Month: March 2008

  • Fun with Words


    Every home needs a good encyclopedia of  Word and Phrase Origins.  This is the one in our house. It is a handy reference when you wonder how the phrase there is more than one way to skin a cat came into being.  I looked up bought the farm this morning. Before you knew it I was reading Bodleian Library, poppycock, lollygagging and lose face to my breathless audience.

    If you assembled the right group of people – I like to call them word birds, but some say word nerds – (and I dare say some of you qualify, eh?) you could spend a jolly good time passing the book around, randomly reading an entry, laughing and talking about it. Add a glass of wine or steaming cup of tea, a plate of scones in the middle of the room, and you have the makings of a party I would want to host or attend. 

    “Put the book down, Carol.” the once booming, still-strengthening voice of my husband brings me back to life.  We have details to deal with.  Each one on its own is minuscule, but combined they can a force to reckon with. Remember cleaning the grout?  I’m easily distracted today, but word and phrase origins is one delightful distraction.
      

  • Heartwarming

  • Mistaken Identity

    “Whitney, you got to watch a video of your own funeral.” 


    It hardly seems credible that a mixup like this could happen in 2006, but it did. 

    A high speed collision took the lives of five people from Taylor University.  Five weeks after the crash, when the Van Ryn’s daughter came out of a coma, they eventually realized that she was not their daughter.  This is a compelling story, sad and happy, a picture of two families trusting God through the most agonizing drama imaginable.

    That drama was told last night on a two hour Dateline NBC program.

    A fine moment:  Lisa Van Ryn put the pieces together first.  After a physical therapy session, as she was wheeling the girl she now suspected was not her sister Laura back to her room, she got eye level and asked her what her name was.  The girl replied, “Whitney.”  She asked her to say her parents’ names.  After she did, Lisa was convinced this wasn’t Laura.  Her response was, “That’s very good, Whitney.  You are doing so well.  You are really doing great.”

    Matt Lauer commented on Lisa’s generosity to Whitney at that moment.  He was surprised that Lisa didn’t start screaming and running down the hall.  Lisa looked at him with a smile, “But I loved her! Why would I do that to her?”  The love she demonstrated, putting Whitney’s needs before her own…amazing grace.

    In the last few years, some stories have gripped our imagination because the participants’ faith has been so clearly displayed in the midst of their grief.  Do you remember the national spotlight on Frank James when the Mt. Hood climbers were missing?  In this program, what I found so winsome was a complete lack of bitterness and blaming.  The Cerak and Van Ryn families were gracious in every word spoken.  All of grace.

  • Zimbabwe Elections

    Polls open in about 15 hours for national elections in Zimbabwe.  Inflation has devastated the country.  Yesterday it took 143 million Zimbabwe dollars to buy one chicken. People are arrested under phony charges.

    **Update: voters are contacting the BBC with their experience here.  People were queuing the day before and sleeping in the queue.  Look at the right sidebar for new stories.**

    When I watched Hotel Rwanda I remember being stunned that the horror of genocide happened in 1994, a year I remember clearly.  We thought the holocaust could never happen again, and yet another holocaust scorched that country in Africa.  I asked God to make me more aware and he brought my friend, a Zimbabwean national here in America for a conference, to my doorstep. 

    We complain about notice the rising cost of gas and groceries here in America, but there are still mounds of food available in our Safeways and Jewels.   I’m not saying it is easy to budget during these inflationary times; but please remember our brothers and sisters in Zimbabwe who spend 1-2 hours a day waiting in line for one onion or two cabbages when you think about the price of a gallon of milk. Her words sent this morning:

    I am absolutely persuaded, however, that only God in His Heaven can determine
    this election, no matter what room He gives us to participate with him in the
    politics of the country. So I am casting my vote on my knees, before finding the nearest polling
    station.

    Prayimg,

  • Turn the Corner Thursday

    My husband woke up feeling better today.  He’s wiped-out exhausted, but he said he feels more tired than sick.  Thank you for your prayers. 

    Bless the Lord, O my soul:
    and all that is within me,
    bless his holy name.

