Thoughtful Spot

The First Habit to Acquire

~The Mice Listen to the Tailor's Lament, "I'm undone. I have no more twist!"

Poor Tailor, threadbare and worn, he, like so many, has not the habit of realizing the provision that God has made.

He murmurs, "I cannot afford it" and "Oh, well, I will just have to get through but it will be a tussle."

If we take God at His word, then we find ourselves cringing and clapping our hands over our ears at the scraping of self-pity so prevalent, so habitual, so mistakenly admired as humility among the gentle-folk among us.

Mr. Chambers rises indignantly, "If we give way to self-pity and indulge in the luxury of misery, we banish God’s riches from our own lives and hinder others from entering into His provision. No sin is worse than the sin of self-pity, because it obliterates God and puts self-interest upon the throne. It opens our mouths to spit out murmurings . . ."

Oh, Beloved, let us be faithful witnesses to His Character, for "He will tax the last grain of sand and the remotest star to bless us if we will obey Him."

The First Habit to Acquire:

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your graciousness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Don’t worry about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.  And the peace of God, which surpasses every thought, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.
~ Philippians 4:4

Sweet Things . . . Miniature State Fair

A few years ago, i attended a luncheon in the fall where one of the tables was decorated with an amazing collection of state fair pieces.

i have searched the internet for something similar. . .and found enchanting museum pieces, but nothing i could bring home. . .

Have you, Dear Friends, seen anything similar?

The Uncontainable God. . .

The uncontainable God reveals Himself in the smallest containers of grace . . .
the first light through the window . . .
the sole sparrow on the telephone line . . .
the cold glass of water and the laughter after lunch. . .
the blankets at the end of the day. . .

~Ann Voskamp

Advice From a Sea Turtle

If you find sea turtles charming, might i suggest: God's Sweet Command and The Best Sea Shell Shop Ever. 

Monday Morning Counting the Grace Gifts
#0821 - snow capped daffodils

#0822 - bay window, corner of the sofa, a sunny morning 

#0823 - thick, sweet perfume of the smallest, soft petaled gardenia blossom

#0824 - tiny dogs (little Toby) that jump so high

#0825 - daylight strong and pure after dinner; winter slipping away

#0826 - the promise that after the hard labor of spring cleaning. . .we will make our way to the sea. . .soon

 

Counting with the Community at. . .

 

Just East of the Transition

Round Rock lies just east of the Transition.

The gentle sloping hills of Virginia, where I live, are locked between the upper Appalachians to the West and the Atlantic Ocean to the east. This means that confrontations between the high pressure mass of artic cold air that is trapped in the peaks of the mountains and the subtropical jet from the South are inevitable and frequent.

We reside where the collision occurs, and the wavering transition line that slides a millimeter across the weather man’s forecast screens corresponds to twenty or more miles on land where the weather could be six inches of snow, sleet, freezing rain, or rain.  

Plans rise and fall on out-forecasting the Line of Transition.

Like plans for BirthDays.

“We aren’t going to get anything.”

“They’re calling for six inches of snow.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

We set out early Wednesday morning for a day filled with surprise appointments for our Little Lady Blond One, undeterred by by the Weathermen’s forecasts that were erratic and changing every twenty minutes, causing Principals to close schools just as the buses were slated to arrive. School children had already missed one day of school this winter for a snow that never materialized, and only a cold rain fell on the yard, and so we grabbed our umbrellas and headed out, undaunted.

   At the last minute I grabbed a blanket for the car, but forgot my snow shoes and gloves. February had been as mild as early spring,  and this was March.

March that blows in like a lion.

We were twenty minutes from home, when we crossed the Line.

Every car behind us was washed clean with rain, but the cars in the oncoming lanes were thickly robed in blankets of snow. Within seconds we were in Narnia, the black pavement beneath our tires suddenly thick and slow with white. Traffic slowed, smaller cars slid and had difficulty on inclines, and the three lanes narrowed to a set of tracks to follow.

Need I say that we decided to turn around?

To turn around  meant pioneering  a long trackless exit, passing a stalled car pointed the wrong direction, easing around a tractor trailer flashing hazard lights, and making a u-turn across trenches of snow with oncoming traffic and poor visibility.

And a long slow drive through Narnia where even the street signs were growing invisible.

And back to Round Rock where the birds gathered at the feeder in puddles of freezing water and a light dusting of snow.

Appointments cancelled, disappointment swallowed up by the adventure and the winter wonderland beauty we would have missed here in our freezing rain mix, we made new plans.  A big pot of steaming chicken gnocchi was brought to life on the Little Black Oven, and an impromptu BirthDay party with tiny chocolate ebelskivers stuffed with raspberry jam. Lori made her own BirthDay dessert, worked out with Wii Dance instead of the surprise Personal Trainer, had a home manicure, and watched a movie with her daddy who came home early.  And we settled warm and protected under our roof and marveled at how differently things turned out. How much better. 

Father had sent her Christmas snow for her BirthDay. He sent a big, beautiful deer to cross a side street just as she turned her head to look, he gave her little rainbows, and birds looking in from the window. He gave her family who loved her and Promises.

Promises about Transitions Lines and Changed Plans and Disappointments that are really Grace Gifts. Promises that He is never Surprised though we may be, and Promises that He, and He alone, sets the Lines.

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.

~Psalm 16:6

 Happy BirthDay, dearest Lori.

You are part of my Beautiful Inheritance.

Counting Grace Gifts in Avocados

Last week was crazy hard.

Not impossibly difficult or devastating, just CRAZY hard.

