Last night our children participated in an incredible evening of worship and carol-singing at ChristChurch Presbyterian. Singing. Dancing. Dramatizing. Completely rocking out on the piano. Words are inadequate -- just make plans to come next year.
So as we are having a lovely mother-daughter time, singing carols on the way home, my girls (ages 6 and 8) tell me that they don't know the words to Silent Night. (Although I am fairly sure that they know all the "Party in the USA" lyrics.)
Apalled, I dutifully set to teaching them the words, some of which sound strange to their 21st century ears. Of course, we pretty quickly come to the phrase "'round yon' virgin," which I try to handle as delicately as possible.
"'Round yon'" means "over there." "Virgin".......is........well....it's........ "a girl or woman who is not married." (Right? Who's with me on taking the high road?)
So, in the afterglow of our spiritually profound evening and in the midst of our carol meditation, my six-year-old says, "I get it. Wonderwoman is a virgin. But Superwoman is not a virgin because she's married to Superman."
Exactly.
Somehow I'm not sure this is the emphasis Austrian priest Joseph Mohr was going for when he wrote those lyrics 200 years ago.
There was an exciting siting on our in-town acreage this afternoon.
Living on less than 1/5 of an acre, we find that glimpses nature and wild creatures are few and far between. (Conversely, we have the pleasure of not owning a lawn mower. It's a trade-off.) So anything that flies, creeps, or slithers into our little garden is something to be examined by the entire family.
Here's what fascinated us today:
Hello Mr. or Mrs. Barred Owl
Side Note: When my girls called me out to see our friend owl, my bookwormish second-grader said, "Mom! This is like a thrice-in-a-lifetime sitage!" I don't think "sitage" is a word, but "age" sounds like a suffix she picked up at Georgia Tech. "Thrice" I will have to attribute to her nerdy heritage (she may or may not have grandmother who bought a VCR in 1985 for the sole purpose of taping "Jeopardy" episodes), and before she starts junior high, I'll give her the "using-Middle-English-probably-isn't-that-cool-anymore" talk. But until then, we'll look at owls together, and I'll get a kick out of her using words like "thrice."
After we worked through our vocabulary issues, we were mesmerized as we watched the owl watch us, doing all of that owly head turning. It was very poised and not threatened by us in the least. Those city owls are bold, I've heard. And they also eat rodents, which is very good for our pest control budget.
But the best part was just how different it was from anything I would have designed. God's creativity as displayed in nature is breathtaking.
Psalm 19 puts it this way:
The heavens declare the glory of God;
The skies proclaim the work of His hands.
Day after day they pour forth speech;
night after night they display knowledge. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard. Their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world. (niv)
This is not just some sappy coming-of-age Christian romance novel from the '60s. For years I think I avoided reading Christy because the modern versions have Kellie Martin on the cover, and it looked a little bit cheezy.
See?
But a few years ago in a used book store, I picked up what I assume to be an original hardback edition, and I was not disappointed.
Christyis a coming-of-age novel.
It is Christian.
It is from the '60s (but set in 1912).
But the book is honest and real. Surprisingly so, I thought. I'm sure it must have been censored by some Christians upon its initial publication.
This is the author, Catherine Marshall.
Does she look like she would write fluffy stuff?
Christy tells the story of an affluent young19-year-old school teacher from a prominent Asheville family who volunteers for a mountain mission and finds herself in charge of a one-room school house of 67 children. The novel is largely biographical of the life of Catherine Marshall's mother, Leonora, but is set down in the form of fiction (akin to the Little House on the Prairie series).
I am reading it for the third time in four years. I can't help it -- when the weather turns cool and the leaves turn crunchy, I have to pick it up again.
I find myself drawn to the mountains, their shadows, and their secrets. Maybe it's because I grew up on the sun-baked plains of South Georgia, but I would take the mountains over the beach any day. Add to that the history of the Scottish mountain settlers, preserved in a time capsule for lack of roads and technology, and I am hopelessly intrigued.
What I like most about Christy, though, is the insight to both human and spiritual nature that Catherine Marshall brings to bear on this Appalachian tale. Her voice is wise, provocative, and picturesque.
And to top it off, Catherine attended Agnes Scott, and her husband briefly pastored a church very dear to me, Westminster Presbyterian Church in Atlanta. Nice little connection.
You should be able to find this goody easily at the library or on the web -- on Amazon, it starts at $.01. Pretty affordable. Enjoy!