    Bless the Lord, O my soul,
    and forget not all his benefits:

    Who forgiveth all thine iniquities;
    who healeth all thy diseases;

    ~ Psalm 103

  • Just Wondering

    Our Easter Sunday worship was really lovely.  The place was packed, the whole service was one of victorious thanksgiving.  The singing, the reading, the responses, the messages were all glorious.  It felt like a small slice of heaven.   Granted,  a few areas could have been improved in the details. It was glorious, but it wasn’t perfect.

    Which got me wondering.  I came home to my sick husband and asked: do you think we’ll be perfect in heaven?  I know that we will be perfectly sinless, and I know that we will be perfect in the sense of complete and whole. 

    If, however, we are perfect, is there a place for growth?  In my puny mind perfect = static.  Isn’t that a common fear about heaven, that it will be boring?  The wise man replied, “How are you now?  You will be like you are, but without sin.”  We won’t know everything – God is the one who is omniscient – so wouldn’t it make sense that our knowledge will grow?  What about our moral attributes: will our love grow, our patience grow?

    Just wondering.

    I’ve been having a stimulating conversation with my gracious online friend Deb about the movie Ostrov (The Island).  The 2007 movie chronicles the life of an eccentric Russian man, Father Anatoli, with a horrible secret in his past, who nonetheless has a solitary ministry to hurting, wounded people.  Curt and I watched it (for free!) on Netflix Instant Watch; I gave some feedback to Deb.  As an Orthodox Christian she sees some things differently than me.  In the back and forth of our exchange I asked can humility and joy co-exist?  I’ve been thinking about Philippians 2 and Hebrews 12 and the interaction of humility and joy.

    Just wondering.

    My husband, Curt, is still wiped out.  The medicine for pneumonia/sinus infection may be doing something but we have not seen improvement yet.  I am simultaneously praying in faith that he gets better and beginning to brace myself for a big disappointment.  I’m preparing for the trip and preparing to stay home.

    This is the same issue (to a much smaller degree for us) that meets anyone who is diagnosed with a terminal disease.  There is praying in faith for healing, and acceptance in faith of impending death.  Does one preclude the other? 

    Just wondering.
     

  • Nine Days

    Every summer of my early life, our family packed up and left the Chicago suburbs for Bible Camp in Jones, Michigan.  Traveling north on Michigan Highway 40 we drove through a series of hills and dips which were the poor man’s equivalent to a roller coaster ride. I would whisper-read the alternating signs on the side of the road: Pass With Care, Do Not Pass, Pass With Care, Do Not Pass. At the bottom of the trough all you could see was zenith of the next hill.  Eventually the land smoothed her pleated skirt and produced a straight line with a clear view.

    The last two months have been the rolling hills, a collection of intermediate goals which have occupied my vision.  But year-end taxes, family visits, the making of wills, and Easter are all past.  We have a clear, unobstructed view: in nine days, Lord willing, we fly to Glasgow.  My husband has been sick, off work for an unprecedented two weeks.  Today the doctor diagnosed pneumonia and a sinus infection and prescribed one of the big gun antibiotics.  Would you please pray with me for Curt’s healing and renewed strength? 

    I am overwhelmed with the daily gifts related to this trip.  The bookstore, of course. I got Rick Steves 2008 for the cost of shipping through Paperbackswap! The first rest stop on the road after we’ve landed is called Rest-and-Be-Thankful Pass.  My first time experiencing (you feel the organ’s vibrations as well as hear it) a cathedral organ will be an organ recital in St. Giles with Bach and Pachelbel on the program.  Bach. Pipe organ. Cathedral. Edinburgh.  Stitch those words together and you can hear me purr.

    We will see and stay with a childhood friend.  The last time I saw her in 1974 she was running from God; now she is serving Him. Reconnecting with her is a gift of pure grace. 

    Most of the details on that side are decided.  In the time left we are preparing for our absence from our normal responsibilities, finding odd items (e.g. hang & dry plastic clothespins) for the trip, reviewing lists.  Curt is 2/3 through John Knox’s biography; I’m at the Battle of Stirling Bridge in Scottish Chiefs.  I haven’t gotten all the books read that I had hoped, but this is consistent with my mantra, likely my last words: but I haven’t finished my books yet! 

    I plan to blog daily or whenever possible on the trip.

  • Arise! Rejoice! Death is Dead.


    Rise, daffodil,
    against the stones
    that shall yield
    to your yellow vow.

