“The things of earth will dim and lose their value, when we recall they’re borrowed for a while.”  

It’s coming on Christmas and I suppose it is natural to remember all the Christmases that have gone before.  Rachael and Michael have been putting up Christmas decorations. (If they’re lucky, they’ll have the tree decorated by Christmas eve.)  I’ve been remembering all of the keepsakes that have been packed away with the decorations- little things the kids made in school, ornaments left from my childhood and those from Rachael’s growing up years, gifts from my children in preschool and day care. They all bring back memories.  

   

Sitting here in the quiet of early, early morning, I went from thinking of those things to remembering the pieces of glassware and dinnerware and furniture and other things that I’ve treasured for so many years because they belonged to my mother and grandmothers.  Some of them are packed away still in the basement; some have been taken out and displayed in our house. And I enjoy looking at all of them.  They make me remember my grandma and my mom and the stories Dad told of his mother and step mother.  They bring back thoughts of Rachael and Notah when they were growing up. 

   

But they aren’t as precious to me as they once were.  It isn’t that I don’t treasure the memories, but the objects aren’t as valuable as they once were.  I’ve been thinking of the song “Until Then,” especially the messages in some of the lyrics.  “The things of earth will dim and lose their value…and things of earth that caused the heart to tremble remembered then will only bring a smile.   This weary world with all its toil and trouble will take its toll of misery and strife.’  The soul of man is like a waiting falcon, when it’s released it’s destined for the skies!”

   

I’ve always liked the song, but the last few years I’ve grasped the deeper reality of the words.  The things that I used to hold dear have dropped away.  I haven’t thrown them out; they’ve passed into other hands to treasure, but for me I don’t hold them so close.  My treasures and the loved ones they helped me to remember have moved from the earthly scene to heaven.  I only need to quietly to remember the days of work and heartache, happy times and joy, blessings and burdens.  And they are stored now in eternal storerooms.  I sit here in Rachael’s house with very few sit possessions of my own.  I don’t own a house.  I don’t own a car.  Most of the things accumulated over the years have been given to other family and friends. I have my cozy room and my favorite pictures on the wall. And my dogs.  I have clothes to wear and a warm place to sleep. Rachael makes sure I have the right diet available when she does the grocery shopping.  What more can I ask for in life.

    The things of earth have lost their value.  The trials and heartaches and hard places have all strengthened my faith and drawn me closer to God.  I can look back on them and smile because in hind sight I can see the hand of the Lord working in my life. 

    

    Now more than ever my focus is on things eternal.  And until then my heart does sing.

memories of a man of God

I hope no one gets tired of my talking about the saints of God who have had an influence in my life. This is another one of those posts. I appreciate those men and women of God. Their faithfulness has helped to hold me fast through life. I only hope my life can have the same effect on someone after me.

I few weeks ago I reconnected with a young man I knew many years ago. One day I opened my mail to find a message saying, ”Are you the Vondi who used to go to Parrall Church of God?” I say "young man" because he was young when I knew him. He had a special place in his heart for Rachael. Lol

And today they are all grown up. Brother Steve is probably in his late 40’s early 50’s now. (Sorry brother Steve, if I've made you older than you are!) And Rachael is 32. wow. I remembered brother Steve but Rachael didn’t have a clue until I reminded her that he used to give her ‘quarters.’ They weren’t all quarters… just what ever change he happened to have in his pocket. But what can I say? Rach was two or three. All shiny coins were quarters.

What a surprise to hear from him. He had found my email address pn a message from another friend. What a small world. I had a conversation with him via Facebook the other night. One of the things we e spoke of was his father and the witness he’d had.

Brother Allan Wingate had been a singer on the popular music scene when he gave his life to the Lord and abandoned it all. His singing blessed me many times at campmeeting and his testimony was wonderful. Brother Steve sent me a website that had some of the songs his dad had written and sung for the Lord after he’d been saved. I listened to them all that night and was blessed to tears with the witness in them.

Then I was prompted to go search for some of the recordings from before he was saved. Brother Steve had said some were posting his music online for collectors. He was grieved because he said his dad had rejected all of that life and music when he gave his heart to the Lord. He had destroyed all of the music from that life. And now some were trying to revive it. I knew Brother Wingate’s testimony but something made me go and find those recordings on line.

I had cried with joy over the Christian songs Brother Allan had written, but when I found those old worldly songs I was blessed all over again. NOT by the songs but from the life the Lord had saved him from and the dedication required to walk away from that life. Brother Allan’s songs were good, excellent from a worldly stand point. They had the rhythm and driving impetus popular in that time. He was on his way to the top in the music business.

