~~~~~
They can’t take Him out of light ripping through water.
~~~~~~~
Some people’s words are sudsy; hundreds and hundreds of frothy tiny bubbles crowding one another, and still more to come
- others, square and solid heavy stones dropping on us one at a time, for hours.
~~~~~~~
On the one side of the brain respect, honor, duty, industry, and virtue triumph over great odds. It is man.
On the other side a woman, Grace, sees something better just beyond the shoulder of the ordinary failure. It is man.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Books
As usual I have been reading. And as usual, that makes me want to talk about what I have been reading.
The first of my recent readings called, The Heavenly Man, by Christian Brother Yun, with Paul Hattaway took me on a sobering journey through the physical agonies and spiritual ecstasies of one of the principle founders of the house churches in mainland China.
To the faint of heart, I do not commend Brother Yun. Being one of the fainter hearts myself, I am surprised I got all the way through to the end. But this book sounded intriguing, and once into it I kept reminding myself that if Yun could stand feeling the pain, the least I could do is stand reading about what he felt.
Because of his obedience to God’s call on his life, Christian Brother Yun in communist China confronts overwhelming challenges and endures much suffering. He is tortured with beatings and starvation, imprisonment and poverty and humiliation, much like the Apostle Paul. But the Holy Spirit is faithful to give him strength to endure. He is also faithful to teach Yun who the real hero is.
Miracles that are truly astonishing accompany Yun’s torments. There are wonders of healing, deliverance, and provision in life and death circumstance. But when Yun sees how God can transform the most depraved hearts, he knows this to be the greatest miracle of all.
Before you read this book, you might think some people are beyond even the Almighty’s ability to change. But you will witness that these can become some of Christ’s most devoted followers. And that is really what God’s work in Yun is all about.
The second book on the recent readings list is titled, I Dared to Call Him Father, written by Bilquis Sheik, with Richard H. Schneider. This is a bizarre tale of a wealthy Pakistani Muslim woman whom Christ turns from the Quran to the Bible, from Allah to Himself, from arrogance and bitterness to humility and grace. Like Brother Yun, Bilquis is subject to supernatural dealings such as dreams and visions, but in contrast to him, her heavenly Father shields her from the most potent dangers. Though her family shuns her, no actual physical attack on her person ever succeeds.
What is strangest about this story is that Jesus approaches Bilquis before she knows a single thing about Him. It is not that she is seeking Him, it is that He is seeking her. After her conversion, Jesus lets Bilquis know which way to walk by the giving or the taking away of His joyous presence. She learns this is the one thing she cannot do without.
Especially if you are woman, you will pick this book up and not want put it down until you have devoured every last page. As well as illustrating how uniquely Jesus can work in any life, told as it was in first-person, it provides intimate acquaintance with an Eastern woman’s mindset. Alike in certain ways all us women are, yet also diverse as to culture.
The third and last book is God’s Smuggler by Brother Andrew, with John and Elizabeth Sherrill. Of the three this is my favorite; I hardly know where to begin. So I’ll start with culture. Because Brother Andrew is Dutch, and because I am a big fan of Corrie Ten Boom, who was also Dutch, this book made me feel like I was coming home.
I think one reason for the homey-ness of it is that the Dutch, if Corrie and Andy are true representatives of that race, have a great sense of humor. Brother Andrew does not come across as a too-saintly saint, but more like the guy down the street who just happened to be tapped on the shoulder by God. Washing across some of the most dangerous circumstances anyone could find themselves in, is this wonderful down-to-earth-ness and good humor. Brother Andrew, in derring-do for God, accomplishes something I would like to imitate. He takes God so much more seriously than he does himself.
The book begins with Andy as a young lad with his family on the Polders of Holland. The Polders are dank lands that have been reclaimed from the sea. The smallest house in the village is where Andy lives. But because his parents have a reputation for compassion; many of the even less fortunate find their door.
With himself as the main character, young Andy dreams of exploits. He is the intrepid spy behind enemy lines. The early days of the book include occupation of Holland by the Nazis. Andy prides himself on his ability to run fast, and thinking he can always get away, likes to plague his Nazi occupiers. Sometimes he escapes by a hair's breadth. But when he is seventeen and on the front lines in Indonesia, Andy learns just what a horror war really is. He comes home with a shattered ankle and a broken heart.
Andy never liked going to church, but that doesn’t stop God. He has his hand on this young life and that’s all there is to it. Andy yields up his ego one night, something his scholar friend Kees describes as crisis conversion. From there it is but a small step to Andy realizing his special calling in life is to the mission field. But he wonders how that can be possible on a crippled foot. When he decides to commit all to God’s keeping, God heals his ankle instantly and miraculously.
Ultimately Brother Andrew (the name chosen to provide a small measure of anonymity) learns that his near destiny is to Eastern Europe and Russia. In these countries under communist domination Christians are repressed in various ways, sometimes overtly and brutally, sometimes cunningly. Few Christians, including many a church pastor, of the time and place, own a Bible. And that is precisely where God and Brother Andrew step in.
God takes Brother Andrew thousands of miles, at times to meet people who themselves have traveled thousands of miles, knowing only that God has sent them. Over the years Andy sacrifices much when he smuggles hundreds of Bibles to a people who weep with joy over so precious a gift. You sense he is relishing every minute. Andy really does become the adventurous person he envisioned as a child, only for a far different purpose then a small boy would ever dream.
Somewhere about half, or maybe two-thirds of the way into the book, is a surprise. But to find out, you have to read the book.
The first of my recent readings called, The Heavenly Man, by Christian Brother Yun, with Paul Hattaway took me on a sobering journey through the physical agonies and spiritual ecstasies of one of the principle founders of the house churches in mainland China.
To the faint of heart, I do not commend Brother Yun. Being one of the fainter hearts myself, I am surprised I got all the way through to the end. But this book sounded intriguing, and once into it I kept reminding myself that if Yun could stand feeling the pain, the least I could do is stand reading about what he felt.
Because of his obedience to God’s call on his life, Christian Brother Yun in communist China confronts overwhelming challenges and endures much suffering. He is tortured with beatings and starvation, imprisonment and poverty and humiliation, much like the Apostle Paul. But the Holy Spirit is faithful to give him strength to endure. He is also faithful to teach Yun who the real hero is.
Miracles that are truly astonishing accompany Yun’s torments. There are wonders of healing, deliverance, and provision in life and death circumstance. But when Yun sees how God can transform the most depraved hearts, he knows this to be the greatest miracle of all.
Before you read this book, you might think some people are beyond even the Almighty’s ability to change. But you will witness that these can become some of Christ’s most devoted followers. And that is really what God’s work in Yun is all about.
The second book on the recent readings list is titled, I Dared to Call Him Father, written by Bilquis Sheik, with Richard H. Schneider. This is a bizarre tale of a wealthy Pakistani Muslim woman whom Christ turns from the Quran to the Bible, from Allah to Himself, from arrogance and bitterness to humility and grace. Like Brother Yun, Bilquis is subject to supernatural dealings such as dreams and visions, but in contrast to him, her heavenly Father shields her from the most potent dangers. Though her family shuns her, no actual physical attack on her person ever succeeds.
What is strangest about this story is that Jesus approaches Bilquis before she knows a single thing about Him. It is not that she is seeking Him, it is that He is seeking her. After her conversion, Jesus lets Bilquis know which way to walk by the giving or the taking away of His joyous presence. She learns this is the one thing she cannot do without.
Especially if you are woman, you will pick this book up and not want put it down until you have devoured every last page. As well as illustrating how uniquely Jesus can work in any life, told as it was in first-person, it provides intimate acquaintance with an Eastern woman’s mindset. Alike in certain ways all us women are, yet also diverse as to culture.
The third and last book is God’s Smuggler by Brother Andrew, with John and Elizabeth Sherrill. Of the three this is my favorite; I hardly know where to begin. So I’ll start with culture. Because Brother Andrew is Dutch, and because I am a big fan of Corrie Ten Boom, who was also Dutch, this book made me feel like I was coming home.
I think one reason for the homey-ness of it is that the Dutch, if Corrie and Andy are true representatives of that race, have a great sense of humor. Brother Andrew does not come across as a too-saintly saint, but more like the guy down the street who just happened to be tapped on the shoulder by God. Washing across some of the most dangerous circumstances anyone could find themselves in, is this wonderful down-to-earth-ness and good humor. Brother Andrew, in derring-do for God, accomplishes something I would like to imitate. He takes God so much more seriously than he does himself.
