Wednesday mornings are Bible Study mornings at NSA. It's right between Latin and Natural History (Biology), so I never have an excuse for not attending. This morning, Dr. Wilson spoke on wisdom vs. knowledge, humility, and edifying others, beginning with James 3:13,
"Who is a wise man and endued with knowledge among you? let him shew out of a good conversation his works with meekness of wisdom."
He tied this in to 1st Corinthians 8:1,
"Knowledge puffeth up, but charity edifieth."
Also Ephesians 4:29,
"Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers."
Dr. Wilson pointed out that people can be uneducated and wise, or extremely intelligent and foolish. He warned us against becoming arrogant because of our education. An education brings knowledge (a wonderful thing), but, if we aren't careful, knowledge can puff us up. I'd known all of this before, but today it felt like a punch in the gut. I could think back to specific instances just this week where I'd been arrogant in my mind (at the least), where I hadn't been loving and edifying when I should have been, and was anything but humble. I chewed on it for a few minutes, then put it away and got out the notebook for class.
Later though, it all came back, and I became annoyed with God. I said,
"Lord, you've been pointing out all of these sins, and I'm trying to deal with them here. You've got me working on patience, contentment, loving others, and all this other stuff, and now You're adding more! Can't You let me deal with them one at a time?" I heard a displeased voice say, "You know the answer to that." At this point, I was frustrated and angry. "Lord, I can't!" That stopped me up short. I can't. That's exactly what He has said from the beginning. I can't do it. I sat stupefied for a few seconds, digesting the news. I'd been striving in my own feeble strength, and was surprised at my constant failure. I knew all of the right things, and instead of gratefully accepting more knowledge with the realization of how little I know, I let it puff me up. I'd been thanking God that I wasn't as ignorant as some (a good thing to be thankful for), and He finally dropped a mirror in front of me to reveal the Pharisee. To whom much is given, much shall be required. And yet, "I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." God is ever mindful of my frame, and will never demand of me that which I cannot give. Christ has broken the power of reigning sin. "For sin shall not have dominion over you: for ye are not under the law, but under grace." I have the choice not to sin, because of the blood of Christ. I just need to be reminded constantly that I'm covered in Jesus' blood and righteousness, and my bloody rags have been cast away. To whom much is given, much shall be required.
"From whence come wars and fightings among you? come they not hence, even of your lusts that war in your members? Ye lust, and have not: ye kill, and desire to have, and cannot obtain: ye fight and war, yet ye have not, because ye ask not. Ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss, that ye may consume it upon your lusts. Ye adulterers and adulteresses, know ye not that the friendship of the world is enmity with God? whosoever therefore will be a friend of the world is the enemy of God. Do ye think that the scripture saith in vain, The spirit that dwelleth in us lusteth to envy?
But he giveth more grace. Wherefore he saith, God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble. Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you. Cleanse your hands, ye sinners; and purify your hearts, ye double minded. Be afflicted, and mourn, and weep: let your laughter be turned to mourning, and your joy to heaviness. Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and he shall lift you up." ~James 4:1-10
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Thrifty Purchases
As promised, here are my purchases from last weekend's shopping 'spree.' I think I spent about $25.00 total.
Calvin Kline slacks: $2.00, Christopher & Banks blouse: $1.79
Out of the Blue denim skirt: $5.00
George dress: $8.00 (knee-length; I couldn't get a good angle.)
Jonathan Martin dress: $5.00 (such a steal!)
And the pictures Sara has been waiting for:
BP. 4" heels: $1.50
They're actually very fun to wear, so long as it's not all day every day. Several girls commented on my shoes and nails matching. Claire, who is 1/2" taller than me, was teasingly irritated that I was several inches taller than her that day. I never realized before just how tall some of the boys in my class are; in those shoes I am 6'3", and still some of the boys were taller. I wasn't trying to be taller than everyone, but it made me realize just how tall 6'4", 6'5", etc. really are.
Calvin Kline slacks: $2.00, Christopher & Banks blouse: $1.79
Out of the Blue denim skirt: $5.00
George dress: $8.00 (knee-length; I couldn't get a good angle.)
Jonathan Martin dress: $5.00 (such a steal!)