I grew up during that era. I recognized the potential in what I was hearing. And he walked away from it to serve the Lord! Praise the Lord for His Power. Praise the Lord for brother Allan’s submission! He left all of that glitter and promise of acclaim and riches to become a humble pastor. He raised up a congregation that still stands today.

I think of the many entertainers who have made a profession of being saved today. How false their witness is when their lifestyle and conduct crucify Christ afresh every day! We cannot stand with a foot in both worlds. We either serve the Lord in righteousness or we don’t.

What a testimony brother Wingate left behind. I talked a few days ago about the need for those who follow us to find us faithful in serving the Lord and in the testimony we leave. It is vital.

One of my most vivid memories of brother Wingate is of him sitting with his guitar on the end of the platform in the old tabernacle at God’s Acres He never sat in the center of th eplatform, but always on one end, humble and submissive to the older pastors. He sat there absent mindedly checking the tune of his guitar and giving his testimony. Then he sang, “If it weren’t for the lighthouse, tell me, where would my ship be…” I don’t have a recording of him singing it ( I wish I did.) but go listen to this video and think, if you have been born again, how much tht light means to you and the change it has made in your life.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PpSlHAkcN6g

pickled beets

Okay, I'm giggling this morning. A friend of mine posted a recipe on her blog for 'stove top meatloaf." It was a great idea. You just make your regular meat loaf recipe, but instead of putting it in a pan and roasting it, you flatten it out to almost a hamburger thickness and then cook it slowly in a skillet! Is that fantastic or what. For those of us that cook for one or two people it saves those couple hours of hot oven. And besides, when I was working all day, no matter how much I wanted meat loaf, even if I remembered to make it early in the morning, (yeah, like that happened when the moon turned blue!) I didn't feel like cooking it at five o'clock in the afternoon. This way you can make as much as you want and cook it on top of the stove in two jiffies!

That got me started thinking. My son-in-law loves boiled eggs pickled in beet juice. I love pickled beets. Now my mom used to make the best pickled beets in the world, but it took ALL DAY and required a garden row of beets and skinning and quartering and boiling vinegar and spices and sugar and packing them in jars and then cold packing again to seal the pints. A lot of work. And she always had a garden to produce the beets. I don't have a garden so I don't have beets. Or fresh tomatoes. Or corn. Or cucumbers. Or string beans. Or fresh lettuce. Or green onions. Or peas. sigh*****

So how to get pickled beets without all that work-that was my dilemna. I rolled it around in my brain probably for years and one day inspiration hit. You know those bread and butter pickles you get at Krogers, or Stop n Shop or where ever you buy your groceries. You eat all the pickles and pour out the juice.... I mean, what else can you do with it. My inspiration was to make pickled beets with it!

When the pickles are gone put the jar of pickling solution back in the fridge until you get a can of beets. The sliced kind work best, but the little baby whole beets work too. When you open the can pour about 3/4 of the beet juice off and then pour the beets and remaining juice in the pickle jar with the pickling solution. Put the lid back on and park it in the fridge for a couple days. Voila! A jar of pickled beets my mom wouldn't be able to tell from her own. (Well, maybe if I forgot to peel the bread-n-butter pickle label off she could guess...)

I made pickled beets this way all the time I was living alone in Dover. When I moved here with R&M I kinda forgot about it.

Since I started getting up and making sure Michael had hot coffee and something hot for breakfast, I've also been packing his lunch.... hmm. (Well, phooey. He'd been packing his own. What man packs a decent lunch? Ho-ho's, cold French fries and bag of cheetos..oh yeah.) Oh well. Anyway. Last week we ran short of 'extras' for his lunch. We had sandwich materials, but that's not much for a guy who works with iron all day. Then I remembered the pickled beets and eggs!

As luck would have it we had a jar of bread-n-butter pickles that was almost empty. Problem solved. I made sure we had the pickles out as dinner time and like magic the pickles were gone. I snagged the juice jar. We already had canned beets so it took about two minutes to make 'pickled beets.' I also added two boiled eggs to the beet jar. The next day after that I sent a pickled pink egg in Michael's lunch. The result: one surprised and happy son-in-law. How easy.

Leave the eggs in the beets for at least two days if you like the pink to penetrate to the center of the egg. One day doesn't make all the white pink.

Like I told my friend, sometimes I wonder why it took me so long to come up with a great idea!

we went home to Rock Springs

This weekend we went back to Rock Springs, to see Helen and Dorothy and all our family. It was so wonderful. I tried to phrase things in coherent sentences and paragraphs but it just wasn’t possible. I’m suffering from sensory and mental overload. Thoughts only come in poignant, evocative fragments, vignettes of memory and contrast. New sights reflected on the screen of memories. Catch the images. Don't look for sentences.

