Consider This . . .

Consider this "What If" –

Human societies draw a line. And we say "cross this line" and we will fight you, go to war with you, kill you . . . through the Ages. It’s the Human Way. We protect our own.

And so it goes.

Freedom isn’t free; right? Right.

Societies need their "warriors" to protect the rest of us. Me, for example, who can hardly bear to kill a bug. Thank God there are "warriors" to fight my serious battles.

But, What If –

What IF – literally, really, all the time, everyone – relinquished that responsibility to God?

What IF – we did as He instructs and allowed Him to fight our battles for us?

What IF – ALWAYS we LOVED our ENEMIES.?

What IF – ALWAYS we DID GOOD to those who DISPITEFULLY USE US?

How long would the killing continue?

Would God intervene like He did with Daniel in the lion’s den? Or with Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego? Or when He parted the Red Sea?

But then, we’ll never know . . . will we?

　 Sarah

Ponderings . . . Something Cannot Come From Nothing (03/18/2015)

Something cannot come from nothing . . .

            "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth . . . "

Who created God?

             "I Am that I Am . . . "

A timeless statement. Incorporating yesterday, today, tomorrow. A forever statement. A "present" statement. "He" is now . . . always has been. No beginning, no end.

God is Ultimate Love. AND Ultimate Logic.

? ? ? ? ?

A circle has no beginning and no end . . .

* * * * *

There is something to grasp here. I’m not sure what.

Listening to the Music . . .

Sitting with my coffee next to the fireplace starting my day with some scripture reading and thanking God for my many blessings -- Easy Listening music on the TV (as always) and "I'm a Dreamer, Aren't We All" interrupts my thought and my thankfulness immediately turns to the sound --

Thank you, God, for the music. How can twelve little notes create such a beautiful variety of melodies? And where would we be without the music? . . .

Except . . .

There’s been an addition this past week. A little "chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp."

What kind of little bird is that, anyway? And how did he get in the house?

Oh, wait. It’s NOT a bird. It’s that thing in the ceiling down the hall and outside my bedroom. That alarm thing for smoke or carbon monoxide or something. There’s actually three of these round things up there in that hall ceiling . . .

And one of them is "chirping" because . . .

Because . . . I think . . . the battery needs changing.

Except my daughter was over a couple of days ago and heard it and climbed on the step stool and put in a new battery. I thought.

But the chirping continued.

So the next day I got up on the step stool and pulled off the cover. But there were no batteries inside – just a bunch of multi-colored plastic coated wires. Hmmmm.

So that evening I called son John, Master Fixer of Everything. Explained – or tried to – what was going on.

"Where do I put the new batteries?"

"You don’t.  It’s an old unit, over ten years old."

"So, then, I should just go to Home Depot and replace . . . "

"No, you can’t do that."

"Well, can’t I just take it with me and show them . . . "

"No, you can’t. Unless you want me to have to replace all the wiring."

"What?"

"Just leave it alone. I have to come over there and fix it."

"Oh . . . "

* * * *
So, for now, the chirping continues.

Adds kind of an interesting . . . unusual addition to the music . . . I reckon.

Ode to Innocence . . . (*)

So here you are . . . leader of the group . . . in this little community.

It’s not New York City and no one here is going to win a Rhodes Scholarship, but life is good. Simple, mostly, but good. And you definitely are the leader. Everyone looks to you to solve disputes. And protect them. And you do. You are the strong and mighty one. The respected leader.

But then the invaders come one last time. You fight them off and that gives the others time to run to safety. But they are many. And you are one.

Finally, they overcome you. And leave you dying in the jungle.

But not before -- to add to the unspeakable horror of it all -- they cut off your hands . . .and head . . . and take them to display as trophies.

A few hours later, the little group reassembles. They sit. And wait. For their leader.

But he never comes.

What must they think? How do they cope? (The movie (*) showed this scene. I found it heartbreaking trying to imagine how they felt and what they thought .)

* * * * *

And then, a few years later, someone did the same thing to the woman who loved them and fought for them . . . She was 53 years old.

* * * * *

In Rwanda Dian Fossey and Digit rest side by side in their graves in the Virunga Mountains.

(*) NPT Documentary, June 2013, "The Lost Film of Dian Fossey," (repeat).

I Found A Place . . . (written Oct 26, 2014)

Every . . . thing . . . matters,” says Andy Andrews (Christian motivational speaker/author). I agree. It matters that I am here at this time and place.

Moving to Ridgeport Subdivision in 2010, I was delighted to see two churches just up the road from me at the corner of Duplex and Hwy 31. I often spent Saturday night/Sunday with 1 of 4 grown children attending their large charismatic churches. (They all live 10-20 miles from me) So it wasn’t until sometime last year I finally ventured forth to visit – starting with Spring Hill Methodist Church.

I never got across the street . . .

From the first visit I have felt at home, at peace, within these walls. From the friendliness of the people, to the music that brings tears to my eyes every week because it takes me back to the songs of my childhood and memories of my parents. Church and parents who taught me always to “seek” the truth, don’t judge others, turn the other cheek.”

And then, of course, there’s the uplifting and thoughtful messages presented by our pastor. Again, almost always bringing a tear to my eyes or a grin to my face because of the poignant or quirky examples he references. I come seeking spiritual food. And I get it.

Pastor Keith always manages to bring to our attention issues that are relevant to the times in which we live. What a blessing he is to this community.

The teaching, the music, the loving acceptance . . . it is all part of a special spirit that fills this place . . . I think it’s called “Holy” . . .

God Bless Pastor Keith and God Bless SHUMC

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way . . . (11/14/2014)

. . to the surprise birthday.

"Mimi, did you burn something in the kitchen?" Bonnie asked as she stuck her head in the living room.

"No, why; what are you talking about? I baked a cake and I have some home-made soup simmering on the stove."

I put my laptop down, got up from the couch, and headed back to the kitchen I had left 15 minutes earlier after spending several hours preparing tonight’s dinner.

Entering the kitchen, I nearly stumbled over the floor fan that was whirring busily in the middle of the floor and felt the blast of cold air blowing in from the opened door of the kitchen.

"What’s going on?" I asked.
.
"We’re trying to air out the kitchen from the burnt smell."

"What burnt smell? I don’t smell anything," I replied as I walked over and lifted the lid from the big pot of soup simmering on the stove. Taking the big spoon ladle from the counter, I dipped it into the soup and stirred slightly.

Whoops, I thought, as the spoon touched the bottom and I realized it did, in fact, have a layer of food stuck to the bottom. I grabbed a small bowl and dished up a big spoonful into it.

"Tastes fine; the pot is just burned on the bottom," I replied. "We can just pour the soup off into another pot and leave the scorched bottom to soak."

I had scorched the bottom of the pot making soups and sauces a few times in my life. No big deal.

Bonnie and Mike exchanged perplexed looks.

* * * * *

I’d spent the night at Jake and Bev’s (son and D-I-L) and we had discussed the menu the night before. I would go to Krogers the next morning (today) and buy everything to make chicken/vegetable/rice soup and then stir up a single layer chocolate cake with cream cheese icing. Mmmmmm, just the right thing for this sudden turn of cold weather we were having.

Unbeknownst to Jake, this was going to be an early birthday surprise dinner. As far as he knew while we were making these plans on Wedneday night, however, tomorrow’s dinner was just a regular Thursday night with kids popping in and out and, oh, isn’t it great that mom decided to stay over and cook homemade soup the next day.

Ha!

Bev had left the list of food to buy when she left for work the next morning and I bundled and trundled over to Krogers. Once home, I started my chopping and dicing and stirring and simmering and baking.

I had chopped up bite-size chicken pieces and dropped them and three cans of broth into the big pot and once it got simmering, added the other ingredients as I got them chopped. Switching the burner from "Med" to "Lo" once each ingredient began to simmer. Then turned the burner to one notch above "Lo". I thought.

Then I mixed up the cake and baked it. It was now cooling on the counter.

Finally, around 2 p.m., my cooking chores complete, I headed for the living room and my Lap Top to connect with Cyperspace once more.

* * * * *

Bonnie and Mike (her boyfriend) continued their clean up activities (Bev had asked them to stop by and straighten up the house before our special dinner that evening). Then they left.

Once they were gone, I closed the kitchen door to the outdoors, turned off the floor fan, and put it away. And returned to the living room to check e-mail once again.

Less than an hour after Bonnie and Mike left, Bev got home from work. She commented on the smell. I explained what had happened. She dipped a spoon into the soup.

"Oh, Mom, it’s burned, really burned. I can taste it."

