A Poem for Pippa

When I posted a wee bit of doggerel that I wrote about our kitty, Katiesocks, a few months ago, my dad sent me an e-mail saying, "You'd better post something about her sister, Pippa, now.  You know how cats are." He's right, of course.  Sibling rivalry kicks into overdrive when fostered in the breasts of tabbies.  Today, while I was roaming about the house, cleaning and doing laundry, little Pippa was following close behind me and taking advantage of any pause in my endeavors to find a flat, elevated surface onto which she could leap for loves. That is what inspired this little bit of rhyming, which I offer to all the cat lovers out there:

 

For Pippa

 

I have a soft, grey shadow

Not of my shape or size.

But one who has a stripey tail,

Four paws and two bright eyes.

And on those paws she follows

Where'er my steps may lead --

Up the stairs and down again --

For we are both agreed

That she will be my sentinel

And guard me from behind;

And I will be the best two-legged

Friend she'll ever find.

 

Katiesocks (left) and Pippa
Of course I had to include a picture of both! You know how cats are!

5 Reasons I Switched from Google to Bing

5. Google is a company out of California, the most stupid, morally reprehensible state in the union. Bing is out of Washington -- beautiful, beloved, often-misguided-but-never-malevolent Washington.

4. Google encourages their employees to bring their dogs to work. That is gross.

3. Bing's trivia encoded photos are intriguing and educational. Today, for example, you can learn about the Puss Moth. How about that?

2. Google's doodles are obnoxious -- especially the endless World Cup series.  That was the final straw.

1. Wouldn't you rather Bing than Google? It just sounds more genteel and sophisticated -- sort of British: "Let's Bing a bit, and then we'll stop for tea." -- where as 'google' sounds like something two teens are doing in the backseat.

Let's make a better world! Let's Bing!

Everyday Miracles

There was so much I wanted to write about as the summer begins to take its hold, and I find it far less enjoyable to sit in front of a computer screen for any length of time.  But, this subject was too unformed in my mind; that subject was too in need of better research; those subjects needed me to actually finish the books  I was reading before I could broach them.  Plus, you know, life in all its glory comes crashing in from all sides like the relentless waves – leaving my life a breathless, wild, holy mess! So, what to write, what to write as the rains begin to fall less often and a middle-aged, web-footed Pacific Northwesterner’s fancy turns to thoughts of sun?  Why, I shall write about seeds.

Gardening, like playing guitar or writing blog posts and NaNo novels, is one of those things where my desire far outweighs my talent, but that I cheerfully pursue, nonetheless.  When I see a grand and bountiful garden, something leaps inside my heart.  Perhaps it is the echo of a memory of the Garden of my forefather and mother that brings that sudden stab of joy. To see that immense goodness filling a well-planned and ordered space is to wish to create my own; and so I try year after year.  Some years go better than others, but every garden I’ve ever planted starts in my mind as a stray piece of Eden and ends up a bit of a disappointment. I guess when you set your sights so high, you’re looking for a letdown.   

This year, I am gamely trying again.  I convinced my long-suffering husband (who points out every spring that we live within walking distance of not one, but two major grocery store chains, both of whom are stocked year-round with every imaginable type of produce) that I needed an enclosed raised bed.  The enclosure will serve the dual purposes of insulating seedlings from our chilly spring days, and later keep out the neighborhood deer that feast off of the yearly buffet.  After we had set up the bed, which I will refer to as VegTrug, because that is its name, I stared into the mixture of garden soil and compost that reached, as we had been instructed, to within 2 – 4 cm of the top and felt a thrill of anticipation.  What scrumptious veggies would I harvest in a few months’ time from its fertile reaches? What ought I to plant?

So, it was seed shopping spree time at Lowe’s.  I came home with a veritable cornucopia of possibilities.  Beets, Swiss chard, eggplants, carrots, butternut squash . . . all danced before my eyes, fully grown, ripe for picking, delectably juicy and crunchy.  But right now they were tiny, numerous, blink-and-you-miss-them seeds.  Scratch that.  Right now they were tiny everyday miracles.  And, as I poked and scattered them into the rich soil of my VegTrug, I realized that I most wanted to write about these everyday miracles – the kinds that turn seeds into smorgasbords, acorns into oaks, farmers into poets, fighters into friends, and sinners into saints.