Smooth asphalt where there used to be washboard dirt, a graded road where there used to be two ruts between sage, a steel bridge where there used to be a deep descent into the wash and an angled ascent back up to the level. Frame houses where there used to be only open range. A gate across the mission drive. New buildings at the chapter house. Few roaming horses. No cattle. No Goats, no sheep. Power lines running through the community. Water piped to most houses. Very few out houses. The surrounding change but the vital things remain the same.

Helen, Leonard, Dorothy and Lenora, still working at securing the shade pavilion against the constant NM wind. Happy faces, weathered by wind and sun. Traditional gentle handshakes. Welcoming arms and tears of gladness. Memories recalled between loved ones. Shi k’is yaz, all grown up with kids of her own. Catching up on who is married, who has babies, where the kids live now. Where is this one or that one. The enclosing circle of the hogan. Rugs on the floor, beds on the sides, a round table with a lamp. A kitchen counter with sink, no running water in here. Kids running in and out. ( wow now it’s just Seth and DJ—used to be half a dozen grandkids) Puppy nosing on the floor. Cat being chased out the door repeatedly. Dorothy’s velvet blouse and tiered skirt. Helen’s twisted bun. The comforting sound of Navajo, flowing around me

Talking about family and happenings. A mixture of Navajo and English, forgotten words and phrases surfacing in my memory. Someone died, someone is in the hospital. Dave has three girls. Chester’s wife is living with Dorothy’s, their youngest was premature, still in the NICU in Albuquerque. Lots of people will be around, what will we feed them. How about tomorrow. Mixtures of traditional Navajo and modern anglo adoptions. ( Tonight’s menu: traditional cubed meat and potatoes fried together, tortillas, and pizza!) Everyone goes to cook, Kerra to pick up pizza. (Two large supreme, three medium cheese and pepperoni )

Me, alone, with orders to rest. That’s good. My knees hurt from the long drive and sitting on the bed with my feet down. Lying on the bed, puppy snuggled against my back. Quiet all about. Hogan, round and arched and white above me, enfolding. The open door and the direct view across the expanse of sagebrush juniper, rabbit brush and clumps of thread grass (what the kids called “dog tail” grass) in front of the hogan to the blue, blue sky above. Wind constantly driving, occasional bursts of sand and grit. The dog barking down by the house. How many days spent lying or sitting on a bed while the wind blasted around outside. Partial sleep; cat seizing the opportunity to come inside. No one moves. Cat strolling around calling inquiringly for company, wakes the puppy. I slap the bed and he hops down. Quiet again after the puppy settles back. I almost expect Louie at any minute.

Quiet is gone, the boys come clattering back, laughing and chasing each other flopping on the other bed, waking the pup. Soon Kerra and Keva return with pizzas. Kerra goes to help with cooking. Keva begins cleaning the accumulated grit off the table. DJ wants to dive into the Pizza, but has to wait. Bummers…

Sensory overload stills. Coherence picks up. Soon Helen, Kerra and Lenora arrive with food, OK. It’s home I am gonna eat tortilla! I’ll give the dogs the pizza crust, but I will not waste Helen’s tortillas!

Helen took Leonard a plate of pizza and fried potatoes. He prefers to stay in the quiet at the house rather being with a crowd of chattering relatives. Leonard isn’t really unsociable, just likes the quiet better. Of all the family, I noticed the years more with Leonard. His once jet hair is now an ash black color with some honest silver above the ears. His face is older but not deeply lined, only sagging some on the cheeks. His once confident stride has slowed even to a shuffle once in a while. Helen said he will be 71 in September. He and Notah share the same birthdate.

We all ate pizza and meat and potatoes with soda or punch. Helen’s tortillas are puffy and soft. I haven’t eaten such excellent naanesk’adi since the last time I was at her house! And once I leave I know I won’t again. Rachael and Kerra prefer to buy theirs ready made at Krogers or Smiths. Real naanesk’adi is a lot of work for busy modern women. I understand. I just think the ‘real thing’ is sooo much better. They think so too, it is just quicker to do the plastic bag kind. Seth and Keva literally stuffed themselves. I lost count of how many they ate. No one cared. Kids are supposed to love Navajo tortillas.

Dorothy had to leave before we ate. A couple of her grandkids came down to tell her that Sam was in a lot of pain from his stomach. He had been in pain the night before, but Navajos don’t give a lot of thought to pain until it is practically excruciating. When they came for Dorothy, they said he was hurting so bad he couldn't stop shaking. Just after Dorothy got home they took Sam to the hospital. He was admitted.

