I took a couple of photos with the new camera I bought myself for Mother’s Day.
This is my favorite peony bush in our backyard. Gorgeous!
Here’s a picture of some Dame’s Rocket, my favorite wildflower in our area.
The colors of the current season are a continual feast for my winter-starved eyes.
A letter came addressed to “Resident” at our humble abode this very day. It came straight from hell.
On the envelope of this letter were these words, “Heavenly Father, we pray that this one who needs this divine help will write their needs on page two of this letter and will place this blessed, biblical, Acts 19:11,12, Handkerchief and this sealed Bible prophecy under their side of their bed as they sleep tonight. Let Thy power from heaven descend upon this home tonight and tomorrow night, after this one has mailed their most pressing needs back to this 56-year-old church ministry. We pray that they will break open this sealed prophecy after sunset tomorrow. Amen” (Italics and bold as printed on the envelope.)
Inside the envelope… drum roll, please… you guessed it – another ploy for money preying upon the poor and vulnerable. Of course the Holy Hankie (nothing more than a piece of paper with an edging printed upon it) was supposed to help answer all your prayers if you sent in a donation. It’s straight out of Robert Tilton 15 years ago. I know this to be true because my brother phoned Tilton’s “hotline” about that many years ago to get a Holy Hankie. He wanted to see if they would send him one even while he claimed he couldn’t afford to make a donation. It came as no surprise to anyone that Tilton’s “ministry” tried to weasel money out of him anyway and then refused to send him the handkerchief without a donation. But these guys (Saint Matthew’s Churches – Rev. James Eugene Ewing) sent it first with the expectation that perhaps the receiver would be so grateful for a magical prayer that he/she would send a faith gift in anticipation of the millions God would eventually send or miraculous answers to whatever seemed most pressing at the moment.
I get so cheesed with these little anti-Christs. And lest you think my anger unjustified, read this article about Saint Matthew’s Churches and their money-grubbing and evil founder.
This time I decided I would make them pay – literally, as in money. I stuffed all the information back into their No postage necessary envelope and added a note saying, “This is an abomination to the Lord. Repent.” A while later I found my husband and kids slitting open the envelope and attempting to find heavy objects that would raise the cost of the postage the organization would have to pay upon receipt of the envelope. They were giggling as they stuffed huge eye bolts into the envelope. I couldn’t laugh with them because I know about people who send their meager public assistance checks to organizations like this expecting that something fantastic will happen. In reality, it’s probably better to put your last quarter into a slot machine or buy lottery tickets with your welfare check than to send it to one of these scam ministries. There is a better chance of actually getting something back.
What makes it worse? They target their mailings to impoverished areas. There are quite a number of people on fixed incomes in my little town, and I wonder how many of the people from senior housing I see regularly at the local minimart will send money.
I hope that others will follow suit and send these organizations the message that their actions are evil. Make them at least pay for their own return postage. I don’t know if it will make any dent in the millions they bring in every year, but enough is enough, and a solution has to start somewhere. I won’t stand aside and see the poor bamboozled by those who claim to know Christ when they only care about their own pockets.
I can’t help but think of the parable of the sheep and the goats…
I was thinking about salsa and food the other day. Have you ever noticed that when a salsa is really good – fresh ingredients in just the right combination – it can make even mediocre food taste great? But if you have a mediocre salsa (or bad salsa that tastes more like Heinz ketchup than salsa), even the best of foods will taste mediocre. I’ve decided that this is the Salsa Principle. And I’m wondering if it extends to others areas of life.
My personal favorite is my friend, Sarah’s, and of course, mine because I use Sarah’s recipe and sometimes her garden-fresh peppers and tomatoes when in season. Sometimes I have my own, too. And when I can’t get homemade, Aldi makes a pretty good fresh jalepeno salsa.
What’s your favorite salsa, and do you think the Salsa Principle crosses over into other things in life?