 L.M. Montgomery wrote a trilogy about a girl named Emily Byrd Starr.  In the first book, Emily of New Moon, eleven-year-old Emily experiences “the flash.” “It had always seemed to Emily that she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty.  Between it and herself hung only thing curtain; she could never draw the curtain aside – but sometimes, just for a moment, a wind fluttered it and then it was as if she caught a glimpse of the enchanting realm beyond – only a glimpse – and heard a note of unearthly beauty. . . And always when the flash came to her Emily felt that life was a wonderful, mysterious thing of persistent beauty.” When I read those words as a teenager, I understood them without really knowing why I did.  I had always felt, too, that there was a kingdom of wonder just beyond my fingertips.  It surrounded me, called to me, led me gently to itself, though I could neither name it nor express it.  When I came to know Christ, it fell into place.  That “thin curtain” that separated me from the “very near world of wonderful beauty” was torn in two by my Savior, as surely has He rent the veil the terrible Friday so long ago. When I catch those glimpses of the “enchanting realm” nowadays, I know that I have just had the experience of placing one foot momentarily into eternity through His grace and love.  I live on those moments.

The thing about those moments, though, is how grounded they are in the everyday.  A seed is a wonderful miracle – something that, if contemplated long enough, would make any philosopher weak in the knees.  Yet, what could be more deceptively ordinary, more fundamental than a seed?  Reams of information are packed into the tiniest vessel that can lie dormant, inactive, and to all eyes dead, until it meets with sun, soil, and water – then, voila! You have beets!  What an amazing Creator to have thought of that!

An acorn, buried for winter to sustain a squirrel, lost and forgotten, lies under the snow.  The snow melts in spring and gives water to the acorn; it awakes and sends forth roots and stems.  Left alone, it will be an oak tree.  A rodent’s neglected snack may become his great-grand-progeny’s home.  The Father must laugh to see it happen again and again, just as He planned.

A man arises at dawn and labors his days away under sun and clouds and storm.  As he works the land, it gets into his blood; when it gets into his blood, it becomes a part of him; when it is a part of him, he needs to put it into words. We are people of the Word, that sustaining mark of God, whose ever-unfolding revelatory Word writes His redemption on our hearts. We put into words whatever we can, and give a tribute of silence to whatever we cannot.  So, the farmer becomes a poet, caught up in the grand song of life that awoke the stars and formed the mountains.

“Peace, peace,” was the cry, but there is no peace for the two sworn enemies. Their quarrel was commissioned by persons unknown to either.  They fight for God and country.  Yes, even for the same God.  And Christmas comes and falls upon them both, as quietly as the winter snow. “Peace, peace,” the angels sang near Bethlehem, “and goodwill to all men.” And one soldier picks up the old tune and begins to sing.  The other hears and joins in.  Their languages are different; their songs are the same.  They lay down their arms – and, if it is only for a night, at least it is one night where the memory of a Baby’s birth turned fighters into friends.

There is no “burning bush moment” in any of these examples.  (I have always secretly wanted a burning bush to come and tell me what to do.  I say that, though a real encounter like the one on Mt. Horeb would surely leave me singed to the soul.  I do not think I could stand the holy fire like Moses did.) There is no sun standing still in the sky. There is no parting of the Red Sea. There is no water-into-wine, no bodily resurrections, no speaking new life into existence.  There is only the wonder of the everyday; the wonder that permeates everything our Lord touches. He touches us.  And when He does, the foremost so-called everyday miracle occurs: He turns sinners into saints. 
               
I pray that, even when I am aging and fading from this world and finding both feet straying ever further into eternity and ever more reluctant to return into time, I never forget that first miracle of my life.  Without that transformation, without that piercing, consuming  encounter with Christ almost twenty years ago, I would not even see the miracles all around me.  I feel so sorry for people who do not know the Lord and who might look at my VegTrug full of seeds and say, “Miracle?  What are you talking about?  That’s just science.”  Just science.  Sheesh.  As though all of science were not God’s giant treasure hunt to lead us to greater awe in His astoundingly creative glory! Or for those who cannot see that a farmer who recites poetry that is a paean to the One who first thought of the land that fills his soul is a more complete man than one who composes verse on nothing beyond his own belly-button lint.  Or for a man who might discount one moment of true peace in the midst of war, because war still rages on – not understanding that one moment of true peace is worth a year of a fool’s paradise. Not that I mean to be harsh to anyone. Until I knew Jesus, I might have said the same. Not now, though; not now.  One of the best gifts, of oh-so-many-wondrous gifts of belief, was when He opened my eyes to see that all that lives and breathes does so at His command and for His pleasure in a glorious harmony. There is not one mistake; there is not one forsaken. Then, by His grace, He brings us, sinners like you and me, into the dance.

If you are reading these words, I hope you have a beautiful summer, filled with times of refreshment and renewal.  Hey, I’m feeling generous: I’ll wish the same for you, even if you’re not reading these words!  In this world that truly is “a wonderful, mysterious thing of persistent beauty,” I pray that you are blessed by those everyday miracles of seeds and songs and salvation.

