The title of the last post could also work for this post. Or: "New Glasses"

I got glasses when I was 15, during the week of fireworks tent. (Or around that time. I always remember fireworks tent.) Since then, I've considered them a necessary evil. I have hereditarily poor vision. (Is that a word?!) And, yes, I do like to blame most of what makes me me on my family: my sense of humor, my creativity, my preference to country living, my green thumb, my poor vision and teeth.... You name it, it's their fault. (All you biology buffs are sitting there going, "Um, duh? You think?")

But I digress.

Glasses! For a while now I've been kind of needing to get a new pair. My left eye is considerably worse (I'm telling you, it's all this time I spend in front of a computer screen blogging), to the point where the glasses don't really even help that side of my vision. Not significantly.

Mom's been planning on getting the family in for eye appointments, but we hadn't yet because there was no pressing need and then we were in the middle of moving.

Then I created a pressing need. All by myself.

By the way, my habit of misplacing things is also hereditary.

It happened last Thursday....

 

*cue "back in time" theme and imagine everything is hazy and wavery*

 

I was minding my own business, checking up on...stuff at the old house for Mom between work and errands before babysitting. Out of necessity, I removed my glasses and set them on the kitchen counter, next to my phone and keys. I finished my work and returned to my car. I'd forgot to grab my keys and had to return inside to get them from the counter. I was almost to the end of the street when I realized I didn't have my glasses. I turned around in the last driveway on the left and returned to the old house and the kitchen counter.

My glasses weren't there.

Cue 20 minutes of huffing and puffing and using the strongest language within my homeschooler vocabulary (which amounts to "stupid", a gross insult and very severe when I stoop to using it).

Let me digress briefly again.

My body's natural vent for any form of extreme emotion - be it fury or joy or frustration or sorrow - is tears. I'm ashamed of the fact, and whenever my body decides that it must resort to such a method to ease its suffering, I get more frustrated and cry more. The only emotion that doesn't result in a waterfall is a very specific sort of fed-up anger. In that case, I bite my lip and glare and huff like a mad bull. I think some people call this "fuming".

Back to the story:

So after ten minutes or so of checking every possible location in the house - and I hadn't gone far - and not finding my glasses, I called Mom. Who was out of town.

She told me to calm down. I cried that I was calm. Very gently, she asked if I'd checked my face. Blubbering and laughing at the same time, I confirmed that I had. I'm accustomed to discovering that the things I've misplaced are often in plain sight, so I checked my face and head with my hands and in my car mirror when I went out there to see if I'd actually brought my glasses with me in the first place.

Mom ran me through every possible solution. I checked in drawers and cabinets, under the stove and fridge, in the bathroom, in a couple boxes sitting in the entry waiting to go to the trash. No glasses anywhere. I ran my hand all over the counter in case my eyesight was worse than I thought and my glasses were right there in front of me. No luck.

In the end, Dad had to come bail me out. He'd been on his way already, but he came a little early and put his new training to use by doing a whole and systematic sweep of every area of the house I'd been in, and then up and down the street.

My daddy is my hero. Even though he didn't find my glasses.

So he had to drive me to and from babysitting. "Corrective lenses" are required for me to drive. I cried a little on the way, calling myself an idiot and the whole situation ridiculous. On the way home, I laughed miserably, but my tears were spent. And I felt oddly bereft. Mostly bereft of my liberty, because now I once again had to rely on someone else to take me where I needed to go.

Mom set up an eye appointment for me for Monday, and I waited.

On Saturday, Mom and I went to the house to do some last minute touching up. I was bent over a spot on the wall, paintbrush in hand, when Mom said, "Oh, look. What are these?" Instantly, I knew what she was talking about.

My glasses. On the windowsill.

How? I have no idea.

Long story short, we had to reschedule my appointment for Friday (as in, yesterday). Mom and I went in the midst of more errand running.

I did the little preliminary tests (that evil glaucomoa test...). Then Mom and I went searching for frames.