The book begins with Andy as a young lad with his family on the Polders of Holland. The Polders are dank lands that have been reclaimed from the sea. The smallest house in the village is where Andy lives. But because his parents have a reputation for compassion; many of the even less fortunate find their door.
With himself as the main character, young Andy dreams of exploits. He is the intrepid spy behind enemy lines. The early days of the book include occupation of Holland by the Nazis. Andy prides himself on his ability to run fast, and thinking he can always get away, likes to plague his Nazi occupiers. Sometimes he escapes by a hair's breadth. But when he is seventeen and on the front lines in Indonesia, Andy learns just what a horror war really is. He comes home with a shattered ankle and a broken heart.
Andy never liked going to church, but that doesn’t stop God. He has his hand on this young life and that’s all there is to it. Andy yields up his ego one night, something his scholar friend Kees describes as crisis conversion. From there it is but a small step to Andy realizing his special calling in life is to the mission field. But he wonders how that can be possible on a crippled foot. When he decides to commit all to God’s keeping, God heals his ankle instantly and miraculously.
Ultimately Brother Andrew (the name chosen to provide a small measure of anonymity) learns that his near destiny is to Eastern Europe and Russia. In these countries under communist domination Christians are repressed in various ways, sometimes overtly and brutally, sometimes cunningly. Few Christians, including many a church pastor, of the time and place, own a Bible. And that is precisely where God and Brother Andrew step in.
God takes Brother Andrew thousands of miles, at times to meet people who themselves have traveled thousands of miles, knowing only that God has sent them. Over the years Andy sacrifices much when he smuggles hundreds of Bibles to a people who weep with joy over so precious a gift. You sense he is relishing every minute. Andy really does become the adventurous person he envisioned as a child, only for a far different purpose then a small boy would ever dream.
Somewhere about half, or maybe two-thirds of the way into the book, is a surprise. But to find out, you have to read the book.
Biography for “Writer’s R Us”
I started this two weeks ago in response to a request from my writer's group facilitator. Since she did not specify what kind of bio she wanted, I tried to make it general but not too detailed.
I thought maybe posting it here on my blog might give me motivation to get going on parts two and three.
(Part One: Early Years)
My entry into the world had a single distinction; I was a girl. Though I had nothing to do with that fact, my mother tells and retells the story as if I accomplished a great victory for her just by coming out the correct gender. After three stinky puppy-dog tails, my birth gave her opportunity at last to announce sugar and spice. To my parents and the relatives, this was celebratory news. My brothers, on the other hand, had they been disposed to deep thought - or any thought at all - may have taken it differently. But they were too occupied with nails and snails to worry much. The girls could do their thing; they would do theirs.
Though ignoble, seeds of early childhood cravings were thus sown in chromosomal soil. Being a boy was fine for boys but girls needed to be ladies, and if possible, beautiful ones. Paper dolls I cut outfits for were the same glamorous stars I saw at the movies. Visions of Betty Grable, Hedy Lamarr, Lana Turner, and Rita Hayworth evoked a childish longing - and disagreements about whom got to be who. More significant, the complexities of grooming for the gentler sex seeped in by osmosis when I watched my mother. I can see her now.
Starting at the top, she wore her dark hair near shoulder length with full bangs, curled under. Sides were pulled up and back, anchored with hairpins she concealed by allowing upper locks to flow over. A cloche with veil came next, guarding everything but the cherry lips.
Generally, I visualize my mother back then in the well-tailored suits she preferred; though occasionally she put on something more daring like the loose trousers that had just come into vogue. Gloves, silk stockings with seams, and a red fox stole draped over padded shoulders conclude the vision. And Minnie Mouse shoes. This in the forties was the epitome of feminine mystique; and from a tender age, I wanted it.
Other factors had their role to play too though in shaping my personality. Culture was one of these. The city of my birth, San Antonio, evolved a platypus creature in those days and I am sure this diversity had a profound effect. The military influence was strong upon us and as well both Latino and German ethnicity. Until spring of 1953 when my parents moved to Corpus Christi, I was nurtured in the deep bosom of lugares del San Antonio - plätze San Antonio. Breckenridge and Playland parks, Casa Rio and the River Walk, Joske’s, Bluebonnet Hotel, Christie’s Seafood Restaurant, the train depot, and the Alamo, are names any native denizen of San Antonio in the forties can spark to. Reluctantly I admit this will not hold true for folk of other times, other places.
Closer to home animal friends exerted their sway. A bobtail terrier named Lady was with us almost from birth to death. She came as a pup of three weeks and stayed until old age took her away. During her tenure, Lady and her adult master and mistress put up with white rabbits, parakeets of all colors, chickens, rats, fish, lizards and later on the occasional cat I had to smuggle in. Except for the rats, I loved them all. It is my view that affection and caring for pets contributes much to the making of an emotionally generous person. I believe these beasts beloved did that for me.
And then there were the books; intertwined with other elements for propensity was the continuity of literature. From an early age, I loved reading. As a family we were not great world travelers, but books were available to broaden my horizons, ignite my imagination, and give me a love for the cadence of words fitly written. Without my even realizing it, books helped open for me the integrity of life’s mysteries. Who could ever be bored when so much of the interesting world out there exists between pages of books? I had merely to walk to the shelf, pull one down and off, or in, I went.
When I was in the sixth grade we made our move and life became more tropical. Giant hibiscus and purple bougainvillea grew right in the front yard and the ocean was near enough to visit often. In summer, I would have gone salt-water swimming every day if someone were available to take me. Padre Island was free as a bird in those days. Teens lucky enough to have a car could drive up and down the beach, stop and swim, or build a campfire to roast wieners and marshmallows over. One end of a rope we would tie to a car bumper, the other to an inner tube to be inhabited by a hapless volunteer. As we jolted our way over ground too near, across dune hills and sandy vales, we would hang on for love of life and limb. Though much relished, this could be a painful and dangerous ride.
As a teen I think my aspirations were similar to that of my chums – eminently short term. I did have a vague notion of home, hearth, and motherhood, but was mostly interested in having a good time - right now. Then at eighteen very green years, I encountered my future husband of a lifetime. We met in May of my senior year, married in July. Two years later I held my first babe in my arms and the first (adult) inklings as regards the importance of developing real character began to dawn for me. It was to take some years before I began to explore what that might look like.
I thought maybe posting it here on my blog might give me motivation to get going on parts two and three.
(Part One: Early Years)
My entry into the world had a single distinction; I was a girl. Though I had nothing to do with that fact, my mother tells and retells the story as if I accomplished a great victory for her just by coming out the correct gender. After three stinky puppy-dog tails, my birth gave her opportunity at last to announce sugar and spice. To my parents and the relatives, this was celebratory news. My brothers, on the other hand, had they been disposed to deep thought - or any thought at all - may have taken it differently. But they were too occupied with nails and snails to worry much. The girls could do their thing; they would do theirs.
Though ignoble, seeds of early childhood cravings were thus sown in chromosomal soil. Being a boy was fine for boys but girls needed to be ladies, and if possible, beautiful ones. Paper dolls I cut outfits for were the same glamorous stars I saw at the movies. Visions of Betty Grable, Hedy Lamarr, Lana Turner, and Rita Hayworth evoked a childish longing - and disagreements about whom got to be who. More significant, the complexities of grooming for the gentler sex seeped in by osmosis when I watched my mother. I can see her now.
Starting at the top, she wore her dark hair near shoulder length with full bangs, curled under. Sides were pulled up and back, anchored with hairpins she concealed by allowing upper locks to flow over. A cloche with veil came next, guarding everything but the cherry lips.
Generally, I visualize my mother back then in the well-tailored suits she preferred; though occasionally she put on something more daring like the loose trousers that had just come into vogue. Gloves, silk stockings with seams, and a red fox stole draped over padded shoulders conclude the vision. And Minnie Mouse shoes. This in the forties was the epitome of feminine mystique; and from a tender age, I wanted it.
Other factors had their role to play too though in shaping my personality. Culture was one of these. The city of my birth, San Antonio, evolved a platypus creature in those days and I am sure this diversity had a profound effect. The military influence was strong upon us and as well both Latino and German ethnicity. Until spring of 1953 when my parents moved to Corpus Christi, I was nurtured in the deep bosom of lugares del San Antonio - plätze San Antonio. Breckenridge and Playland parks, Casa Rio and the River Walk, Joske’s, Bluebonnet Hotel, Christie’s Seafood Restaurant, the train depot, and the Alamo, are names any native denizen of San Antonio in the forties can spark to. Reluctantly I admit this will not hold true for folk of other times, other places.