And if you want to take a little roadtrip to 'ChristyFest' next summer, you might get to tour the mission church in Tennessee where "Christy" taught school. Maybe you'll have a picnic lunch of pot likker and corn bread. Just stay away from the white lightnin'.
I had an overloaded week last week which included, but was not limited to the following "extras":
A dance recital
A church banquet
A doctor's appointment
A school auction
A new Bible study
An extra meeting with a boss
A school chapel visit
A little hard for me to cram all of that into the "margins" and still blog. So I took a little break, only to find out that my mom is not the only one who reads this blog. Thanks to my two other loyal readers for wondering where I was!
Last Friday night we continued the scariness of the week by having dinner in a cemetery. This was not really Halloween-themed, but our friends happen to live right behind a large, historic cemetery on a hill that overlooks the city.
Our view:
Our vittles:
Oh -- and another thing that's keeping me busy: potty training. Couldn't get girlfriend to give up her pizza, as you can see. She has her priorities.
And I confess, I'm a little bit of a nerd. (For my 16th birthday I invited friends over to watch Shadowlands, the biographical movie of C.S. Lewis -- need I say more?). But I LOVED walking through this pre-Civil War cemetery at dusk and thinking of what has transpired in the last 150+ years. At one point we heard some echoing "booms" (probably from the nearby rail yard), and we pretended that they were cannons being fired. It wasn't too much of a stretch.....hundreds of Civil War soldiers are said to be buried in trenches right in the cemetery.
One of the highlights of our dusky trek was seeing this wall engraved with the 23rd Psalm. That psalm happened to be our family Bible reading assignment for the weekend (I assume because of All Saints Day).
The engraved verses were accompanied by a detailed carving of Jesus as the Shepherd.
The children were deeply moved, as you can see:
Happy Halloween/All Saints/Reformation Day! A week late...
This this the middle daughter, Chocolate, doing her homework.
....a little closer.....
Do most parents let their children do homework in bloody shirts?
We also walked through WalMart with this shirt on while her hair was pinned up, showing the staples from her head gash. .
But I've seen a lot scarier things in our WalMart, so I'm sure we didn't raise any eyebrows.
One more scary item from the cabinet:
Why should you be frightened by allergy nasal spray for my two-year-old?
It carries a stern, somewhat disturbing reminder:
Those kinds of labels always concern me.
Do people actually get this mixed up?
Although, as I type this, I realize that I've almost put facial moisturizer on my toothbrush more than once. So I guess I'm the pot calling the kettle black. Or the crazy person calling the other crazy person crazy.
Or something like that.
The 'tween toothpaste in my bathroom was a little scary.
But not really that scary.
Not nearly as scary as what I found in my pantry last week:
Just reading that phrase, "skinless almonds," sends shivers up my spine.
What's even worse is that they're skinned and covered in sea salt. When I saw these on my shelf I wondered, "What did the little almonds do to deserve this?" Skinning the almonds seems like some archaic form of punishment. Salting them after skinning just adds insult to injury.
I admit, I did eat a few of the poor, denuded almonds, but then I put the bag back on the shelf. It just made me too sad.....I've always been a little sensitive like that.
PS -- I'm very thankful to have a pantry; I lived about 10 married years without one. And I'm thankful for a husband who is health concious about his snacks :-).
Today we had a little incident. A physical education incident. Actually, it was a not-paying-attention-to-what-we-were-doing-and-subsequently-gashing-our-head-open incident that happened to take place during physical education. The poor coach was left to mop up the mess, literally.
Anwyay, when I answered the phone this afternoon, the voice of the school teacher on the other end said something like, "Your daughter is ok. She's doing fine. She does have a gash. Most of the bleeding has stopped. May need a few stitches." Etc., etc.
So after ten minutes of calling, thinking, pausing, gathering items, making arrangements, and finding a babysitter, I drove Duke-style through midtown as quickly as I could to aid my little middle child, Chocolate.
To my relief, Chocolate was perched on the lap of her teacher, smiling and laughing and talking up a storm. But one look at the side of her head, and I knew she need first aid skills that exceeded those of her journalism-major mother.
We headed straight to the pediatrician's office, and without much ado, they said, "Yep. She needs staples," and, "Nope. We can't do those here. You need to go to the hospital. Not just any emergency room. Definitely go to the children's hospital."
