Bus Ride . . .

It's time for school again; big yellow buses prowl streets and roads, picking up students here, letting them off there, all according to schedule. Once in awhile when the bus comes, a child is slow to climb up the steps into the bus, tentative, unsure.
Most kids climb aboard confidently though, with hardly a look back. That first day is exciting -- a heady combination of old friends and new adventures.
I'm a little jealous of any kid lucky enough to be going back to school. How exciting to learn new things!
Part of me wishes I could line up at the pencil sharpener, listen to the teacher give instructions to “turn in your social studies book to page 212 where you'll find a map of Africa,” then hurry back to my seat to learn more about that mysterious continent.
In school, teachers map out our learning adventures. As adults, we are responsible for the map and the adventure.
That is why this year, as kids I know go back to school, I'm setting some learning goals. I want to be part of a life-long community of learners, whether that's in a formal setting or one I create for myself.
Curiosity drives the learner's itinerary as surely as it drives a travelers; the trick is to be deliberate and specific about setting goals, so that I actually accomplish knowledge and skill along the way.
Curiosity about water gardens might lead to a study of basic botany or weather patterns. Curiosity about photography might lead to a study of light or lighting requirements for photography, or how light is portrayed by painters. Curiosity about one of Shakespeare's plays might lead to a word study or an investigation of the War of the Roses or maybe a study of everyday life in Elizabethan England.
Curiosity is a path with branches in every direction.
We just have to choose one, get on the big yellow bus, and go.

Daybook . . .

What does it mean to be discontent?
To be restless? Jealous or envious? Bitter or complaining? Ungrateful?
Probably it's a nasty brew of all of the above.
How can we be content when all around us we see things we want to do, to be, to have – and we can't, or we aren't, or we don't?
Contentment calls us to satisfaction with what we have and with what we are – but we are hardly ever satisfied. How do we keep from wanting what we don't have or can't get?
It is possible for us to see something we want and don't have, and still be content by turning our longing into positive action toward a goal.
But discontent isn't interested in working toward a goal. Discontent is only satisfied with sighing, envy, and a subtle sense of entitlement.
I should have a bigger house, I think. And probably a nicer car, and maybe a cleaning lady. And why are my kids so whiny? Kathy's kids don't whine. They should appreciate everything I do for them. I've practically given up everything fun to be their mom, so why don't they show a little more respect?
Sigh.
I tend to fall into discontent when I'm tired or overwhelmed. Self-pity can play a part, but probably ingratitude is the thing that pitches me into discontent most quickly.
When I fail to keep track of good things in my life by thanking God for them, I tend to take them for granted. I'm tempted to dismiss their significance. Even things I just knew would make me happy forever pale relatively quickly!
I allow myself to complain about things instead of evaluating them fairly and trying to improve them. Or I refuse to make changes God is calling me to make – and the price for my disobedience is a restlessness that gives birth to discontent.
I need a measure of maturity to be content: I need to be able to rejoice with those who rejoice – be happy for friends who enjoy more than I have. I need to be able to cultivate a thankful heart. I need to give up the expectations or desires that God asks me to give up. I need to take responsibility for choices I've made without complaining about the parts that are harder than I expected.
In return I experience the peace that comes with contentment.
********
This morning I was catching up on some correspondence when the doorbell rang. Meg was barking ferociously and dancing around the front door, so I hurried to see who was there.
Two women – one older, tired looking in the heat; one very young, really a child – were waiting. The older woman carried a briefcase, and when I opened the door she smiled a big smile and launched into her speech about how the Creator had made everything good and lovely, and wouldn't I like to read more about it in The Watchtower magazines she wanted to share with me.
I wasn't rude to her, but neither was I kind. I didn't offer her a cup of cold water, even though it is hot already outside, and humid. I missed an opportunity to smile at her and affirm that God is a good God, even though we disagree on so many other issues of doctrine.
I wasn't rude to her, but neither was I kind, and now I am sorry for it.
********
I was talking with someone else this morning who told me of a conversation with a loved one who blames God for everything bad that is happening in the world today.
I wonder, does he also thank God and give Him credit for everything good ?

Appliance Musings

It was the refrigerator that started it this time.
We bought a new refrigerator from Sears several weeks ago. We're pleased with it; it keeps our food at the correct temperature and it looks good, too.
The problem isn't the refrigerator; it's the warranty – or rather, the fact that we didn't purchase one.
We almost never pay for an extended warranty. Call us gamblers – we just don't buy them.
This must be hard for Sears to believe, because they keep on calling. The latest call came just this morning as I was elbow deep in a closet putting things away, when the phone rang.
“Hello, may I speak to John Shoo – Sur- Shur -”
“John isn't here. May I ask who is calling?” I said.
“Oh, hello. Is this Mrs. Shoo – Sur – Shur “
“This is Mrs. Schurter,” I said.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Sur-ter,” he said in broken English. “I'm calling today to ask how you like that nice new refrigerator you recently purchased from Sears.”
“I like it very much,” I said, and sighed, knowing what was coming next.
Sure enough, the next thing my caller wanted to know was “Do you know you can still purchase an extended warranty?“
Before he could finish I said – as politely as I could - “Yes, I know about the extended warranty; I think you're the fifty-ninth person to call me to ask if I want one. We still haven't changed our minds about buying it, but thank you for the offer.”
(Fifty nine might have been a slight exaggeration, but not by much.)
“Oh, dear,” he said. “It is a wonderful deal. I'm sorry you don't wish to purchase it. I'll try to make sure no one else calls, though.”
“That would be great,” I said, thinking I might be willing to pay him if he could stop the warranty sales calls.
I wonder how much less our new refrigerator might have cost if Sears wasn't supporting such a large warranty sales staff . . .


********

Speaking of our new refrigerator, we've got all the magnets, cartoons, and advertising/special offer/pizza coupons attached to the front and sides, so now it looks like our own.
Why do we do that? Why can't we just leave the refrigerator – at least the outside of it – in pristine, unadorned condition?
Why do we feel the need to turn the refrigerator into a family billboard?
When I think of what I should take off, though, I'm stumped.
Certainly not the photographs of people I love – although I'm picky about which photographs I put on the refrigerator; they tend to fall off and tear or get dirty, so I don't put up too many photos.
Certainly not the magnets that remind me of vacations we've taken or that have some connection to people I love, or the cartoons that make me laugh inside every time I see them.
Certainly not the telephone numbers of local restaurants or pizza coupons – how would we eat?
And certainly not the cards that say things I want to remember, like “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”
Grandma Schurter didn't put too much on her refrigerator, at least not when they lived out on the farm. Her kitchen was long and narrow, with several big windows that let in a lot of light. The ceiling was high; the cabinets were tall, and everything was arranged efficiently. Grandma used colorful contact paper to protect the wall over the sink and stove, and to add a pretty touch to the work space where she regularly turned out pies, cinnamon rolls, and dinners.
What she did have was index cards with pithy sayings or Scripture verses she'd written out, taped to the space between the sink and the windows that looked out on the back yard and the fields beyond.
Your dad has often said that Grandma didn't have to say much; she just changed those index cards as needed. Whatever they said always seemed to speak to what was happening at the time.
Some of you have some of those cards; I think Amy has a framed set of them. I don't know if Grandma kept them and rotated them, or if she wrote them out as they came to mind. Someone found some of them, though, and thought they would be good to keep.
I'm glad Grandma found such a creative way to keep good words in front of her family, and that those good words did the work they were meant to do.
Maybe the refrigerator doesn't look so bad, after all.

Meg

There was a piece on tonight's NBC Nightly News about how much people are willing to spend on their pet's health care.
I wanted to cover Meg's ears during the debate.
Meg is our golden retriever. She has been part of our family for the past eight or so years. I'm pretty sure she thinks she is one of our children.
This would be because she is the last one home. All of our human kids have places of their own now; Meg is the one who is still here, waiting to welcome them all home again.
Which she does, with great joy. When she hears a car on the drive, she wakes up, goes to the door, then turns around to go get a gift for the new arrival. Socks, bones, small toys one of the grandkids left lying around – she doesn't care what, so long as she has something to offer someone at the door. Her tail wags, her face smiles – she knows how to welcome someone home.
With dog wisdom, Meg teaches me a lot about what it means to love, to welcome, to trust. She is patient with our busyness, although occasionally we rate her cold shoulder. She is curious, eager to sniff out whatever is just around the corner. She is gentle, curling herself around our infant grandchildren, just in case they might need protection. She listens, without condemnation or criticism.
When it storms, she's right there with me in the basement, and when the sun shines she waits by the window, hoping for a trip to the backyard.
Do you suppose angels ever take the form of golden retrievers?

Ordinary Time

This is “ordinary time.”
Who knew ordinary time had a liturgical season all its own? It makes sense, though, since we spend so much of our lives in “ordinary time.”
Maybe the reason we don't pay much attention to this season is it doesn't have great music like Christmas or Easter. What hymns or spiritual songs remind you of “ordinary time?”
How about “He Leadeth Me” or perhaps my favorite “Be Thou My Vision” - those songs certainly speak to the every-dailiness of our faith.
Instead of Christmas candles, ordinary time is illuminated by early light and summer sun, or by lightning bugs and moonlight. Instead of oratorios, ordinary time is lived out to the music of daily life, the rhythm of laundry, cooking, errands, and gardening.

It's the pleasures – and difficulties – of finding joy in one another and in the ordinary things of life.
Sometimes we take ordinary days for granted: familiar pleasures, the repetition of happy routines, the comfort of being close to well loved people and places.
But it is in “ordinary time” that we begin to understand what life is for, and how good it can be – not always easy, not always exciting, but always filled with quiet joy and love for those who take time to see life for what it is.
It is in “ordinary time” that we learn to live.

Drawing for Fun

Speaking of fun – I've been drawing again, or at least, thinking about drawing.
I'm so bad at it, but it's so fun!
I love color, and line, and image. From the time Mrs. Rickey began sharing “The Great Artists” with our second grade class, I've admired what artists can communicate.
I just seem to be artistically inarticulate.
Throughout grade school someone – I think it was the local American Legion – sponsored a “Poppy Poster” contest. We were supposed to create a poster explaining and celebrating the poppies of Flanders Field, and what they said about the sacrifices of our veterans.
Every year I thought a lot about what I wanted my poster to 'say' and how to express that thought. I tried to draw neatly and realistically, but somehow I always seemed to misjudge the size of my poster board, or create unattractively crooked lettering; my posters always looked, well, pathetic.
Every year my friend Millie won.
She was a natural artist with a great eye for perspective and a lot of good ideas. She deserved to win, and I was glad for her – kind of! I was also jealous and worried about why I couldn't ever draw anything or do things well.
A few years ago, though, I wanted to try a nature journal. Ignoring that persistent voice that said “but you can't draw anything” I tried looking at objects as a collection of lines and shading. It helped – sort of! I was able to draw objects that were almost recognizable. Some of them even had helpful detail so I could remember later on just what it was I had drawn.
Pushing down my Poppy Poster memories, I've drawn and sketched a little bit from time to time, and every time I'm so excited when something comes out reasonably well (my standards aren't too high.)
I've learned I like to play with pastel crayons and charcoal pencils, or even just sketch something out with a pen when I'm on the phone. None of it is “good” in a traditional artistic sense, but what's good about it is the kick I get from trying, from just having fun with it.
Maybe that's the true meaning of play – just trying; just having fun, no matter how it turns out.
Which brings up those piano “lessons” . . .

Summer

Spring seems to have fled.
These warm and warmer days have crowded it out; corn shoots up in the fields, and already a dry, dusty film covers grass and shrubs.
Cicadas drone in wooded areas, though we don't hear them much in town yet. We are almost at the longest day of the year, and it makes me sad to think of days shortened even by a few minutes, already.
We could use a bit of rain, to wash things off and wet them down. In the afternoons the corn leaves curl up ever so slightly, and each evening stays warmer than the last. Soon we'll have used up the cool air in the basement; the humidity will make it as sticky and uncomfortable as the air outside.
It's the kind of weather that makes me want to go to the swimming pool, to play corner tag and practice diving; I want to lounge on the screened in porch with a long romantic book and read all afternoon; I want to sip sweet tea and visit with friends in the back yard after a light summer supper of tomatoes and sweet corn.
I don't do those things, mostly, because I have responsibilities, duties, chores.
I don't do those things, mostly, because I've grown up and it seems wrong, somehow, to spend the whole day playing.
I don't do those things, mostly, because I've forgotten just how much fun summer can be . . .

First Light

First light in spring is one of my favorite things.
Here in the midwest, in May and June first light makes waking up more of a pleasure than almost any other time of year.
The song sparrow in our pine tree seems to sing the light into our window; he is the first one awake, and must take joy in waking up the rest of the world.
What could be better than waking to music like that?
The light seems shy at first, but gathers strength quickly, boldly overtaking the corners of our bedroom, insistently calling us out of bed. We respond with more enthusiasm, perhaps, than we do when winter's later light takes its time in coming.
First light in the spring calls us, calls us to get up, hurry up, come see what is new in the garden, in the yard, in the creek – roses budding? buttercups in the grass? baby ducks taking an early morning swimming lesson?
What was the real first light – the light God called into being with a word – like?
Did it wake up excitement in Him? Did He savor it awhile, or did it call Him to hurry up and create something else? Did that first light shine with possibility, too?
Lying in bed, watching first light move across the curtain, then the ceiling, I wonder about that other first light, and the One who created them both, and my heart sings along with the song sparrow.

Graduation Notes

Emma graduated from 8th grade this evening.
Many schools no longer mark this milestone. An 8th grade diploma used to be significant; it used to be the end game for a lot of students.
Now it's just one more stop on the educational road.
When Emma was 6 or 7 years old, we were out walking one evening after dinner. I was there to help with a new baby in the house, and we were ready to stretch our legs.
We walked across the road, choosing a paved trail that led us past a lagoon where trees hung over the trail on one side and into the lagoon on the other. Before we got to the lagoon, though, we could see something seemed amiss: the trees appeared to be hung with something white, as though older kids had tee-peed them.
As we got closer we realized the something white was white cranes, perched on every limb and branch they could find. There was a hush over the lagoon; only our footsteps sounded in the early evening air.
Suddenly the cranes – all of them – took flight. They lifted into the air like a cloud, momentarily blocking out the sky. The trees turned green again, and the cranes were gone.
Emma and I looked at one another, speechless for a moment. Then she said, “Grandma, I won't ever forget this.”
It would have been easy to chalk up the cranes as one more learning experience, to launch into a lecture about their feeding habits or instruct Emma in the fine art of careful observation. I didn't have the heart for it, though.
Moments like that, moments of wonder and beauty - well, they are what they are. Whether it's a graduation or a wealth of cranes, all you can do is hold your breath at the wonder of it.

Anniversaries and Celebrations

Today is Kristen and Ted's anniversary.
I'm not sure what they are doing to celebrate, but I hope they're making time to do something fun, and remembering their delightful wedding day. Even though the florist had the wrong day and the organist forgot to come, some peonies from the front yard and a sister's expertise with a classical CD meant everything went just fine – better than fine!
Kristen was a gorgeous bride. She glowed and sparkled with joy. And who could forget Ted's smile when he saw her walking down the aisle on her dad's arm?
Anniversaries and celebrations are important. We need to remember good times and happy occasions the same way we need a blanket in cold weather – both good memories and blankets warm us up, keep us cozy.
Scripture teaches us that it's important to remember what has gone on before, both in our personal lives and in the whole long history of the faith.
It's important to remember because it minimizes our need to re-learn important things that those who've gone before us have learned.
It's important to remember because it allows us to re-live our joys and remember God's faithfulness.
It's important to remember because, in remembering, we re-value the things that mean most to us.
So get out those photograph albums, scrapbooks, and old videos. Set out the souvenirs, and talk about the memories.
Get warm and cozy. Remember.