Apparently I'm not daring enough.

I wanted some color (my current frames are a dark maroon), but there wasn't much to choose from. I'd been thinking blue. The only blue available was a pair of what I call "bug-eye" frames. You know, the big round ones? Yeah, it's rude of me to say such things, but I can't stand that style. Just on me, mind you. Some people (like my mom) can pull them off, but I can't.

Mom insisted I at least try the pair. I didn't even look in the mirror.

I'm more of a squared, small frame kind of person. And no animal print or thick plastic frames. My current frames are wire, with the frames on only the top half of the lenses.The pair we settled on are wire, dark purple. The bows (as they are evidently called) are a light green between sage and olive and are kind of wide. Different than my first pair, but not drastically so. As daring as I cared to be.

After some more sitting around, I finally got to the actual eye exam.

Far better than how I remember the first one being.

There were countless "A or B" style questions while he flipped through pieces on that funny-looking instrument, and me trying to breathe as quietly and shallowly as possible while he waved his little light in my eyes and leaned in less than an inch from my face. (So unnerving, and something only a doctor could get away with.) Then, while he told me what he was "seeing" based on his tests, I couldn't see anything except purple spoltches, so I squinted and blinked and spoke as little as possible.

The doctor confirmed that my right eye was about the same but my left was worse. Then we were done.

I haven't got my frames yet. The lens technician (or whatever she was called) was out on lunch, so they didn't know if the frames I needed were available or if it'd take 7-10 business days to get them.

And, yes, I'm oddly excited. And thus concludes the tale of how I came to get new glasses.

I don't know about the rest of you but, aside from the glaucoma test, I prefer the eye doctor over regular doctors and the dentist. What about you?

"Whereas I was blind, now I see."

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, there was more than one thing I got out of church last Sunday. However, I didn't want to detract from the main point of yesterday's post, so here's the sequel, if you will.

Part Two isn't directly related to any of the messages I heard on Sunday. Not techinically. It comes from a moment during morning service where my brain got a bit distracted.

I'm counting on the fact that I'm not the only one who has done this before, and hope at least one of you out there knows what I'm talking about: that moment when you're following along in your Bible, and while the preacher moves on to his next point you keep reading, because whatever passage you were in contains something that caught your attention. Anyone else ever done that? By a show of hands?

Pastor was in John 9:1-3, where Jesus and His disciples come upon a man who's been blind from birth. The disciples want to know who sinned, the man or his parents, to make him blind. Jesus replies: "Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him."

Pastor has been taking us through Mark, and the most recent lesson was in 7:31-37, with the healing of the deaf man. The message was about physical - and, by extension, spiritual - "deformities and disabilities", and how none of those are mistakes or accidents or faults, but the will of God. No one who is blind, or lacking an arm, or unable to speak is any less of a human being than the world's definition a whole and healthy person, and neither are they any less capable of being used by God. (Check out Exodus 4:11, Isaiah 34:4-6, and Psalm 139:13-16 if you want to get an idea of where some of this study took us.)

However, when we came to John 9, I got a bit distracted. Pastor had paused in his reading to expound an a certain point, but my eyes continued down the page. I don't know if I've ever read John 9, at least not in its entirety. I'd definitely suggest reading it, because I'm only going to summarize, and that doesn't begin to do it justice.

What really intrigued me was the whole style of the narrative. The entire chapter is one story, in which a blind man is healed. When the man's neighbors and acquaintances see him walking around, they all marvel and question, some doubting it's even that man, but rather a look-alike. Of course, the Pharisees are summoned, and they have a hissy fit. Their basis for this is that Jesus healed on the Sabbath day. They question the man thoroughly, wondering how had the audacity to heal on the Sabbath day, and how such a sinner could perform such a deed. They question what sort of man Jesus seemed to the former blind man, and that man replies that he was a prophet. 