In Honor of My Irish Friend from Vermont

In honor of the Vermonster who is as Irish as a shamrock stuck into a Guinness that's being drunk by a leprechaun on the Hill of Slane, and is also a very proud Vermonter (hence her screen name), I have duly celebrated St. Patrick's Day by funneling a good chunk of money into her home state via two of my favorite companies: Vermont's King Arthur Flour and Vermont's Gardener's Supply Company. Behold:

Cloche-style Ceramic Baker:

VegTrug Elevated Patio Garden:

 

And oh-so-much-more!  Happy St. Patrick's Day to Vermonster and all!



Each in His Own Tongue

                L.M. Montgomery wrote many short stories set in the idyllic province of Prince Edward Island.  In one of them, Felix Moore, age twelve, is a gifted violinist being raised by his grandfather. This grandfather, Mr. Leonard, is a minister, deeply devoted to the son of his only daughter; however, he refuses to allow the boy to practice his gift, as it reminds him of the boy’s vagabond father, a fiddler of popular tunes who had stolen away the minister’s daughter and had broken her heart.  Mr. Leonard fondly hopes that his grandson will follow in his steps.  Felix laments to a sympathetic ear that, “Ministers are good things to be, but I’m afraid I can’t be a minister.”

                “Not a pulpit minster. There’s different kinds of ministers, and each must talk to men in his own tongue if he’s going to do ‘em any real good,” the friend replies.

                Ms. Montgomery wrote, “Mr. Leonard thought rightly that the highest work to which any man could be called was a life of service to his fellows; but he made the mistake of supposing the field of service much narrower than it is.” In a terrible moment, the minister exacts a promise from his grandson that the boy will never again touch a violin. The very soul of the child is his music, but he makes the promise out of love and respect.

                Ah, but Naomi Clark is dying. Naomi Clark is “an awful, wicked woman” who has “lived a life of shame” and “mocked and flouted” every effort of the minister to reclaim her from “the way that takes hold on hell.” But, she is dying, and she wants the preacher.  Mr. Leonard does his duty.

                “Can you help me? . . . I was skeered I’d die before you got here – die and go to hell. . . . I can’t go to God for help. Oh, I’m skeered of hell, but I’m skeereder still of God. I’m sorry for living wicked. I was driven on by the fiends of hell . . . but I was always sorry.” The woman’s voice is desperate.  The minister offers to her that all she must do is repent and God will forgive her; He is, after all, a God of love. Naomi, though, will have none of those truths.  To her, God is “wrath and justice and punishment,” and though she fears the outer darkness, she cannot let in His light.

                The minister, in great anguish of spirit, falls to his knees to pray for this sin-sick soul. “O God, our Father!  Help this woman!  Speak to her in a tongue which she can understand.” Naomi falls back on her deathbed in a spasm.

*****

                My daughter and I were biking to her Tae Kwon Do class the other night when we passed a demonstration at the main intersection in our neighborhood.  Some church’s adherents were at every corner with signs proclaiming the Lordship of Jesus and the need of repentance.  This is an unusual sight in the Northwest in general, and our neighborhood in particular; however, I always admire those who put their convictions on the line and subject themselves to ridicule, violence, and indifference.  I mentioned the sight to my friend, Shirley, while our daughters took their class together.  She whispered thoughtfully, “Do you think that sort of thing ever really works to bring someone to God?”

                “Well, I don’t think it would have worked for me.  But,” and I paused a moment to choose my words carefully, “If it works to save just one soul . . . if it is that little nudge of consideration that starts one person onto the path of reconciliation and redemption, then it must be worth it.”

                I was reflecting upon this shortly afterward when we read over the second chapter of Acts in our family Bible study.  The apostles began to speak in tongues – known languages of the many nations of pilgrims in Jerusalem.  The people, of course, marveled at this wondrous thing in those days before Rosetta Stone and asked, “How is it that we hear, each in our own language in which we were born?” Acts tells us that the apostles spoke “the wonderful works of God” in a way that left the people amazed and perplexed.  Are we, too, not left amazed and perplexed when we first hear the truth of God spoken in a way that moves our hearts toward Him, filled with awe that He would speak to us in our own tongue?

                Ever since I became a Christian, in all my thousands of prayers lifted to the heavens, there has been one constant one: that God would use me in some way to help bring at least one sinner to His salvation.  Just one.  And, who knows?  Maybe He has.  In teaching Sunday School, my great hope is that when one of my little Kindergartners is someday at that crossroads between the narrow way and the wide one, he might just remember his Sunday School teacher who long ago showed him Jesus’ love in a real way, and that memory will help him choose to seek the Holy One.