My strawberry plants have put out a sea of white, cheerful blossoms. My mouth is watering in anticipation. Last year we had quite a crop, and it looks as though this year’s will compete admirably and possibly outstrip the previous one. I was a bit worried about my raspberry bushes as a result of the days and days of snow and below freezing temperatures that came after the initial warm-up in March. But it appears that they have struggled through having lost their leaves and are producing more. I’m not sure about the blackberries, however. One plant has not produced any more leaves after the cold snap in April killed the first round, and the others have a pathetic number. Ah well, they didn’t produce much fruit last year anyway. Maybe there’s a parable in there…
The wisteria on our back patio is more covered with buds than I’ve ever seen it. If they all blossom, it will be glorious! It’s about time to hang our deeply resonant wind chimes and put out all of the patio furniture to complete my Zen Corner. Then I will sit out on the patio with a book and a glass of water so as to enjoy the wisteria more fully. A glass of tea might also serve, but anything with a competing smell would ruin the glory of the fragrance that is way too short-lived.
It’s also time to lay in stores for the bonfires we hope to have: wood, graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars. I’m never quite so happy about seeing my children filthy as when we have finished sitting around the fire with friends strumming guitars or picking banjos, talking, laughing, and watching the numerous children race around, start smokers in the fire, and look for the perfect spot in the fire to toast their marshmallows. It is near-perfect community.
Ah… I was made for warm weather, good food, beautiful smells, and companionable people – but especially warm weather! I guess it’s rather unfortunate that I live in Ohio. But I do like to make the most of it when it comes.
It’s Good Friday. Maybe not such a good Friday from a weather perspective. Three days ago we had a beautiful, sunny 80 degree day. Two days ago the high temperature fell by about 35 degrees. This is our third day of snow, and, quite frankly, it hacks me off. We have had one complete whiteout today and a couple of partial ones. My brave daffodils are facing the wind and snow head on. But my early tulips have closed up and shrunk into themselves in an act of self-protection. Tight lipped are the buds of the creeping phlox that I hoped would be out for Easter. The freshly-mown lawn has patches of white on it, as do the leaves and periwinkle blossoms of myrtle. The green things had begun whispering to me a couple of weeks ago, and I find it cruel in the extreme that the landscape is dotted with the silence of white and gray once again.
John has said each year since we moved to the Midwest, “There’s always one more snow before Easter.” I know it’s true, and I even say the same to friends who too early believe that spring is here for good. But every year I hope nonetheless. And as always, there follows a period of grave disappointment when my mouth echoes the moanings of my not-so-longsuffering spirit.
This Easter the bleak winter landscape will speak of Good Friday but not the Resurrection Day. Godspeed the color of new life – and the weather, too!
Watch Ian boogie down! The digital camera we bought him for his 12th birthday has been a runaway success. The chicken dance is part of his Green Period of artistic photography. It is a strange and wonderful thing to watch the child to whom one gave birth developing his unique interests – almost as mysterious and exciting as listening to him first acquire language.
The Nursery Genius, they called him at 18 months. He entertained them with songs, complete with the percussion sounds of familiar recordings or videos. One of the women who worked regularly in the church nursery remembers Ian well. Instead of being like the other crying toddlers under age two who were often pacified with a graham cracker, he once replied to the cracker bribe, “I don’t want a cracker, Lady. I want my mom!” Go Ian! Say it like it is!
I have a new title. Actually, I am still trying to decide upon a title. So far my choices are Reverend Lady Linda the Chimerical of Much Moulding upon Carpet, Reverend Countess Linda the Sonorous of Middle Witchampton, or Marchioness Linda the Arboreal of Lower Beanthrop in the Hedge. I haven’t decided which I will use. Perhaps you can help? Let me know which one you think fits me the best.
And by the way, here’s one of the titles and a link to the title generator:
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My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Marchioness Linda the Arboreal of Lower Beanthrop in the Hedge Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title |
But oh, wait! Here’s the best yet!
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My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Her Most Noble Lady Linda the Dulcet of Walk upon Water Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title |
The amount of cold blasted into one’s legs when sitting down in Cold Pants after walking in negative temperature wind is inversely proportional to the amount of noise one can produce and directly proportional to the amount of frigid air involuntarily sucked into one’s lungs. – Linda’s First Theorem of Cold Pants, proved on January 29, 2007
I haven’t figured it out yet – how to live my life within the realm of the Slanket I received for Christmas.
