The other morning I woke up thinking about barbed wire fencing. It wasn’t a grand dream of a “sweeping American West being settled by rugged pioneers” type of thinking. I was remembering the way I spent many summer days, growing up in northern Nebraska ranch country. I was thinking of steel posts and Goldenrod wire stretchers, “dead man” posts and spools of barbed wire rolled out across high grass and clumps of dark, fertile soil. I was thinking of the benchmark of supreme fence building; i.e., looking down the fence line and only seeing “one” post. Foremost, I was thinking about the V-shaped wire post clips used to attach the stretched wire to the steel posts. It was usually my job to carry the metal bucket containing the clips, and hand them to the person attaching the wire to the posts. The clips are like elbows that hug the wire to the post, and a screwdriver (or similar tool) is positioned between the end of the clip and the wire so that it can then be twisted securely around the barbed wire. Done properly, this “elbow hug” will retain a secure grip for years. Evidently, my first-hand viewing and participation in this fluid, mesmerizing process has left an indelible mark on my brain.

I suppose there are a number of metaphors and illustrations to be found in this memory. If the white picket fence is a symbol of quaint, peaceful American living, what conclusions can be drawn about a suburban housewife who is more comfortable with steel posts and barbed wire? And does the way the V-clip hugs the taut wire resemble the way a parent’s elbow must sometimes firmly embrace a stiff-necked child? Maybe the memory just speaks to the force of repetitive actions, which occur during our malleable youth.

I was sitting at my computer one morning last week when my seven-year-old slipped up and gently tugged on my elbow. I glanced up to see the pajamaed little elf’s dishwater blond waves in definite bed-head disarray. Her sleepy grin showed teeth in various stages of “growing in.” When she said, “Mommy,” I knew that her next words would surely be, “What can I have for breakfast?” I returned to my typing, and waited for the words to come. She continued, “Mommy, I kind of like the view from my window.” That got my attention. I stopped my typing and turned to look into her sky blue eyes which were now grinning in unison with her mouth. They told me she was serious, and this intrigued me. I know the view from her window – it looks straight into an upper window of the vacant house next door. She likes that view? I couldn’t help but question this, so I did, “Doesn’t your window look at the house next door?”

“No, Mommy… if you look back between the houses you can see the mountains and the clouds and all. I think it’s really pretty.”

I wouldn’t have blamed her for being a little flustered with my narrow adult reasoning, but her response was full of patience. It made me think. Leave it to a seven-year-old to figure out that sometimes one must make some effort to see the beauty in something.

I was all the more amazed that my child had this perspective when I remembered the response that I got from some of my teenage co-op students a few days before, when I asked them what they thought of the presidential inauguration. The most loudly voiced opinions all agreed, “He messed up!”

It was a response that stunned and disappointed me. Hadn’t they noticed our beautiful capitol building, gloriously decked out in our patriot colors? Wasn’t the peaceful transfer of power something to appreciate? How about the bubbling throng of people, assembled – again peacefully – and mostly enthusiastically? And what about that amazing prayer by Rev. Warren? Were they so easily swayed to discount the good in our American process because they might disagree with the one now leading the process? The thing that most impressed them was that “he messed up?” I wonder: am I partly to blame for their negative attitude? Have I had a part in fostering a critical spirit in them? Have I not done my part to encourage them to look for the “good” in things?

I need to be careful with that seven-year-old.

If you’re like me, some place in your house right now – in a drawer, closet or pile on your desk – there is a stack of Christmas cards and newsletters that you haven’t gotten around to putting up or throwing out. Moreover, if you’re like Jennifer Goodwin, a writer for Copley News Service, you think that Christmas newsletters are “as unappetizing as eggnog in August.” You can read Ms. Goodwin’s article at http://halife.com/living/Christmas_newsletter_rules.html. I think her “10 Rules for your Christmas newsletter” is pretty entertaining.

If you received a copy of our 2008 Harding Herald, you know that my daughter, the current editor, broke a couple of the rules. In fact, judging by the newsletters our family received this holiday season, a lot of us are breaking the rules. As recently as yesterday, I was lamenting to a friend the same question that Ms. Goodwin poses: “Why does the holiday newsletter unleash the braggart within?” I groused about never getting the “real picture” of people’s family lives. If I had read Ms. Goodwin’s article before our conversation, I surely would have praised her keen insights. I know that Ms. Goodwin’s article is intended to be light-hearted and cynical, but let me say publicly, “Shame on me!” Today I feel compelled to document my change of heart and make a case for only writing the “good stuff” in one’s newsletter. Sure, there is stuff I don’t personally enjoy reading in newsletters. I completely understand Ms. Goodwin’s point about excluding potty training news. On the other hand, that little tidbit might totally make the day of your dear grandmamma. Who am I to deny her of that joy? I’m just one reader.