Crazy, that I thought I was finished with going-to-see-the-teacher now that they are in college; who would ever guess that the teacher in our dear little community college would not know that her grading rubric would never, not in this life, add up to a passing grade? . . . or that she would take offense when someone just mentioned it in the most helpful way. . .?

Crazy that the alarm, the one that goes off every morning of the week, collapsed in nervous exhaustion on the most important morning of the week. . .and I missed my time with Wallace, the Personal Trainer, he of eternal patience and don’t-tell-me-you-can’t-because-then-you-most-certainly-will. I cried. Friday mornings is my time to feel like I can do things I never thought I could.

Crazy that an argument between two women broke out behind me in line at Stuff Mart over their places in the self-check line. Honestly, I recognized One when I heard One, and I just wanted to hiss to the young woman being verbally accosted, “Men-O-Pausal. Just back away. For us all. Just back away. Let this one go.” Crazy that when they stopped arguing, a husband shows up and quite innocently asks one question and here-we-go-again.

Crazy that seven minutes separated me from reaching the optometrist in time for Husband’s glasses. And he, the one who works so hard, is wearing Reading Glasses that pinch for the third week in a row.

Crazy that the line at Macadoo’s came to a complete standstill for 20 minutes right after I drove into the place where you cannot back out. All I wanted was a Sweet Tea.  Stuff Mart on the Saturday before the SuperBigDealBowl demanded that I have a fix of Sweet Tea.

Crazy that I have to go back to Stuff Mart because I picked up the wrong thing.

Crazy that  a paint store would close at noon on a Saturday or that the Pizza Guy would forget to bring our pizza. Forget and go home. (I’m not making this stuff up.)

Crazy that a grown man would get so bent out of shape that the avocados were too hard to make guacamole for the SuperBigDealWomanizingBowl. 

Crazy, that mercy and grace abounds, and the Gifts gathered here are greater still and so I count. . .

#0817 - Kindness of strangers who listen, respond, refund

#0818 - Wisdom of Wallace, “Everybody has set backs. The secret is you fall down, you pick yourself back up .”

#0819 - Compassion for strangers who argue because they each bear a load the other cannot see. And huge amounts of compassion for unwitting Husbands who emerge from the Men-O-Pausal years without PTSD.

#0820 - Husband. My Husband. One big, six foot four Grace Gift. Because when the guacamole turned out fresh and chunky instead of the usual mushy dip, he mumbles humbly, “I like it better this way. Maybe the Good Lord just pointed you in the direction of these avocados.”

That’s how I like to think about it, that Proverbs 16:9 can be paraphrased in this way, “He just points us in the direction of unripe avacados, and we end up liking it better that way.”

Counting with the Community at. . .

From His Temple, He Heard My Voice

For you created my inmost being;
    You knit me together in my mother’s womb.
 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
    Your works are wonderful,
    I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you
    when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,
 Your eyes saw my unformed body.

All the days ordained for me
    were written in Your book
    before one of them came to be.
~Psalm 139: 13 - 16 

 

Be Kind to One Another

Do small things with great love. . .

~Mother Theresa

Winsome Stitchery

Sometimes, i don't have much to say. . .but sending you a little something to brighten your day. . .

And Here is Our Little Bilbo Baggins. . .

For some unlikely reason, five winters ago, The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings became a favorite story at Christmas time in Round Rock.

In the wee hours of this morning, when the world seemed like a dragon breathing down my neck and I felt too small in the scheme of things to have any importance or effect, i found myself curled up in the purple chair in the library reading from a worn copy of The Hobbit, Chapter One. The clock hands drew toward four and family snored under cloudy wreaths of dreams, as the dwarves tumbled into my door with Gandalf fast on their heels,  and if I had glanced outside my frosted window i believed i would have seen in the lamp glow a hobbit garden, and meadows beyond, sloping down to a river.

So, the season begins when prayer leads me to the little man, about my age, comfortable in his little world and fearful of what lay beyond, kneeling on the hearth-rug, shaking like a jelly that was melting in the blue light of Gandalf's staff. And the wise old man sees in him what neither he himself, nor the dwarves can see, "I have chosen Mr. Baggins and that ought to be enought for all of you. If I say he is a Burglar, a Burglar he is, or will be when the time comes. There is a lot more in him than you guess, and a great more than he has any idea of himself." 

And, Beloved, i believe the Spirit speaks the same over you and me. . .not that we are burglars,no, but we are who God says we are or will be when the time comes. . .and He sees a lot more in us than anyone could guess, including ourselves.

Counting the Thanksgiving weekend grace gifts. . .

#0807 - Thanksgiving turkey browing in his buttery coat flaked with rosemary in the little black oven

#0808 - the sheer weight of the glory of a nephew, young man now, speaking earnestly of what touches his heart, and all through the meal i listen to the music that is in him. . .

#0809 - soaking in beloved faces, youthful and aged, circling a table of thanks

#0810 - standing in a berry-strewn drive saying our goodbyes as birds feast noisily in the tree tops over head

#0811 - the journey to the sea passing through fields of white cotton

#0812 - barefoot walks on a cold November beach when shoes fill with pearl

#0813 - holding husband's hand and in his other, he carries my shoes and a growing bag of jingling shells

#0814 - the sea foam sliding back and forth on the tide and frothing our feet so that husband remarks, "looks like hobbit feet" and we laugh

#0815 - a quiet evening when all are out except you studying at the dining room table, and i  there on the sunporch lit only by the sun sliding behind the cottages in the west. . .and the only thing i have to do is Pray. . .the mystery of that privilege. . .

#0816 - finding Bilbo again, at home, before the adventure, unsure of himself, and i knowing all that lies ahead of him and how he will find himself. . .and finding myself as i read his story. . .

Counting with the Community at. . .