Some jars were sweetened with red hots to make cinnamon applesauce. The red hot candies are dropped in just before closing the jar and will be stirred in when it is served. |
Happy recipient of Aunt Laura's fritters |
finding joy in life's everyday things
Some jars were sweetened with red hots to make cinnamon applesauce. The red hot candies are dropped in just before closing the jar and will be stirred in when it is served. |
Happy recipient of Aunt Laura's fritters |
A year ago, I walked to the bookstore next door and purchased the cheapest paperback chronological Bible they sold. My focus was not on chronology, nor even on the newer-than-KJV translation I selected. My goal for 2023 was to read the Word with specific themes in mind and mark each theme with a different color.
If you do
this in your expensive leatherbound Bible, feel no judgment from me. I write in
my nice Bible too, though without the freedom and voracity with which I’m
marking my paperback. I think the opaque paper (as opposed to vellum-like
pages) is more conducive to note making. Also, since this is a cheaper
printing, not expected to last a lifetime, I’m not afraid that someday I’ll
regret my notes. I wanted to be able to use this
Bible as an interactive Bible study.
Part of the
inspiration for purchasing a paperback Bible to protect my gilt-edged Bible from a prolific pen; the rest of my inspiration came from C. T. Studd, a missionary.
I was told he purchased a new Bible every year. He liked to mark up his Bibles but
didn’t want those markings to permanently influence what he read. He began each
year with an unmarked Book to allow the Spirit of God to speak to him afresh,
without already-marked verses to distract him. I thought, what a great idea.
And, eleven months later, I'm still happy with my decision.
Before I
began reading, I spent a couple weeks considering the themes I wanted to focus
on and settled on these:
--Names
of God
--Character-qualities
or attributes of God
--Promises
of God
--Prophecies
foretold/fulfilled
--People’s
response to God
--Who I
am in Christ
The
names and character qualities of God have been my favorites. Stories change in
meaning according to what you focus on as you read. If you are reading the
story of Abraham looking for human qualities of trust and obedience, you’ll
find them. If you read the same story searching to see God and His character
traits, you will find Him. These two themes have brought my Bible to life in a
glorious, hands-raised-to-heaven way.
Partway
through the year, I heard a message on gossip. At the
pastor’s recommendation, I read the book of Proverbs in an afternoon, and
marked all the verses that pertain to the tongue and speech. I added that theme
to my list, considering speech is one area that repeatedly gets me into
trouble. The tongue/speech theme brought my total to seven, their color code easily
kept track of on an index card I use as a bookmark.
The Bible is meant to be studied and enjoyed, and I have found this thematic method to be an engaging way to do that. I recommend it to you.
Buy a cheap paperback Bible you won’t mind marking up. Go for a chronological,
especially if you haven’t already read the Story in the order it occurred. The
positive of a chronological Bible, of course, is that verses and chapters are
organized in the order they happened. David’s psalms, for example, follow the
story that inspired them. The negative part of a chronological Bible is that
sometimes you feel like you are rereading the same passage. In Samuel, you read
the list of David’s mighty men, then in the next paragraph, you read the same
list from Chronicles. But reading the Story in the order events took place makes
up for any repetition.
Mine is a one-year Bible, a price-driven purchase. In the past, I’ve fallen hopelessly behind in Bible reading plans
which always made me feel like I needed to do a reading marathon to catch up or
live with guilt and discouragement for being behind. Neither response is life giving and both puts a damper on morning devotions.
This year, with a baby on board, I knew I wouldn’t stay on target, but I didn’t
let that discourage me. My ultimate goal is to read the Bible and learn more about
these seven areas I’m highlighting. If it takes two years instead of one to finish the Book, my
mission is still accomplished.
Choose your themes. In my experience, seven themes are
too many. I’m far enough in the year to discontinue any now, but in the future,
I will choose to have maybe 3-5. I have years ahead of me, Lord willing, which
means I can read the Bible again and again while focusing on other themes. I
don’t need to knock them all out in one sitting.
Make a color code for your themes and write it on an index card you can use
as a bookmark. I also wrote mine on the flyleaf of my Bible in case the index
card gets lost. A bookmark makes your life easy, especially when you have seven
colors to keep track of.
Mark your Bible as you read. Underline, bracket, circle, or highlight verses or phrases that pertain to the themes you are taking note of. Fill margins with notes, ideas, inspiration, and thoughts.
I’m using colored pens (LePen) so my underlines are brilliant.