Here’s my case for only writing the good news. Angels once proclaimed, “…for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.” Sounds pretty positive, huh? They could have said, “There has been born for you a Savior who will be beaten, bloodied, scourged beyond recognition, and hung on a cross to be speared, mocked, and spat upon.” They didn’t. The angels only proclaimed the good news. People that followed the story would observe the “bad news” in a few years. The great thing about that particular bit of bad news is that ultimately it resulted in the best news of all. I need to keep that in mind, and trust that this process of “bad leading to good” is repeated in everyone’s lives, albeit on a completely different scale. Just because I don’t have the opportunity to observe it or read about it, doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

So, go ahead, keep sending me your Christmas newsletters filled with ooey-gooey good stuff, and please tolerate our family’s missives. I’m determined to keep it in perspective. Your good news (and mine) will remind me of the one-and-only Good News, once voiced by a heavenly host.

It’s getting late, but I couldn’t let the day go by without saying “Happy Birthday” to my firstborn daughter, my third grade teacher, Mrs. Randolph…and me! Please don’t think me conceited, wishing myself a happy birthday. It’s just that 16 years ago today God gave me one of the coolest birthday gifts anyone could ever receive – a real live baby! My birthdays have never been the same since, and I am so thankful.

You might think it a bit of a bummer to endure childbirth on one’s birthday, but believe me, I was happy to be delivering. This child was due December 23 and up to that point, my delivery record had been one baby born ten days early and one born just 10 hours past his due date. I was not accustomed to being very late! By Christmas day (just two days past my due date!) people were already asking me that taboo question, “When are you going to have that baby?”

As it turns out it was really all my mother-in-law’s fault. No, not because she had the son that got me in that condition in the first place. And not because it’s convenient to blame the mother-in-law. (I love her dearly.) Read the evidence against her and judge for yourself. To put it plainly, she put some kind of “nurse curse” on me. That’s right, I’m sure it was some kind of incantation of which only nursing professors of her esteemed caliber are capable! The day after Christmas (three days past my due date!), she, and my father-in-law were preparing to leave on a cruise. On the way to the airport, they stopped by to say good-bye, and my mother-in-law asked my permission to speak to the baby “en utero.” She put her face near my bulging belly and began her cooing little talk. It started out fine – something like “Little one, I love you so much. I can’t wait to meet you.” However, what came out of her mouth next horrified me. She said, “You stay right where you are and don’t be born until your MeMa gets back.” Being a hormonal pregnant woman, I wanted to slap her for even thinking that way! I didn’t, but I also didn’t put any confidence in her getting her wish. Wait another ten days to have that baby? Yeah, right!

All I can say is that I didn’t appreciate my daughter’s obedience as much then as I do now. I don’t think her MeMa was surprised at all when she got back to town on January 5, 1993 – just in time to assist with the delivery of Her Highness, The Most Obedient Little Princess.

And now the princess is 16. We had an early surprise birthday party for her while her older brothers were here from Oregon. I wasn’t trying to live vicariously through her, but my family wasn’t much into birthdays when I was growing up. I would never have imagined having 20 friends over to celebrate on my 16^th birthday. I did get to do something on my 16^th birthday that my daughter, child of an insurance agent, did not get to do. I got to get my driver’s license. My mom and I had to drive to Valentine, Nebraska in a near blizzard, but I got it! Yes, that was some prize, but it doesn’t compare to the one I got 12 years later. “Behold children are a gift of the Lord; the fruit of the womb is a reward.” (Proverbs 127:3)