So we had supper together; then by and by other family stopped in, too. It is neat Navajo visits are kind of a progressive dinner… The people present at first eat, then as others come they eat too. If a staple runs out, a little more meat is fried or potatoes peeled. Dean and Kathy and their son stopped by and had pizza. Angeline and Michelle, (Monte’s wife) and Neesha came too and ate. Someone else stopped too but we had so many I can’t remember who it was. There was some pizza left that we sent home then with them for Angeline’s boyfriend and Monte when they got off work.

We were all worn out. Helen looked weary. Even the boys were calming down. Puppy was falling asleep where ever he stood until someone picked him up or tripped over him. Then he’d move and go to sleep again. Poor baby.

( Oh! I didn’t mention the new puppy before, did I? On Tuesday, June 2nd, Notah and Kerra bought a German shepherd pup. He was just short of six weeks old—a little fuzz bucket! Poor baby. He had spent his whole life in a horse barn with a mama and brothers n sisters. Now these people picked him up and hauled him around in a car for an hour, Then they brought him into a strange barn with fuzzy floors and strange dogs! AND THEN they tried to drown him with warm water and foamy bubbly smelly stuff. Goodness! He was so overwhelmed he jus sat still and stared into space.

But he learned fast and decided it was a pretty good deal. He got his own food several times a day and he didn’t have to compete for it. His siblings were gone but people were always ready to play with him. And when he fell asleep everyone made sure nothing othered him. Notah finally named him Thain, after Thorin’s brother in The Hobbit. LOL except if I stay too long he’s going to be “Train.” It just always comes out that way. )

Anyway, back to the weekend. We had made reservations to stay in Gallup because usually Helen uses the hogan for storage and I didn’t want her to go to so much work for only one night. We have always stayed there when we visit. Not only that, I’m up and down a lot at night and need special arrangements to keep my knees from aching so much I cannot walk.

I should have known my sister better than that! Somenone had been living there not too long ago so she had just straightened up the hogan anyway and put up a shade outside on the north side. It was good to be able to sit in there during the day on our visit, but we went into town to sleep. Seth and Keva were gratified to be able to jump in the pool for a few minutes before bed time. Not me. I washed up, fixed my chair and put my poor knees out straight! What a grand evening. And more to come tomorrow!

to walk a desert trail

Keva got up early today to go with her Sunday School class to Santa Fe. They took the train from Belen at 6:30 am. It goes straight through to Santa Fe and was established for people who had to commute between Albuquerque and there. Of course it has some stops inbetween, but basically it just goes straight through.

They are touring the historical sites and museums in Santa Fe and eating there. I don't know what time they will be home. Probably in time for supper. It was just a day for fun and learning a little about New Mexico.

This part of the state is a rich historical area. The main arteries of trade came up from Mexico through Albuquerque to Santa Fe, the early native Americas were active all around and of course we had cattle and early trappers moving through all the time. If you want to find out about the southwest in a painless and entertaining way try some of the books written by Louis L'Amour.

L'Amour made it a point to travel by foot and horseback all through the southwest and his characters and stories are placed against an authentic background. He said once, "If I write about a spring or a mountain range or a settlement, you can be sure the place is actually there and I walked over it."

My husband was the one who got me started reading L'Amour's books. I had heard about him before, but I always lumped his writings in the same category as Zane Grey, which I abhored. I always found his novels peopled by misplaced Kentucky and West Virginia descriptions and people. Okay, I know everybody raves about Zane Grey but I don't like him. I almost guarantee if you are a Zane Grey fan you don't have a real picture of the southwest. I found his descriptions not to be true to the land I know.

Louie ( my husband, not L'Amour) used to go to the Gallup library with me even before we were married and he was the one who sought out the L'Amour section. I turned my very well educated nose up at such low class novels, but when I'd finished reading everything else I got, I started reading the westerns. Surprise. I liked them. I liked the content and related to the land and characters.

Those times and people are gone forever now, but it you leave the roads and hike through the desert you can hear the echoes and see the phantom people riding across the land.

Start off with Hondo, or Mojave Crossing or The Sky-liners or any of the Sackett Sagas. Once you're hooked you'll find L'Amour novels that stretch from Europe to the streets of San Francisco. And all of them are true to the land they cross. If you don't want novels there are several non fiction books. My favorite is Frontier, descriptions, stories and beautiful photos of places in the southwest and Rockies. I also like A Trail of Memories, quotations of L'Amour interspersed with photos.

Now when I can no longer physically hike the land or even drive for long on the back roads anymore, I can read a Louis L'Amour book and be transported back instantly.

Going back

They say you can never go back. Change happens to all the best loved places of our life. The house is repainted. The furniture is replaced and rearranged. The open fields of childhood are plowed and sowed with corn. Pleasant valleys become real estate developments. The view from the front porch becomes cluttered with telephone lines and new houses. And even when you “go home” it is never the same.