                Some people have a natural gift for walking unbelievers through every step toward a belief that culminates in complete and true redemption; how I admire those people.  That was not how I was saved.  The final work of my salvation was done very privately through God’s Holy Word and a heart long-prepared. You see, when I look back upon my life, to those days when I walked in foolishness and pride, I remember those who planted the seeds of faith.  My soil was not yet ready to bring forth harvest; but, I had faithful sowers who showed me God’s love in real ways. Three, in particular, come to mind: Robin Stapleton, Carolyn Pon, and Juan Barba.  I write their names as a benediction; they put the goodness of His Word into my life when I was a feckless, shallow teen.  They spoke to me in my own tongue, though not one of them knew it at the time. I can hardly wait to tell them when we meet again in the Kingdom. 

*****

                Back to Naomi: Felix appears at the door, worried about his grandfather’s long absence in the raging seaside storm. Naomi, in a last burst of consciousness, asks Felix to play her something on her old fiddle, needing music at her final moments, because “there was always something in it for me I never found anywhere else.” Felix looks at his grandfather, who nods an ashamed assent. So, Felix plays for the dying woman. The tune winds its way from mirthful innocence to rapturous love to agonized despair to indescribable evil. Then, the tune changes again to a tortured repentance and rests at last upon “infinite forgiveness and all-comprehending love.” And Naomi whispers, “I understand now . . . God is a God of love . . . He sent you here tonight, boy to tell it to me in a way I could feel it.” By daybreak, she is dead, but no longer lost, because she has heard God’s truth in her own tongue.           

               

A Poem About Katiesocks

A more faithful alarm than even my clock's
Is the daybreak ritual of my Katiesocks
Each morning at precisely six ante meridian
She leaps on my bed and starts up her kittyin'
Biscuit-kneading paws and whiskers that tickle
Put my half-conscious brain in a bit of a pickle
For her message is one that I both love and dread
For I've too much to do to be seductively led
By her rhythmic purring and the tilt of her head
That say so convincingly, "Just stay in bed.
Oh just stay, oh just stay, oh just stay in bed."

Katiesocks and Pippa, both of whom make getting out of bed
even harder than it already is!

The Anti-Dog Song

Of all of the creatures on God's good, green earth,
Lacking in wisdom and whimsy and worth,
There is one possessing of these greatest dearth,
And that, my friends, is the dog

From their big, lolling heads to banal, wagging tails
An aura of witlessness surely prevails;
When they clickety-clack cross your floor on their nails,
You know the heartache of owning a dog

Chorus:
Oh, cursed be the man who first lured to his cave
A creature once noble, ferocious, and brave
And watered it down to a slobbering knave:
Minus lupus, add canis: the Dog.

As frightfully absurd as a man eating quiche
Is the bubble-brained cur at the end of a leash;
A potpourri, medley, composite, pastiche
Of inanities make up the dog.

When you try to avoid them, it's a futile case
As their owners so clueless, ignoble, and base
Let them shit in your yard and yap loud in your face
And hate you if you don't like their dog.

Chorus

You can give them a bath, and yet still in one hour
A smell that no shampoo can yet overpower
Will emanate forth, sending you to the shower
If you've been forced to touch someone's dog.

Some people dress dogs in sweaters or put them in hats
Whether they're big as Goliath or smaller than rats
Y'know who won't put up with that crap, folks? Yep, cats!
Who are a hell of a lot smarter than dogs.

Chorus

****
This is my "Anti-Dog Song" which makes the dog-lovers in my life sad, mostly because in their hearts they know that every word is true (except the part about quiche -- I really do think it's OK for a man to eat quiche).  I wrote it this past summer, when I was in the throes of depression over the fact that we had a dog.

My dad said that I ought to remove from this blog my post from May 2013 about our dog, Daisy, that we had adopted.  But, I do not believe in erasing history.  We did, indeed, adopt a dog -- only to find out that we had made a dreadful mistake. 

There was nothing wrong with Daisy, other than that she is a dog, and we are not dog-people.  She really was our Bellis Perennis, Canis Optima -- the best possible dog that we could  have ever had.  She did not bark or have accidents in the house.  She did not chew. She was not aggressive.  She was sweet and nice and eager to please.  But, her fatal flaw for us was that she was a dog, and -- as I said -- we are not dog-people.

Here is the happy end to the story -- one with which dog-lovers cannot quibble: When we collectively realized as a family that nobody loved the dog, we immediately made steps to have the adoption agency put her back into the system to try to find her a forever home.  We fostered her for about two weeks until they found a lady to come look at her.  It was love at first sight for both of them.  I am delighted to report that Daisy went to a loving home -- one that could appreciate her many stellar doggish qualities -- at the end of August, and we have been dog-free more than three months.  We have since adopted two kitties, whom we love with all our hearts.  Everyone wins!