And the pictures Sara has been waiting for:
BP. 4" heels: $1.50
They're actually very fun to wear, so long as it's not all day every day. Several girls commented on my shoes and nails matching. Claire, who is 1/2" taller than me, was teasingly irritated that I was several inches taller than her that day. I never realized before just how tall some of the boys in my class are; in those shoes I am 6'3", and still some of the boys were taller. I wasn't trying to be taller than everyone, but it made me realize just how tall 6'4", 6'5", etc. really are.
Oktoberfest!
This afternoon, Mrs. Frazier, Ashley, and I were invited to the Courtneys' to celebrate Reformation Sunday. What better way than feasting on German food? I didn't think to bring my camera, unfortunately, so I can't make you hungry that way. Everyone brought something to share, and we had Brats and sauerkraut, lots of potato dishes, salads heavily dressed in vinegar, ladkes, zwiebelkuchen (my contribution), Black Forest Cake (I missed that one), plum tarts, spiced cake, you name it; the bar was also well stocked in the beer/ale department.
Making the zwiebelkuchen (onion pie) was an experience. Two 9" pies call for six pounds of onions! I spent about forty-five minutes to an hour slicing them, then had three pans on the stove to stir at once. It was quite the adventure. Ashley made the pie crusts for me, since dopey me didn't think to make them before the filling. It's probably better that way, though, since I've actually never made a pie crust all by myself. That's on the to-do list for Christmas Break.
The order of events was mingle, stuff yourself and mingle, mingle, go back for seconds and mingle, mingle, eat dessert and mingle, sing, mingle, mingle and nibble on left overs, mingle, mingle, and eventually leave (while mingling). While we sang, I was asked to play the piano, which I happily did, and was annoyed with myself because I was having an off day. My fingers weren't cooperating as readily as they usually do, so I felt badly. But those days happen, and I did my best. I guess it was OK, though, since I wasn't booed off the piano amid handfuls of sauerkraut. But everyone had a wonderful afternoon, and I have an entire zwiebelkuchen sitting in the freezer, and Mrs. Frazier has some of her spice cake and salad left. Right now, the order of business is lying low and relaxing!
Making the zwiebelkuchen (onion pie) was an experience. Two 9" pies call for six pounds of onions! I spent about forty-five minutes to an hour slicing them, then had three pans on the stove to stir at once. It was quite the adventure. Ashley made the pie crusts for me, since dopey me didn't think to make them before the filling. It's probably better that way, though, since I've actually never made a pie crust all by myself. That's on the to-do list for Christmas Break.
The order of events was mingle, stuff yourself and mingle, mingle, go back for seconds and mingle, mingle, eat dessert and mingle, sing, mingle, mingle and nibble on left overs, mingle, mingle, and eventually leave (while mingling). While we sang, I was asked to play the piano, which I happily did, and was annoyed with myself because I was having an off day. My fingers weren't cooperating as readily as they usually do, so I felt badly. But those days happen, and I did my best. I guess it was OK, though, since I wasn't booed off the piano amid handfuls of sauerkraut. But everyone had a wonderful afternoon, and I have an entire zwiebelkuchen sitting in the freezer, and Mrs. Frazier has some of her spice cake and salad left. Right now, the order of business is lying low and relaxing!
A Descriptive Sketch
This week for Declamation (AKA Speech), we had impromptu speaking and impromptu selection. I didn't know if Dr. Stokes would assign a topic on the spot, or say 'Talk about whatever you want,' so, in preparation, I wrote a description of my grandmother's old house. This is the finished product.
“Grandma’s House.” Those words usually bring to mind all sorts of images and smells, like cookies in the oven, bright, cheery rooms, a warm cat in front of a crackling fire. Not for me. Honestly, my grandmother’s house always gave me the creeps. I was never comfortable alone, except for in her bedroom. The old beach cottage was falling apart, and had all the associated signs. Because the roof leaked and the basement always flooded because of a two foot hole in a bearing wall, “Musty” was the house’s perfume of choice. Lighting was poor at night, and dirt perpetually appeared, keeping me employed. Dozens of carved statues from Indonesia studded the huge shelves, nooks and crannies, and added to the eerie atmosphere; men farming, women posing, animals and plants, gods and demons, all somehow reminiscent of the White Witch’s castle.