But you can go back. I sat in my open door this morning and smelled the fresh scent of sage and juniper mixed with a very slight moisture and when I closed my eyes I was opening the door of our little pink house in Rock Springs. The fragrance came in and mixed with that of coffee cooking on the stove. The coolness of the breeze on my face vied with the warmth of the morning fire at my back. The barking of the dog and the maa-ing of the goats in the distant silence was countered by the laughter of a little boy bouncing on his father’s stomach in bed.

I sat there a few minutes, remembering. Yes, you can go back

desert breezes and memories

I’m a happy camper this morning. Notah is home and he opened the windows and the drapes and blinds and let the desert rush through the house! It is wonderful. In all the years I lived in the desert, we kept our doors open wide and our windows too. The only times we closed them were when the sun was beating against that side of the house. Then we closed hem to keep the heat out. Even in winter, the door was always open unless the winds were blowing directly into it. It doesn’t seem like NM when the doors and drapes and windows and blinds are closed tight. Even at night, although we did close the door, we left the windows open.

I remember once when I was visiting Mom in Rock Springs. The kids and I were staying in her little blue house. She was sleeping in the hogan that summer. The window was open and the house was dark except for the lamp that was turned down very low. I happened to look up to see this hand groping through the window, feeling for the radio that was sitting a little to the side of the opening.

“Haa’at’ish ba naaninaa?” I said. “ Daniel sha’? ” a voice answered, obviously more than a little drunk.

“Hola” I told him, ‘Doo hoghandi sida” It was a young guy, evidently one of Daniel’s friends who was probably looking for a place to crash for the night, but saw an opportunity to grab a free radio and just got caught. No maliciousness intended. He wandered off looking for Daniel and I went back to sleep, window still open.

We spent much of our life outside. Mom had a tree in front of her house, between the house and the hogan. For many years, the boys had faithfully dumped water on it and by the time Louie and I were living out there it was a good sized tree. When the kids and I visited Mom after he died the protective fence was gone and Mom put her water barrels and various chairs, stools, and so forth under it. We sat there during the day for much of the summer. One summer there was an old sofa there; another there was a bed under the tree. Sometimes when you went out to sit there, you had to flip the accumulated sand from the last little whirlwind off the old quilt that covered it, but that was okay. Or you just ignored it and sat down anyway. It was just honest sand.

A lot of times in summer we cooked supper out there over an open fire, especially if it had been hot—no sense heating the house up even more than it was. Someone would build a fire about ten feet from the sofa and carry out the stool and the iron drum top out to put on top of it, making a table. Someone one would peel potatoes—usually me—and somebody else would make tortillas—usually Mom. I wasn’t that great at shaping tortillas.

The boys would tend the fire until we had a decent bed of coals and then we’d put a grill over it balanced on four pop cans. The tortillas and meat cooked there directly over the fire. The potatoes in an iron skillet either went there or on a bed of coals at the side. We would sit and talk and watch the kids play, while we flipped the tortillas and watched the meat. The coffee pot sat close up against the coals to cook and keep warm. Once in a while Mom would send one of the boys to get some more wood.

When everything was cooked we sat the skillet on the round drum lid with the tortillas in a basin beside it and the meat piled on a plate there. Adults got a plate and filled it, then cut up the meat in bite sized portions for the kids. We all sat on the chairs and the sofa/bed. The boys sat on stools or stumps around the drum lid and ate. Everyone fed the little kids from their plates, giving them meat or potatoes. with a piece of tortilla wrapped around it. Oh! And I can’t forget the green chilis either roasted over the fire and eaten with the potatoes and meat or just raw, taking bites off the end! I can still taste it all!

After everyone was finished eating, we waited for a kettle of water to boil over the coals while one of the boys took the skillet off to scour with sand and another one filled the basin with hot water and soap. Mom or I would wash the dishes and rinse them with clean water poured over them. We piled them in a big dish pan and sent them in the house with yet another kid. The potato skillet got washed last, filled with the dirty dish water and scrubbed and rinsed, then refilled with warm water and soap and rinsed again. Not too much soap though because that destroys the patina that helps keep food from sticking. The bottom, that had been sitting in the coals, just got a perfunctory scrub with a piece of paper towel or a rag—it was beyond redemption from many, many meals spent sitting on the hot coals.

I love those days, imprinted indelibly on my memory.

Psalm 137

In a discussion group I participate in someone referred to the first few verses of Psalm 137. The reference began me remembering the thousands of people who have never known the glory of Zion.