Anyway, I still think that this song is pretty funny, in a painful, truth-telling, cathartic sort of way.  Here in western Washington State -- where there are more dogs than Christians -- our family is surrounded by the "Children of Dog," as I have taken to calling the cult of canine that has sprouted all over the world in recent years.  Two of our neighbors have each a little rat-like mutt, both of whom come regularly into our backyard to eat the bird food I put out and then leave stinky deposits.  I hate them. However, friends and family have nice enough doggies with whom I do not mind having occasional, friendly interactions.

I guess if you think dogs are one step removed from angels, you can leave a comment telling me how utterly wretched a person I am and how I am going to hell and all that.  I won't believe it, but you can vent.  But, I am really posting this for the oppressed fellow travelers out there who know that dogs are not really all that great and are rather a nuisance than otherwise and maybe have to deal with obnoxious dogs in your neighborhoods or homes.  YOU ARE NOT ALONE! 

WINNING!

I got through word 50,000 on my NaNoWriMo project today!  Today!  I'm still not done with the dang book, though.  But, I validated the word count anyway so that I could put this on my blog:

 

 

 

 

Huzzah!

The Best Thing About Being a Grown-Up?

It is getting to eat ice cream any time of day that you please.  Definitely.

Happy "Independence" Day!

From the creative folks at Reason.tv, via Mollie Hemingway at Ricochet:


A lot of American principle is contained in the two words: "Just don't." Much of the rest is encompassed by the suggestion of minding one's own business. The whole is summed up in the word "liberty."
--Isabel Paterson

The Agony and the Ecstasy of Top Pot

I just received a mid-year notification from Map My Run that, so far, in 2013 I have logged 232 workouts on 49 different routes for a total distance of 1,002.6 miles over the course of 192.5 hours and have burned  95,662 calories.  That last figure would be more impressive if I had not countered it proactively by eating all and then some of those calories back in the form of Top Pot Doughnuts.

Ah, Top Pot -- that glorious palindrome that represents all that is delicious and unholy in deep fried pastry.  Better than Tim Horton's (sorry, Canada); better than Krispy Kreme. Simply, the BEST doughnuts ever.  And now, for the rest of the summer, I must bid them "good-bye."

Why?  Because I am in training for this marathon thingy in Sioux Falls, SD in September.  And, I want to lose another 10 pounds before running it, as every pound of weight you carry becomes four pounds worth of pressure on knees and ankles when you run.  I really do not want to train my heart out and then come up injured before the run (as almost happened to me before the half-marathon in Seattle last November).  So, sadly, I say Auf Wiedersehen, Top Pot; implicit in which expression is the promise that I will be back come the post-September 8 world.

Bellis Perennis (Canis Optima!)

Otherwise known as the common daisy, Bellis Perennis has become the first nickname of our not-so-common Daisy, the newest member of the family!

Yesterday, we welcomed one brown-eyed, wet-nosed, two-year-old into our home for a trial 2-week adoption.  But, we do not need 2 weeks to know if this is the ONE.  She just so totally is.

Behold the cuteness of Daisy Girl:

Sadie is now, officially, the happiest girl in all the realm.  And I am now, officially, the most vacuuming-est mom that has ever been.  My new scourge: dog hair. Ah well, the things you do for love.

Small Washington School Closes Because of Nice Weather

This story made me smile; it's just so Washington:

SEATTLE (AP) — In sun-deprived Washington state, the promise of nice spring weather has prompted a small private school to give students a day off to enjoy the sunshine.

Friday will be a "sun day" of sorts for 205 students at Bellingham Christian School in Bellingham, Wash.

Principal Bob Sampson announced the day off on the school's site.

Sampson says he wanted to give students a chance to enjoy the weather and re-energize. He says he surveyed parents and floated the idea with the school board before canceling school.

The sun day was also made possible because there weren't any days off because of snow this school year.

Friday is not the first time the school has given students the day off because of sunshine. The last time was two years ago.

**************

Truly, it is a glorious day.  If you have never been to Western Washington when the sun is shining, then you are missing out on one of God's great gifts.  I'm glad that the Bellingham principal sees things the same way.  I hope not one of those lucky-ducky children wastes the day inside playing video games!

 

I am also thrilled to report that our baby apple trees in the backyard have blossoms on them this spring -- for the first time!  Yay!  The blueberry bushes are looking great, with countless delicate, pale buds that look like poofy skirts from the Gay 90's.  The strawberries are making their own sweet show in greens, whites, and yellows.  And, I have planted my geraniums and marigolds and peas.  I love my rainy, grey winters here in the PNW; but, I love my vibrant, flashy springs, too!

Running for a Cause!

Please consider signing up or donating to World Concern's "Free Them" 5K/10K Fundraiser to fight human trafficking.  My whole family is signed up to run -- Sadie and Jason are tackling the 5K part, and I will grimly face the 10K.  I think it is in Fremont, so there will be hills. 

If you're interested at all in donating, here is a link to our family's fundraising page:

The Olawsky Family's World Concern "Free Them" Page

Thanks so much!