"Oh, no, please. Are you sure? I tasted it. I didn’t taste anything burned or scorched. It tasted delicious to me."

"No, Mom, really; I’m sorry, but it’s burned. Really."

About that time, Jake arrived home. He noticed the ‘burned smell’ as he entered the house. We filled him in on the conversation. Of course he grabbed a spoon, as well, for his own taste test.

"Yep; it’s burnt, Mom. I mean, really burnt."

"I just can’t believe this. I don’t understand. I put the burner on one notch above "Lo" and it has been simmering for a couple of hours."

Bev and Jake both hugged me because I was beginning to tear up.

"It’s okay, mom; really. This stove is funny. It cooks hotter than you think. Really, it’s okay. We’ll order pizza. No big deal."

But it was. A big deal. To me. I had wanted to make a delicious home-made soup; a special home-made dinner for my son. For his surprise birthday.

Maybe it will be a funny story . . . some day.

But not today.

* * * *

There is a happy ending to the story, however In fact, a very special wonderful ending.

It goes like this –

Jake loves cameras and photography and takes pictures wherever he goes. Some of his equipment has been broken or not working properly for some time and he comes home from work and searches online and studies books on cameras and photography. Relaxes in bed looking and studying. Almost every night.

Bev had wanted to surprise him this year with this special camera he wanted. But they didn’t really have the money. A few weeks ago she was talking with Skyler, one of Jeff’s close friends, who had become like another family member. (Jeff is Bev’s son from first marriage). Sky now works at the Sheriff’s Dept. He stopped by recently, as usual, and Bev mentioned she had an old antique gun her father had given her. She showed it to Sky. He said he wanted to buy it. Even though it was a $500 gun.

Bev was thrilled; this could go towards the camera. Maybe she could scrape up enough money after all.

Unfortunately, a few days later, Sky called to say he couldn’t afford to buy it now, after all.

Jeff just happened to be there that day and when Bev hung up the call, she explained to Jeff what she had hoped to do.

"Let’s just pray about this, Mom." Let’s just ask God to some how – some way – provide the money so you can get this for Jake."

So they held hands and prayed. And Jeff left.

About 20 minutes later, Jeff called. "Mom, mom," he was almost shouting, "you’re not gonna believe this. Guess who just called me."

"Okay . . . who?"

"Dad. Dad called. And he’s sending you a check for $2700 for the back child support."

"OHMYGOSH, Jeff! That is amazing. It’s more than amazing. It’s a miracle."

(Need to explain here that Phil, Jeff’s dad, has not worked in two years and so has been unable to pay his Child Support.).

Bev purchased the camera with all the proper attachments. It cost $3000.

* * * * *

After our v - e - r - y special dinner last night, with all the kids and me and Bev’s mom present, Bev left the room and came back with a big wrapped box.

"Oh, by the way, Jake, this came in the mail yesterday so I thought we’d celebrate your birthday early. Hope you don’t mind."

Jake looked questioningly at Bev for an instant before he started opening the present.

Then . . .

I wish you could have seen the look on my son’s face . . .



(*) names are ficticious; events are true.

I'll Be Seeing You . . .

"I’ll Be Seeing You"–

Reincarnation. Is there such a thing?

Who knows for sure. All I know is I am here, now. If I lived before, I don’t know. Will I return as someone else? Will I know if I do? Unanswered questions common to the human mind, I reckon.

All I know about is living now the best way I know how. Whatever else there is, whatever else there may be . . . will be.

BUT . . .

There it is again. That song. On Easy Listening.

They play it often, but that’s okay with me because it is one of my favorites. That and White Cliffs of Dover. So many others, too, from the WWII era but these are my BFF (Best Favorites Forever).

We didn’t have a car for much of my early childhood. Mom and I would ride the bus to Woodward (in Detroit, Michigan) and take a streetcar down to the RKO Theater to meet my dad on a Friday night, eat sandwiches and hot fudge sundaes at Sanders next to the theater, and then watch TWO movies with cartoons and News in-between.

Then we would take the streetcar and bus back home. Usually a couple of times a month. Beautiful memories.

But the feelings in my spirit/soul are so strong, so deep – when I hear this music. My heart is squeezed so tight, and hurts so good, it pushes the water out my eyes. Every time. No matter where. No matter when.

Almost like I was there . . . once . . . and I am remembering my soldier love.

Normal childhood remembrances of movies and music of the times?

Maybe, maybe not . . .