On This Day in December

FOR December 7, 2012

Outside my window... the live oak stands tall and green above brown grass and the street sits unusually quiet for a Friday afternoon after school has closed.

I am thinking... about my Nonni's story of December 7, 1941, and how the news of Pearl Harbor interrupted my grandparents' planning of a honeymoon at the Rose Bowl and "changed everything."

I am thankful... for newly cleaned teeth and support from husband and parents in a trying week.

In the kitchen... oops! my Candy Cane Lane decaf green tea is beyond steeped in my peppermint Christmas mug. Just a moment, and I'll take care of that. 

Otherwise, the kitchen is quiet because we have leftover black beans and quinoa for supper tonight.

I am wearing... jeans, a blue-green t-shirt, and a long navy cardigan. If I were standing, I'd also still be wearing my walking boot.

I am creating... easy Christmas candy but sadly not "real" blog posts or the rest of the second sock on my knitting needles. As aforementioned, it's been a trying week. Some piano playtime Sunday afternoon did yield a few measures of progress putting accompaniment to a tune composed 6 or 7 years ago and set aside.

I am going... nowhere but church this weekend, as far as I know, but possibly to my sister-in-law's on Tuesday to visit with Amore's sisters and parents.

I am wondering... what to get my youngest nephew for Christmas. (He's 3 going on 6 and very active.)

I am reading... Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus (Advent devotional edited by Nancy Guthrie), A Jane Austen Education by William Deresiewicz, and the special-issue magazine Jane Austen Knits...2011 (might be just a tad behind in my crafting magazines)

I am hoping... my blood pressure comes down after an unexpected spike all this week and subsequent increase in medication.

I am looking forward to... a healthy ankle so I can walk to the park again.

I am learning... that I am in control of even less of life than I thought and that it's very hard to relax when one tries very hard to relax.

Around the house... Ebony is making tunnels for himself in the blankets on the couch, the first batch of candy is bagged and ready to give, and toffee supplies are waiting until help is at hand for the long stirring process.

I am pondering... the gentle grace of God, how desperately I need it, and how utterly "gift" and His initiative it is.

A favorite quote for today...
"There is nothing in your life, Christian, that God cannot redeem for some purpose that will make you joyful, if you trust Him with it" (Andrée Seu Peterson, "Setback becomes shortcut").
One Three of my favorite things... sweater weather and Pandora's Sara Groves channel. Ooh, and leftovers. 

A few plans for the rest of the week: rest, wrap presents, spend time with my Amore, and hopefully make toffee if he has time to help. (But really, this has been the "Plans? What plans?" kind of week in which nothing has turned out as expected.)

A peek into my day...

Sharing with Peggy Hostetler's The Simple Woman's Daybook today, and counting this as a What I'm Holding post as well

From Creche to Cross

The whole of Christ's life was a continual passion; others die martyrs, but Christ was born a martyr. He found a Golgotha, where he was crucified, even in Bethlehem, where he was born; for to his tenderness then the straws were almost as sharp as the thorns after, and the manger as uneasy at first as the cross at last. His birth and His death were but one continual act, and his Christmas Day and his Good Friday are but the evening and the morning of one and the same day. From the creche to the cross is an inseparable line. Christmas only points forward to Good Friday and Easter. It can have no meaning apart from that, where the Son of God displayed his glory by his death (John Donne, quoted in Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus, ed. Nancy Guthrie).

Thanks be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ for all His good gifts:
songs of worship :: opportunity to attend a marvelous church Christmas concert :: Mezzo singing in the choir :: time with Mom and Dad for brief errands :: Dad bringing stopgap groceries :: weather that can't make its mind up :: 81 degrees on December 1? :: bit of definite improvement in ankle :: library book to read with a friend :: new book of Advent devotions :: sick day today :: lots of fuzz therapy :: Amore coming home for lunch :: autumn roses :: the gold of our poplar (we think) tree before the winds came :: discovering this lovely Nativity poem :: this week's memory verses :: He Himself is our peace, making unity of estrangement
(Joy Dare #8223-8240)

Just Sing

Sing praise to God, sing praise;

sing praise to our King, sing praise!