Then the pharisees all but call him a liar and demand to see his parents, thinking the whole thing is an act. They interrogate the parents, who acknowledge that the man is their son and had been born blind, but that's all they'll say out of fear. 

This is the part I like:

24 Then again called they the man that was blind, and said unto him, Give God the praise: we know that this man (Jesus) is a sinner.

25 He answered and said, Whether he be a sinner or no, I know not: one thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see.

26 Then said they to him again, What did he to thee? how opened he thine eyes?

27 He answered them, I have told you already, and ye did not hear: wherefore would ye hear it again? will ye also be his disciples?

Verse 27 is my favorite. I imagine the former blind man replying with a little mockery, maybe even a smirk. Either that or he's so caught up in the miracle worked in him that he doesn't understand the Pharisees' thick-headedness.

A few years ago I came across a verse somewhere in the gospels where the Pharisees are chewing Jesus out about something or other. (Big surprise.) In the midst of their lecture, Jesus kneels down and starts drawing or writing in the dirt. I don't remember much else from that story. I'm not even sure where to look for it, and I don't know a good key word to use for my Strong's Concordance. (Read: my dad's Strong's Concordance which I borrowed a couple years ago and still have in my room.) If anyone has a clue to which verse I'm making reference, I'd love to know.

It's passages like this which make me love the Bible that much more: it's the greatest story ever told, full of the truth and love and wisdom of God, with the message of grace and salvation for all mankind, and right in the middle of parables and sermons and commandments, God throws in a little narrative where the characters are shown as normal human beings. How cool is that?
If you're reading this hoping for some deep revelation, this is all I can offer: some people refuse to see the truth, even when it's staring them in the face and there's isn't any other explination, reasonable or otherwise. They're so stuck in their ideas, their tradtions, that anyone or anything which doesn't adhere to those guidelines isn't worthy of consideration. That's no way to live. Our own mental blindness might keep us from witnessing a miracle. What good is physical sight, physical soundness, if your heart is cold and hard?

(As a side note before I close: I have to wonder if perhaps John Newton took inspiration from verse 25 when he wrote "Amazing Grace"?)

I dare you....

Have you ever had one of those Sundays where it's one amazing message on top of the other, so that at the end of the day all your mind-blown self can think is "Wow!" as you try to process everything? This last Sunday was one of those days. It wasn't just one mind grenade waking me up; I was in a minefield. 

Especially Sunday evening, when our youth pastor preached. Once a month we have Youth Service on Sunday night, where the teen choir sings, one of the young men directs the congregational songs, the boys take up offering, a group of teens performs the special song, perhaps a young man preaches a mini-sermon, and then the youth pastor preaches.

It was kind of like his message came in two parts. He was in I Thessalonians 2:7-13, where Paul is encouraging the Thessalonians on how they should live. Paul sacrificed so much so he "would not be chargeable unto any of you" (verse 9). It was his desire not just to preach the message God had given to him, but to help everyone he came in contact with to live it out to the fullest.

Then the message turned a slight corner, and some things my sisters had told me about their Sunday morning service were repeated.

Key word: dare.

First Paul talked about how he was gentle to the younger and weaker Christians (vs. 7), using the analogy of a nurse. Then, in verse 11, he talks about how he and his companions "exhorted and comforted and charged every one of you, as a father doth his children". The preacher pointed out that the analogy of a father implies giving instruction to more mature children, on whom greater expectations are placed. Infants and young children are treated differently than teens and young adults. 

As usual, my youth pastor threw in a sports analogy. He pointed out how coaches raise their voices a little when they want to challenge their players to do better. Yelling at a baby to eat all their carrot mush only results in tears. Yelling at a 12-year-old boy during a basketball game tends to make him run faster and put some effort into his game. The coach (analogy: God) sees the big picture and our place in it. He can't go out on the floor and play our position for us, but He directs and encourages us. We have to take the outcome of the game into our own hands. If we don't do it, there's a good chance in won't get done, because each of us has a role. One person can't stand around and expect someone else to come along and pick up the slack.