Closer to home animal friends exerted their sway. A bobtail terrier named Lady was with us almost from birth to death. She came as a pup of three weeks and stayed until old age took her away. During her tenure, Lady and her adult master and mistress put up with white rabbits, parakeets of all colors, chickens, rats, fish, lizards and later on the occasional cat I had to smuggle in. Except for the rats, I loved them all. It is my view that affection and caring for pets contributes much to the making of an emotionally generous person. I believe these beasts beloved did that for me.
And then there were the books; intertwined with other elements for propensity was the continuity of literature. From an early age, I loved reading. As a family we were not great world travelers, but books were available to broaden my horizons, ignite my imagination, and give me a love for the cadence of words fitly written. Without my even realizing it, books helped open for me the integrity of life’s mysteries. Who could ever be bored when so much of the interesting world out there exists between pages of books? I had merely to walk to the shelf, pull one down and off, or in, I went.
When I was in the sixth grade we made our move and life became more tropical. Giant hibiscus and purple bougainvillea grew right in the front yard and the ocean was near enough to visit often. In summer, I would have gone salt-water swimming every day if someone were available to take me. Padre Island was free as a bird in those days. Teens lucky enough to have a car could drive up and down the beach, stop and swim, or build a campfire to roast wieners and marshmallows over. One end of a rope we would tie to a car bumper, the other to an inner tube to be inhabited by a hapless volunteer. As we jolted our way over ground too near, across dune hills and sandy vales, we would hang on for love of life and limb. Though much relished, this could be a painful and dangerous ride.
As a teen I think my aspirations were similar to that of my chums – eminently short term. I did have a vague notion of home, hearth, and motherhood, but was mostly interested in having a good time - right now. Then at eighteen very green years, I encountered my future husband of a lifetime. We met in May of my senior year, married in July. Two years later I held my first babe in my arms and the first (adult) inklings as regards the importance of developing real character began to dawn for me. It was to take some years before I began to explore what that might look like.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Glass Wing Butterfly
These photos were sent to me by a friend via email. He noted only that they are found in South America, and are very rare. Their beauty and the brevity of information he supplied piqued my curiousity, so I did a bit of research on these breathtakingly beautiful creatures. The following is from Wikipedia online encyclopedia:
Greta oto is a brush-footed butterfly, and is a member of the clearwing clade; its wings are transparent. Its most common English name is glasswing, and its Spanish name is espejitos, which means "little mirrors." Indeed, the tissue between the veins of its wings looks like glass. It is one of the more abundant clearwing species in its home range, which extends throughout Central America into Mexico. The opaque borders of its wings are dark brown sometimes tinted with red or orange, and its body is dark in color. Its wingspan is between 5.5 and 6 cm.
Adults inhabit the rainforest understory and feed on the nectar of a variety of tropical flowers. G. oto prefers to lay its eggs on plants of the tropical nightshade genus Cestrum. The silvery-gray caterpillars feed on these toxic plants and store the alkaloids in their tissues, making them distasteful to predators such as birds. They retain their toxicity in adulthood. The same alkaloids that make them poisonous also are converted into pheromones by the males, which use them to attract females.
G. oto adults also exhibit a number of interesting behaviors, such as long migrations and lekking among males.
What in the world is lekking, I wondered? So I followed the Wikipedia trail to another article, even more fascinating:
A lek (from Swedish lek, a noun which typically denotes pleasurable and less rule-bound games and activities) is a tournament (the males of certain species of animals for the purposes of competitive mating display), held before and during the breeding season, day after day, when the same group of males meet at a traditional place and take up the same individual positions on an arena, each occupying and defending a small territory or court. Intermittently or continuously they spar with their neighbours one at a time, or display magnificent plumage, or vocal powers, or bizarre gymnastics...
A strict hierarchy accords the most desirable top-ranking males the most prestigious central territory, with ungraded and lesser aspirants ranged outside. Females come to these arenas in due course to be fertilized, and normally they make their way through to one or other of the dominants in the centre. Two main types of lek are distinguished, classical leks and exploded leks. In classical leks, individuals are within sight of each other, physical contest is not infrequent, and can even be prevalent in some (mainly shorebird and gamebird) species.
Exploded leks rely on vocal signals, the most famous example is the "booming" behaviour of the Kakapo, where distances between individuals can be up to many kilometers due to the deep far-carrying call. Indeed, female kakapos seemed to often have considerable problems locating mates as the population declined on mainland New Zealand; this was a significant contributing factor to the insufficient reproduction rate which made this species to go extinct outside human care for some years.
The term was originally used most commonly for Black Grouse (orrlek) and for Capercaillie (tjäderlek), and lekking behaviour is quite common in birds of this type, such as Sage Grouse. However it is also shown by birds of other families, such as the Ruff, Great Snipe, Musk Ducks, Hermit hummingbirds, Manakins, birds of paradise and the Kakapo, by some mammals such as the Uganda kob (a waterbuck) and by some species of fish and even insects like the midge and the Ghost Moth. The rut of deer is also very similar. There is some dispute among ethologists as to whether the lekking behaviour shown by animals of widely different groups should really be treated as the same, and in particular whether similar selective pressures have led to their emergence.
Lek paradox: (or in other words, just one more of our Creator's amazing mysteries) persistent female choice for particular male trait values should erode genetic variance in male traits and thereby remove the benefits of choice; and yet choice persists. Most obvious in lekking species where females gain no material benefits or parental care from males.
The Half-Empty Life
While I’ve never thought of our cat as philosophic, that implication is beginning to grow on me. In times past I blamed her behavior on faulty wiring; lately it’s beginning to dawn on me I may have been hasty.
For example, take her food bowl. With the food bowl thing, Minnie had to have thought hard on how to make half-empty a positive. For is it not true optimists see the glass half-full, pessimists, half-empty? Not so Minnie. If life is half-empty that means she can be optimistic she will see it soon completely full.
The first indication of a soon-full bowl is Minnie sitting staring at it. It’s really much better for all concerned to fill the bowl immediately upon noting this posture. But we are often slow learners at our house.
Because we insist, she will take us to the next argument. Stare at bowl; stare at idiot who hasn’t made the connection yet. Alternate the pattern. And the ensuing like unto it; stare at bowl, stare at idiot, squeak like a rusty hinge.
I pause here a moment and reflect. It was the squeaking part that made me first suspect Minnie was turning ruminant. Yowling - anyone could put up with for a while. We expect cats to yowl, that is where the word caterwaul came from. But squeaking. Squeaking is Chinese water torture of the ear.
However, it is amazing what one can become accustomed to. And so, on the heels of point three, four follows swiftly. Note the above heels, for the word will take on new meaning in this step of Minnie’s polemic. As will ankle, lower leg, and bare toes if available.
This point normally is made while the casualty walks to and fro in their kitchen, ignoring the staring and squeaking. And it usually decides the matter. In fact, I’m thinking that much of Minnie’s new bent for philosophy seized a firmer grip while she was preparing this detail. Cows may contemplate while chewing; but I sense cats do it best, when they sharpen.
As I said earlier, take the food bowl. And fill it.
For example, take her food bowl. With the food bowl thing, Minnie had to have thought hard on how to make half-empty a positive. For is it not true optimists see the glass half-full, pessimists, half-empty? Not so Minnie. If life is half-empty that means she can be optimistic she will see it soon completely full.
The first indication of a soon-full bowl is Minnie sitting staring at it. It’s really much better for all concerned to fill the bowl immediately upon noting this posture. But we are often slow learners at our house.
Because we insist, she will take us to the next argument. Stare at bowl; stare at idiot who hasn’t made the connection yet. Alternate the pattern. And the ensuing like unto it; stare at bowl, stare at idiot, squeak like a rusty hinge.
I pause here a moment and reflect. It was the squeaking part that made me first suspect Minnie was turning ruminant. Yowling - anyone could put up with for a while. We expect cats to yowl, that is where the word caterwaul came from. But squeaking. Squeaking is Chinese water torture of the ear.
However, it is amazing what one can become accustomed to. And so, on the heels of point three, four follows swiftly. Note the above heels, for the word will take on new meaning in this step of Minnie’s polemic. As will ankle, lower leg, and bare toes if available.