Sing a song of wisdom,

for God is King of all the earth.

Psalm 47:6-7

My mother tells me I sang the ABC's before I could speak. My earliest memories include song and books; I cannot recall a time when I did not know how to read or play the piano. My sisters and I frequently sang and danced about the living room to my parents' records, starting with children's albums and progressing to show tunes.

Church and school choir participation was a given, no matter how challenging school became or how time-consuming other activities might be. In fact, my most positive adolescent social experiences, beyond a shadow of doubt, involved Revelation!, our church youth choir. Choir at school, the last bastion of Christian proclamation in the public schools here, was an oasis amid the desert of cutthroat academic competition in other classes.

Church music became such a home to me that I entered university as a sacred music major. Even after that dream shattered, I led music for AWANA worship and a girls' Bible study and continued to sing habitually at home.

Why the resume?

That history provides a context for my recent realization that the singing has mostly stopped in my life.

How did this happen?

First, I stopped singing unless I was alone. Add marriage, frequent travel, and apartment living, and soon I only sang when I was alone in the car. That gradually constricted to the point that now I seldom sing outside of church. If I can hear the opening and closing of our mailbox from inside, passersby outside can hear me. If they can hear me, they might mock or throw rotten tomatoes at the house or hide their children from the crazy dog lady who sings for no reason.

In short, I have listened to my inner Simon Cowell instead of the plethora of commands in Scripture to sing God's praises. (And nowhere have I found a loophole such as "if you have a good voice.") If I sing out loud instead of just in my head, I might get voted out of polite society. People might think I'm odd, or even worse--joyful.

On the other hand, if I rebuild a singing habit, particularly a habit of singing praise and thanksgiving to God, my blood pressure and breathing might improve.  I might "feel comforted, strengthened, uplifted, able to endure and able to find peace" amidst life's relentless stressors. The Lord might set ambushes against my enemies (2 Chron. 20). His glorious presence might settle upon me (2 Chron. 5:13-14). The body of Christ might be edified (Eph. 5:19; Col. 3:16). Prisoners might be set free; hearts might open to the love of Christ (Acts 16:25-40). I might be set free. I might receive the blessing of those who hear the word of God and do it (Luke 11:28). Then where would we be?

After weighing this tough decision, I aim to spend the rest of 2012 opening my heart to God's filling by opening my mouth in His praises. Since my ankle injury has me grounded from morning walks for at least 2 more weeks, I have the perfect opportunity to start with baby steps. The neighborhood is quiet at 6 a.m., and with even Amore and Ebony gone, it truly feels like no one will hear me but God.

Perhaps someday I'll be as brave as my friend Kate and let you all listen in, but for right now I need to start small and sing loudly enough to drown out my inner critic. This morning I opened a hymnal to the first song and started through a journey to get reacquainted with old friends and discover some new ones along the way. From there, we'll see what God does.

In the comments, perhaps you'd like to share: do you sing? If so, how has that blessed you? Do you have a beloved praise song you sing most often? If not, why not?

Learning to sing again does not, however, preclude counting my blessings in print:
~ Jesus, the heart of every melody and the melody in my heart
~ the quiet anonymity of the city before dawn
~ God and my mom like my voice
~ so many good choir memories
~ hymnals
~ devotions by the light of the Christmas tree
~ handknit wool socks on my feet
~ and an ice pack on one
~ courage to disappoint someone by declining a nonessential but stressful event
~ quiet Thanksgiving with Mezzo and my parents
~ coming home with leftovers
~ pecan pie
~ the smell of freshly ground coffee
~ an arsenal of physical therapy exercises to combat the weight of the boot and the lack of walking
~ the amazing job the surgeon did to minimize scarring
~ the admirable success of Dawn's grease-cutting power to remove antibacterial ointment from my hair (yes, really)
~ good reminders in Sunday's sermon that the way we view our giants determines how we deal with them and that the faithfulness of God is greater than the features of my giants
(#8147-8163, aiming towards 10,000)

Holding My Inheritance

Last Thursday morning after Allen and Ebony left to walk in the park, I sat by the sliding glass door and watched the sun rise "a ribbon at at time." As I drank in God's beautiful sky painting, a song arose in my heart:

Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer

Than all the angels heav'n can boast.