I had started the year using colored pencils but not every color showed up well
enough to please me. I know LePen might eventually bleed through the pages, but
since this isn’t my leatherbound Bible, I’m okay with that. So far, the worst
is that the darkest colors can be seen on the back of the page, but it isn’t distinct
enough for me to change my pen choice.
Regardless of the method you use to read the Word, enjoy the Lord and your friendship with Him. He is worth all the time and effort you invest in your relationship.
The orchid on my windowsill pushed
out its sixth bud, and the plant beside it is overgrowing its
container. When I see them, I could almost forget that I am not a Plant Lady. I
know my children haven’t forgotten because my son asked, “Mom, when that plant
on your windowsill dies, could I have the stones at the bottom of the jar?”
The plant he referred to is alive.
That was more than I could confidently say about the succulent I had purchased
a year ago. The succulent wasn’t in my care for many moons until its health
deteriorated significantly. I kept it gently moist and bathed in sunshine, but it
gradually lost its vibrant color, fading from a rich emerald to a pale lime. Worse, it wasn’t growing. I hoped its stunted growth wasn’t a sign of imminent
death. Maybe it was simply a stunned response to finding itself in my hands. A
plant’s version of PTSD.
While my succulent crouched pale
and unresponsive on my windowsill, I received an invitation to a ladies’
gathering at a greenhouse. We would eat a catered meal together (not harvested
from the greenhouse) and listen to an inspirational topic. Afterwards, the
ladies would participate in a houseplant exchange. This posed a problem.
At the time, I only had two houseplants: an orchid
which was blooming profusely for the third year in a row, and a succulent that
I knew not whether it was dead or alive. I couldn’t part with my orchid—my one houseplant
success—and I didn’t suppose I could give away a sickly succulent,
even though the invitation didn’t specify that we should bring living
plants. In the end, I took none and decided it was best for plants and people if I simply didn’t
participate in the exchange.
But when the plant exchange began, I
found myself standing next to a Plant Lady who brought not just one but two
healthy houseplants. She saw my empty hands, heard my confession, and offered me a
snake plant. “I wasn’t sure why I brought two plants anyway. Here. You take
this one. I’ve never seen a dead snake plant, so I’m sure it will grow for you.”
“You haven’t seen a dead one?” I
asked, snickering. “Come visit me in a month or two.”
But a year later, the snake plant
lives on. Unlike the beautiful palm that came to me as a
gorgeous fountain of six dark green fronds in a gray ceramic pot. The palm
looked so pretty in my living room window. But after a month of being in my
care, brown crept up one of the fronds. Ah, the old exchanging for the new, I
thought. But no. Hardly had the first dead leaf fallen when another frond was
edged in brown. In the coming months, I watered the palm. I withheld water. I moved
it to a new window, thinking more sunshine would revive it. I took it to a new
room, hoping a change of scenery would stimulate hope and life. But like the
lemmings who race each other to their demise, the remaining five fronds chased
each other to their death. Eventually, my son carried the palm’s carcass to the
garbage heap.
If my indoor plant failures weren’t
enough to convince my children that their mom is Not a Plant Lady, the tulip story sealed
my reputation. Someone gave me a bag of flower bulbs as a hostess gift. I
admired the picture on the packet, feeling warmed because now our flowerbeds
would have spring flowers like so many other homes in beautiful Lancaster
County. And not just any spring flowers but fancy ones, according to the
picture on the packet. I received the bulbs during the busy days of canning
season, so I stowed them in the garage where they lay forgotten until spring.
“Mom, can I plant these?”
My daughter held a mound of flower
bulbs in her cupped hands. Ah. My spring flowers. Tulips, if I recalled
correctly. I couldn’t remember the picture on the long-gone packaging, but I
knew it had especially pleased me. Were they miniature tulips? Ones with frilly
edges? I couldn’t remember. I only recalled the warmth and happiness they brought
because they weren’t ordinary flowers. She planted the bulbs and I willed them to
grow.
Green poked through the soil. “Oh,
look!” I said, enormously pleased. “Our tulips are growing!”
Leaves shot upwards—narrow leaves
for tulips, but that was consistent with my memory of these flowers having
unusual qualities.
And then, “Oh, look! My tulips are
budding!”
My interest changed to alarm when every single bud drooped until it
was parallel to the ground. Not being a Plant Lady, I didn't know what might
have caused this. Were they diseased? Planted too shallow? Did bugs chew tunnels
through the bulbs? I hated to break the news to my daughter, but I thought a fair
warning was in order.
“I’m afraid there is something
wrong with our tulips,” I told her. “The buds aren’t supposed to bend down like
that. I don’t think they’ll bloom after all.”
But they did bloom. And they were
daffodils. White daffodils with yellow centers and extra petals.
I am not a Plant Lady, but maybe
there’s still hope for me. My lime green succulent pushed out new growth. I have a sparse
and spindly—but living—snake plant. I have an orchid that bloomed four years in succession and a gloxinia that survived my son’s dark predictions of
its death. I have even kept a new-to-me Chinese money plant alive, green, and
growing for several months. It’s that money plant that I have my eye on. As soon as it produces
cold hard cash, I’ll know I have finally become a bona fide Plant Lady.
Fish tacos, chips & salsa, pineapple, and soft drinks in glass bottles. |
March 2021.
Earth stood calm and unresisting while winter spit sleet against her breast. Snow fell on snow, piling deep and cold. Ponds in her pastures solidified. Trees towered barren and brown. Against this onslaught, Earth offered no rebuttal. Winter’s denial couldn’t negate the truth that fueled her steady calm; she was pregnant with pulsating life, and the hope of spring.
The sun was on her side, fending
off winter, melting snow, and preparing her nurseries. Then, when she could no
longer restrain the life throbbing within, her children were born. Passersby
stopped to admire her firstborn crocuses and to photograph floral siblings
blooming on the dogwood tree. Earth dandled magnolias on her knees and smiled
broadly at the tulips playing at her feet. They were her offspring, all of them
richly colored and exceptionally beautiful.
Spring had come.
Like the earth, I waited. I was
pregnant with hope, yes, but I lacked Earth’s certainty that my winter would
end. And then our basement stank like wet dog—we had no dog—and on another day,
Walmart’s produce department smelled fermented and sickening. My confidence
rose. That metallic taste in my mouth? Hope lay thick upon hope.
But the days until I could take a
test stretched out like months and the week like a year. I passed the time by
pairing middle names with the girl’s name we already had chosen. I researched
baby carriers, disliking the bulky knot on the famed Boba wrap and chatting
with a Konny representative on whether their sash stays in place without
constant adjustments. I fingered tiny onesies at the store and considered fun
ways I could announce our pregnancy to my family.
I multitasked all week. That is, I
dreamed wildly about birth and babies while carrying out mundane
responsibilities. Each evening, I collapsed onto the recliner, unusually but
happily tired. This kind of tiredness could only mean one thing.
My hands shook when I opened the
pregnancy test package. By now I felt so pregnant that I supposed I could spit
on the test and get a positive reading. Taking the test was mere formality.
I followed package instructions,
then laid the test aside without even looking at the window where the
confirmation would appear. It would be best, I decided, to wait to look until
both lines were bold and bright. I washed my hands and combed back my hair. I
picked around at facial blemishes—something I had plenty of, considering the
way my complexion had deteriorated in the last week. I scrutinized my teeth,
wondering if they were yellowing with age. I even groomed my eyebrows. But I
didn’t look at the tantalizing test. I would wait all three minutes. No, four,
just to be safe.
When the parallel lines had ample
time to go from baby pink to screaming scarlet to booming brown, I turned and
looked, barely breathing. The results were in. A single line in screaming
scarlet.
The test was negative.
Barren branches of the sycamore
waved to me from outside the bathroom window and tapped a sympathetic staccato
on the metal porch roof. A nest clung tenaciously to its branches. It too was
empty. Empty and cold.
Spring had not sprung for everyone.
Maybe next month it would be here. A gauze of hope laid itself thinly across
the raw earth of my heart.
Spring always comes.
Or does it?
April 2023.
Spring has come.
One of my favorite days to celebrate in our homeschool is nearly upon us--the 100th day of school. You might recognize some of the ideas listed below because they were posted here, hidden halfway down our list of Fun February Days. Others were used more recently.
Ways to Celebrate Day 100:
As a homeschooling mom, I try to keep my children from being eaten alive by monotonous school days. I certainly don't always succeed; many of our days look startlingly alike. But one way I fight boredom is by celebrating milestones. Tomorrow is Day 90 for us, or Half Day since we log 180 days per school year. In my opinion, the easiest way to honor Half Day is at lunch. Cut everything in half, serve half cups of juice, or have a half dozen grapes per person. My children are unaware that Half Day is upon us, so I'll surprise them tomorrow with Half Day Lunch, serving it on paper plates that have been cut in half, of course.
If you want more ideas on how to celebrate this milestone, here are, well, half of the ideas. The other half are the ones you come up with yourself. Just don't cut things in half like recess or rewards.
I updated this post to show you the lunch I made for my children. |