Like a Rag Doll

Yesterday evening at Safeway, we had finished loading our groceries into the car and I was returning the cart when a crunch of metal caused me and Jason to both look up.  A huge, old Ford truck was pulling quickly away from the Toyota Camry into which the driver had just backed.  Then, a woman was running across the parking lot, pushing her cart filled with groceries, screaming at the truck, "That's my car!  You hit my car!"  The truck continued to drive away, so the woman pushed her cart to the side and sped up after the truck, screaming the whole time, "You hit my car!  That's my car!"  I ran after her, and caught her grocery cart, pushed it out of the way to safety and started after her.  I guess I figured that, if the truck's driver didn't have the decency to stop at the moment he hit her car, he was not going to stop just because she chased after him.  I wanted to get close enough to see his license plate number so that I could help her file a police report for hit-and-run. 

The truck had to stop at the parking lot driveway to make a left turn out onto SE 140th, which is a fairly busy road in our neighborhood.  There was a car in front of it waiting also to turn, which allowed the woman to catch up to the truck.  She started beating on the passenger-side window, yelling repeatedly for the driver to stop, because he hit her car.  The car in front of the truck turned left onto the street.  Then, to my and everyone else's horror, the truck started to turn left, with the woman clinging onto the side window.  She managed to run a few steps with the truck, then, as it picked up speed, it began to drag her, and then -- Lord, have mercy and drive this vision from my mind -- she lost her grip and I saw her body bounce along the ground like a rag doll.  The truck sped off.

Thank God, she did not die.  Thank God, she did not lose consciousness.  Some good people on the other side of the street were able to drag her out of the road quickly.  She was cut up terribly -- flesh just torn from her legs and feet, blood pouring from her forehead and the back of her head.  Those of us on the Safeway-side began to stream over to offer what assistance we could, and to make sure that, when the police came, we were able to give our witness testimony.  Jason, on the other side in the parking lot, stood guard over her car and her shopping cart.  The poor woman was just crying and crying, "He hit my car . . . he hurt me . . . he hurt me . . . he hit my car . . . he is a bad man . . . he did not stop . . . oh, he hurt me . . ."  Someone found her cell phone and called her husband.  The firemen came, the sheriff came, police officers came. 

What I did not know at the time, but found out soon afterward, was that another man had just gotten into his car in the Safeway parking lot when the hit occurred.  As he watched the unbelievable scene unfold, he quickly sprang into action.  He turned right behind the truck onto 140th, stopped but a moment to help get the woman out of the road after she fell, then back into the driver's seat to follow that truck, cell phone in hand, so that the police were able to stop the truck driver within a half and hour.  "They got him," the sheriff apprised us with triumph; a cheer went up among the witnesses and bystanders.  The man who followed the truck came back at the end, to finish giving his report for the police.  Jason and I were able to shake his hand.  Hero.

The woman, whose name is Twee, had been reaching out a hand to me during the wait for her husband and police.  I grabbed her blood-soaked hand and held it gently, promising her that we were all there to help her and that none of us would think of leaving her.  I saw the cross necklace that she wore.  When I met her husband later, I told him to tell Twee that our family would be praying for her.  And so we have.

You may wonder why she was so tenacious in pursuing the man who hit her car.  Why, you may ask, would anyone put themselves at such risk, simply to avenge a cosmetic aberration?  Her husband had the key.  See, Twee was from another country -- somewhere in Asia, I did not find the specific one -- and she had had a very hard life of grinding poverty before coming to the States and marrying her husband.  This car that had been hit was her first new car -- a 2010 Camry with 26, 000 miles on it.  She had had it for only 4 weeks.  And so, I can only guess, when that man hit her car and drove off without any acknowledgement, it was a slap in her face rather than a dent in her trunk.  I imagine all the desperation and injustice of her youth came flooding back to her in that moment and every fibre within her cried out, "I will not be a victim again.  Not today.  Not ever." And I can understand that.

Please pray for Twee's speedy recovery.  And for justice to be served for the man who acted with no honor and almost took her life.

The Happiest Show on TV

From 1997 through 2002, I had two recurring events around which I structured my schedule: church on Sundays and Dharma and Greg on Wednesday nights. Go ahead: mock and deride, if you will.  I don't care.  D&G was my favorite show back then in those work-full-time-go-to-school-full-time days, and it remains in my top three all-time favorites today. 

On a week that has seen inexplicable horror and unimaginable evil, it is good to revisit things like D&G that are pure happiness and light. The powers that be have only released one season to DVD in the U.S.; however, some very good souls have risked copyright infringement charges and who-knows-what-else to post further seasons on YouTube.  Huzzah!