Then it occurred to me that no one was around to be bothered by my singing, so why not shift the song from heart to mouth?

Three verses of "Fairest Lord Jesus" followed, but what was the fourth? My mind wasn't returning the search result quickly for my digitally trained impatience, so I pulled the nearest hymnal off the nearest bookcase, scanned the index of first lines, and turned to number 211. As it happens, that hymnal only includes three verses for that hymn.

What next? Another brief search brought me to "In the Garden," a favorite introduced to me by my maternal grandmother, whose hymnal this was. The hymnal opened easily to that page; this was one of her favorites, too, for the binding to be so creased in that spot.

After that discovery, I flipped through the pages from one natural opening to another: "Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus," "At the Cross," "I Would Be True," and more. As the pages turned, I could hear my grandmother's voice in my mind's ear, just as though she were singing with me. Most of my memories of music at her house involve one of us granddaughters at her piano, although we all knew she had played. Apparently, far back in the treasuries of memory, she sang hymns with me too, unless the brain's mysterious alchemy created false memories out of scraps of true ones pieced together.

I had certainly known she sang and played hymns, whether with me or alone, some of them often. Discovering her well-creased favorites was like a glimpse into the journal of this beloved woman who passed away 21 years ago. As I perused and sang some more, a realization dawned on me: I was holding my inheritance in my hands.

My mother's parents were not wealthy people, as the world measures wealth. Their homes in all my memories comprised rented apartments, and for the last decade or so of her life, my grandmother--whom her eldest granddaughter allegedly named Giggy--didn't even own a car. What she had, however, she gave: time and love in abundance, basic sewing and crochet skills, an affection for hymns, and an example of sacrificial love in marriage.

My grandfather was her second husband. She had been widowed as a young mother during the Depresison and did not remarry until her son was nearly grown. My grandfather was a decade younger than Giggy, so she always expected he would survive her and care for her in her dotage. When I was still in primary school, he developed dementia diagnosed as Alzheimer's. Most of my memories of him were situated in nursing homes, after it had become unsafe for him to remain at home with her.

My mother drove her to visit him at least three times a week, and in school holidays we would accompany them. Every time we went, my grandmother would bring him his favorite dessert, Millionaire Pie, which she made without crust to protect him from choking. Repetition carved enduring memories of that yellow and white frozen dessert beginning to melt in its faded, recycled Cool Whip container wrapped first in cellophane then in foil. When he had forgotten how to feed himself, she would pull her chair close and spoon the creamy sweetness into his mouth like a mother feeding a very young child. In my recollection, she never made that pie for any of us but him.

Almost a decade of that sort of marriage was not perhaps what she thought she'd signed up for, but when her generation said, "For better, for worse" and "till death us do part," they meant it. I never heard her complain and seldom saw tears, even though there must have been plenty shed in private, perhaps even spilling onto the piano keys while she played from this hymnal.

As I sang that morning, all these memories came flooding back, and I shed a few tears myself. As to what I'm holding today, when I'm holding a hymnal in my hand or those old hymns tunes in my heart;

when I pick up hook and yarn to make something warm or lovely;

when I sit at her sewing table, where she taught me to sew doll clothes and where now I write;

and when I hold her memory in my heart-- in all these things, I'm holding my inheritance.