This point normally is made while the casualty walks to and fro in their kitchen, ignoring the staring and squeaking. And it usually decides the matter. In fact, I’m thinking that much of Minnie’s new bent for philosophy seized a firmer grip while she was preparing this detail. Cows may contemplate while chewing; but I sense cats do it best, when they sharpen.
As I said earlier, take the food bowl. And fill it.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Minnie the Pooh
(warning: Only two people that I know of, other than me, reads my blogs. One is Kim, my daughter-in-law, the other my son - her husband. And on one occasion someone who happened to stumble through by accident. This is to say that while Kim is welcome to read this, I don't think Nathan is quite ready - :) After I'm gone. Maybe. )
Names are supposed to mean something and this one surely does. Minnie the Pooh. Why are some of the funniest scenarios in life just too embarrassing to write about? Or read about? That is what I’m wondering as I muse on my one and only indoor cat and some of her vexatious ways.
I have written in other places about the Christmas-light wiring in Minnie’s brain. Her demands for human fare, then refusal of service as if it were an insult, made permissible copy. And I hope elicited a few belly laughs. When clawing the door to get out in Minnie language translated, "A blizzard is brewing out there, head for the back of the house!" I wrote about it with inner chuckles, and no qualms. I even risked my image, appearing as a disgusting creature slithering through the night when I told about Minnie’s kinky ideas as to lap time. In that story, interpreting subtler clues as for setting was left to the reader. At least I wrote.
But now I am faced with tougher choices. Do I for the sake of comic relief place the delicate ears of my reader(s) in harm’s path? Or should I let this one pass, only to regret the one that got away? The obvious answer is that if I planned to let go of it, you wouldn’t be reading this right now.
So I may as well just dive on in there. To put it frankly, despite all Minnie’s feminine wiles and cutey-pie looks, she is the poohing-est cat that ever owned us. I cannot, simply cannot keep this cat in litter. Constantly dashing to the store for more is running up my grocery bill - and the gasoline card. In big enough boxes, litter does not come.
And then there’s this other thing about – well, hangovers. While faithful to the litter box no matter where I move it, our girl sometimes forgets to wipe. Or maybe she is having so much fun playing, that like some kids in training pants, she waits one second too many and doesn’t quite make it to the bank. I never know if the deposit was made premature, or as an afterthought. Only that I better get to it before someone less understanding in the house steps along.
Should I mention effluvium, or is that going too far? In plain language, Minnie’s litter stinks to high heaven. And she doesn’t even bother to say; "The dog did it!" We have tried deodorizing; let me count the ways. Vanilla room spray, vanilla candles. Arm and Hammer and Oust. Frequent scooping, flushing, cleaning, and changing. Multiple-cat litter when there’s only one. Filters and fart fans. Regular fans. If I put her outside, she can hold it for hours.
We are a two-bath house; the box started out in the "other" one. Trying to keep this space smelling like something sweeter than an army latrine nearly drove me crazy. So I decided on the spare bedroom, which does quadruple duty as guestroom, laundry-folding room, ironing room, and prayer closet. For a while that seemed like a better arrangement; but then the pray-ers complained. My final option was the utility room where the box now lurks beside the back door, waiting for ill-fated victims.
There’s more, much more. But I’m thinking I won’t go a single step further. If you come to call at our house, please know that despite all Minnie’s peculiar, and yes sometimes less than delicate ways, we are still "love us, love our cat" people. Only keep in mind you may want to use the front door as first choice of entry.
Names are supposed to mean something and this one surely does. Minnie the Pooh. Why are some of the funniest scenarios in life just too embarrassing to write about? Or read about? That is what I’m wondering as I muse on my one and only indoor cat and some of her vexatious ways.
I have written in other places about the Christmas-light wiring in Minnie’s brain. Her demands for human fare, then refusal of service as if it were an insult, made permissible copy. And I hope elicited a few belly laughs. When clawing the door to get out in Minnie language translated, "A blizzard is brewing out there, head for the back of the house!" I wrote about it with inner chuckles, and no qualms. I even risked my image, appearing as a disgusting creature slithering through the night when I told about Minnie’s kinky ideas as to lap time. In that story, interpreting subtler clues as for setting was left to the reader. At least I wrote.
But now I am faced with tougher choices. Do I for the sake of comic relief place the delicate ears of my reader(s) in harm’s path? Or should I let this one pass, only to regret the one that got away? The obvious answer is that if I planned to let go of it, you wouldn’t be reading this right now.
So I may as well just dive on in there. To put it frankly, despite all Minnie’s feminine wiles and cutey-pie looks, she is the poohing-est cat that ever owned us. I cannot, simply cannot keep this cat in litter. Constantly dashing to the store for more is running up my grocery bill - and the gasoline card. In big enough boxes, litter does not come.
And then there’s this other thing about – well, hangovers. While faithful to the litter box no matter where I move it, our girl sometimes forgets to wipe. Or maybe she is having so much fun playing, that like some kids in training pants, she waits one second too many and doesn’t quite make it to the bank. I never know if the deposit was made premature, or as an afterthought. Only that I better get to it before someone less understanding in the house steps along.
Should I mention effluvium, or is that going too far? In plain language, Minnie’s litter stinks to high heaven. And she doesn’t even bother to say; "The dog did it!" We have tried deodorizing; let me count the ways. Vanilla room spray, vanilla candles. Arm and Hammer and Oust. Frequent scooping, flushing, cleaning, and changing. Multiple-cat litter when there’s only one. Filters and fart fans. Regular fans. If I put her outside, she can hold it for hours.
We are a two-bath house; the box started out in the "other" one. Trying to keep this space smelling like something sweeter than an army latrine nearly drove me crazy. So I decided on the spare bedroom, which does quadruple duty as guestroom, laundry-folding room, ironing room, and prayer closet. For a while that seemed like a better arrangement; but then the pray-ers complained. My final option was the utility room where the box now lurks beside the back door, waiting for ill-fated victims.
There’s more, much more. But I’m thinking I won’t go a single step further. If you come to call at our house, please know that despite all Minnie’s peculiar, and yes sometimes less than delicate ways, we are still "love us, love our cat" people. Only keep in mind you may want to use the front door as first choice of entry.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
More Kinky Wrinkles
Eyelids battle but can't win over airplane glue. Brain maxes out at 395 lb – very dead weight. Feet shuffle forward in darkness; fingers feel for the light switch. "There – it’s right there."
With something between a groan and a sigh, an organism – once human – slumps onto frosty ivory. Toes withdraw from shards of Tidy Kat enmeshed in carpet.
"Oh no! Oh, please! Not now, Minnie!" a swamp frog croaks.
"M-m-f-f-f-t-t! I’ll decide when and where’s lap-time!"
Bog beastie mutters, "Minx. One of these days, you’re going to get on my last nerve!"
"B-r-r-r-r-r-m-m-m-m!" counters catawampus "- a little to the left, please. No, no – down just a smidgen. There. That’ll do. Now the ears – get the ears real good! Chin. And don’t forget the patch above the tail! You know sometimes you conveniently forget that part. Now - the belly! Oh-ho-ho! That tickles, that tic… ert, that’s enough!"
"Mommy tickle, tickle, tickle!"
"I said, that’s enough!"
"Ouch! Minnie you little imp! You’re out of here!"
"Whuft!" Thump!
Creature slithers back to lagoon from which it emanated.
With something between a groan and a sigh, an organism – once human – slumps onto frosty ivory. Toes withdraw from shards of Tidy Kat enmeshed in carpet.
"Oh no! Oh, please! Not now, Minnie!" a swamp frog croaks.
"M-m-f-f-f-t-t! I’ll decide when and where’s lap-time!"
Bog beastie mutters, "Minx. One of these days, you’re going to get on my last nerve!"
"B-r-r-r-r-r-m-m-m-m!" counters catawampus "- a little to the left, please. No, no – down just a smidgen. There. That’ll do. Now the ears – get the ears real good! Chin. And don’t forget the patch above the tail! You know sometimes you conveniently forget that part. Now - the belly! Oh-ho-ho! That tickles, that tic… ert, that’s enough!"
"Mommy tickle, tickle, tickle!"
"I said, that’s enough!"
"Ouch! Minnie you little imp! You’re out of here!"
"Whuft!" Thump!
Creature slithers back to lagoon from which it emanated.
Friday, March 17, 2006
A New Perversity
I am only thinking, mind you, about going outside. I haven't actually decided to do it, but it is a possible consequence of my facing in the general direction of the back door while lifting one foot off the floor. Movement pounds around me like a herd of stampeded buffalo. I see the flash of a gray comet tail and hear something that sounds kind of like this, "m-m-y-w-t-t-t!"
Dazed from the blast, I recover to see what wonder, looking toward that which in time past masqueraded as an ordinary door. But I can see now that in reality it is the steel-cold bars of maximum security, which are at the moment suffering violence at the paws of feline desperation . Minnie the Unfortunate is attempting to scratch and claw her way into freedom.
But then, but then. . . just as soon as her angel of mercy appears (that's me) to throw wide the gates of iron, caterwaul reverses direction, tail to door. She searches me with large and dreadful eyes; I understand I am nefarious mother consigning tragic child to orphandom and a howling blizzard - sans coat, sans hat, sans food.
But before I can say "perverse Minnie," off my pretty scrambles, fast as her fat little body can ripple (which is pretty darn fast). To dark catacombs she hies it- if only to survive but a few hours more - in the warmth and security of the only home she has ever known.
Dazed from the blast, I recover to see what wonder, looking toward that which in time past masqueraded as an ordinary door. But I can see now that in reality it is the steel-cold bars of maximum security, which are at the moment suffering violence at the paws of feline desperation . Minnie the Unfortunate is attempting to scratch and claw her way into freedom.
But then, but then. . . just as soon as her angel of mercy appears (that's me) to throw wide the gates of iron, caterwaul reverses direction, tail to door. She searches me with large and dreadful eyes; I understand I am nefarious mother consigning tragic child to orphandom and a howling blizzard - sans coat, sans hat, sans food.
But before I can say "perverse Minnie," off my pretty scrambles, fast as her fat little body can ripple (which is pretty darn fast). To dark catacombs she hies it- if only to survive but a few hours more - in the warmth and security of the only home she has ever known.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
I shouldn't be here this morning - typing at my computer blog station. When there's a to-do list a mile long, and places I must go in number just as intimidating, this can be a dangerous place to be. How well I know it an object of ambush. And yet I feel something worthwhile nudging me to elucidate what an article I just now read testified to me, or should I say where an article I just read took me.
My daughter-in-law, Kim, calls certain moments magical. Well, my present subject is similar, only rather than involving circumstance and place and the delerium these can invoke, when as she says, "all the ions in the universe line up together" it is entirely inward - though eager to air itself some way outward .
The article I read was written, first-person, by someone who had experienced both as a child and an adult the "thing" I am talking about. As a young boy with a writer father and a reader mom, the author found himself first awakened to this mysterious sensation while listening to his mother read "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," by C.S. Lewis.
At the time the boy's home was an old abandoned mill in southern Italy, elected by his father as a place of summer residence. Father was a whimsical soul with a tradition of settling his family into strange lodgings. As usual this one was big and rambling much like the house in Lewis' story, with those "endless rooms" that came to mean for both the author and Lewis "the true house that we never seem to come to the end of", each room of which is more mysterious and magnificent than the last. Lewis has more about his personal experience in regards the odd something in his book "Surprised by Joy:"
"I desired with almost sickening intensity something never to be described, and then found myself at the very same moment already falling out of that desire and wishing I were back in it." Lewis name for it was "joy" and as a child it came over him when reading certain books.
Trying to enunciate this inner place in my own life is like trying to pin down a moonbeam. I may serve better by giving instances. A book can summon it, but just as often it is an abstract, though significant concept, a 'vision' of sorts that comes during prayer, or Bible reading, or while meditating on Jesus and the amazing Person that He is. Amazing - like His answering the trifling little prayers I sometimes forget I prayed - if only to encourage and let me know He heard every word. These little kindnesses of His drench me in incredulity, invoking " the joy thing" that He really is the God who numbers every hair, attends unto each sparrow when it falls.
Or it can come, while fascinated I watch light and shade act out a movie on the wall beside the bathtub when I am taking a good long soak. I seem to see another world there, transendent to this one, in that pattern of light and dark, a place I could enter if I just concentrated hard enough. Sounds corny, I know, but true nevertheless. The comfort is that God never finds his children corny when they are raptured over the wonders of this awesome cosmos - both physical and metaphysical - that He thought up.
A hymn can do it, or a poem. But especially does it woo me when I hear of amazing coincidences in peoples' lives (or as some say there are no coincidences), or in my own when I know without a single doubt that God has spoken to me in esoteric language. These are moments I have heard identified as common grace; to myself I call it finding God in the common and the uncommon. It is then He is most magnified in my life, when I can feel Him hovering close enough to reach out and touch; and yet not quite. A whole book I know of was written about the coincidence phenomen, identifying it as a wink from God. To paraphrase the author, "like Grandma winking across the table at Johnny when he's gotten himself into trouble with his parents.
While these few examples of mine fall short of real description (the article this morning called it "a sense of moreness - an unidentifiable something" that we yearn toward), I guess all said, that if I could describe it - or reach it, then it would no longer be what it is, the indescribable. In some other lanuage I might find a word like that: the thing sought but never reached. A linguist would know. And God.
My daughter-in-law, Kim, calls certain moments magical. Well, my present subject is similar, only rather than involving circumstance and place and the delerium these can invoke, when as she says, "all the ions in the universe line up together" it is entirely inward - though eager to air itself some way outward .
The article I read was written, first-person, by someone who had experienced both as a child and an adult the "thing" I am talking about. As a young boy with a writer father and a reader mom, the author found himself first awakened to this mysterious sensation while listening to his mother read "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," by C.S. Lewis.
At the time the boy's home was an old abandoned mill in southern Italy, elected by his father as a place of summer residence. Father was a whimsical soul with a tradition of settling his family into strange lodgings. As usual this one was big and rambling much like the house in Lewis' story, with those "endless rooms" that came to mean for both the author and Lewis "the true house that we never seem to come to the end of", each room of which is more mysterious and magnificent than the last. Lewis has more about his personal experience in regards the odd something in his book "Surprised by Joy:"
"I desired with almost sickening intensity something never to be described, and then found myself at the very same moment already falling out of that desire and wishing I were back in it." Lewis name for it was "joy" and as a child it came over him when reading certain books.
Trying to enunciate this inner place in my own life is like trying to pin down a moonbeam. I may serve better by giving instances. A book can summon it, but just as often it is an abstract, though significant concept, a 'vision' of sorts that comes during prayer, or Bible reading, or while meditating on Jesus and the amazing Person that He is. Amazing - like His answering the trifling little prayers I sometimes forget I prayed - if only to encourage and let me know He heard every word. These little kindnesses of His drench me in incredulity, invoking " the joy thing" that He really is the God who numbers every hair, attends unto each sparrow when it falls.
Or it can come, while fascinated I watch light and shade act out a movie on the wall beside the bathtub when I am taking a good long soak. I seem to see another world there, transendent to this one, in that pattern of light and dark, a place I could enter if I just concentrated hard enough. Sounds corny, I know, but true nevertheless. The comfort is that God never finds his children corny when they are raptured over the wonders of this awesome cosmos - both physical and metaphysical - that He thought up.
A hymn can do it, or a poem. But especially does it woo me when I hear of amazing coincidences in peoples' lives (or as some say there are no coincidences), or in my own when I know without a single doubt that God has spoken to me in esoteric language. These are moments I have heard identified as common grace; to myself I call it finding God in the common and the uncommon. It is then He is most magnified in my life, when I can feel Him hovering close enough to reach out and touch; and yet not quite. A whole book I know of was written about the coincidence phenomen, identifying it as a wink from God. To paraphrase the author, "like Grandma winking across the table at Johnny when he's gotten himself into trouble with his parents.
While these few examples of mine fall short of real description (the article this morning called it "a sense of moreness - an unidentifiable something" that we yearn toward), I guess all said, that if I could describe it - or reach it, then it would no longer be what it is, the indescribable. In some other lanuage I might find a word like that: the thing sought but never reached. A linguist would know. And God.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Christmas Cowboy
He turns his face into the night,
His back upon the town and light,
Embraces cold reality
Of night and snow and wind-downed tree.
The town, back there, it seems to me,
Inviting though appears to be,
Shall not with all its warmth and gleam
Avail to tempt this Man to deem
'tis better than His mission bold.
That thing that makes Him brave the cold,
And brave the night, shall drive Him forth:
A mission dear to Him, its worth
The night and cold; though power to daunt
They hold, and 'neath Him steed is gaunt.
But tilt of head and cast of mien
Addresses more than wind's refrain.
For underneath His arm grasped tight
Are gifts wrapped up in paper bright,
And though the wind may howl and moan,
The Man - He does not go alone.