For those of you not up on the latest comfort and warmth products, the Slanket is a superb, extra thick and soft fleece blanket of gargantuan proportions. It could probably cover André the Giant comfortably if he weren’t already dead. No doubt it would provide even better coverage now, but I doubt he would derive much comfort or warmth from it being deceased.
But wait. It’s not just any oversized blanket. The best feature of the Slanket is the pair of large sleeves at the top end. (Or if you turn the Slanket upside down, the sleeves become pant legs. I haven’t actually used it like this yet.) If you wrap up in it with the opening in the front, holding your arms straight out in front of you with the generous sleeves draping gracefully down from your wrists and pull the excess at the top over your head to form a kind of cowl, others might think you are a double for the Emperor from the Star Wars movies, a Dementor from the Harry Potter books, a monk, or some such creepy or spiritual character.
One evening I fell asleep in my Slanket on the couch and awoke in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. Because I am someone whose feet temperature never rises above freezing in the winter, that is saying something.
I love my Slanket. It is my friend. I read in my Slanket, watch movies in my Slanket, talk on the phone in my Slanket, and surf the web in my Slanket. The only problem is, I haven’t figured out how to perform any physical activities in the Slanket, such as cooking, doing the dishes (the sleeves get soaked), driving, or cleaning. Also, I am fairly certain that my boss would frown upon my coming to work in the Slanket even though my children have assured me that it looks entirely professional.
Undoubtedly the answer is to quit my job and refuse to do anymore chores so that I never have to leave my Slanket World. I think that this is the most responsible stewardship of this great gift that has been entrusted to my care. Don’t you?
As I putter around the house, I bend over to pick up a trail of crumpled Kleenex that somehow made their way onto the floor or pieces of furniture I have used over the past few days. How could any one person go through so many in so few days? I comfort myself with the knowledge that had I been lost, I would have found my way back. Back to where remains a mystery: back to my bed for more sleep or movies, to the bathroom for more Kleenex, or to the kitchen for yet another mug of hot Rooibos tea? But now I am on the mend and plan not to continue playing the doddering old woman who mindlessly discards tissues as a toddler would abandon fist-sized objects he jealously clings to and later forgets about.
New Year’s Day 2007. The day brings with it hopes and fears as does each new year. I hope I will find a satisfying part time job. I hope my family will stay healthy. I hope my kids will continue to learn what it means to bless others with their lives and the things they have been given. I hope they will each continue to make progress in karate, music, and school. I hope that John will continue to be professionally fulfilled in his teaching and performing on the piano and various Irish instruments. I hope the Demerits will become wildly famous (well, maybe not wildly). I hope I will win the lottery (Must I buy a ticket?). I hope my life will be perfect. I hope I didn’t imply that all of my hopes would be realistic.
I fear the coming of 2007 as well. Perhaps another year will pass in this cornfield called Cedarville without my being able to find a part time job that plays to my education and strengths. Perhaps the world will remain in its current state of chaos and turmoil with no hope of change. Perhaps our church will be unable to meet the needs of the people who now call Midtown Christian Community “home.†Perhaps our friends will move away. Perhaps we will see more of the inside of hospitals than we ever dreamed possible.
I haven’t any idea what the year ahead holds. It would be nice to know so I could prepare for difficulties that will arise or look forward to exciting and fun times on the horizon. But then again, such knowledge can sometimes be dangerous, and I’m not certain I would be able to fully live in the present. I suppose it doesn’t matter, though. I don’t expect that I will be given the opportunity to look ahead into the future, so I guess my resolution and prayer for this year will be to live as fully as possible in the here and now.
Unless, of course, I get another sinus infection. In which case I suppose I will live vicariously through someone else on a screen and place great hope in the coming days of effortless breathing for as long as it takes to get through it.
Happy New Year right here, right now and in all the days to come.