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

What else I'm holding in head, heart, hands, and home:

:: so many memories. . . whether from something in the autumn air or ghosts of Thanksgivings past

:: more homemade cranberry sauce, Giggy's recipe plus my own spices and Splenda instead of sugar

:: leftovers from my mom's meal yesterday

:: a completed hat crocheted

:: no stitches in my scalp

:: husband home for Black Friday

:: gladness his new employer grants Thursday and Friday for Thanksgiving

:: Christmas list taking shape

What are you holding today? Feel free to share in the comments here or at Amy's, or write your own post and tell her so.

sharing today with Amy's "What I'm Holding" series and Monday with Play Dates with God at The Wellspring.

Rings on Her Fingers {A Guest Post}

 A dear friend has recently begun keeping a blog about her journey as the wife and caregiver of a stroke survivor. We have shared tea, laughter, and books together, and I have enjoyed her hospitality on numerous occasions. She has survived the perils of a blended family and homeschooled three of her five children with admirable success. My friend has graciously allowed me to reprint one of her posts here for your encouragement. To read more of her story, please get better acquainted with her at her own blog, Strokeman's Woman.

Source:  strokemanswoman.wordpress.com

One day while exercising at the pool I saw something blue on the bottom that turned out to be a plastic ring. The first thought was, of course, how much my granddaughters were going to enjoy having another accessory to wear with the ballet costumes they love to play in when they are visiting my house. But then, for some reason I found myself remembering a ring of much more value and beauty – my daughter-in-law’s engagement ring. When my son had been dating her for a while, I began to realize how much I loved this young woman, and how sad I would be if it turned out that she would not become a part of my family. So it was with great joy that I agreed to my son’s request to go with him to help pick out her engagement ring.

My love for Jenny was not the only reason I was overjoyed by this invitation. My son and I have not always seen eye to eye. When I married his father, he was 10 and was not too keen on another woman coming into his life. During his high school years things didn’t improve all that much. (I can remember him telling me once that the same brand of orange juice tasted better at his friends house.) In all fairness, my mothering and housekeeping skills left much to be desired. At any rate, any time he and I have a chance to really enjoy being together I find it to be a great treasure. It was a lot of fun to go with him to the different stores, learn things about the different grades of diamonds, and give my opinion on which I thought were the most unique and beautiful. It is a wonderful memory for me.

Interestingly enough this experience spurred one of the most heated arguments Strokeman and I had in our later years of marriage. Strokeman is adamantly opposed to spending much money on a ring. My engagement ring is a very inexpensive piece of jewelry with a small emerald and tiny diamonds. I love it because it came to me from a man I love who wrote a poem about the green of my eyes that were symbolized by the green of the emerald. But it is not the kind of ring that brings envy to other wives.

When I came home from our shopping trip, Strokeman expressed to me again his disdain for expensive engagement rings. I tried to explain to him that an engagement ring is something that will be worn for the rest of a woman’s life. It needs to be quality enough to last, and something that is in the realm of what the young lady in question would be likely to choose for herself. He ended up saying something like, “I thought you liked the ring I picked out for you,” and I ended up crying and saying I guessed I would never get a diamond ring. What a mess.

A few months later Strokeman bought me a diamond ring that was on sale at JCPenney. It was beautiful, but after a year or two one of the diamonds fell out, and to fix it would cost more than we spent on the ring to begin with. There was a part of me that was relieved, because every time I looked at it on my finger I remembered how silly I had been about the whole thing. I am so content to stick to my emerald  engagement ring that I have spent more than it is worth to have fixed once. When it dies again, I guess I will be content to just wear my band.

It’s funny the things that seem so important when all else is going pretty well. Now, after having been  through the stuff we have been through, diamond rings seem to be so not important. How stupid to waste words over such trivial things. Rings don’t make a wedding into a marriage. Their price doesn’t make it easier to weather the ups and downs that come from being connected to another human being. That being said, it is nice to realize that there were times in our marriage when the biggest issue between us was the value of a piece of jewelry. We have these moments to remember.

Many thanks, Strokeman's Woman, for allowing me to share a piece of your story here. I'm thankful to know you and to continue to learn from you.

Crumbles, may the rest of your week be filled with laughter, love, and genuine gratitude, whether you will be celebrating Thanksgiving with us in the U.S.A. or not.