Our youth pastor talked about the competitive spirit normal human beings have, and how that is a driving force that, in moderation, causes us to excel. Then - and here is the point he was going for - that competitive spirit makes some people do crazy things when they are present with the words "I dare you". What guy won't rise to accept any challenge when it's preceded by those three dangerous little words?

As our youth pastor said: "Some people get offended; other people get determined."

It was mostly a challenge to the young men in our youth group to accept the dare of being true men of God, but it could be received in a broader sense by everyone as a challenge to live for God.

He pointed to Romans 12:1 - "I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice". And I Timothy 6:11-14, where Paul "charges" us to "fight the good fight of faith", among other things.

In any good sermon, our own minds tend to latch onto certain aspects which resonate with us and add to them our own observations and experiences. At least, that's what I do. I could miss the main point of a message yet still get something truly important out of it because of one little passage or phrase that God stirred my heart about. While it was a key point of the message, it was also the one part that really stuck with me: the dare.

I thought about the oft-used analogy of the sports game, and the challenge to be participators and not spectators. 

A portion of a song I've heard on the radio kept running through my mind: "I dare you to move." I've only heard the song a few times, but the way I translate it is as a challenge to leave everything else behind and just live for God. To stop lying around and dare to live well.

Back when I was still searching for a title, I found this quote from Mother Teresa, and it also came to mind:

“Life is an opportunity, benefit from it.

Life is beauty, admire it.

Life is a dream, realize it.

Life is a challenge, meet it.

Life is a duty, complete it.

Life is a game, play it.

Life is a promise, fulfill it.

Life is sorrow, overcome it.

Life is a song, sing it.

Life is a struggle, accept it.

Life is a tragedy, confront it.

Life is an adventure, dare it.

Life is luck, make it.

Life is too precious, do not destroy it.

Life is life, fight for it.” 

And, of course, while I was searching my Goodreads quotes for the above, I came across this one from Theodore Roosevelt:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.” 

Dare, verb:

1. To have the courage to try; venture; hazard.

2. To meet defiantly; face courageously.

3. To challenge or provoke (a person) into a demonstration of courage; defy.

Challenge, n:

1. A call or summons to engage in any contest, as of skill, strength, etc.

2. Something that by its nature or character serves as a call to battle, contest, special effort, etc.

3. A call to fight, as a battle, a duel, etc.

4. Difficulty in a job or undertaking that is stimulating to one engaged in it.

   v.:

5. To make or issue a challenge.

Charge, v. tr.:

1. To command; place a burden upon or assign responsibility to

   n:

2. A duty or responsibility.

3. A command, injunction, or order.

Exhort, v:

1. To urge, advise, or caution earnestly; admonish urgently.

Beseech, v:

1. To implore urgently; entreat.

Like any good challenge, there's risk involved; otherwise, it wouldn't be a challenge. But when someone emerges victorious from a challenge, it's empowering to them (and often those around them) and it shows them what they're capable of if they just try. When someone looks us in the eye and whispers with a smirk, "I dare you", we're willing to put forth a little extra effort - 110% - to prove to them that we aren't wimps. We'll risk more, try harder and longer, go to greater lengths to achieve our goal than if someone simply said, "Could you, please?"

God, through Paul, is daring us to see what we can accomplish for Him. He's challenging us to look beyond this temporal world and live with eternity in mind. He's charge us to not waste one precious second of our existence on things that don't count to anything or anybody. He's calling us to press toward the mark, to fight the good fight, to run well in our race, to live to the fullest. Challenge accepted?

First Post of the Year (true to form, three weeks late)

Happy New Year?

Seems I do everything belatedly. Ah, well. I have a good excuse this time: we moved!

And I'm sure y'all know that already.

Dad just set the computer up last night, so this is the first chance I've had to really sit down and use a computer in probably two weeks. Yes, I know we're in the third week of January, but it's been a busy month.