For three months we counted the days until our Oregon boys would arrive in Arizona for Christmas. The Big Day was supposed to be last Monday, December 22nd. But we didn’t count on Portland getting record snows and all flights being canceled. Hubby spent all morning that day monitoring the airport situation and trying to help them find alternative transportation. He checked flights out of Seattle – booked up. He considered Spokane, but I-84 was closed. He discovered that there were plenty of flights out of Sacramento, but how to get the boys to Sacramento? Amtrak? Not running. Fly from Eugene? Not until after Christmas. Greyhound? No guaranteed seats – or departures. He finally settled on a rental car. They would have to put chains on it, but they could drive to Sacramento and catch a 6:00 a.m. flight on Tuesday. One problem: they had to have a major credit card (which our sons don’t have) and the rental company would not take my husband’s over the phone. Pastor B. to the rescue! He agreed to take the boys to the rental place and help them secure a car. Another glitch – hubby forgot that this particular rental place was off-site from the airport. By the time he remembered and called to tell Pastor and the boys, they had already been advised to take a shuttle to the rental place. The only people on the shuttle were the boys, Pastor and Mrs. B. – and another lady. They learned that this lady was also trying to get to Sacramento, where she lived…not too far from the airport. She offered to let the boys split the rental fee and ride with her. She would drop them off at the airport. When Pastor called Hubby to inform him of this new development, Hubby asked if the lady seemed “safe.” Pastor’s response was “absolutely!” The lady, who they learned was 55 and also a St. Louis Cardinal fan (that almost immediately makes her a saint with this family) shared driving duties with our 21 year old on what ended up being an almost 12 hour trip. They ran into heavy fog about 120 miles out of Sacramento and Hubby scurried to switch them to a later flight, but they arrived at the airport about 5:30. They ran to the gate and were allowed to get on the 6:00 flight. They arrived in Phoenix about 10:00 Tuesday morning – about 12 hours later than their originally scheduled arrival. This certainly wasn’t how we expected God to answer our prayers for a safe trip for them, but I think we were all once again amazed by how His plans are always far more awesome than ours – especially when they include a complete stranger named Pam – which in my book stands for Personal Angel Messenger! Pam was just the beginning of what turned out to be a truly wonderful holiday for us.

If you, like me and my siblings, can find the (M*A*S*H-like) humor in a prosthetics store named “Hanger,” then you are also likely to be familiar with the depths to which the human spirit is willing to delve in order to deal with trying circumstances. Those depths are, of course, soothed by the balm of prayers and the support, encouragement, kind words and hugs of family and friends – even strangers. But there is something to be said for visual relief, whether it be humorous or beautiful. When you see the rock and glue of your family looking frail and broken, it helps to also see the strength and vitality of life around us.

These are not new ideas – even for me. They just hit a little closer to home this past week when I spent some time in Oklahoma where my mom endured a pacemaker implantation, minor brain surgery and the re-inflation of a collapsed lung. And again, this is a woman who has spent her 77 years as the picture of health, a stubborn survivor of numerous trials, a persevering and beloved saint. Seeing the family matriarch in that condition was a reminder of the fragile and fleeting nature of this life. So, we found solace in the blessing of just being together. There’s a 16 year age span between the oldest and youngest of us (we do all have the same parents). While Mom was sleeping one day we took a lunch break, and (besides finding odd things to photograph) we found we couldn’t remember the last time we’d all been together, just the four of us. We took advantage of the time…

I usually don’t have time to post two days in a row, but Thanksgiving break is finally here. A respite has arrived and with it a desert rain. Living in Arizona now, I’m always skeptical when I hear what sounds like rain spitting on the windows. This time my hopeful suspicions were confirmed by an open window, a conduit for the earthy scent that always accompanies these infrequent showers. It revives my hope that I still might experience the delicate essences unique to autumn.

Autumn may be my favorite time of year. Memories of the autumns of my life nip at my consciousness like the frosty winds that dance under the stadium lights and through the small town crowd at a high school football game on a northern Nebraska night. They burn brightly like the trees, matchsticks of amber and auburn leaves that line a certain well-traveled Oregon street. One year the kids and I collected those brilliant leaves from the soggy ground (which is always their eventual end.) We ironed them between 6 X 6 sheets of wax paper, strung the sheets between burgundy strands of yarn, and hung them in the narrow window panels on either side of our front door. We thought their beauty rivaled any exquisite stained glass.

Most years I spread my homage to leaves and burning beauty on my kitchen table. I top my favorite fall-colored table runner with candles and a sculpted pitcher filled with silk leaves. The pitcher was a BINGO prize from one of my mother-in-law’s famous theme parties. I bought the table runner in the mid-90’s (probably from a Michael’s clearance rack.) I can’t remember if I bought it before or after I read Edith Schaeffer’s The Hidden Art of Homemaking, but ever since it’s been one of my favorite tools for attempting to create a little bit of artistic beauty in my home – especially in this glorious season.

Have a beautiful and blessed Thanksgiving!

I would say “she has her daddy’s blue eyes,” but I think the strange phenomena shown in the picture can be attributed to some kind of peculiar camera/lighting glitch. Instead of a red eye photo, we got a blue eye photo. At any rate, it’s been quite a few years since I announced a new addition to our family. The fact that I’m out of practice becomes obvious when I also confess that the addition came over two months ago. But here it is…her name is Cocoa (Puff) and she is an energetic, albeit scrawny, little kitten. I’m holding my friend, Gail, responsible for this increase in the cat population of my home; she and/or her daughters told my daughters about their neighbor’s free kitty give-away – or, as the girls would say, “free prowlers.” My initial reaction to Cocoa’s appearance was a little telling, I guess. With great expectations, I peeked into the box that held the little thing all snuggled in a fluffy old bathrobe. Then I looked at Gail, and she said (in her subtle Chicago accent), “Yeah, she looks a little feral, huh?” Maybe I’m slightly narrow minded when it comes to my expectations for what my “babies” will look like. When my second child was born I was almost certain the nurse had handed me the wrong baby because he didn’t look anything like my first baby. For one thing, he actually had hair. At least he was still precious. I’m still trying to assess the precious scale for Cocoa. Her black and tan features are so dark that her little face is almost nondescript. Maybe we should have named her “Camo.” Big sister, Sukey, definitely did not roll out the welcome mat, but now they’re almost inseparable. (See photo below.)

A pastor was once advised by a fellow elder against socializing with the laity.But the pastor, having a true pastor’s heart, chose to come out from behind the pulpit and interact with his congregants.It was a messy business at times, people being sinners and all, but he and his flock were both the richer for his direct involvement in their lives.

Similarly, the great Dutch Master, Rembrandt, was criticized by his biographer, Sandrart, for spending too much time among “the lower orders.”In the artist’s works, the common faces and imperfect bodies of those “lower orders” became the faces and bodies of saints and apostles – even Christ Himself.In his 1633 etching of The Good Samaritan one cannot help but notice the dog in the foreground squatting to perform a natural function. One writer noted that Rembrandt seemed intent on showing that Christians must have reverence for all life, even if aspects of it occasionally disgust him.

Last week I was reminded of the importance of revering all of life.My encounter was not one that involved anything close to being disgusting. It was quite the contrary; however, it was an encounter which took me outside my comfort zone.

It all began when one of my husband’s business contacts gave him a DVD of a singer/pastor who recently moved his ministry to Phoenix.With apologies to my few Spanish-speaking friends, I confess that my exposure to Hispanic music had yet to extend beyond snippets of stereotypical Hispanic radio. My husband and I were reluctant, but we popped in the DVD one night. Talk about being humbled!The singer and his band were incredible musical artists and the sincerity and beautiful imagery of the lyrics blew us away. Even the necessity of subtitles didn’t hamper our awed enthusiasm. We listened to the entire DVD, and on Friday we invited friends to join us at a live concert.

There were no subtitles at the concert, which made it a rather tedious endeavor at times. However, there was also no denying the treasure to be found there.I’m sure I still don’t see (or hear) to the depth of those like the pastor or Rembrandt, but I was truly convicted about my willingness to venture beyond my comfort zone in order to encounter meaningful beauty.But don’t take my word for it. Allow me to introduce you to Jesus Adrian Romero.These are a couple of videos I found with subtitles, but I highly recommend listening to “Esperame” (Expect Me) even without the subtitles.It’s gorgeous.

My world seems so chaotic sometimes that I tend to treasure the smallest threads of connectivity. I just finished reading Timothy Keller’s The Reason for God: Belief in an Age of Skepticism. In it, Keller quotes Ann Rice, author of Interview With the Vampire. Interview was the last book I read before The Reason for God. He also quotes Flannery O’Conner. Again, I started my summer by reading O’Conner’s The Violent Bear It Away. He also quotes from another one of my favorite books, Bono in Conversation With Michka Assayas. I’ve been telling people about this book for the last five years and getting raised eyebrows in return. Finally! Someone (besides you, Doug H.) who “gets it!” And he quotes C.S. Lewis extensively and acknowledges being inspired by Jonathan Edwards. Yes, two more of my favorite author/thinkers.

Obviously, Mr. Keller and I are on the same page (pardon the pun) when it comes to literature. But I would be doing him and his excellent book a great disservice if I only remarked on our common tastes in books. These are only nice coincidences that I happen to find cheering at the moment. The Reason for God opened my eyes to many things. The section on forgiveness is alone enough reason to buy the book.