Dharma Finkelstein and Greg Montgomery: not only the best-looking couple ever assembled in the sit-com labs, but also the most innately sweet.  If you have never seen the show, the premise is this: Dharma is a happy-go-lucky, new-agey chick raised by hippie parents in that part of San Francisco; Greg is a lawyer in the Justice Dept. from an old-money family in that part of San Francisco; they meet on BART and get married on that same day.  Chaos and hilarity ensue. While the two sets of parents and their culture and values clashes are certainly amusing, it is the chemistry and joy that the two stars (Jenna Elfman and Thomas Gibson) bring to their characters that just made this show must-see TV for me from the get-go.  Dharma was created, as was revealed in interviews on the first season's DVD set, to be the antidote for the unhappy, tightly-wound career woman of the 1990's who was miserable in her personal life.  They wanted to make a character who was simply happy with who she was, absolutely in love, and able to spread delightful sunshine to everyone in her day-to-day life.  I think they succeeded.  And Greg was the perfect complement. 

So, when my heart is crying and the world is dying, I hold on to Jesus, yes, and fall to my knees.  But, I also turn my radio to 98.1 KING FM and listen to the soothing, interesting awesomeness of Sean MacLean as he hosts hours of classical music.  Or, I read and read and read. Or, and definitely increasingly this week, I pull up YouTube on the old laptop and watch the Happiest Show on TV.

We Are Advancing Constantly

Sadie will start 6th Grade mathematics (Saxon) this  month.  She is still technically in 4th Grade.

When we chose to homeschool Sadie two years ago, it was in part so that we could incorporate things like Latin and Greek into our curriculum.  Even Catholic schools do not teach those subjects at Elementary levels anymore.  In part, too, was the idea of not missing a huge chunk of Sadie's childhood -- after three years of sending her off to school in the morning, I was feeling disconnected with the person she was becoming.  Some moms make great classroom moms and get totally involved with the school experience.  I am not one of those moms.  The last great part of the decision was finding a schedule that really works -- for that optimal (optare - "to wish") balance of academic vigor, life-enhancing experiences, and plenty of dreaming down-time. I think we are getting very close.

I have set up the school year as follows: In September, we officially start a new academic year.  This is so that, if Sadie ever goes back into a traditional school, she will be in sync with the school calendar.  But, she will be "in school" year-round.  We do three weeks on, one week off, from September through August, with four special times of the year when she can have two weeks off in a row.  That gives us a typical 36-week school year, with a good dose of field-tripping and goofing-off time thrown in.

Because we are eschewing the 3-month wasteland of summer break, in September there is no "waking up the summer-slumber mind and snapping it back into academic mode" month of remedial learning.  In the words of Patton (the movie, at least, if not the man), "we are advancing constantly." Even on her "off" weeks, Sadie needs to do a little math, a little Latin and Greek, and a little memory work (be it poetry or geography or both!). This is just to keep her awake.  I have tried to give her time with absolutely no schoolwork, and have found that, when we start again, she inevitably tries to claim that she has forgotten how to conjugate ambulo into pluperfect or how to subtract fractions. This is because she is a weasel. So, math and Latin and so on we do -- and, if she does not fuss, it takes less than an hour and she can go climb up a tree and commune with the birds, or whatnot.

Also, by adhering to this schedule, we are still able to be ready for testing at the end of May.  At first I was worried that our strung-out timeline would make Sadie only 3/4 of the way through her grade level by testing time.  I have found, though, that homeschooling allows us simply to get through more things quickly, as well as thoroughly.  So, we can finish a 4th Grade science curriculum in April, or US History in May.  And math is just something that spirals around anyway, with piecemeal additions of new concepts interwoven with constant repetition of old ones.  Sadie did very well on her tests last year; I know she will do the same this year.  And the NLE, starting in 5th Grade?  Piece of cake (fingers crossed/knocking wood)!

I never thought that I would advocate for year-round school.  I believe with all my heart that kids need lots and lots of dreaming alone time and robust playing time and time out of their seats and into the world.  But, I am pretty sure -- and I'll have to wait for the years to bear witness as to whether I am or not, ultimately -- that this mixture is just right.  At least, it seems to be working for our family.  The seamless advance from year-to-year in our various curricula just plain works.  Far be it from me to wish to sentence any child to more time in public school; but, for homeschoolers or nontraditional and private schools, this schedule is something to consider. 

Drawing Sentences: A Guide to Diagramming

It always surprises me how very little most people seem to understand the structure of language.  More so, it surprises me how little they seem to care about their lack of understanding.  This is not limited to Americans.  I was questioning my Swiss friend about some points of German grammar, and she said that she really did not know how to answer me.  She just naturally speaks and reads it.  Which I suppose makes sense.  That is how most of us interact with our native tongues.  I guess it is just that I enjoy writing.  And, more than that actually, I enjoy reading well-written work, be it essay or story or novel.  My desire both to write better and to grasp why well-written pieces resonate the way that they do has led me to a lifelong fascination with grammar, syntax, and punctuation. And since I am the tyrannical pedagogical overlord of my daughter's education, my obsessions dictate her courses of study.  So, we are going to start diagramming sentences in composition.  Bwha-ha-ha! 