With Him go Love, and Truth, and Hope
To all who wait in rustic scope
Away from towns, away from light,
Away from human comforts' might
To lure them from the gift He brings.
It is this thought to which He clings:
That each may know and each receive
The gift of Life, from Death, reprieve.
His back upon the town and light,
Embraces cold reality
Of night and snow and wind-downed tree.
The town, back there, it seems to me,
Inviting though appears to be,
Shall not with all its warmth and gleam
Avail to tempt this Man to deem
'tis better than His mission bold.
That thing that makes Him brave the cold,
And brave the night, shall drive Him forth:
A mission dear to Him, its worth
The night and cold; though power to daunt
They hold, and 'neath Him steed is gaunt.
But tilt of head and cast of mien
Addresses more than wind's refrain.
For underneath His arm grasped tight
Are gifts wrapped up in paper bright,
And though the wind may howl and moan,
The Man - He does not go alone.
With Him go Love, and Truth, and Hope
To all who wait in rustic scope
Away from towns, away from light,
Away from human comforts' might
To lure them from the gift He brings.
It is this thought to which He clings:
That each may know and each receive
The gift of Life, from Death, reprieve.
Amazing Love, or And Can It Be That I Should Gain
And can it be that I should gain
An interest in the Savior’s blood?
Died He for me, who caused His pain—
For me, who Him to death pursued?
Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
’Tis mystery all: th’Immortal dies:
Who can explore His strange design?
In vain the firstborn seraph tries
To sound the depths of love divine.’
Tis mercy all! Let earth adore,
Let angel minds inquire no more.
’Tis mercy all! Let earth adore;
Let angel minds inquire no more.
He left His Father’s throne above
So free, so infinite His grace—
Emptied Himself of all but love,
And bled for Adam’s helpless race:
’Tis mercy all, immense and free,
For O my God, it found out me!
’Tis mercy all, immense and free,
For O my God, it found out me!
Long my imprisoned spirit lay,
Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;
Thine eye diffused a quickening ray—
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;
My chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.
My chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.
Still the small inward voice I hear,
That whispers all my sins forgiven;
Still the atoning blood is near,
That quenched the wrath of hostile Heaven.
I feel the life His wounds impart;
I feel the Savior in my heart.
I feel the life His wounds impart;
I feel the Savior in my heart.
No condemnation now I dread;
Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;
Alive in Him, my living Head,
And clothed in righteousness divine,
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
An interest in the Savior’s blood?
Died He for me, who caused His pain—
For me, who Him to death pursued?
Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
’Tis mystery all: th’Immortal dies:
Who can explore His strange design?
In vain the firstborn seraph tries
To sound the depths of love divine.’
Tis mercy all! Let earth adore,
Let angel minds inquire no more.
’Tis mercy all! Let earth adore;
Let angel minds inquire no more.
He left His Father’s throne above
So free, so infinite His grace—
Emptied Himself of all but love,
And bled for Adam’s helpless race:
’Tis mercy all, immense and free,
For O my God, it found out me!
’Tis mercy all, immense and free,
For O my God, it found out me!
Long my imprisoned spirit lay,
Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;
Thine eye diffused a quickening ray—
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;
My chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.
My chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.
Still the small inward voice I hear,
That whispers all my sins forgiven;
Still the atoning blood is near,
That quenched the wrath of hostile Heaven.
I feel the life His wounds impart;
I feel the Savior in my heart.
I feel the life His wounds impart;
I feel the Savior in my heart.
No condemnation now I dread;
Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;
Alive in Him, my living Head,
And clothed in righteousness divine,
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Worth
Once there was a shabby and disheveled doll named Perpetua. Perpetua had not always been shabby, but now she was. Stained and dingy, the dress that once covered Perpetua's stuffing so prettily, could not be called pretty any more. One of her button eyes was gone, much of her yarn hair had come out, and what remained of that hung like limp brown strings dangling from a half-bald pompon. Her pinafore drooped by one strap and a few threads. The stitching in her legs had come partially undone, and stuffing poked out the openings. It was dingy, too. Most people wouldn’t have given two cents for such an object, and many more would have said, "To the dustbin with you." For not only was Perpetua not worth anything, she was a real eyesore.
Now the trash is a terrible place for anyone to end up, even for an old rag doll. But sadly that is where the little girl of our story first saw Perpetua. Sure that someone had played a cruel joke on a real person, the little girl fished the doll out and took her home. She did not think there had ever been a more beautiful doll. She loved Perpetua just the way she was. But out of respect for the doll’s dignity, she cleaned her up as best she could. Hugging close from morning until evening, and every night sharing a pillow, hardly ever were the girl and her doll apart.
But then one day something terrible happened; Perpetua got lost. The little girl was broken hearted and looked every where for her friend, calling and calling her name, "Perpetua, Perpetua." She looked high. Standing on a chair she stretched herself as tall as she could to see above a topmost closet shelf. But there was nothing other than some old brown boxes and a stack of aged-yellow magazines. She climbed the stairs and looked in the attic too: but no Perpetua.
The little girl looked low. She crawled under her bed and felt among the dust bunnies; and filled with great dread she crept down cold, damp steps to the basement and hunted through a great number of musty objects. But Perpetua was not to be found anywhere.
Once the little girl had been sure her friend was discovered. When she saw poking out the side of her momma's sewing basket a corner of familiar blue cloth, her heart raced. Thinking the scrap was part of Perpetua's dress, she pulled on it - only to be disappointed one more time. But though the little girl was very sad, she was also stubborn enough not to allow this to stop her from looking.
And so she continued her quest, until one day it came to pass that she must take a journey on an airplane. There she met a kind lady with soft brown eyes. "Just like Perpetua’s," thought the girl. Watching out for people on the plane was the lady's job, the little girl was told; the lady had to make sure that every one stayed safe and happy. But someone on the plane does not look happy at all, the lady thought. It was the little girl. But when the lady tried to help her, the little girl only hunched her shoulders and ducked her head.
The lady was persistent. "What is wrong?" she asked. "Why are your eyes so sad?"
"It is because I lost Perpetua," the little girl finally answered, peering up at the lady. For a very long time I have hunted for her, but I haven't been able to find her. And I know Perpetua misses me as much as I miss her. This very minute she may be crying because she has no one to love or care for her."
"But who is Perpetua?" asked the lady.
"Oh, Perpetua is my best friend. She is a real person, disguised as a doll," replied the little girl.
"And what does Perpetua look like?" the lady wanted to know.
This time she did not hesitate a minute before answering. "Well, you see, Perpetua is very beautiful. She has brown hair like cocoa and her eyes match her hair. Her dress is blue and her apron is white with yellow flowers. She keeps herself neat and clean – and because she is so very pretty anyone would want her for their very own doll. I fear she has been kidnapped!"
"Oh!" said the lady. "And where did you last see Perpetua?"
For a moment the girl was silent, appearing lost in thought. "I keep trying to remember," she finally responded. "My Momma and my Daddy took me and Perpetua on a long journey and it was after that I noticed that Perpetual was missing."
"Was your trip on an airplane like this one?" asked the lady.
"Yes!" The little girl answered, " it looked exactly like this one. I remember I fell asleep on the seat."
"Don't be sad any more," said the lady. "I think I can help you. Just now I must go away for a while, but I will be back soon. " And remember, you are not to worry."
The little girl tried to be patient. That many hours had gone by she was certain; but it was really only a very few minutes that passed. She wondered, "Now, what did the lady mean when she said she might help?"
Just about the time the little girl was sure the lady was not coming back, suddenly she saw her standing there in the aisle, holding a bundle wrapped in a white towel. The lady passed the bundle to the little girl, who parted the cloth and looked inside. Shabby Perpetua looked back. And so it was Perpetua returned, appearing exactly as the little girl remembered her. Perpetua was still the same beautiful person she always had been. And she was loved, if possible, even more than before.
And so what can we say is the measure of Perpetua’s worth? Well, it is not to be counted by the negative profit implied by her appearance alone, nor is it to be assumed by the negative light in which others might view her! But rather, we must reckon it, by the inestimable value assigned her in the heart of one very small girl - the one who loved her best.
And that, my friends, was very much indeed.
The little girl and Perpetua lived happily ever after.
~The End
The LORD hath appeared of old unto me, saying, Yea, I have loved thee with
an everlasting love: therefore with loving kindness have I drawn thee.