Whoa. Three weeks into the new year. Yikes!

I don't have much to say right now. I just needed to blog, especially with it being Tuesday. If any of my devoted readers have noticed, I changed my title, as I said I would. I don't remember when exactly I decided on it. I remembered this post, which I didn't realize until now was the first post ever for this blog! (Also, the song mentioned in that post has still not been written. It may never get written,  unfortunately.)

Around the time I settled on my new title, a friend shared this with another friend on facebook:

Life is But a Weaving
Corrie Ten Boom (The Tapestry Poem)

My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaveth steadily.
Oft' times He weaveth sorrow;
And I in foolish pride
... Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
Not 'til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And reveal the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver's skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned
He knows, He loves, He cares;
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him.

 

It's not exactly the idea I had behind "Tapestry", but it's very close, so it deserves sharing. It's also just a good poem.

My right pinkie is getting numb in this cold office, so I'll be wrapping this up. (I know. Me being brief. Weird, huh?)

The new house is great! Okay, so it has its quirks, but none we can't deal with. Probably the biggest for me (yes, bigger than tricky doors and weak heating upstairs) is the well water. At least, the hot water that smells like sulfur.

The first morning here, I woke up, and in my semi-conscious state* I thought someone was cooking eggs. Then I sat up and realized that wasn't quite right. Then I realized it was someone running hot water in the kitchen.

But we're surviving. More space (I mean, way more than we've ever had to my knowledge), the ability to look out of any window and now be looking into the neighbor's house, and being surrounded by cornfields has its perks. We're not much furthur from everything, though we're trying to develop the habit of getting all of our in-town errands done in the fewest runs possible (which means I do a lot when I go in for work). Oh, and we don't have a dryer yet, because ours is gas and it's electric here. We make do.

I feel guilty having the largest room in the house, but it comes with conditions. Namely, Mom and Dad get it when guests come over (and we will be getting more guests) and I bunk with one of the girls. We raided a friend's garage when we first moved in and she shared some of her old furniture, which resulted in a bed and bookcase for me and almost a chair, but it was too wide for the stairs.

Oh, and the stairs could be implemented in a training program for hiking the Machu Picchu trail. (In that they're steep, not that they're carved out of a mountain.) (Also, I was going to use a picture with a human in it, but felt funny posting "Claire's" picture on my blog, even though it did put things in perspective as far as the stairs went.)

I'm losing feeling in my entire right hand now, so I'm going to leave. I'll be back soon, I promise.

*I didn't want to insert this into the body of the post with parentheses:
I get the dictionary.com Word of the Day, and this one came up a few days ago: hypnopompic \hip-nuh-POM-pik\, adjective: Of or pertaining to the semiconscious state prior to complete wakefulness.
As if even I would ever use this word. I'm still stumbling a bit over the pronunciation. I was going to use this word instead of "semi-conscious", but thought better of it.
Then there's Peter Pan: "You know that place between sleeping and awake, that place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always think of you."

A Slightly Belated Christmas Post

I suppose I should write once more before we bid adieu to 2012, huh?

Merry Christmas! (I know, I tend to be a little behind the times....)

I forgot to mention our Christmas tree in my last post. We got it about a week before Christmas. While our artificial tree lasted, we used that, but it saw its last Christmas three or four years ago and, since then, we've got a real tree every year. I think this year's is a blue spruce. And yes, it's still standing. We aren't the type to toss out our trees and take down our lights the day after Christmas, as if that's the end of it. I'm still listening to Christmas music.

Someone suggested we name the tree, and my youngest sister tossed out whatever complicated phrase is "Merry Christmas" in German. Mom just gave her a look and refused her friendly suggestion, considering my sister could barely pronounce it herself. I responded with "Feliz Navidad", and somehow the tree became "Feliz".

Feliz sat bundled up and unlit for a couple days while our lives continued in the usual crazy, rather slipshod fashion. Finally, Mom said I needed to get the lights on.