Yet for all of the gloom, everywhere were talismans to ward it off. Sun catchers bathed Grandma’s bedroom in rainbows during the day, and some nights I played with the Tiny People, little figures of wood barely an inch tall with painted faces and clothes of colored floss. Grandma didn’t bake cookies anymore, but she always had a jar of them. The mantel was filled with family pictures, and many nights I sat under their protection on the footstool my grandfather had loved, watching “Wheel of Fortune” and “Jeopardy!” with Grandma. She sometimes knit, but my job was always to keep the incense burning. No amount of leaking could stink the place up once the sandalwood sticks were lit. And there were treasures, too. Few people have seen the ivory chess set from China, the silk shawl from Italy, or the jewels in the cases. But I have. The toys were kept in Dad’s old bedroom, but so were the boxes of extra carvings that didn’t have a place on the shelves, and a wooden pillar of fire kept watch over all. But if these leering faces were braved, the pilgrim was rewarded with a viewing of the brilliantly colored tapestry that was straight from a story in Arabian Nights. A beautiful princess in white rode with a powerful sheik who obviously just rescued her from the imposing palace, and his friends watched warily for followers as they raced through a night lit by millions of stars. After I was a little older, I found another treasure in that room. In a dark corner behind the portable suit closet hung a small picture of my mother, before she was able to be my mother. Untouched by the sun, she stayed there, a beautiful girl of eighteen, laughing at the darkness around her. Somehow my father had forgotten this picture, but recently he rescued her from the dungeon and carried her away to his palace.
But all of the dark and gloom is past now. A new day has dawned, and that house of decay no longer exists. After forty years in the desert, we packed Grandma up, and my uncle and aunt had the house demolished. Grandma used the steam shovel to take the first swing at the crooked kitchen window she’d hated for decades. Now a new house stands, and all three live there together, where no roof leaks, no basement is filled with mud, and darkness does not hold sway. Slowly, everything is reappearing, even the Indonesian demons; but I laugh at them now, since their hour, when darkness reigns, is past. All things have been made new.
From this, you may infer that I did not like my Grandma's house. In retrospect, I guess that's kind of true. I didn't really like the HOUSE. But because of who lived in that house, and all the hundreds of happy memories I have there, all these things sanctified it, so to speak. I think the only times I hated it was when I was there alone, because it was so still, and I guess I expected something to come to life and get me. I never knew these things about me until I started writing, though, and these are the impressions that flowed out.
“Grandma’s House.” Those words usually bring to mind all sorts of images and smells, like cookies in the oven, bright, cheery rooms, a warm cat in front of a crackling fire. Not for me. Honestly, my grandmother’s house always gave me the creeps. I was never comfortable alone, except for in her bedroom. The old beach cottage was falling apart, and had all the associated signs. Because the roof leaked and the basement always flooded because of a two foot hole in a bearing wall, “Musty” was the house’s perfume of choice. Lighting was poor at night, and dirt perpetually appeared, keeping me employed. Dozens of carved statues from Indonesia studded the huge shelves, nooks and crannies, and added to the eerie atmosphere; men farming, women posing, animals and plants, gods and demons, all somehow reminiscent of the White Witch’s castle.
Yet for all of the gloom, everywhere were talismans to ward it off. Sun catchers bathed Grandma’s bedroom in rainbows during the day, and some nights I played with the Tiny People, little figures of wood barely an inch tall with painted faces and clothes of colored floss. Grandma didn’t bake cookies anymore, but she always had a jar of them. The mantel was filled with family pictures, and many nights I sat under their protection on the footstool my grandfather had loved, watching “Wheel of Fortune” and “Jeopardy!” with Grandma. She sometimes knit, but my job was always to keep the incense burning. No amount of leaking could stink the place up once the sandalwood sticks were lit. And there were treasures, too. Few people have seen the ivory chess set from China, the silk shawl from Italy, or the jewels in the cases. But I have. The toys were kept in Dad’s old bedroom, but so were the boxes of extra carvings that didn’t have a place on the shelves, and a wooden pillar of fire kept watch over all. But if these leering faces were braved, the pilgrim was rewarded with a viewing of the brilliantly colored tapestry that was straight from a story in Arabian Nights. A beautiful princess in white rode with a powerful sheik who obviously just rescued her from the imposing palace, and his friends watched warily for followers as they raced through a night lit by millions of stars. After I was a little older, I found another treasure in that room. In a dark corner behind the portable suit closet hung a small picture of my mother, before she was able to be my mother. Untouched by the sun, she stayed there, a beautiful girl of eighteen, laughing at the darkness around her. Somehow my father had forgotten this picture, but recently he rescued her from the dungeon and carried her away to his palace.
But all of the dark and gloom is past now. A new day has dawned, and that house of decay no longer exists. After forty years in the desert, we packed Grandma up, and my uncle and aunt had the house demolished. Grandma used the steam shovel to take the first swing at the crooked kitchen window she’d hated for decades. Now a new house stands, and all three live there together, where no roof leaks, no basement is filled with mud, and darkness does not hold sway. Slowly, everything is reappearing, even the Indonesian demons; but I laugh at them now, since their hour, when darkness reigns, is past. All things have been made new.
From this, you may infer that I did not like my Grandma's house. In retrospect, I guess that's kind of true. I didn't really like the HOUSE. But because of who lived in that house, and all the hundreds of happy memories I have there, all these things sanctified it, so to speak. I think the only times I hated it was when I was there alone, because it was so still, and I guess I expected something to come to life and get me. I never knew these things about me until I started writing, though, and these are the impressions that flowed out.
Friday, October 23, 2009
A Lesson Learned the Hard Way
The grocery store was more empty than usual this evening, which always makes maneuvering easier. As I was nearly out of fruit, I browsed the produce section, and decided on a Honeydew, priced at $0.78/lb. Rather steep, but a Honeydew would be wonderful with yogurt in the morning, so I
"squeezed the universe into a ball/ To roll it toward some overwhelming question," that question being "Is it ripe?" I am not well versed in melon-selecting methods, but I do know that the stem area should depress under your thumb. I found one that did squish well, not too much, not too little, and put it in the cart.
I confidently placed it on the cutting board, sure it was ready for dissection. Another day or two might put it past its prime. The blade sliced through quietly and precisely, and behold! A 1/4" halo of pale green fading into depths of Winter white. My Honeydew was gasping its last, pleading groan, "Honey don't!" However, it was too late. I had "forced the moment to its crisis," and there was no turning back.
I sliced the melon, skinned it, and cut it into bite-sized chunks, enough to fill a one gallon bag. I tasted a few pieces along the way, wanting to be absolutely sure it was somewhat edible. It had a hint of sweetness, a foreshadowing of the honey-like sweetness and dew-kissed coolness it would have had. It is hard, a crunchy melon. I learned the hard way that there's more to ripeness than a stem that compresses. However, I learned another thing I could not have possibly learned had I been an expert melon picker: Unripe Honeydews are paradoxes. Pieces taken from the greenest sections were the hardest and most tasteless. Only the death-white heart was soft and delicious. The inside of the cup was clean, but the outside was deceptive. Beauty is only skin-deep. Life flows outward from the heart, and death gives birth to a life abundant.
"squeezed the universe into a ball/ To roll it toward some overwhelming question," that question being "Is it ripe?" I am not well versed in melon-selecting methods, but I do know that the stem area should depress under your thumb. I found one that did squish well, not too much, not too little, and put it in the cart.
I confidently placed it on the cutting board, sure it was ready for dissection. Another day or two might put it past its prime. The blade sliced through quietly and precisely, and behold! A 1/4" halo of pale green fading into depths of Winter white. My Honeydew was gasping its last, pleading groan, "Honey don't!" However, it was too late. I had "forced the moment to its crisis," and there was no turning back.
I sliced the melon, skinned it, and cut it into bite-sized chunks, enough to fill a one gallon bag. I tasted a few pieces along the way, wanting to be absolutely sure it was somewhat edible. It had a hint of sweetness, a foreshadowing of the honey-like sweetness and dew-kissed coolness it would have had. It is hard, a crunchy melon. I learned the hard way that there's more to ripeness than a stem that compresses. However, I learned another thing I could not have possibly learned had I been an expert melon picker: Unripe Honeydews are paradoxes. Pieces taken from the greenest sections were the hardest and most tasteless. Only the death-white heart was soft and delicious. The inside of the cup was clean, but the outside was deceptive. Beauty is only skin-deep. Life flows outward from the heart, and death gives birth to a life abundant.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Alien Sightings and Shed Diving
I'm experimenting in bite-sized posts, instead of mammoth ones. As Dr. Stokes said today in reference to a huge assignment, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time!" So here's the next bite.
Aliens have invaded Moscow. One day, Ashley and I saw one on the way home from school. Some man was walking through the residential area in a neon green spandex suit, and it was tight. VERY tight, and well on the thin side. We only saw the back, so I can only assume he was an alien, with big, black, glittering eyes on the face. I must say, however, I'm rather glad the back was all I saw. Earlier in the week, Mr. Frazier made some joke about sending a message to the aliens, telling them it was a prime time for invasion. I guess they came.
Yesterday, Mr. Frazier stayed home from work because he and Mrs. Frazier were cleaning out the shed. During the afternoon, I heard Mrs. Frazier come upstairs and knock on Ashley's door, and heard something about the 'stuff in the shed.' I figured they needed moving help, but was surprised when I wasn't called also. I couldn't imagine why they'd ask her to work but leave me to twiddle my thumbs. I heard the back door open, then Ashley's voice rang out with a teasing tone, "So you locked yourself out of the shed?" I knew it would be too good to miss. I went to the window, and watched as they tried to figure out how to help Ashley climb into a window two feet wide and one foot high, six feet off the ground with thick bushes up to the sill. I realized that that was why they didn't bother getting me; it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle. After a few minutes of debating, Ashley dove through head first, got past her waist while Mr. Frazier held her ankles, then she turned over, grabbed the top of the window, and stepped in. It was very well done, and after she was through I realized I should have had my camera. Oh well! It might become as timeless as dumpster diving.
Aliens have invaded Moscow. One day, Ashley and I saw one on the way home from school. Some man was walking through the residential area in a neon green spandex suit, and it was tight. VERY tight, and well on the thin side. We only saw the back, so I can only assume he was an alien, with big, black, glittering eyes on the face. I must say, however, I'm rather glad the back was all I saw. Earlier in the week, Mr. Frazier made some joke about sending a message to the aliens, telling them it was a prime time for invasion. I guess they came.
Yesterday, Mr. Frazier stayed home from work because he and Mrs. Frazier were cleaning out the shed. During the afternoon, I heard Mrs. Frazier come upstairs and knock on Ashley's door, and heard something about the 'stuff in the shed.' I figured they needed moving help, but was surprised when I wasn't called also. I couldn't imagine why they'd ask her to work but leave me to twiddle my thumbs. I heard the back door open, then Ashley's voice rang out with a teasing tone, "So you locked yourself out of the shed?" I knew it would be too good to miss. I went to the window, and watched as they tried to figure out how to help Ashley climb into a window two feet wide and one foot high, six feet off the ground with thick bushes up to the sill. I realized that that was why they didn't bother getting me; it's easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle. After a few minutes of debating, Ashley dove through head first, got past her waist while Mr. Frazier held her ankles, then she turned over, grabbed the top of the window, and stepped in. It was very well done, and after she was through I realized I should have had my camera. Oh well! It might become as timeless as dumpster diving.
Back in the Saddle
School's back in full swing, and the teachers seem to be making up for lost time. Ashley and I made it into the most advanced class, which means studying more poetry, some of the Aeneid, and other difficulties Mr. Griffith finds to throw at us. I really like the class dynamic; it's a great mixture of personalities. For today's class, we were assigned about four times the amount he'll normally assign in the future, so we had to read and comprehend 150 lines by ourselves, then, with a partner, go through the TEN worksheets he made, and discuss them in Latin entirely. It took us three and a half straight hours, from 7:30 to 11:00. I fell asleep so quickly last night. There were about five minutes between "Amen" and dreamland. It's good to be back to work, though. "Not all rigor is mortis." I'm planning on doing better this term than last; I got three solid Bs and squeaked by in Biology with an incredibly low C. I'm not happy about that, but I'm happy I passed. So the goal for this term is Dean's List, but that's been the goal all last year and this one, too, and it hasn't happened yet. Maybe this time around!
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