JER 31:3 KJV
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
JN 3:16 KJV
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his
friends. JN 15:13
But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet
sinners, Christ died for us. ROM 5:8
But God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us,
even when we were dead in sins, EPH 2:4 - 5a
And to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that ye might be
filled with all the fulness of God. EPH 3:19
Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should
be called the sons of God: therefore the world knoweth us not, because it
knew him not. 1JN 3:1
In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent his
only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through him. 1JN 4:9
Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his
Son to be the propitiation for our sins. 1JN 4:10
Now the trash is a terrible place for anyone to end up, even for an old rag doll. But sadly that is where the little girl of our story first saw Perpetua. Sure that someone had played a cruel joke on a real person, the little girl fished the doll out and took her home. She did not think there had ever been a more beautiful doll. She loved Perpetua just the way she was. But out of respect for the doll’s dignity, she cleaned her up as best she could. Hugging close from morning until evening, and every night sharing a pillow, hardly ever were the girl and her doll apart.
But then one day something terrible happened; Perpetua got lost. The little girl was broken hearted and looked every where for her friend, calling and calling her name, "Perpetua, Perpetua." She looked high. Standing on a chair she stretched herself as tall as she could to see above a topmost closet shelf. But there was nothing other than some old brown boxes and a stack of aged-yellow magazines. She climbed the stairs and looked in the attic too: but no Perpetua.
The little girl looked low. She crawled under her bed and felt among the dust bunnies; and filled with great dread she crept down cold, damp steps to the basement and hunted through a great number of musty objects. But Perpetua was not to be found anywhere.
Once the little girl had been sure her friend was discovered. When she saw poking out the side of her momma's sewing basket a corner of familiar blue cloth, her heart raced. Thinking the scrap was part of Perpetua's dress, she pulled on it - only to be disappointed one more time. But though the little girl was very sad, she was also stubborn enough not to allow this to stop her from looking.
And so she continued her quest, until one day it came to pass that she must take a journey on an airplane. There she met a kind lady with soft brown eyes. "Just like Perpetua’s," thought the girl. Watching out for people on the plane was the lady's job, the little girl was told; the lady had to make sure that every one stayed safe and happy. But someone on the plane does not look happy at all, the lady thought. It was the little girl. But when the lady tried to help her, the little girl only hunched her shoulders and ducked her head.
The lady was persistent. "What is wrong?" she asked. "Why are your eyes so sad?"
"It is because I lost Perpetua," the little girl finally answered, peering up at the lady. For a very long time I have hunted for her, but I haven't been able to find her. And I know Perpetua misses me as much as I miss her. This very minute she may be crying because she has no one to love or care for her."
"But who is Perpetua?" asked the lady.
"Oh, Perpetua is my best friend. She is a real person, disguised as a doll," replied the little girl.
"And what does Perpetua look like?" the lady wanted to know.
This time she did not hesitate a minute before answering. "Well, you see, Perpetua is very beautiful. She has brown hair like cocoa and her eyes match her hair. Her dress is blue and her apron is white with yellow flowers. She keeps herself neat and clean – and because she is so very pretty anyone would want her for their very own doll. I fear she has been kidnapped!"
"Oh!" said the lady. "And where did you last see Perpetua?"
For a moment the girl was silent, appearing lost in thought. "I keep trying to remember," she finally responded. "My Momma and my Daddy took me and Perpetua on a long journey and it was after that I noticed that Perpetual was missing."
"Was your trip on an airplane like this one?" asked the lady.
"Yes!" The little girl answered, " it looked exactly like this one. I remember I fell asleep on the seat."
"Don't be sad any more," said the lady. "I think I can help you. Just now I must go away for a while, but I will be back soon. " And remember, you are not to worry."
The little girl tried to be patient. That many hours had gone by she was certain; but it was really only a very few minutes that passed. She wondered, "Now, what did the lady mean when she said she might help?"
Just about the time the little girl was sure the lady was not coming back, suddenly she saw her standing there in the aisle, holding a bundle wrapped in a white towel. The lady passed the bundle to the little girl, who parted the cloth and looked inside. Shabby Perpetua looked back. And so it was Perpetua returned, appearing exactly as the little girl remembered her. Perpetua was still the same beautiful person she always had been. And she was loved, if possible, even more than before.
And so what can we say is the measure of Perpetua’s worth? Well, it is not to be counted by the negative profit implied by her appearance alone, nor is it to be assumed by the negative light in which others might view her! But rather, we must reckon it, by the inestimable value assigned her in the heart of one very small girl - the one who loved her best.
And that, my friends, was very much indeed.
The little girl and Perpetua lived happily ever after.
~The End
The LORD hath appeared of old unto me, saying, Yea, I have loved thee with
an everlasting love: therefore with loving kindness have I drawn thee.
JER 31:3 KJV
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
JN 3:16 KJV
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his
friends. JN 15:13
But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet
sinners, Christ died for us. ROM 5:8
But God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us,
even when we were dead in sins, EPH 2:4 - 5a
And to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that ye might be
filled with all the fulness of God. EPH 3:19
Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should
be called the sons of God: therefore the world knoweth us not, because it
knew him not. 1JN 3:1
In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent his
only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through him. 1JN 4:9
Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his
Son to be the propitiation for our sins. 1JN 4:10
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Saturday, March 4
Well, I guess the time has arrived that I quit fooling around and start doing some real blogging - rather than just posting stories, poems, and the generally more anonymous writings I have been pasting up here. Actually I shouldn't have a problem with it, its just more letter-writing and I have had lots of practice doing that. But somehow this blogging affair is different. It feels foolish, like talking to myself aloud in an empty room, or giving the cat a rundown of my day - although I sometimes fear such things are beginning to feel a bit too normal. A couple times of late I even caught myself having conversations at the grocery store with canned goods, as if they were responsible for the increase in price - not loud or anything, but enough to draw a few startled looks from some of the passing younger cart pushers. The old ones never look my way. Either they can't hear me or else they don't see anything wierd at all about it.
This morning we attended the funeral of a dearly beloved friend of ours, a lady named Cherry Cook. We have known Cherry I am thinking for about 30 years. She was a very special lady to us and will be sorely missed even though, due to driving distance between our house and hers, we didn't get to visit with her as often as we would have liked. But just knowing she was there, and that we could see her every so often, we considered a great blessing.
Cherry was a comfortable, quiet person who lived an uncluttered life in a small town, a widow for about the last three years. I think what I loved most about this sweet lady was her total acceptance of people: her friends, family, and aquaintances. She took us at face value and loved us for ourselves, never speaking evil of a single soul so far as I know; and others have said the same thing about her. And her faith in her Lord was just as uncomplicated as she was. She simply knew that she could trust Him, and she was ready to go to be with Him.
For the remainder of the day, after leaving Cherry's home where friends and family had gathered after the graveside service, I kept feeling like this was the end of an era of some kind - though I couldn't quite figure out exactly what, since she is not the first elderly, longtime friend we have lost and surely not the last. Nevertheless the idea has persisted. I told my husband, as we pulled away from the curb, as the saying goes, "We may never pass this way again."
This morning we attended the funeral of a dearly beloved friend of ours, a lady named Cherry Cook. We have known Cherry I am thinking for about 30 years. She was a very special lady to us and will be sorely missed even though, due to driving distance between our house and hers, we didn't get to visit with her as often as we would have liked. But just knowing she was there, and that we could see her every so often, we considered a great blessing.
Cherry was a comfortable, quiet person who lived an uncluttered life in a small town, a widow for about the last three years. I think what I loved most about this sweet lady was her total acceptance of people: her friends, family, and aquaintances. She took us at face value and loved us for ourselves, never speaking evil of a single soul so far as I know; and others have said the same thing about her. And her faith in her Lord was just as uncomplicated as she was. She simply knew that she could trust Him, and she was ready to go to be with Him.
For the remainder of the day, after leaving Cherry's home where friends and family had gathered after the graveside service, I kept feeling like this was the end of an era of some kind - though I couldn't quite figure out exactly what, since she is not the first elderly, longtime friend we have lost and surely not the last. Nevertheless the idea has persisted. I told my husband, as we pulled away from the curb, as the saying goes, "We may never pass this way again."
Friday, March 03, 2006
Christian Doggerel
Corrie's personification of worry spoke such volumes to me that I decided to add some of my own.
Anyone who reads this is invited to contribute more isms.
Worry is an old man with a bent head,
Carrying a sack of feathers he thinks is lead. ~ Corrie Ten Boom
Faith is a hatchling ‘neath mother hen’s wing;
Though tempest may rage, it fears not a thing.