I've never lit a real tree. It's hard. Artificial trees have nice, even rows of branches. I didn't even know where to start with Feliz, and wanted to give up, but Mom wouldn't let me and, being the sweet, unfailingly obedient daughter I am, I pressed on.

My poor hands after that! All over, past my wrists, my skin was sore and blotchy red.

Then we decorated the tree, tossed under it the few gifts already wrapped, and went on our way.

Christmas week was crazy. We only had morning service for church, and then an evening service Christmas eve. After church, the girls insisted we open gifts rather than after we all dragged ourselves out of bed in the morning. After reading the Christmas story, we did.

I got gloves, tea, some jewelry, notebooks, and candy, and was told my books would be on the way soon. I got Mom a fuzzy blanket so she'd quit stealing mine, leg warmers for one sister, one of those poseable wooden figurines for the other, and had pitched in money for Dad and the brother.

After that, we sat around until 10, when we headed out on routes.

We didn't get snow for Christmas. Still don't have much to speak of. But I don't complain when it's time for papers, because I've been able to wear my sneakers most days and haven't been slowed down by sludging through snow.

When we finally got home, we all went to bed and got up when we pleased. Then we girls helped Mom get dinner ready, we all ate, and proceeded to have a very quiet day. That's Christmas around here.

Life trudges on still. I work, clean, cook a little, try to write, and have hit 90 books read this year. The last was Little Women, which I've never read before, unless you count an abridged children's version. When I wasn't laughing over Jo's mishaps, the blend of comedy and moral lessons, and the general cheeriness of the lives portrayed in the book, I was sobbing like a baby; sometimes both at once, because it went from depressing to happy all in a moment. And that was before I got to the truly sad part of the book. I'm all too easily influenced by fictional emotion. Bother.

I'm looking forward to some of the changes the New Year is bringing. Actually, I think the whole family is. Though I don't techinically do New Year's resolutions, January is a good starting point for a lot of the things I'm trying to do; mostly, sorting out my crazy life.

Oh! I'll finally be revamping the blog soon. I got a title all figured out. The minute I thought of it, I was like "Duh! How simple!". It's a one-worder, but I like it.

But whatever! Happy New Year! And hopefully I pick up on writing '13 instead of '12 pretty quickly.

The End of the World (or not). Plus: a Little Christmas Spirit, all Year Long

*WARNING: High linky usage. Proceed with caution. Do not engage linkies unless you want to waste time and maybe get a chuckle out of it.*

 

You know those days when you get a song stuck in your head, and you're playing it over and over in your head pretty much all day long? You might even look them up on youtube so you can listen to the whole song, which you've forgotten, as opposed to the one line you remember. Sometimes I like to think of those songs and theme songs for the day.

Yesterday's theme song was "It's the end of the world, as we know it, and I feel fine!"   :)

I don't know how the rest of the song goes. I just know that part because they play it on "Chicken Little" as "the sky is falling".

(Side note: I googled "Chicken little scream like a little girl" looking for the right picture and got this, which just made me happy.)

*cough* Anyway!

Opinions among my facebook friends concerning "the End of the World" are greatly varied. Some people couldn't stop cracking jokes; others were telling people to stop picking on other people. I'll admit that I posted one or two sarcastic posts and comments to posts, as well as a few pictures. And I'll also admit I was worried about how yesterday would go. Not the world ending, but the possibility of stupid people doing stupid things in honor of the world ending.

At least in our corner of the world, December 21st was here and gone without a supernatural hitch. I worked, helped deliver papers for the routes we're subbing, helped clean the house, and overall had a pretty good day.

While I have to scoff at the people who decided it was a good idea to heed the chiselings of an anciet civilization of humans as equally fallible and finite as themselves, this event served as a nice reminder to me about the uncertainty of life. We aren't given a time when Christ will return. All we are given is a warning to use this precious life carefully and make it count.