    Rise, onion shoot,
    from an odious shroud
    to green exclamation;
    your death is done!

    ~  from Poem for Easter by Barbara Eash Shisler

    The daffs in the top picture are from our front garden.
    The onions are from the vegetable garden.
    The pictures were taken Good Friday morning.
    The snow was gone by afternoon.

    My favorite Easter poem is by Thomas Blackburn.
    Bach used it in Cantata No. 129
    You can hear a snippet here (scroll to 14).

    Awake, thou wintry earth
    Fling off, fling off thy sadness.
    Fair vernal flowers laugh forth,
    Laugh forth your ancient gladness.

    A new and love tale,
    Across the land is spread,
    It floats o’er hill and dale,
    To say that death is dead.

    Happy Easter!  He is Risen!

  • Death as a Tool of Love, Blood as a Bleach

    Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood
    Shall never lose its power,
    Till all the ransomed church of God
    Be saved to sin no more.

    ~ William Cowper

    He has delivered us from the power of darkness
    and conveyed us into the kingdom of the Son of His love,
    in whom we have redemption through His blood,
    the forgiveness of sins.

    ~ St. Paul

    How well chosen wine was
    to stain our souls with remembrance!
    He knew how it burst, vivid,
    from the flushed skins of grapes
    grown for this sacramental crushing:
    a shocking red, unforgettable as blood
    a rich brew in the cup, a bitter,
    burning in the throat, a warmth within,
    chosen well to each our lintels
    with the paradoxes of
    a high priest bound to his own altar,
    death as a tool of love,
    and blood as a bleach.

    ~ Luci Shaw

    Good thoughts for Good Friday.
    Be still.
    Listen.
    Remember.
    Give thanks.

  • Sniffing Boats, Singing Seals and Fat Banks of Fog

    “When there’s enough that is the same
    and enough that is different in such a relationship,
    there is a fruitful middle ground to be explored.”

    ~ Luci Shaw, writing about her friendship with Madeleine L’Engle in Books & Culture. When I read those words, I immediately thought of travel.  We have humanity in common with all the people of the earth: we all experience loss, love, boredom, fear and wonder.  But each region has a unique culture and in exploring both the likenesses and dissimilarities we find things of delight and things of disgust.  The thrill of recognition – oh, she’s just like me! – and the fascination of otherness – um, why is that important to you? – are part of building any relationship.

    William Zinsser calls the memoir “one of nonfiction’s most appealing forms.”  Amen and amen.  Insert travel in front of memoir and I’ll be swaying and singing my praises.  Travel memoirs float my boat. I love exploring Afghanistan, Russia, Japan, Mississippi, Patagonia, Provence, Tuscany, China etc. from the eyes of an observant outsider.

    Some Lovely Islands by Mr. Leslie Thomas is now one of my favorite travel memoirs.  I will scour the bookstores of Great Britain for copies of this book. Thomas out-Rick-Steves Rick Steves as a “temporary local.”  He is not as philosophical as John Steinbeck in Travels With Charley, but his writing sparkles like a sun-drenched sea.  I filled nine pages of my journal with quotes from this author.

    Thomas decided to visit 10 very different islands off of Ireland and Great Britain in one year.  Some were uninhabited, some had monasteries, a few had long-established communities, and most had a lighthouse.  It was great to read a chapter, surf the web and see the visuals; some of the people he mentioned in this 1967 book are now selling photographs on the web.  Viva le Google!

    It is the writing that pinches, tickles, grabs and holds you.   He sees the elements of nature as living things; they are alive when you read his descriptions.

    The mountains and sky fell upon each other
    like black wrestlers locked in a hold;
    and there was I staggering over mooring ropes and anchors.

    …the saddest sight. 
    A whole village, a whole life,
    a whole story in doleful ruin.
    The houses back up the hill,
    roofless, windowless, doorless,
    like a congregation of senile people
    without teeth or eyes.

    Fat banks of fog…with a certain politeness
    stopped short and stood around
    just outside the harbour.

    The boat sniffed around the rocks
    and panted into the landlocked pool
    like a dog pleased to have rediscovered
    a familiar rabbit hole.

    Fads and fashions,
    pavement and politics,
    are miles away and of no matter.
    The singing of the seals is real.