 

Luckily for me, this modern age of instant and complete gratification almost immediately put into my hands the ultimate sentence diagramming book: Drawing Sentences by Eugene Moutoux.  I promise you: I ordered this book before I even knew that the author was a professor of, among other things, German and Latin (derivatives).  Must be kismet!  We have not started to use it yet (next Monday is the day enclosed with a red heart on my calendar that signals the beginning of our journey); but, after simply thumbing through its awesomeness, I can confidently say that this book has everything you need to learn completely the art of diagramming.  He starts with the simplest sentences (e.g. "Ducks waddle.") and moves you systematically through the swirly-twirly grammar forest to such compositional virtuosity as this gem from Poe's "The Fall of the House of Usher": During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. Whoa Nelly!  Could Poe himself diagram that twister?  We ought to be able to by the end of this course.

 

I am really hoping that this intensive study -- which will probably take us the rest of 4th Grade well into 6th -- will leave Sadie with a thorough understanding of the structural beauty that is possible with our wondrous language.  Also, I hope that she comes away from it with more than a nodding acquaintance with the arsenal of structural components available to writers to enrich and enhance their craft.  Frankly, that is my hope for myself as well. 

2,000 Years

Pie in the Sky!

Heaven.  Such a beguiling thought!  Do you sit and dream about how you will while away the uncountable hours once the shackles of time are thrown off and our tears of sadness are replaced forever by those of joy?  I love to think of Heaven, which is probably why Revelation is one of my least favorite books of the Bible -- too boring and scary.  I acknowledge that that will be the end of our beginning -- the ultimate battles to usher in the Millennial Reign on this battle-scarred earth.  But, one thousand years is nothing to eternity, and I like to focus my thoughts on the great Here-After, when sin and pain are put away, and we are who we were always meant to be.  Jason thinks I'm too pie-in-the-sky with my anticipations of Heaven.  Why, of course there will be pie!  How could our great and good God fashion a paradise that does not include pie?  I think that I am right, and Jason is wrong.  Jesus is our model for what resurrected life looks like.  He ate fish.  I will eat pie.  Ultimately, after the great End and the grand court display with the cherubim and seraphim chanting creepily about, what we will be left with is our Heavenly Father and His family.  And we all know that when family reunions are good, they are very good indeed.  And there is often pie!

I used to think that the line to see Jesus would cost me at least 10,000 years of waiting.  Then, it hit me that Jesus is not like Santa Claus at the Bellevue Mall.  He will be ever-present, because He is welcoming us into His home.  His Spirit will waft about like fresh perfume, no longer contained to the hearts of those who love Him.  And, I will know everybody!  No more lurking in the corner, wishing I were somewhere else, counting the minutes until the party is over.  There won't be any minutes to count!  What a party!

What I love to think of most (and this is where Jason thinks I veer too close to heresy or solipsism or whatnot) is that I will get to be with other people I love who love Jesus.  That is, I firmly believe that there will be firesides in cozy rooms in the mansion that my Father built, with rain pouring down outside the big picture windows.  And by those firesides, there will be glasses of wine and good fellowship with the likes of Flicka, Vermonster, Anita, Jane, Maud, Jack, Gilbert, etc.  And there will be laughter and stories and joy.  Jason seems to think it will be all Revelation all the time.  If it were, then I would want out.  But, I think too highly of my Heavenly Father for that.  He built us for joyful relationships.  He rescued us to be His family.  Every father loves to see his children in loving fellowship; how much more, then, our Father in Heaven?  You simply cannot have relationships within the framework of Revelation.  There is not much in that prophetic book that says "family."  I think that it is a description of a fixed point in Heaven's timeline -- another instance, like that of Creation and the Incarnation, of God's subjecting Himself to the tyranny of time in order to accomplish something important. But, once the end of the beginning is finished, once the Millennial Reign is done, once we truly enter eternity, then it's the biggest, best family reunion ever!

I have already told my friend, Flicka, that I'm counting on at least 2,000 years of drinking wine with her by that glorious fire simply to catch up on all the interrupted conversations and missed opportunities from our fleeting vapor of earth life.  Of course, there will not be such a thing as years by then; but, if there were, I'm thinking that I'm pretty spot on. 

Recapturing the True Spirit of the Season

 

OK, my dad is sending too much good stuff to my in-box lately.

 

Caesar. The ides of March are come.
Soothsayer. Ay, Caesar; but not gone. (3.1.1)