In other news, our house is picking up the so-called "Christmas Spirit" a little late this year. But then, I guess we always do. Or maybe it's just that it comes gradually for us, because we tend to start the Christmas music playing around September, and we're usually drinking hot chocolate at least at that time.

I feel bad saying I think it's going to be a good Christmas in light of the Sandy Hook shooting. Maybe it's the feeling that we kind of need a good Christmas. Having a job means I finally have money to spend on gifts, and that is gratifying. I know some people are all about making gifts, my youngest sister one of them, and I don't disagree that those make very personal gifts. However, Sometimes there are things I see that I know will bring a smile, and I'd like to give that smile. I know we don't need money to express our love for those around us, but sometimes a little money helps.

Yes, I still get excited about opening my own gifts, but here's the thing: who really remembers what they got for Christmas last year, much less the year before? It's the emotions of the day, the sense of love and happiness, the break from life, that we remember. At least, it is for me.

I don't necessarily look forward to a new year. I'll spend the next three or four months trying to remember what number to put as the date. (And then my birthday will come and I'll have to remember how old I am.) What's the fun in that? I don't techinically do "New Year's Resolutions", because the overwhelming sense of guilt when June comes and I realize I've accomplished next to nothing on that list is too much for me. But the New Year is yet another healthy dose of reality. "It's a new year. We're still here. We're new people, but we still have a life to live, and we've been given another day to live it."

Some people talk about how we ought to have that "Christmas Spirit" all year 'round: peace and goodwill, love, giving, etc. I agree. When friends complain about me singing Christmas songs in July, I tell them what my dad likes to say: Christmas is the original praise and worship music. And there's no conclusive evidence that Christ was born in December to begin with, so why limit the honoring of such a miracle to that month?

I agree that some aspects of the Christmas spirit ought to be with us all year 'round. And here's another thing:

We wake up on January 1st, Brand New Year, and see the year stretched open and promising (most of the time). We make promises to ourselves about what we're going to do, because the first day of the year is a great milestone by which to track our progress. Maybe we 're still in the same mindset on January 2nd, and possibly January 3rd. By the time March 26th rolls around, however, we're living the day-to-day like always. It's just seasons changing and time passing.

What if, like the "Christmas Spirit", we woke up every day of the year with that sense of opporunities waiting to be seized? What if we jumped out of bed singing praises that we're waking healthy and safe under another sunrise? I know I roll out of bed reluctantly most mornings. Before I'm fully concious, I'm building a to-do list. When I go to bed, I'm not rejoicing in what I accomplished; I'm starting tomorrow's list. That isn't living; that's existing. 

What if, every morning, our thoughts go to God and determine that "this is the day which the Lord hath made" and we strive to use it to His glory? Every day is a new day, a new chance, no matter what number we attach to it. We're always sinners saved by grace, pilgrims in a world that is not our home.

 

 

And that, knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than when we believed.

The night is far spent , the day is at hand : let us therefore cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armour of light. 

Let us walk honestly, as in the day; not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying.

But put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts thereof.

- Romans 13:11-14

Night Driving (plus a little pointless trivia)

Yeah, so.... I just need to write a prologue to copy and paste into each post which is written far too long after the previous one. In short, it's been a crazy...what? Month? I've had things to write about (namely Thanksgiving and then maybe something about Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day) but obviously didn't care enough to bother, and now those topics just aren't that relevant or whatever.

Well, now I'm back. Though I don't really have anything to write about, it's Friday, which is one of only two days a week which I originally designated to be blogging days.

Old habits die hard.

I guess I do have a little to write about. We're all getting into the Christmas mood around here. I've made lots of molasses crinkles and snickerdoodles. Mom made another batch of hot chocolate and has supplies for chex mix, peanut brittle, peanut butter fudge, and other holiday traditions. We're all making good progress with our Christmas shopping. Mom even found reindeer antlers and a red nose to put on her car, like she's been wanting to do for years. Then she saw the elf ears on someone else's car and wanted those. Right.

She and Heather decided the reindeer/car is Francine, ol' Rudolph's daughter. Didn't ask, don't care to. This led to Mom saying, "Wait. Francine's a girl, but she has antlers."

I reminded her about the reindeer we saw last year (or the year before?) at the city gardens: both male and female have antlers.

This led to a little research on my part, and I discovered something interesting:

Reindeer and caribou are the only...deer-like creatures (they have some strange Latin name for their family or species that starts with a "c", I think) where both the male and female have antlers. For reindeer, at least, both male and female get their antlers in the summer. However, male reindeer lose theirs in mid-November/early-December, and female keep theirs until spring when their young are born. Thus, if we all want to stick to the image of Santa's sleigh being pulled by antlered deer, and we don't want to resort to the excuse that it's all magic, Santa's reindeer are all female. (I always suspected Vixen and Dancer at least were female, so this is easier for me to swallow.)

And tada! That topic blends right into the main topic of the evening! Just cuz I'm that awesome.

Our family was invited to a birthday party tonight for our science teacher. You know, the totally awesome one? She's the only reason I survived chemistry. She likes chocolate and movie quotes and Jeopardy games in class. She helped with my graduation party (and she's one of few people to whom I've managed to give "thank you" notes for said party...). She's just too cool for words. Someday, she needs to write a biography, even if she can't publish it. And then she needs to write textbooks. And then play on Jeopardy.

Anyway! In the end, it was only us girls who ended up going. In my car, which means I have the right to drive. I almost forfeited the right. Why? Because it meant driving at night down country roads.

I've driven at night before, but usually with a parent in the car, unless it's 10 minutes across the city. I've driven those country roads before, but usually with a parent and always in daylight. I'm struggling with a few driving phobias, including lane-changes in downtown traffic, and night driving along deer-infested roads is high on the list.

Deep breath. At least it isn't snowing. (We got some snow last week and flurries earlier this week, but all that's left is a little mush and ice in the shady places.) Snow driving is another phobia of mine. I've yet to do it, and it's another reason I appreciate my old boat of a Chevy over Heather's sports car. Mom made sure I had instructions (though I had a hard time picturing just what she was talking about) and reminded me (or threatened) to text when we left home, when we got to the party, when we left the party, and when we got home.

We left at 6, giving us just enough time to get to the party when it started, if I drove the speedlimit. It actually didn't go too badly. Heather acted as co-pilot, offering her knowledge of the area, because neither of us was crystal clear on where we were headed or what we were looking for. We managed, and I never had to slam on my breaks to turn onto the right road. Yay!

Another perk in my car is honest-to-goodness brights. Mom's car's brights are about as bright and the normal light setting and no one would know the difference. Mine actually showed me beyond both shoulders on the road.

So there I was, maintaining a steady 55 MPH down roads lined with Michigan ditches and across bridges (cringe). I confirmed an earlier suspicion that I pull a little to the right, especially when I'm on a bridge and a semi with very bright lights is passing on the other side of the road. We made good time, arriving just a tad late to the party (and I think they started early).

There weren't many kids there (just one guy and girl Heather's and my age and all their younger siblings). I knew some of the people from church. The rest were total strangers, though some insisted they recognized me. I ate finger food and sipped punch and marveled at how my upbeat, crazy science teacher could be hosting such an almost solemn affair. Here I was thinking there'd be karaoke or something.

We sat around for a little over an hour. Heather avoiding the chocolate for some reason and kept saying weird things I'm not aloud to repeat. In the end, our teacher's daughters invited Allenna to spend the night, so it was just Heather and I on the way home.

Now that I was familiar with my route, I was able to relax a little more. (And by "relax", I mean be less uptight and likely to freak out but rather calm and focused.) Heather and I sang along to Christmas music and kept our eyes peeled for deer. We didn't see a one of 'em. Wonder of wonders.