Sin is a viper with a forked tongue,
Tapping at our door, dressed up like fun.
Goodness is an angel in dazzling white
Come to our aid in darkest night.
Judgement is gray, a man of stone
None can breach save Grace alone.
O Grace exquisite, best leave you a mystery
For if we dissect you may become history.
(insp. by Philip Yancey in his book on grace.)
Fear is a bully, strutting his stuff,
Cowering the children, feigning his bluff.
But Love is the queen of the royal races
For in her we see the sum of all graces
Grudge was an elephant that sat on my chest;
I fed him so much that he sat me to death.
If you confer a benefit, never remember it;
If you receive one, never forget it. mjf
Anyone who reads this is invited to contribute more isms.
Worry is an old man with a bent head,
Carrying a sack of feathers he thinks is lead. ~ Corrie Ten Boom
Faith is a hatchling ‘neath mother hen’s wing;
Though tempest may rage, it fears not a thing.
Sin is a viper with a forked tongue,
Tapping at our door, dressed up like fun.
Goodness is an angel in dazzling white
Come to our aid in darkest night.
Judgement is gray, a man of stone
None can breach save Grace alone.
O Grace exquisite, best leave you a mystery
For if we dissect you may become history.
(insp. by Philip Yancey in his book on grace.)
Fear is a bully, strutting his stuff,
Cowering the children, feigning his bluff.
But Love is the queen of the royal races
For in her we see the sum of all graces
Grudge was an elephant that sat on my chest;
I fed him so much that he sat me to death.
If you confer a benefit, never remember it;
If you receive one, never forget it. mjf
Thursday, March 02, 2006
The Fascinating Disgusting Elephant
Late spring or summer it must be, the year 1945. At the zenith of the season, Breckenridge Park can be wickedly warm; but the sun and that acrid aroma of confined beasts leave no lasting imprint upon my small being. I am far too giddy for that.
At the end of interminable waiting, we are the vanguard of the queue; I look at my parents and they seem like giants beside me. A genial, annoyed man, standing to the side of a wood booth, barters tickets for cash: it is time for the boarding. Up and up, to dizzying heights, I am being propelled; but… in mid-hoist I mutiny.
"No! I want down! It has HAIRS!" The normally reticent child has found her voice. What appeared from afar as smooth gray pelt, up close proves to possess a scary addendum. The elephant’s hide is a leprous-looking affair, sparsely whiskered with black prickly fur.
"But we’ve already paid!" At mother’s tone, I tear up.
"The hairs," I say in smallest plaint.
"But it has a chair, see?" But my parents’ words fail of their consequence. It still looks to me like the hide will contaminate and the hairs will scratch. Reluctantly they lead me away.
I look over my shoulder. Other children about to ride are happy and excited. I survey the elephant. It is the magnificent beast from Lands and Peoples. "I want to ride!"
"What? But I thought you… Look at that line! No, it’s too late." A sense of loss: weeping.
"Please?" I promise.
My father nudges my mother, "Let her try!"
How many times did those hideous black hairs induce a wave of doubt? Did I ever ride the elephant?" My mother who was born in 1914 will be 92 this April. Just the other day I thought it was high time I ask.
"About four, I think, and yes, but of course is was your father." I knew just what she meant. My dad was right there with me – on the elephant’s back.
At the end of interminable waiting, we are the vanguard of the queue; I look at my parents and they seem like giants beside me. A genial, annoyed man, standing to the side of a wood booth, barters tickets for cash: it is time for the boarding. Up and up, to dizzying heights, I am being propelled; but… in mid-hoist I mutiny.
"No! I want down! It has HAIRS!" The normally reticent child has found her voice. What appeared from afar as smooth gray pelt, up close proves to possess a scary addendum. The elephant’s hide is a leprous-looking affair, sparsely whiskered with black prickly fur.
"But we’ve already paid!" At mother’s tone, I tear up.
"The hairs," I say in smallest plaint.
"But it has a chair, see?" But my parents’ words fail of their consequence. It still looks to me like the hide will contaminate and the hairs will scratch. Reluctantly they lead me away.
I look over my shoulder. Other children about to ride are happy and excited. I survey the elephant. It is the magnificent beast from Lands and Peoples. "I want to ride!"
"What? But I thought you… Look at that line! No, it’s too late." A sense of loss: weeping.
"Please?" I promise.
My father nudges my mother, "Let her try!"
How many times did those hideous black hairs induce a wave of doubt? Did I ever ride the elephant?" My mother who was born in 1914 will be 92 this April. Just the other day I thought it was high time I ask.
"About four, I think, and yes, but of course is was your father." I knew just what she meant. My dad was right there with me – on the elephant’s back.
Psalm 65
With His strength He fastened mountains to the earth,
Cliffs of rocks to hold back the raging seas.
Morning light fades away unto even,
Evening to the night give birth.
He attends unto our pleas
In every season.
By His grace He visits dry land with His moisture,
Stream of God to enrich the thirsty soil.
Fertile seed corn He provides us,
From bare earth fit a pasture:
Corn and wine and oil
Showering dust.
With open hands He lets down the rain on ridges,
In the valleys of the rows, to make them soft.
Tender sprouts He shall bring forth,
In the hollows, cross the ledges,
The year He crowns aloft,
He sends back dearth.
In His path He'll never cease to leave a blessing,
Where He walks the barren land yields fruits.
Hills do surge with flocks, abound,
All the empty places filling:
Green and yellow shoots
Of corn and ground.
Cliffs of rocks to hold back the raging seas.
Morning light fades away unto even,
Evening to the night give birth.
He attends unto our pleas
In every season.
By His grace He visits dry land with His moisture,
Stream of God to enrich the thirsty soil.
Fertile seed corn He provides us,
From bare earth fit a pasture:
Corn and wine and oil
Showering dust.
With open hands He lets down the rain on ridges,
In the valleys of the rows, to make them soft.
Tender sprouts He shall bring forth,
In the hollows, cross the ledges,
The year He crowns aloft,
He sends back dearth.
In His path He'll never cease to leave a blessing,
Where He walks the barren land yields fruits.
Hills do surge with flocks, abound,
All the empty places filling:
Green and yellow shoots
Of corn and ground.
God Will Make A Way
From time to time you'll see words to Christian hymns posted on my Late Bloomer blog spot. This one is a favorite, written by Dan Moen. It expresses beautifully the mysterious ways God has of bringing to pass in our lives that which seems only remotely possible. The last two (alternate) verses are my addition I sometimes sing on my daily walk.
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
He will be my guide
Hold me closely to His side
With love and strength for each new day
He will make a way, He will make a way.
By a roadway in the wilderness, He'll lead me
And rivers in the desert will I see
Heaven and earth will fade
But His Word will still remain
He will do something new today.
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
He will be my guide
Hold me closely to His side
With love and strength for each new day
He will make a way, He will make a way
(alternate second verse)
When my light goes dim, He'll lift me up, enfold me,
He'll wipe away my tears, and soothe my fears.
He is the Rock that lasts
For a thousand years to come
And eternity has only just begun.
(alternate last verse if melody is played through twice)
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
God will make a way
Where there seems to be no way
In blackest night, a candle bright glowing
In the dark,
God will make a way
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
He will be my guide
Hold me closely to His side
With love and strength for each new day
He will make a way, He will make a way.
By a roadway in the wilderness, He'll lead me
And rivers in the desert will I see
Heaven and earth will fade
But His Word will still remain
He will do something new today.
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
He will be my guide
Hold me closely to His side
With love and strength for each new day
He will make a way, He will make a way
(alternate second verse)
When my light goes dim, He'll lift me up, enfold me,
He'll wipe away my tears, and soothe my fears.
He is the Rock that lasts
For a thousand years to come
And eternity has only just begun.
(alternate last verse if melody is played through twice)
God will make a way,
Where there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me
God will make a way
Where there seems to be no way
In blackest night, a candle bright glowing
In the dark,
God will make a way
Meme & Company
This is just a start. I have been here three hours, since 6:00 am this morning, editing, editing, and re-editing. More of family, friends, and pets will be added as I perfect the art of posting photos.This one of me appeared on a web-site called Focus on Fiction along with a comment as regards my admiration for the works of Cindy Martinusen, Christian Fiction writer. Her latest, Eventide, was slated to appear in January, 2006.
I have requested our local branch library to order this book but have not yet seen it on the shelves. May have to find it on the web. Can't wait!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)