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. Psalm 137:1-3

What a fantastic and thought-provoking account we find here of what it is to have known the glory and beauty of the Church of God and then be forced through circumstances to sit in a worldly church and experience the shallowness of false religion. This, like so many of the scriptures, presents a dual picture. First, it is the account of the captivity of the Israelites in Babylon. They were forced to be away from their spiritual and physical home in Zion and the wept for it. But it is also a picture of the Church of God as compared to worldly religion typified by “Babylon.”

A few times during my life I have, for one reason or another, had to be present in a false church. And each time I’ve know the sorrow of ‘remembering Zion.” Not that the memory was sad, but it was the very fact that I had to remember it in such circumstances. The first time was when I was in college. My room mate was greatly bothered because I was so conscientious about my life and living for God and didn’t go to church services. She attended the close-by Methodist church every Sunday.

After several weeks I agreed to go with her. Remember, I grew up in the Church of God. I had literally never experienced false religion. I had no idea what to expect. I walked into a beautiful facility full of stained and varnished natural wood with plush carpet and stained glass windows. There was lovely organ music emanating from all around. The atmosphere was hushed and reverent. My heart broke. The building was absolutely devoid of the presence of God.

How did I know? I’ve never been able to explain it except to say that once you have known the presence of God, you will never be fooled by beautiful surroundings, a reverent atmosphere and sweet music. Everyone sat reverentially as the choir filed in and the ministers took their seats on the platform. Everyone on the platform was serious and much aware of their role in the service. It looked so "holy." But God wasn’t there. And no one even seemed to recognize the fact. But it can only be compared to maybe eating hamburger when you really want steak. Someone who has never had steak would never know the difference.

The music from the choir was technically correct, but the singers didn’t know the glory of the saving grace of God and it showed in their singing. The specialist was beautifully made up and had had voice training, but she had no experience in a living for the Lord. A singer who can’t carry a tune in a bucket (as my dad used to say) can sing a song of Zion that will be so filled with the spirit of God that the saints will rejoice, but a beautiful voice can fall flat when there is none of the power of God in the life of the person singing.

The minister spoke that day on Gideon choosing 300 men to defeat the Midianites. Notice I said "Gideon chose" not "God directed." He emphasized over and over how these were the strongest and most alert men and that’s why Gideon chose them to defeat the Midianite army. No reference was made to God’s statement, for I have given it into your hand. All the emphasis was on Man’s part in the battle.

For the first time those verses in Psalms became reality for me. I did feel as though I were sitting on the banks of that river in Babylon and remembering Zion. I knew what preaching under the anointing of the Holy Spirit sounded like. I knew what songs of praise sounded like when the singers had fought the battle for righteousness and triumphed over Satan and the world. I knew the witness of the Spirit as it flowed from the singers and the minister and there was none here. And as I sat in that beautiful place my heart wept.

Part of the reason we have so much confusion in the religious world is that there are so many honest hearts, yearning for Zion, but never having had an opportunity to experience the reality of it, never knowing the reality of the Spirit of God moving in the hearts and lives of the people of God. They are deceived by a strong beat to the music and a loud lead singer. They are deceived by preacher's posturing and oratory. They are deceived by noisy hallelujahs and amens and Thank you Jesuses. They are deceived by crocodile tears and ‘heartfelt’ testimonies. They are deceived by promises of material blessings and seed money paybacks.

How sad it is that they have no memory of Zion. My heart aches for them. We tend to often think that people are in Babylon because they want to be. But they may be there because they have never had an opportunity to know what real praise is.

lots of boxes

Whew! I'm tired tonight. Rachael started bringing up boxes from the basement to unpack. All of the stuff from my house is there and hasn't been touched or sorted through yet. Before I left Dover, I sent a ton of things to Goodwill and gave another ton away and finally advertised on the radio, some good things that I had no way of moving but couldn't bring with me. People were waiting in line for my queen-sized bed and mattress set and headboard, the hidabed sofa , some twin sized mattresses and beds, a desk, some chairs...I don't remember what else. They just wanted to walk in the house and take them!! Thank goodness Rachael was there that day and had no qualms about telling them they'd just have to wait until the men carried them out to the porch.

Today we tackled the stuff from the cupboards--three generations of glassware, china and decorative things. As Rachael unpacked all of the old dishes, I was responsible for looking things up online to see if they were worth keeping!! I found one little pitcher that was worth 245 dollars!!! MY HEAVENS! Lots of things I couldn't find. Probably because I didn't know where to look. But we have just scratched the surface--moved a couple minor stones in the mountain of boxes.

The first two boxes she opened were packed in 1986! and have been moved THREE times without being unpacked! They were filled with things that belonged to my mother's mother and my father's foster mother. Rachael's great grandmas! It was neat to see those old dishes and serving plates and think who they had belonged to...sometimes at first I couldn't remember. Then after a few minutes, I'd get a connection and 'see' them on grandma's table or in ma's china cabinet or cupboard or connect them somehow to the person... The human mind is a wonderful thing.

Ultimately Rachael did all of the work while I sat in the chair and clicked computer keys. Why is it that I'm so tired?

Memories and Life

Notah just sent pictures of Helen and Dorothy! And then I talked with them! He and Kerra and the kids are visiting them this weekend. Some times I miss Rock Springs so much it is a physical ache. It isn’t the same place I knew when I lived there, but the rocks remain and the huge blue sky does, too. The people are older but we have the same memories and the love is just as strong. Time doesn’t take that away.

I’m looking forward to seeing everyone so much. The trip will be difficult with my knees and maneuverability but I’m simply trusting the Lord to work it all out. I always enjoyed the trip out to NM with the changing geography and the varied housing and building styles. I’m anxious to see what changes have come about. I was reading an article in Smithsonian about Old Route 66 that was once the artery of movement from the mid-west to the California coast.

I first began traveling to Gallup when only portions of the route had become interstate highway. The small towns had mom and pop diners and little four-or-five room motels and friendly people. We could stop almost anywhere along the road and find a homey atmosphere. I remember that Oklahoma had the friendliest people and how great it was after crossing the long empty stretches between the OK stateline and Amarillo to come in to town on old 66 and pass the beginning motels and groceries and souvenir shops and gas stations. Those scenes are gone for ever and now we look across the distance of the bypass and see only semi-deserted towns.

Now when I look for the favorite stops and places where I once walked my dog in the field behind the motel then walked across the parking lot to a cozy diner that had real steaks from local beef, I can only see those favorite places as boarded up motels and diners. It’s sad.

I remember a little town call San Jon NM, where there was a museum run by a tiny withered lady who had worked on paleontology digs across the south west. The things she had on display were things she personally had unearthed and labeled. The last time I pulled off the interstate the whole town was almost gone. The building where the museum had been was empty, the long murals on the outer walls were faded and peeling. The guy at the only local gas station said the old lady had died and willed her museum contents to the university that she had worked under. What a fantastic experience to be lost except in the memories of those who had visited. My grandchildren will never meet the woman who unearthed all of those amazing things. They will never hear the stories that she told as she gave personal tours. For the gain in convenience and speed we have lost deep and intimate experiences. The trip has been cut by hours, almost by entire days, but so very much has been lost.

(For a quick trip down memory lane.

check out: http://www.theroadwanderer.net/66NMex/sanjon.htm It isn’t as good as the real thing was, but this is as close as we can come.)

But at the end of the trip, the desert is still there. My memories fill the desert and the road in between here and there with lost people and rich experiences. That will never change. Now my son is giving his children a whole new set of experiences and memories, all colored by his own rich background. Life continues different but always full.

Remembering

My day started very early with a phone call from Notah. I love it when he calls. We seldom discuss anything of earth shattering importance, just the everyday kind of things about work and kids and snakes and so forth. But it is so good to hear his voice. I send mental thanks to Verizon wireless constantly that I can talk so regularly with him and Kerra and the kids. It makes them seem so much closer. I know about their dogs and cats and daily doings—not quite as good as seeing it all live, but certainly better than having to depend on letters or expensive land line calls.

After a long lazy weekend Rachael and Michael have gone back to work. Rachael had three whole days off. That is such a rare happening. Usually her days off come in the middle of the week. I like having her here all day, but Michael likes to have her home with him once in a while on weekends too. This weekend was particularly special because she got to go with him to two hockey games and watch the super bowl with him. Now she cares about as much for the super bowl as the dogs do, but she sat with him and fixed him hot super-nachos and a pizza and cheered at the appropriate places—granted not as enthusiastically as he and I did, but she made the effort. Michael was beaming. And then the Cardinals lost. Bummer.

We finally managed to get the dogs all of their rabies shots and buy their tags. In Columbus, rabies vaccinations are required before you can get a dog license. I didn’t worry too much about rabies vaccinations before I moved here. I’ve lived in town and the dogs have been in a fence with not much chance of getting bitten. But Westerville is very populated and I was afraid if they waited too long, a dog would get lose and then there would be a big hassle. I read someplace that canine rabies was pretty well wiped out, but the danger was from skunks and raccoons, etc. Hmm. That’s all I’ve ever worried about. There were never any rabid dogs around that I’d seen, but in the country there were rabid skunks and raccoons turning up every once in a while.

