In Which We Find Much Water

It's been a funny winter in Ohio. Warm and very, very wet. That's not a good combination for folks who's basement seems to attract water.

We've been sump pumping like crazy for a month straight.

This is the best thing I've found about all this water. The "new swimming pool" behind the "old swimming pool" looks quite pretty early in the morning as the sun rises.

Sweet Hour of Prayer

Scott and I used to play a game on long car trips. I would hum a few bars of a hymn and try to stump him. No matter how far into the recesses of my childhood church hymnal I would reach, he would always be able to sing it. Most of the time he knew all the words. I don’t think I ever won that game.

Old hymns play a big part of my faith heritage.

I recently bought a 3 CD set of instrumental hymns. I stuck it in my computer at work today and went about my business. It was on pretty low, just barely audible, when suddenly I was transported back to Woodhill Baptist Church.

It was a church my dad started when I was about 9. We met in the backside of a strip shopping center in Lexington, KY. It was a dingy, cold place. The only two windows in the storefront were at the entrance, but our “sanctuary” for worship faced the back, and was obscured by a wall that had been constructed to make Sunday School “rooms.” We sat in metal folding chairs. There was no carpet that I can remember. To me, it felt like the fartherest thing from church possible.

The only musical instrument we had was a small organ - you know the kind. . .old women over 80 have one in their parlors. Joan somebody was our organist. If she wasn’t there, we were on our own.

Joan was never there on Wednesday night for Prayer Meeting. But Jeff Hensley was. He could only play one song - and then, only very haltingly. His entire repoitore consisted of “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” Lucky for us, it fit for prayer meeting. Good thing, because we sang it every Wednesday night for several years. He would haltingly plunk it out and we would patiently try and sing.

“Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
That calls me from a world of care,
And bids me at my Father’s throne
Make all my wants and wishes known.
In seasons of distress and grief,
My soul has often found relief
And oft escaped the tempter’s snare
By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!”

When I heard the song quietly coming out of my computer speakers today the only prayer I could say was “thank you.” For all the baggage the Baptist church encumbered me with I still have a deep appreciation for the roots of my faith. And I still have a deep appreciation for the smallest gifts of faith, shared with hope.

The Night Visitor

I saw these prints this morning, crossing our pool cover. The little critter, whatever it was, came to the heated birdbath to get a drink on this frosty morning.

First Cables

My first cables! It's actually much easier than it looks, although it feels a little like wrestling a porcupine with that extra double pointed needle hanging out!

Just a simple scarf in 100% Andes wool. I found a cabled hat pattern that I will try next to make a matching set!

A Test of Faith

I was in line at the customer service counter at WalMart yesterday afternoon. I use the term “customer service” loosely. There were about 16 of us in line and only one lonely, stressed out looking clerk, eyeing the line of impatient customers and growing more and more agitated.

Of course I was in a hurry. The night before, I had gone to WalMart to get a few things. When I got home I realized that my checkout clerk had neglected to give me my cold medicine and pasta sauce. I was a bit peeved. I called the store and they told me they would hold my items and I could come and pick them up. (If it were truly customer service wouldn’t they bring them to you, since it was their fault??? But I digress.)

In line ahead of me was an adorable baby. Blue eyes. Curious. Pacifier. She was adorable until she smiled and the pacifier fell out of her face and bounced across the floor. Her grandmother wasn’t going to stuff that pacifier back into her mouth after being on the floor. . .and the adorable little girl began to wail. One of those interminable, seemingly without breath, skin peeling squalls.

I took a deep breath.

Behind me in line was a young couple with a five year old little boy. They were letting him “drive” the cart. He kept “driving” it into the back of my legs.

I tried not to turn around, lest I say something very un-pastorly.

At that moment my cell phone rang. With absolutely no entertainment but each other, everyone looked at me. It was a text message that read:

“Here is a test of faith: if u love God and ur not Ashamed of Him, send this to ten people and watch what he does 4 u tonight.”

I almost laughed out loud! First of all, I hate getting those kinds of messages. I don’t believe that God is involved in the kind of faith that resembles a gumball machine – insert your coin (pass along some ridiculous email message; pray some prayer designed to make you healthy, wealthy and wise; put enough money into the offering plate to insure your eternal life; ad nauseam) and out comes whatever it is you think you’ve twisted God’s arm into doing for you.

For more than a couple of minutes that text message really got under my skin! I didn’t know who it came from or I might have called him or her up and said, “Ya wanna know what a test of faith really is?? It’s standing in line at WalMart with 16 other people who are driving me crazy and trying not to be impatient and unkind!”

I thought a few more things about grandparents who don’t have a backup pacifier on the ready and young parents who let their children drive carts while we are all standing still. . .but then I had a new thought about faith. The next part of that email said, “if u love God.”

I wasn’t being too loving at the moment.

Someone very wise taught me to challenge myself in just these kinds of situations. “What does God love about the people you are impatient with right now?” That’s a killer question.

It killed my impatience.

God loves that clerk’s diligence. God loves that baby’s innocence and need. God loves that little boy’s energy.

And God loves whoever sent me that text message.

Mirror Image

I got the most amazing Christmas present from V. It’s a Nikon D-50 digital camera. Probably way too much camera for someone who doesn’t know much about photography. . .but I’m completely intrigued.

I snapped this photo this weekend when I went to visit my family in Kentucky.



It was almost an accidental shot. I didn’t really think about the image and what it represented until it downloaded onto my computer screen this morning. When the file opened it jabbed at my heart and filled me with a strange combination of thanksgiving and grief.

My grandparents don’t know me anymore. They look healthy. They laugh and are as kind and open as they ever were. They love each other. They love me.

But, interacting with them can go no deeper than an image in a mirror.

I hear lots of people talk about learning to live in the moment. I understand the value of living in today – in letting yesterday go and not worrying about tomorrow. But, in my grandparents that idea takes on a whole new dimension. This moment is all they have.

I grieve for what I remember. But, I am filled with thanks that they are still the best of what they were. Their lives have been distilled and stripped down to their essence. And this morning, as I look at myself in the mirror, I saw the faces of my family in my own face, and I gave thanks for whatever today will bring.