A Dog, a Rope, Some Kids, and What They Did

This week for Declamation, I had to write a cautionary tale with a moral. Here it is.

A Dog, a Rope, Some Kids, and What They Did

Once upon a time, a grandmother and her spastic mutt lived across the street from five of her grandchildren, named Lindsey, Kendrick, Kathleen, Maggie, and Seamus. The oldest was about fifteen, and the youngest was two. This parallels my life in a very suspicious way, but I’m sure there’s no connection. Anyway, the older three were sometimes asked to walk said mutt, but these ‘walks’ were more like all-out running, because the dog would tear down the street at top speed once the leash was clipped. These children were inventive, however, and realized that there had to be a better way to walk the dog that didn’t involve getting their arms pulled out of their sockets. So, they discovered that, by using a long rope for a leash and putting on their rollerblades, they could get a pretty fun ride around the block and wear the dog out at the same time. They had this down to an art.

One day, their mother left to do errands, and Grandma called and asked if they could take Lil’ Hon for a run (nobody bothered calling it a walk anymore; everyone knew there was no such thing with that dog). Lindsey said they could, but only if Grandma didn’t mind watching Maggie. She didn’t have rollerblades, and couldn’t be left alone. But what to do about Seamus? Lindsey knew he’d be way too much for Grandma to handle, but they couldn’t just lock him in the house, either. They decided to bring Seamus along in his stroller, and Kathleen was told to push him around the block and keep up with the other two. Seriously, whom else would they give that job to? She was the youngest of the older kids, and therefore not as entitled to fun things like getting pulled around by the dog. But I digress. It soon became apparent that Kathleen could not keep up with them, so Lindsey had a brilliant idea, as usual. She and Kendrick stopped the dog, and he held her down, while Lindsey attached the lead to the foot rest of the stroller. That way, the dog could pull the stroller and the other three could skate and keep up. And Seamus was buckled in anyway, so what could possibly happen? Well, Lil’ Hon bolted, and the stroller shot down the road, bumping and careening, which actually made them more amused than alarmed. The dog got a head start because they were laughing too hard to skate, but once the front wheels of the stroller bounced up and the entire thing tipped back and flew down the street on the back wheels, they realized this wasn’t such a good idea after all. They caught up just in time; Lil’ Hon ran into a neighbor’s yard and up a small hill, which made the rope go slack. The stroller slowly tipped backwards, and Lindsey dove and caught it just before it hit the ground. Kendrick tackled Lil’ Hon and untied her from the stroller. Everyone started laughing again, except for Seamus. Their pale-faced brother was wide-eyed and gawking the entire time, too scared to cry. Kendrick took charge of the dog for the home stretch, and Lindsey pushed the stroller, which was very bent and wobbly, hardly functional at this point. Their mother was home by now, and rapidly put the pieces together. She was accustomed to deducing the most ludicrous answer possible and being right. Sherlock Holmes had nothing compared to her. Needless to say, she was most displeased with this event, and alternately lectured the culprits and comforted Seamus, who had found his voice by this time.

So the moral of the story is: Never attach hyper dogs to baby strollers, especially when there’s actually a passenger.

"I Love this Crazy, Tragic, sometimes almost Magic, Awful, Beautiful Life

That song line sums up the past few weeks pretty well. It has been crazy, slightly tragic as far as grades are concerned, almost magical, awful sometimes, and always beautiful.

It's never enjoyable to come face to face with failure. Again. I don't know why, but Natural History (Biology) just will not stay in my head. It all makes sense on paper, in lecture, while talking and studying, but take it all away and give me a test and I fail. Royally. This is the second term, and the second time I've failed a midterm for this class. But, as frustrating as it is, it's not the end of the world. I remember when I had a terrible time with Algebra II in highschool, and, after a similar experience, the lady that taught me said, "Well, thankfully your salvation does NOT depend on your Algebra grade!" Amen. It doesn't even depend on my Natural History grade. This term is better than last. Last term, I also failed the Logic midterm. This time, I aced it. There's always a silver lining, and His mercies are new every morning.

On Friday, we had our first snow. Not a whole lot, but enough to make it beautiful. That night, NSA had a volleyball game, and the Sophomores were the worst class. We really were not with the program. We had fun, though, and we had something none of the other classes had: Our personal bugler to (loudly!) proclaim a goal on our part. I don't know who brought the bugle, but a spectator absconded with it and put it to good use. The funniest part to me was that he even knew how to play it. Who learns to play the bugle anymore? Apparently Jonathan. About thirty of us went to Arby's afterward to re-fuel and enjoy each others' company. (What a great segue into my next ramble!)

Today was the Sabbath, and that makes up for anything that happens during the week. Sunday is my favorite day of the week. I love getting up, going to church, worshiping, confessing my sin and being reminded that Christ paid for it all, eating the bread, drinking the wine, feasting and fellowshipping. Since my Moscow Family is scattering to the four winds for Thanksgiving, we had a pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving today. It was fantastic. I'm still stuffed, and probably won't even have a snack before bed. A few family friends came too, to fill out the table. As always, the fine china and silverware came out, cloth napkins, the works. It's the Sabbath; it's a feast. "This is the day that the LORD has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it!"

It's amazing how food smooths the way for fellowship. We're relational creatures, and food is one of the best catalysts for fostering the atmosphere of fellowship. Shared food always tastes better. I think about Mr. Scrooge and his "melancholy meal," or his lonely, tasteless dish of gruel in his apartment. Even Scrooge might have loosened up a bit around good food, if he'd taken a chance and gone to Fred's Christmas dinner years earlier. Is it any wonder that we are told to fellowship as we celebrate the Lord's Supper? We're commanded to "recognize the body of the Lord." What does that mean? His broken body symbolized by the broken bread? Absolutely. And yet, the "body of the Lord" is also His Church, the people around us in the pews. If we zoom in on the bread and forget His body, we sin. Likewise, if we focus on His body and forget the meaning of the bread, we sin. I love the concerted effort of the community here to recognize the broken body of Christ, and His body at large. At Trinity, before Communion we pass the peace, which is about five or ten minutes of hugging, kissing, hand shaking, body squashing greetings in the name of the Lord. We recognize the body, then sit down and recognize the body before eating it. Then, after the service, many, many folks have Sabbath Feasts, inviting family and friends to celebrate the day of rest. It's hard to keep up with people; our lives are so busy. But Sunday is for resting, for praising God for His faithfulness, and, second to going to church, what better way to do that than by eating together, recognizing the body of the Lord? I have come to love feasting on the Sabbath, and it is definitely a celebration I want to carry into my own home. Food is one of the best body builders.

To Whom Much is Given

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

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.

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!

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.

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.