I had been somewhat prepared for that verdict, and relayed the news to Chocolate, adding, "Your grandparents live close to the children's hospital. Maybe they can bring us dinner. That will be fun!"
We were pumped. We were locked in. We knew the drill (we've paid our fair share of visits to that hospital). And we were looking forward to a good, homemade dinner (or maybe that was just me).
I called my husband to fill him in and maker arrangements for the other children. He said, "Well. Do you have to go to the children's hospital?"
And I said, "Well. She has a gash on her head and her shirt is bloody. What are you suggesting?"
"Can't you just go to the public hospital?" he asked.
I thought about it. There is a big, enormous public hospital downtown which houses the regional trauma center, servicing gunshot wounds, stabbings, severe injuries sustained in car accidents. It treats who-knows-how-many people during all hours of the day and night. I'd never been to the public hospital before, only seen it from the interstate.
And I thought about the children's hospital with the sunny corridors, red wagons for patients, movies, children's library, stickers, child-sized equipment. Every visit, while undesired, had been very pleasant. And besides that, every person in that building was trained to deal with children and their parents.
Hmmmm....something wasn't making sense here.
Then I remembered.
Over the summer this same child, Chocolate, had an appendectomy at the children's hospital. It was a terrific experience, all things considered. The staff, from the janitors to the surgeons, were kind, friendly, and colorfully dressed. The food was plentiful and nutritious. The Kidzone was better than Chuck E. Cheese.
But then we started getting the bills. And if you're gonna dance, someone's gotta pay the fiddler......and the janitor, and the surgeon, and the people who run the Kidzone.
So somewhere between paying $30.00 for parking and $250 for eight doses of Ibuprofen, Trent reached his limit.
When you hear the word "saint," what comes to mind? Someone in a long robe, with an other-worldly glow? The apostle Peter? Mother Theresa? Your grandmother? A football player from New Orleans?
As you may know, the Bible uses the word "saint" simply to describe someone who has been sanctified by God (in other words, all Christians). So if the Lord has drawn you to himself through Christ, you are a saint. And you are likely surrounded by saints -- common, "everyday" people who also know the Lord.
We saints are not perfect. We struggle, and we fail, and then we press on. But we are ultimately and always covered by the One who was perfect, who never failed, and who pressed on to death to give us life in God, now and forever.
Being very thankful for all the saints I have known throughout the years, I would like to give you glimpses into some of their lives, starting here:
This is Miss Margie, my 3rd and 4th grade Sunday School teacher.
For as long as I can remember Miss Margie has had white hair, stood at 5'0" and weighed about 87 lbs soaking wet. And she has loved Jesus Christ with unparalleled passion.
As an eight and nine-year-old, I didn't understand Miss Margie's devotion. Barely bigger than her students, she stood every Sunday, pleading with us to learn the Bible, memorize scripture, and understand the wonder of the Lord's gift of salvation.
We would actually snicker a little every Easter as Miss Margie would tell the Resurrection story, tears streaming down her cheeks. We didn't understand. Why would a holiday full of chocolate, jelly beans and "good news" be sad?
Our spiritual dullness didn't faze Miss Margie. She endured the whispers, note-passing and other shenanigans. She told of the Lord's goodness, and she wept. She offered a five dollar prize out of her teacher's salary to anyone who would memorize the books of the Bible in order.
She longed for us to know the object of her longing.
When my husband and I dropped by for a visit one Saturday about eleven years ago, we had to ring the bell several times before Miss Margie came to the door. She had been in her bedroom, on her knees, communing with the Lord, and petitioning Him on behalf of others. Tears were fresh in her eyes.
Even on our last visit, when she no longer recognized us, Miss Margie recounted the day she met the Lord at a country alter at the age of 18 as the most wonderful day of her life.
After her conversion, Miss Margie went to be a missionary in the Appalachian Mountains, returning home to teach school, and remaining single. At 86, Miss Margie has lost her parents, a brother, and a sister. She has no husband, no children, and no job.
I have no doubt, though, that she revels every day in her role as the radiant bride of the Eternal Bridegroom.
Oh, to have a life, a heart, and a legacy as full as hers. I would count it a privilege.
(I know it's actually called venison. "Fried deer" is just so fun to say.)
Last night we had the privilege of hosing a "Beast Feast" at our home. My only job was to do some tidying up and then get the girls out of the house. No room for estrogen at this manly soiree.
I did manage to sneak a few photos, though.