I remember that Grandpa Elliott used to entertain us kids with stories of “mad dogs” from the days when he drove a produce/tinker’s wagon around the Gallipolis area in southern Ohio. Once one came trotting down the road as he was loading the wagon after a sale. He paid no attention to it, but it never varied its course, going right past the rear wagon wheels closer than a dog would normally run. As he stepped up on to the wagon it nearly brushed his leg. The dog turned its head and snapped at him and kept on going. As it snapped he realized that it was drooling and dripping bits of foam from its jaws. Scary stuff when you’re 8 or 10 years old before the advent of television and special effects! He told us other stories but that’s the one that stuck with me. It is too bad that America has lost the custom of grandparents telling stories of the “old days” to their grandkids. We have lost a rich source of history and family ties.

I never saw the farmhouse my mother grew up in but I have a vivid mental picture of it from my mother and grandmother. Many other places I never saw are laid out and well populated in my mind from those stories. Too bad they happen so seldom into day’s world of movies, tv, videos and internet. Kids were much more wholesomely entertained by grandmother’s and grandpa’s stories


Then I remember some of the things that happened when I was a child and even as an adult. What a fantastic thing the human mind is. Those things are still crystal clear and a word or sound or fragrance brings them right to the front of my awareness.

But then too, did I take my meds this morning? I spent a while figuring that out yesterday. Reminds me, I’d better stop and do it now. Yep, the mind is a fascinating thing!

Memories

What a wonderful way to start my day! Notah called about two minutes after I woke up this morning. Nothing special, just called to say Good Morning.

He and Kerra have an anniversary coming up in a few days. I believe it is February 2, but for me their anniversary will always be Super Bowl Sunday. Why? The Sunday they were married was Super Bowl Sunday. Simple, eh? If it were ME, I’d just celebrate my anniversary on that Sunday every year. They could have an anniversary party every year when everybody gathers for the Super Bowl game! Hmmm. Kerra sticks to the idea that they should celebrate the actual date. Go figure.

They had a wonderful wedding. After morning service brother Arty simply reminded everyone to stay for the wedding and invited any visitors to remain too. Kerra’s family came to service that day and I drove down to Columbus too. They didn’t have an elaborate doin’s at all. Kerra just wore a plain white skirt with a pretty embroidered over blouse. Notah wore a khaki dress shirt and tie with matching pants. They both looked nice, but Keva and Seth stole the show.

At a secondhand store Kerra was actually able to find a long ruffled flowergirl/miniature bride dress for Keva. She wore that and white patented leather shoes. The pastor’s wife thought they all needed flowers so she created a bouquet for Kerra and a tiny bouquet and a hair wreath for Keva. She loved her dress and walked sooo carefully and primly as though her wreath and ribbon streamers would fall off if she moved too quickly. She came down the aisle before her mom and stood like an angel to the left in the bridesmaid’s spot.


Seth was Notah’s best man. He was dressed just like Notah except his pants didn’t fit quite as well because of his little pot belly and as they walked out before the congregation he messed up his tie. Notah had to stoop down to fix it; then rather than struggle, he stuffed it in his pocket (Seth was just 2, I think, maybe 3. He had this chubby little chin and no neck for a tie.) He stood fairly still with his arm wrapped around Notah’s leg and watched while his mom and sister came down the aisle.

As brother Arty started the preliminaries, Seth’s “stand still” time expired and he began wiggling around and tugging on Notah’s pants. Notah just reached down and picked him up. He put both arms around Notah’s neck and watched the congregation for the rest of the ceremony.

When brother Arty said, “You may kiss the bride,” he had to revise it and acknowledge “if Seth will let you.” Seth was peering at something in the back of the church building and when Notah leaned down to kiss Kerra, he stuck his head in between!

It was a beautiful ceremony! The words were the formal phrases but the atmosphere was focused on making a family of one man and a woman with two yearning children. It was friendly and loving with the couple’s families, and also the Church family included. The most special part for Seth and Keva was afterward.

Afterward the kids were finally allowed to call Notah “Dad” and me “Grandma.” Oh, how long they had looked forward to that! Keva tried out the “grandma” while we were having the refreshments. The kids were with me while mom and new dad were cutting cake and taking pictures, etc. I was talking with someone and as they walked away, I heard this little voice say, “Grandma?” I looked around and said, “What do you need, hon?” Keva grinned and stammered a bit then said something about her sandwich. The sandwich hadn’t been the point. She just wanted to try out the new name. And Happy day! Lo and be hold, it worked! I liked it, too!

What grand memories. Not only did the Lord save Kerra but He made her part of my family and gave me two great grandchildren in the process. I love them dearly and sometimes I’m surprised to suddenly remember the kids aren’t my biological grandkids. I find characteristice of the Bears and the Howes in them all the time! Wonderful, wonderful.

Love is an amazing thing, isn’t it.