Thursday Things: You'd Better Pull on Your Galoshes

Well folks, it's Thursday. Hit-your-snooze-button-five-times-and-roll-out-of-bed-feeling-like-you-got-hit-by-a-train Thursday.  Thanks to the daylight savings time change, this Thursday feels even more Thursdayish than usual.

Perhaps this is why I am finding it so difficult to write today.  Thinking sort of feels like wading through knee-deep mud wearing red galoshes that are three sizes too big for my freezing cold feet.  I've always wanted a pair of red galoshes.

Part of the problem is I worked a ton this week and didn't do anything especially blogworthy, except for attending a Gungor concert with some good friends.

All my mushy brain can muster up about that concert is Wow. Beautiful. Moving. Also, I never knew a xylophone could be so useful, outside of being featured on the third-to-last page of every alphabet book. I like the way it sounds. Almost as much as I like it when bands combine the electric guitar with cellos and the violin.  Love. (Thank you, Tiffany, for a break from work!).

Anyway, today, because my muddy thinking has impaired my judgement, I'm going to write about something I've never tackled before. Something profound.  Something Intriguing.  There's no time like Thursday to venture into uncharted terrain.

So hold on to your hats (or galoshes), people.

And let's talk about blood oranges.

1. Our blood orange crop abounds this year.  The branches are so weighed down by Winnie the Pooh-hued globes that I'm tempted to eat oranges with every meal.  I hate to see things go to waste.

2. What is a girl supposed to do with so many blood oranges?

3.  I've been juicing like a fiend.

4. Has anyone ever played Power Pete?  It was the only computer game my siblings and I played as kids. It features a dark-haired and, of course, powerful man named Pete.  He wanders through castles and candy lands trying to rescue bunnies, and shooting evil toys while shouting "Take that, you fiend!!!"  I can't say the word fiend without remembering him.

Power Pete, your legacy lives on.

5. I love juicing blood oranges.  The colors are so vibrant.  Correction, the colors and shapes are so amazing that I don't actually like the part where I juice, and therefore ruin, the oranges.  Although drinking crimson O.J. is fun.

What I love is admiring the counter full of sliced blood oranges.  If I could I would decorate my studio with blood oranges.  I'd have 'em on every surface in my little place.

7. But I can't do that, so I make juice and then figure out what to do with all of it.

8. I've started using some of it to make honey-sweetened blood orange sorbet.  It's tangy and refreshing and makes me pucker my lips.

9. I made a rather large batch of sorbet awhile back, and discovered all of my large tupperware were in use.

Fortunately, I found a big container holding about 1/2 cup of very rotten black beans I'd forgotten about.  Unfortunately, I opened the container in my house.  It was 24 hours before I felt comfortable breathing without a face mask.

I remained undaunted, however, and I scrubbed that container with every last ounce of elbow grease I had before plopping the sorbet in it.

Two days later I pulled it out of the freezer and opened it up, eager for an icy treat, only to collapse on the floor reeling from the oppressive, fetid smell of rotten black beans and blood orange sorbet.  I had to toss the whole batch.  It hurt.  I hate seeing things go to waste.

10. The good news is our blood orange crop abounds.

11. I've discovered a recipe for blood orange scones.  But there are still more oranges than I know what to do with.  I'm open to every blood orange suggestion you can give me.

Well, that's about it, folks.  You can take your galoshes off now.  Go kick up your feet, drink a glass of O.J. and enjoy the rest of this Thursday.

I'm going to do my taxes now.  This blog was actually a stalling technique.  Ahhh, the benefits of blood oranges.

© by scj

Free From Our Cages

helpinganimals.com

When I was in high school my piano teacher told me that the best songs “let the bird out of the cage.” When I heard my college roommate, Rachel, sing for the first time I understood what my teacher meant.

When Rachel sang she translated the beauty in her soul into sound waves. Her music often floated through our apartment, making my soul soar with the rifts and crescendos like a bird that has flown the coop. I can only imagine how Rachel felt when she sang like that.

I recently learned that Rachel’s singing doesn’t satisfy her soul the way it used to. She’s suffered some health problems over the years that have affected her voice, making it hard for her to control her dynamite rifts and hit notes with her former power. Singing is frustrating now. Like trying to fly but slamming into a ceiling mid-summit. The voice that has always sounded freedom to me now makes Rachel feel like a bird that cannot escape its cage. She is learning to live with the gnawing ache of unfulfilled longing.

Hop on over to Positively Human for the full article.



© by scj

Thursday Things: a Month of Sisters

This has been a good month.  The best month of the year.  It's not because the students in my evening class make me laugh until my stomach hurts, or because I finally made a successful batch of gluten, sugar, and dairy-free muffins  And it's not because the breeze daily reminds me that the jasmine is in bloom, or because our blood orange crop abounds.

It's because this month was a month of sisters, and I've never been able to say that before. Sisters.  As in, more than one.

On April 14th, 2012 there will officially be more Jackson women than men.

My little brother is gettin' hitched.

Aaron is marrying a lovely woman named Natasha.  Aaron and Natasha met at Biola University.  You can read more of their story here.

Natasha is thoughtful, kind, disciplined and gorgeous, and we are excited to welcome her into our family. 

For the last year Natasha has been living in Canada where she is training for the 2016 Olympics.  She is a track and field heptathlete.  This basically means she is Superwoman.  She does the 100 meter hurdles, 200 meter sprint, 800 meter run, javelin throw, shot put, high jump, and long jump.  Amazingly, Aaron keeps up with her.  Their kids will have the agility of a gazelle and the speed of a cheetah.  

A few weeks ago Natasha came for a visit.  I got to hog her all to myself, and I loved it.

We chatted and sipped tea on my patio, and ate the successful gluten, sugar and dairy-free muffins I made.

I also got to attend a bridal shower for her, hosted by some of her old roommates.  It was a fun day full of yummy treats, lots of laughing, and, of course, toilet paper.  No bridal shower is complete without at least 217 rolls of toilet paper.

A week after Natasha left, my little sister, Rebecca, came for a visit.

Rebecca is hilarious, beautiful, insightful, wise, and creative and I love her.

For months I have been texting Rebecca pictures of me sitting on my patio in the sun, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice.  It was a subtle campaign to get her to visit.  It worked.

Here we are sitting on my patio in the sun, sipping fresh orange juice.

We only left my patio three times the entire time Rebecca was here.

It was glorious.  We both relished the time to rest, get caught up, and laugh together the way only sisters can.

Our patio time was the highlight for me.

We also had a few fun outings.

First, we went to my good friend, J's, house for dinner and a movie with friends.

We all enjoyed sitting out by the fire and talking about swing dancing and high-waisted pants. We like to discuss life's deepest, most complex issues while sitting around the fire.

From left to right: J, Me, Rebecca

Do you see J's feet tattoos?  When J puts his feet together they make a Christian fish.

Here J is cooking some sort of amazing Italian pasta dish to go with the caprese salad he made.  He cooks scrumptious food like this often.  He gives hope to women everywhere.

  

The next day Rebecca and I went paddleboarding with our cousin, K, and her husband, M.  We battled fierce winds, and narrowly escaped a shark (turns out the guy we passed was shouting "Mark!").  By the time we explored the bay and returned to shore we were feeling pooped but victorious.

We spent the rest of the day watching a beach volleyball game.  M and his buddies played, and we gals cheered.

The windy beach was deserted so we had it to ourselves

The crew, during a break from the game

It was a dangerous affair.  Mostly because there were 7 million seagulls flying over our heads at any given point.

Somehow we escaped unsoiled.

K is our cousin on our dad's side.  She is gorgeous, funny, hospitable, and gracious and I love her very much.

Rebecca and I were both sad to say goodbye to her and her wonderful husband.

And now we've arrived at the part of the post I always hate, because this is when Rebecca hops on an airplane and flies home. So I'll just skip this part, and end with this instead:

Guess what's in this box?!

It's a bridesmaid dress.  And next month, Rebecca and I will each be wearing one while we watch our brother marry us a new sister.

Woohoo!

© by scj

Deep Magic

Every once in awhile I get too caught up in the books I read.

About 50 pages into a good book I become the main characters. My adrenaline pumps when they're in danger. I cry when they experience growth or grace. I find myself praying for them when they're in dire need of divine intervention. But these tendencies are not the problem.

The problem is that sometimes I finish a book series, go about my day, and have moments when I  forget I'm not the main character in the book anymore.

Case in point: Not too long ago I finished re-reading the Harry Potter series for the sixth time. For ten glorious days I was immersed in the World of Hogwarts. I went to sleep under an enchanted starry ceiling, and woke up to House Elves bustling about to prepare my breakfast. I used my magic wand to fetch distant objects and make nearby objects invisible. I was Harry Potter fighting dementors one day, and Hermione outsmarting Death Eaters the next. I was swept up in something bigger than myself. No big deal.

But then, I finished the series and had to return to work. It was a particularly wet and gloomy day, and in the middle of teaching my college freshman I got a hankering for a steaming cup of tea.  But the coffee cart was miles away, and class wouldn't be over for another hour, anyway.  So what did I do? I reached for the magic wand I had stashed in my robe. Naturally, I planned to summon a cup of tea. And then I remembered that I wasn't Harry Potter. Or Hermione. Or Ron Weasely.

My disappointment got me thinking.  Wouldn't it have been lovely if God had made a world full of magic, like Narnia, or Hogwarts, or the Shire?!

Then, several days ago while on a walk, I saw this:

A magic wand. Long and slender, sturdy at the base and narrow at the tip, surrounded by dozens of other magic wands.

And magic of all magic, something was shooting out of its tip. Something unexpected. Something so different from the wand's soft, sappy core, you'd have to see it to believe it.

Leaves.  Waxy, vibrant, green.

And blossoms.  Fragrant and delicate.  Pink, white, and yellow.

What makes this magic?

I'll tell you, but you won't believe me.

It's light. And water.  And air.  They are stirred together in the great blue sky cauldron, and they make wooden wands shoot out magic.

Berries.

Pods.

Prickle balls.

Cotton ball clusters.

All wooden wands, all imbibing the same sky-cauldron's potion, each wand's magic just a little different.

J.K. Rowling and C.S. Lewis couldn't have dreamt up this kind of magic.  A stick absorbs sun, air, and water, making leaves sprout, followed by buds.  The buds unfold into blossoms and the blossoms turn into fruit.  Juicy, tart fruit with seeds.  Smooth, fleshy fruit with pits.  Vitamin-packed fruit in shades of brilliant orange, green, yellow, red, blue, purple—all the colors of the sun's magical light.

How can it be that the fruit from these magic wands powers our dusty bodies to produce millions of cells daily, and keeps blood pumping through our 60,000 miles of blood vessels?!

Magic for us to see.  Magic for us to smell.  Magic for us to touch.  Magic for us to taste.

Magic to teach us at winter's end that death does not have the last word.  For light, air and water are mixed together and make a barren tree sprout life.

These magic wands make it easy for me to believe in the magic the ancients taught.  An apple is eaten and life with God is lost. A stick hits a rock and water gushes out.  Trumpets are blown and city walls tumble.  A leper bathes in the river and he is healed.  God's son dies on a cross, and takes our sin upon himself.  Three days pass, and he teaches us that death will not have the last word.

Magic.

Life-giving, fruit-growing magic.


© by scj

An Anonymous Rodent: Revised

Today as I was walking out my gate to go for a walk I ran into a furry little creature ambling through the weed patch.

My presence startled him out of his reverie, and he nervously scurried to and fro, trying to find a place to hide.  When he couldn't find a cozy den or long tunnel to escape to, he began furiously digging at my feet, determined to make a tunnel deep enough to hide in before I could close the three-foot gap between us. He clearly did not have a good sense of time.  No doubt he is the rodent who shows up late to every critter party.

But I still mentally cheered him on.

What the heck, shoot for the stars little guy!

Somehow, he managed to dig a hole about two inches deep in thirty seconds.  Without wasting anymore time, he stuck his head in the hole and let his body rest limp and still on the mound of dirt behind him.

Seconds passed.

Perhaps he thought that I couldn't see him if he couldn't see me?

Or maybe he was learning to stand on his head, but needed extra support?

Or maybe he'd just had a bad day?

I need to know, guys.  What was he thinking when he buried his head in the ground?  Why did he do it?

I feel certain there's a good story there.

AND

What in the world was he? A mole?  A distant cousin to Mr. Rat [shudder]?  A short-haired guinea pig? 

There are so many wildlife mysteries on this property, I tell you.

Fortunately, I managed to get a video of the critter before he made a startling mad dash toward me. Although I didn't do a great job of capturing his headstand...

THE REVISION: Today marks the day that I overcame some towering technological obstacles.  Namely, that I figured out how to make the original video less blurry.  I'm hoping this version is better suited to your viewing pleasure.

Please excuse the rapid camera movement and strange sound effects toward the end of the video.  For a moment it looked as if a RAT was charging toward me.

However, in retrospect that thing was way too cute to be a rat.

Look closely as you watch, because I'm hoping one of you can tell me what , exactly, my new little tunnel-digging, head-standing friend is!

This is a matter of the utmost importance.

© by scj

The Verdict

The jury has deliberated and a verdict has been reached:

Dog....

...and Cat...

...On the evidence provided to me throughout the investigation I hereby find you both guilty of attempted murder.

Cat, I have not heard your horrific screeches in six days. You must have fled town upon learning of this trial. Good riddance. Please stay where you are, and leave all three-legged grasshoppers alone. And should you ever return to my grassy knoll I will have to sentence you to the pound for...forever.

Dog, I know you were only the goofy, pushover accomplice to the evil, conniving cat. But you are still guilty. I hereby banish you from my patio for one week. Unless you look at me with your chocolate brown eyes, in which case I will wrap my arms around your golden mane and smother you with kisses.

Court adjourned.

*I would like to give a special thanks to those of you who participated on the jury for this trial, both here and on Facebook. I am forever indebted to your keen intuition and skills of deduction.

© by scj

The Adventures of Mascot Continued: An Almost-Murder Mystery

To read about Mascot's previous adventures and how he's teaching me to savor the small stuff click here.

It was a dark and stormy night in the Heights. The kind of night that chases average Joes inside and into bed, and lures murderers out of their lairs and into the violent darkness where they can commit unspeakable crimes.

[Enter: the sound of thunder, rain pelting the windows, and spooky music].

Okay okay, it was actually a sunny morning, and the most violent noise to be heard was the roar of the lawn mower. But it was still the kind of morning that lures murderers out of their lairs and into the open and entices them to commit unspeakable crimes. Killing crimes.

The crime: attempted murder

The place: the geranium patch on my back patio

The time: between 7:30 P.M. last night and 10:30 A.M. this morning

The almost-victim: Mascot, my three-legged grasshopper

The perpetrator: Well, that's what we need to figure out, isn't it?

It all started when I was sipping a cup of tea on my sunny patio, thankful that the horrific screeching of the wild cats living nearby had been drowned out by the rumble of the lawn mower. As is usually the case on days like this, I became so engrossed in the morning that my tea grew cold. Cold tea is, quite possibly, the only thing that can rouse me from my chair when the sun is shining so happily.

I got up to warm my tea in the microwave, and that's when I saw Mascot clinging to the uppermost corner of the window to the right of my french door. Any higher and Mascot would have been climbing onto the roof. I knew something was up. Something—dun dun duuuuun—nefarious.

I quickly searched Mascot's geranium home for Alpha Hopper, but he was nowhere to be found. That's when I saw this:

Evidence of digging in Mascot's geranium patch. Wild, frantic digging. The kind of digging that takes place when someone is trying to capture and kill a helpless three-legged grasshopper that isn't as slow as he looks.

Thank goodness Mascot's got hops.

Fortunately, I have years of experience reading children's stories in which big creatures try to bully little creatures, and I was able to deduce from the evidence that a four-legged creature with paws is most definitely our criminal.

I spent the rest of the morning compiling a list of all the possible perpetrators that could have been on the premises at the time of the crime.

Suspect #1:

The family dog.

I love this dog. She keeps me company when no one else is around, lies protectively across my doorwell at night, and likes going on walks as much as I do.

But she digs. Oh boy does she dig. Without discretion.

And she steals. Oh boy does she steal. Without shame. Most recently she stole one of my favorite flip flops and my favorite kitchen rag (yes, I do play favorites with my kitchen rags), and then promptly buried them. No one has seen them since then.

Her frisky track record does not exactly work in her favor.

Suspect #2:

The coyote that lives on the grassy hill beyond my patio.

This coyote is aggressive. He kills living things for kicks. I know this for a fact, but I will refrain from telling you how I know this because this blog is rated G. Just trust me and know that his track record does not not not work in his favor.

Suspect #3:

The wild cat that lives somewhere close. Too close.

I do not have a picture of this cat, but if its piercing shrieks are any indicator of its appearance, then it looks like this:

Looking for this photo may have been the most disturbing google search of my life

I don't know anything about this cat's track record, except that it keeps me awake, often late into the night—at an hour that, incidentally, would be perfect for committing an unspeakable crime. Also, the mere fact that she is a cat does not, in any way, work in her favor.

------------------------------

Alert: It has recently been brought to my attention that the pool guy was on my patio at approximately 10:00 on the morning of the crime. And although he has only two legs and hands instead of paws, his presence automatically makes him suspect #4.

His track record is one of cleaning debris out of the pool and bumping my patio chairs with his pool-cleaning gear. It's my fault. The chairs were in his way. And as far as I know he does not carry a shovel with him, or have any problem with three-legged grasshoppers. His track record actually works in his favor.

-----------------------------

Suspect #5:

The rat that scurried by me while I was sipping tea last week.

This rat startled me and made me sit upright in a hurry. My rapid movement startled the rat, and made him drop the date he was carrying in his mouth. This means he may not have eaten that week, which means he may be very hungry for, say, a grasshopper. It also means he may have a bone to pick with me, and his hunger for vengeance may have led him to attack the ones I love.

His hypothetical hungers do not work in his favor.

So there you have it, readers. The crime scene has been inspected, and the suspects investigated. All that's left is to determine who the guilty party is. And this is where I need your help.

So, whoooo done it?

© by scj

Presenting: a Produce Production

Recently, the friend from whom I'm renting my studio told me she'd bought a huge bag of carrots. Too many carrots to eat, she said, and would I like some?

Not one to pass up free carrots, I stepped inside her kitchen and watched as she opened the fridge and pulled out the biggest bag of carrots I have ever seen. Somehow, she managed to wrestle it onto the counter and open it up.

The moment she untied the twisty that held it closed we both knew this bag was different.

It was a Broadway Bag.

Curious carrots—carrots with character—burst out of the bag, singing and dancing as only broadway stars can.

First came the Crookneck Cougar Carrot.

"IIIIIIII will catch you" she belted in a shrill soprano, as she chased a particularly handsome—and much younger—carrot across the granite counter top.

A couple of times she just managed to hook him with her leathery crook-neck, but each time she leaned in to kiss him him he twirled away.

"Thank God," he sang quietly as he spun.

"Thank Gooooood," his voice grew louder.

"Thank God, I took ballet," the music quickened.

"Thank God I took ballet so I. can. get. awaaaaaaaaaaaaay....."

And then he pirouetted professionally off the counter and into my empty plastic bag.

The disappearance of our dapper young dancer didn't daunt the Crookneck Cougar, for out of the bag plodded three more young male carrots.

They didn't dance, really. They sort of tripped their way across the counter.

"Fresh prey..." Crookneck Cougar sang quietly. "...Won't get away, get away, get awaaaaaaaaaay" and she ran eagerly across the counter toward the trio.

But she encountered two problems as she feverishly tried to hook the three.

First, they each had two heads. How to snag both necks with such a slender little hook?

Second, whenever the trio tried to dance to the left some sort of invisible force took over and they lurched to the right. Anytime they tried to move forward, they'd end up stumbling backward. This made it practically impossible for the Crookneck Cougar to aim her hook at their necks with any sort of accuracy.

"We are the Stumbling Stooges," the three sang together, their deep baritone voices lumbering through the air.

"We vacillate, and hesitate, and fluctuate, but please don't haaaate"—the music accelerated into double time—"because we have two heads! What else would you expect?!"

At that point one of the Stumbling Stooges tried to jump into the air and click his heels, but just as he went to jump his other head took over and he leaned into a summersault instead. His flailing body knocked the other Stooges down and they all three tumbled into my open plastic bag.

The Crookneck Carrot was still not disheartened, for there was more movement in the large carrot bag. And then, another young carrot marched onto the stage.

But the poor, miserable carrot had no head or neck. Thus, the Crookneck Carrot couldn't hook him and he paraded freely across the counter and into my open bag.

There is a silver lining in every dark cloud.

At that point it was getting late and my tummy was growling, so I swept the Crook-Neck Carrot into my bag. My friend and I each closed our respective carrot bags. We stared at each other a little bit dazed, and then parted ways.

And that was the end of that.

© by scj

Embracing Loss As Gain

Trees, like decaying ghosts, line Pakistan’s farmland, cocooned in the sticky webs of spiders. They found safety in the trees’ branches during last year’s monsoon floods. Some worry that Pakistan’s hot season will be unbearable without the shade of the normally luscious trees. Others are thankful for the spiders, noting that the expected malaria cases after monsoon season are considerably fewer, thanks to the abundance of sticky webs that have been catching the malaria-carrying mosquitos. After a tragic 2,000 monsoon-caused deaths last year, these ghostly trees appear to be some kind of grace.

Click here to read the rest over at Positively Human.

© by scj

I'll Take Some Salt and Pepper on That

Sometimes, when anxiety and insecurities tear through my soul, I stop everything to step outside and breath deeply. If it's daytime I tilt my head toward the sun and enjoy the potporri of southern California smells: jasmine, orange blossom, and eucalyptus. If it's evening, I watch the moon rise over the grassy knoll just beyond my patio. My body relaxes as its silvery fingers reach out and brush the nightscape with pale light. And then I wait for it. For that faint chorus of crickets, growing louder as the moon shines brighter.

I love those cricket symphonies. They remind me that the world is full of magic. For the moon's light is so enchanting that the insects cannot keep quiet under its light. And so they rub their wings and legs together and, of all things, music escapes from their spiny bodies; poignant and melodic. Magical.

Some nights, long after the crickets have finished their moonlight serenades, a lone voice quivers. It is unfortunately close to the door of my studio. So close, I occasionally think it has gotten into my house and is singing its sweet, loud song on my pillow. Next to my head. Where I'm trying to sleep.

I try to ignore it, and when that doesn't work (because it never works) I try to focus on the song's beauty. But that only works for about 7.6 seconds, and then I remember that I really, really want to sleep. So I turn on the lights and check every surface and open every cupboard looking for that.darn.cricket. with no luck.

In general, my sentiments toward that cricket have been...negative. Until one day four months ago when I discovered him chilling in the geraniums outside my door. And would you believe it, he's not a cricket after all: he's a three-legged grasshopper, with only one large back leg. How he sings so loudly is beyond me, but props to him for making such a noise with limited assets.

Over the months I've grown fond of my three-legged soloist. He and I are the same, really, singing our way through life a little off balance, a little handicapped—not what we were supposed to be when God first created, back before sin and sadness came on the scene. He's become my mascot, and so that's what I've named him. Mascot. Everyone needs a three-legged Mascot.

I love seeing Mascot enjoying the lush shade of my geraniums each day, and I take extra care not to disturb him when I garden. He is my musical companion. I count on walking out my door and seeing his beady eyes peering up at me.

But one day last week he disappeared, and this place erupted in drama.

First, I found a FOUR-legged grasshopper in Mascot's place. For a split second I was overcome by a surge of joy: Mascot had been HEALED! And then my boring, imagination-less adult common sense kicked in and convinced me that Mascot had not been healed; he'd gotten the boot by an entitled alpha grasshopper.

And then I got mad.

And sad. But I swallowed hard, gathered my wits, and willed away the ache in my stomach before going about my morning.

The next morning I rolled out of bed, walked outside, checked for Mascot, glared at the four-legged creature that was still in his place. and spun around to go inside.

That's when I saw Mascot clinging bravely to my door.

Relieved and delighted, I devised a cunning and daring plan to give Mascot back his home: I moved the four-legged intruder to the bark mulch next to my holly bush.

I almost passed out from the wild excitement of it all.

In the middle of the relocation it occurred to me that Mascot could have found a wife, and was enduring a marital dispute in which he had been banished to the "couch" for the night.

But my gut told me something far more sinister was going on. It also told me the four-legged hopper was a male. So that ruled out the whole marital dispute option.

My gut was right. Three days have passed since the dramatic affair and Alpha Hopper is nowhere to be found. Things have returned to normalcy, and Mascot rests comfortably in his geranium home. Although, many of the geraniums have been recently devoured by a vicious fungus, so there could be more relocation drama next week. I'll keep you updated. Never a dull day here on the compound.

In the meantime, I've been trying to figure out the moral of this whole story. There is always a moral to a story in which the main characters are insects.

It could be that it's unwise to become too attached to a grasshopper, especially of the three-legged variety. But I don't think so.

Life is too short not to delight in its magic, even if the magic only lasts for a moment. And so I think the moral of the story is to keep noticing things. Small things. Easily missed things. Because small things are the salt and pepper that season bland days. So I'll continue to let Mascot teach me to savor my days. I'll smile when I find him hiding in my flowers. I'll listen close when I hear his quivering voice. And I'll feel loss when I find my friend is gone. Because a string of seasoned days makes a feast for a hungry soul that's growing.

© by scj

Others May, You Cannot

I have an admission: I skip the long quotes featured in blog posts, articles, and books. I don't even bother to read texts that feature more quotes than original ideas.

I have analyzed and reanalyzed the psychology of this vice in an attempt to eradicate it, to no avail. I will continue to be a sheepish long-quote-skipper.

But I have no problem asking you, dear reader, to plow through a blog post that is almost entirely a quote from someone else.

My mom introduced me to this short essay last semester. I have revisited it over and over. I will probably continue to revisit it for the rest of my life.

I hope it encourages you like it encouraged me.

“Others May, You Cannot”

George Douglas Watson, 1845-1924

(Public Domain)

If God has called you to be really like Jesus, He will draw you to a life of crucifixion and humility, and put upon you such demands of obedience, that you will not be able to follow other people, or measure yourself by other Christians, and in many ways He will seem to let other good people do things which He will not let you do.

Other Christians and ministers who seem very religious and useful may push themselves, pull wires, and work schemes to carry out their plans, but you cannot do it; and if you attempt it, you will meet with such failure and rebuke from the Lord as to make you sorely penitent.

Others may boast of themselves, of their work, of their success, of their writing, but the Holy Sprit will not allow you to do any such thing, and if you begin it, He will lead you into some deep mortification that will make you despise yourself and all your good works.

Others may be allowed to succeed in making money, or may have a legacy left to them, but it is likely God will keep you poor, because He wants you to have something far better than gold, namely, a helpless dependence on Him, that He may have the privilege of supplying your needs day by day out of an unseen treasury.

The Lord may let others be honored and put forward, and keep you hidden in obscurity, because He wants you to produce some choice, fragrant fruit for His coming glory, which can only be produced in the shade. He may let others be great, but keep you small. He may let others do a work for him and get the credit of it, but He will make you work and toil without knowing how much you are doing; and then to make your work still more precious, He may let others get the credit for the work which you have done, and thus make your reward ten times greater when Jesus comes.

The Holy Spirit will put a strict watch over you, with a jealous love, and will rebuke you for little words and feelings, or for wasting your time, which other Christians never seem distressed over. So make up your mind that God is an infinite Sovereign, and has a right to do as He pleases with His own.

He may not explain to you a thousand things which puzzle your reason in His dealings with you. But if you absolutely sell yourself to be His…slave, He will wrap you up in a jealous love, bestow upon you many blessings which come only to those who are in the inner circle.

Settle it forever, then, that you are to deal directly with the Holy Spirit, and that He is to have the privilege of tying your tongue or chaining your hand, or closing your eyes, in ways that He does not seem to use with others. Now when you are so possessed with the living God that you are, in your secret heart, pleased and delighted over this peculiar, personal, private, jealous guardianship and management of the Holy Spirit over your life, you will have found the vestibule of Heaven.

© by scj

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"The songbird singing stops what I am doing at the sink."

-A Japanese Proverb

© by scj