Cinderell-o sweeping up. Trent is a wonderful cook and a pretty good cleaner. I wish I could hire him on a regular basis.
Trent's brother drove down to help with the pre-feast work. Thanks Uncle Bradley!
More importantly, Bradley recruited his friend Kyle to prepare and cook.
Kyle is like the Julia Child of wild game.
Thanks, Kyle! We couldn't have done it without you!
Mmmmmm.....quail wrapped in bacon.
A little closer look at that bacon......
Thanks for the quail and pheasant, Jim B.!
The venison in the buttermilk batter. So very Southern.
Thanks for the venison, Bo!
And what do we have here?
Venison stew. Nice and steamy.
And, yes, many moons ago we bought this table from Dollar General for $15. We're just keeping the price tag on it to add a touch of class to all of our get-togethers.
The tasty charred remains of an enormous wild hog shot by our friend Bo.
The men gathered.
They ate.
And they stood around with full bellies.
We girls made it back just in time to do a little chowing ourselves.
But I would be remiss not to mention the truly lovely accommodations we enjoyed during our little getaway. In keeping with the fair theme of "outdoorsy and agricultural," our temporary digs were quite an escape from our permanent metropolitan residence.
To begin with, while nearing our accommodation destination on Sunday night, we were all struck by the darkness. It was inky.
Where we live, the blackest (brownest? orangest?) nights our neighborhood are still so bright that you can only see the moon and four jets.
So we were excited to get away from the bright lights. But everyone was a little nervous after we exited the interstate (at night) and began traveling down a highway with no street lights at all. The fact that there were more than seven stars in the sky to enjoy was lost on us as we all huddled in our seats and waited for Freddy Krueger to run our car off the road.
But I have to admit, it was kind of exciting. (And I also have to admit that I have no idea if running our car off the road would be Freddy Krueger's modus operandi.....the scariest film I've been able to handle in the last 25 years may be Finding Nemo.)
Somehow our headlights cut through darkness enough to help us find our turn off the highway, and then follow directions that were essentially: “Go to the middle of nowhere and take a right.”
After we made that turn, we actually backtracked once, thinking, "This can't be right. This road is not paved. And it is very bumpy. Surely this is wrong. And it can't be good for our vehicle."
We are so city-fied.
It doesn't look nearly as sketchy in the daytime, but trust me. Take this road in the dark, and you'll know that things are lurking in the shadows.
Once we headed down the lane we were enveloped by the ethereal spookiness of marshes, live oaks, and more darkness. It was very Nancy Drew (or Eugenia Price.....bonus points if you know who that is). And we began to relish the natural setting and lack of artificial light (and/or lack of safety provided by that light......but as you can see, we came out with nary a scratch, so artificial light may be overrated after all).
And once we were settled in our little guest house (and the lights were on), we had time to enjoy a second change: the quiet. It was a good, thick, quiet.
No drunk girls were yelling at their boyfriends. No nocturnal students were playing cricket outside our bedroom window. No giant trucks were executing a 4am trash pick-up.
.
To be truthful, we kind of thrive on the energy of everything that happens on our city street, but getting away to the country was like letting our auditory nerves check into the Betty Ford Clinic for a couple of nights. And it was free.
We also enjoyed some angling therapy:
My big girls, Chocolate and Caramel, reeled in a small one through the morning mist.
Little Vanilla was still figuring out which rod suited her best :-).
Some agricultural therapy:
And some great reminders of the Lord and His goodness:
(This doorstop was beside the door which we were asked to keep closed so that rattlesnakes would not sneak into our bed, shower, etc. We kept that puppy closed tight for 48 hours.)
The fridge was covered with pictures of missionaries and other groups connected to the wonderful family with whom we stayed:
We loved the vintage velvety sofa.
Got some good snuggle time with Caramel, Chocolate, and Vanilla -- my three favorite flavors!
And you know how, if you stay in a hotel, you might get the USA Today or the NY Times delivered to your room? This is kind of the same thing:
Kudos to the delivery person. He/she is probably not scared of driving down dirt roads in the dark.
Our wonderful hosts have quite a vision for inviting ministries to use their guest house and property. We witnessed hospitality in action. I know that this came at no small sacrifice to them as they must have worked and saved for years to make this vision a reality. I love how they are using their retirement years to be a blessing to others.
Mr. and Mrs. S. are warm, welcoming folks.
And what visit to the country would be complete without this finale?:
