My husband and I traveled to the California wine country for a work conference last November. The things we do for his career.
One afternoon, our group had lunch at Kuleto Estate situated high on a steep, rocky hill. Looked out over vineyards afire with fall color. The sky seemed larger. Our feet lighter.
our view from Kuleto Estate
Dined outdoors on the side of the mountain at a long table. Ate vegetables picked fresh from the gardens that morning, delectable meats and desserts prepared by the resident chef. It was so perfect, I kept looking for Martha Stewart to step out from behind a tree.
Couldn’t help but think this must be what heaven is like. Friends, food, fresh air, mountains, vineyards, olive trees.
That day left me longing for a place where I’d be with everyone I loved, eating and talking and laughing. Savoring each moment, followed by ten thousand upon ten thousand more. Finally safe. Finally home.
On the way back to our bus, we passed a pen of poultry. It was there I came face to face with a most majestic creature.
Heaven is filled with laughter that satiates the soul. I just know it is.
The best of the now is a hint of what’s to come. An assurance of the place He has for us.
Meet me there. One day, meet me there.
He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. Revelation 21:4 NIV
The dealer couldn’t find White Diamond, but did acquire Dark Cherry. A red car. Maybe I could do this.
The day came. Dark Cherry arrived. “You’ll fall in love with it!” said the salesman.
I saw it. One word: burgundy.
“It looks burgundy,” I said.
“No, no,” said the salesman. “It’s red.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s more red than brown,” I said. “But it’s not true red.”
“Oh, that’s just dirt,” he said. “Let me have it washed and you’ll see it’s red.”
While we waited, I discussed the dilemma with my husband.
blue undertones
“You know I’m a Winter. Brownish-red is not my color. I would really feel more at home in gray.”
“Honey, Dark Cherry is your color,” said my husband. “It isn’t brown. It has blue undertones.”
I wanted a car. I didn’t want burgundy. Maybe it wasn’t burgundy. But it wasn’t red either.
“See?” said the salesman. “It’s red!”
Freshly-washed Dark Cherry glistened in the sunlight, casting out any hints of brown.
This is silly, I thought to myself. Grow up and be content with Dark Cherry. So I did.
Still, the whole color thing ate at me. Had I compromised too much? Gone along to get along? The stars were aligned: I was there, my husband was there, the car was there. How could I walk away?
In other news, one of my BFFs gave birth to her third child. She’d entered no man’s land—the first weeks of an infant’s life when you take care of baby and not much else.
Armed with my package wrapped in pink gingham, I drove to her house to deliver the gift. She cradled the baby while we caught up.
“And you got a car,” she said as she peeked out the window. “Look at the color!”
life is a bowl of cranberries
“Yeah,” I said. “I wanted gray but they didn’t have it.”
“It’s perfect,” she said. “I love that Cranberry.”
Yet another reason why she’s my BFF. How I’ll miss her when we move.
Hadn’t mentioned my angst over the intricacies of brown, burgundy and true red. Didn’t matter.
She saw the best and called it out. Named it. Reframed it. No more neutrals for me.
Now I’m quite taken with Cranberry. Decided to call her Mary. She has a bike rack for Cindy so the girls can be friends.
Cranberry Mary Momma Mobile. Watch out. Here she comes.
Like apples of gold in settings of silver is a ruling rightly given. Proverbs 25:11 NIV
Linger awhile longer and enjoy The Cranberries with me. Anyone else think it’s ironic a group called The Cranberries filmed a music video in black and white?
“Thank You for this food,” says my father-in-law when he prays over our family dinner table. “And bless the hands that prepared it.”
Today as I sit down to a simple lunch of tomato soup and tuna melt, I think of the hands that prepared it.
Of course there are the farmers and ranchers. Vegetable growers and harvesters of the tomatoes for the soup and the cucumbers for the relish.
Dairy farmers whose cows produce the milk I stir into my soup and the cheese that makes my tuna melt. Poultry farmers whose chickens lay eggs for the mayo.
produce
Wheat growers who give us grain for bread. Fishermen who harvest albacore on the open seas.
It would be enough to stop there in the bread baskets, victory gardens and teeming waters of our world. But that would only be part of the story.
Equipment, machinery, tires, and fuel run modern farms. Veterinarians and animal health products shield livestock from disease.
Inputs like fertilizer boost plant health and production in our cropland. And yes, there are chemicals to keep our food from being infested by insects, ravaged by disease, or starved out by weeds.
cheese shop
There are ecologists and extension agents to watch over natural resources. Agronomists, biologists, chemists, soil specialists and a host of other scientists to improve and develop technologies.
Bankers, accountants, and lawyers are involved. Marketers too. Farming and food production are expensive ventures.
There are processing companies like the one that canned my soup. Planes, trains and big rigs with 18 wheels to transport the food to my town.
There are farmers’ markets and grocery stores. On-premise butchers, bakers, and chefs. People to work the checkouts, collect carts, or clean up on aisle seven.
checkout
Managers to manage it all. Administrators, human resources professionals, and thousands of other employees, plus federal, state and local government agencies.
So many people, so many hands take part in preparing my food and yours. We are free to buy, cook, or order up nearly anything we can imagine to eat.
Food prices have risen a bit lately. Yet last week I spent more money on clothes for my growing child than on groceries to feed him.
This is the state of food in America. The abundant, affordable state of food.
The pilgrims would fall to their knees if they could see it now. We’d do well to take their lead.
The eyes of all look to You in hope;
You give them their food as they need it.
When You open Your hand,
You satisfy the hunger and thirst of every living thing. Psalm 145:15-16 NLT
A special thank you to the friendly folks at the Richmond Center and Ladue Schnucks grocery stores for lending their smiles to this post.
#foodthanks
This post is part of FoodThanks, a forum sponsored by AgChat where people can give thanks for those who produce our food. To read more perspectives or to link up your own, go to AgChat.com or click on the #foodthanks button here.
So do I. My husband and I have developed quite an appetite for Vietnamese food during our tour in St. Louis. From Mai Lee to Little Saigon Cafe, I’m convinced there’s an addictive ingredient in the recipes. Crave.
For our precious realtor and friend who handled the unexpected sale of our house and quickly secured another place for us to rent. I’m thankful for the blessing of a wise advisor.
running the yard in Kansas
June was only the beginning. It was then we first learned my husband’s employer was being acquired. I’m thankful for his job with the new company.
A new job in a new city. Where just last week, another savvy realtor helped us find another house in a mere 48 hours. One that wasn’t even on the market yet.
What are you thankful for today?
I’d be so thankful if you would share.
July 4, 2011, Cabool, MO
Happy Veterans Day!
Today I’m also thankful for the brave men and women who’ve served in the United States military. Thank you Dad, Uncle Jon, Uncle Bill, Michael B., Joe G., Jeremy N., Cordel H., Eric B., Jeff W., Uncle O., John M., Jeff S., and the many more too numerous to name here. Freedom is not free.
How crafty am I? Don’t answer. That’s meant to be a rhetorical question.
The button, however, is yours for the taking. Copy and use at will in your social media to celebrate Thanksgiving. See? I’m using it in the sidebar to the right and as the profile picture on the everyday epistle Facebook page.
Come back tomorrow when, for my next trick, I plan to feature the Hebrews verse in a post AND link the post to this button! Wowza.
Those who refresh others will themselves be refreshed. Proverbs 11:25 NLT
Needed pajamas for a girls’ weekend away. My comfortable, old nightgown was threadbare. The loungewear department was calling.
As I swept across the sales floor at Dillard’s pulling things to try, I spotted it. A rack of baby terry cloth by Miss Elaine. Bright colors, soft fabric. I circled back for a closer look.
There I found a slightly A-line dress. No waistline, v neck, side seam pockets, tea length hem. Modern, close fit at the top. Loose on down.
The dressing room verified my suspicions. It was comfortable. Extremely comfortable.
So I bought it along with a couple more items for my trip. It was too warm to wear the baby terry dress at the time, and it was still full price. But I couldn’t leave that caliber of comfort in the store.
I bought it dreaming of a cool fall Sunday after church, pulling on the baby terry dress and lounging around the house. Making hot chocolate or popcorn. Watching movies. All cozy and warm.
Then it occurred to me. I’m only 40. Had I just purchased my first moo moo?
To me, Miss Elaine seems like an upper end line for mature women. And baby terry cloth? No pretty young thing I know would be caught dead in tea length baby terry cloth. No PYT even knows what tea length is these days.
mini patch pocket
It’s not a moo moo, I reasoned. It’s fitted at the top for goodness sake. And it’s got a mini patch pocket.
Besides who cares if it is categorically a moo moo? It’s one of the most comfortable garments I’ve ever owned.
I heard a Bible teacher once chastise us women for seeking our own comfort. Who did we think we were to put ourselves first and care foremost about our own well-being? To choose comfort instead of sacrifice?
Rather than a call to asceticism, I think she meant for us to see our own selfishness—as if we needed to be bashed over the head with the obvious and have the sacrifices we do make heartily invalidated. We wallowed in guilt while comfort was called on the carpet.
It’s fall now. A chill nips the edges of our daytime temps. I’m sitting at my computer, wearing my baby terry dress that’s not a moo moo.
The world is spinning into chaos outside the door of my little house. The economy is stalled indefinitely. There are protesters occupying Wall Street.
Decisions are not being made. Conflicts are left unresolved. People I know are divorced or alone, hurting, sick or dead. Winter will be here soon.
God comforts us. He wouldn’t do it if we didn’t need it. Over indulgence, selfishness, and hedonism are vices for sure. But comfort? Comfort is a necessity.
All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NLT
Going classical with Comfort Ye My People from The Messiah by George Frederic Handel. Sacred prelude to the holiday season.
trio of terry
Epilogue
Recently I hit Dillard’s clearance. Picked up two more Miss Elaine baby terry dresses that are not moo moos. Only $6.20 each. All rise for the Bargainista.
Hate is such strong word. Let’s just say I was above it.
My college poetry professor stressed the importance of editing. Said we should rewrite several times before presenting a piece.
Not I, said the cat! But not aloud of course. Kept my sentiments to myself.
Edit? Rewrite? Destroy the raw emotion, the fire fueling the original choice of words, rhythm, and meaning? The less editing the better. Keeps it pure.
Oh, the drama of it all.
image with permission from http://mycameramyfriend.wordpress.com/
“How long does it take you to, you know, come up with one of those stories?” said my friend the would-be stand up comedian last time I saw her.
“Depends,” I said. Nice, safe answer. But it’s true. Some posts come quickly. Others not so much.
If WordPress took note of the number of edits I make to a post before it goes live, they’d think I’m daffy.
Scratch that. It’s arguable whether I’m daffy no matter how many revisions.
I’m not sure what WordPress would think. Or what my professor would think. Or what you would think if you saw the unending stream of corrections and rewrites.
I can guess what you’re thinking now: All that, and she still manages to miss at least one typo per post!
If this were an old-school movie edit, I could adorn myself with the ringlets of film on the cutting room floor. Fashion them into a translucent wig. A Gaga dress.
fallen leaf
I could sweep them up into a pile. Invite children to jump in them like autumn leaves, only better. No crumbling bits breaking off and sticking in socks. No hidden night crawlers or pungent cedar mulch in the mix of sterile, celluloid ribbons.
What’s left is a reduced, boiled down idea. The essence of the original, but stronger. That’s the hope anyway.
How I wish I could exercise the same discipline with the words I speak. They bolt out. They are gone and cannot be recaptured.
They wriggle and squirm. They resist careful pruning. Resist being held.
These spoken ones may combust or fizzle. They may scale heights or burrow deep in the hearts of their receivers. But they do not go willingly to the cutting room floor. If I could tame them, I could tame the world.
People can tame all kinds of animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, but no one can tame the tongue. It is restless and evil, full of deadly poison. James 3:7-8 NLT
As we make plans to relocate to Wichita, my husband’s employer is sending us on a house-hunting trip. Momma Bear, Papa Bear and Baby Bear have different priorities for this excursion.
“Mom,” said the Cub, “we need lots of space.”
“What do you plan to do with lots of space?” I said.
“We need lots of space so we can have a soccer field,” he said. “Or a long-distance swimming pool.”
Papa Bear is also concerned about outdoor space. Give him room, lots of room. Don’t fence him in.
He grew up on a farm. You know what they say. You can take the boy off the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the boy.
Problem is, Papa Bear already has a job and farming is not it. Nor is landscape gardening. Nor lawn mowing.
Hobby, yes. Phenomenal green thumb, that man. But full-time work? And don’t think for a minute Momma Bear is interested in taking the reigns of a Deere.
Search criteria for Papa Bear consists of lot size, proximity to the neighbors, and what backs up to the property. Heaven forbid we back up to another house.
cubs sculpture, as seen at the National Zoo
“Here’s one,” he said as we perused real estate sites, “and we wouldn’t have to worry about anyone building behind us.”
“Why’s that?” I said.
“See this big field behind the property on the map?” he said. “It’s a cemetery.”
Momma Bear looked up to see if he was serious. He was. Dead serious. She huffed a low growl under her breath.
“What else have you found?” she said.
Papa Bear cracked a smile. “So living next to a cemetery is out of the question?”
“Completely.” Grrr.
Momma Bear’s main concerns are for the innards of the house. She would like an open floor plan so everyone can be together. She would like the heat to work in the winter and the air conditioner to work in the summer.
Enough room so every bear has his space, but not too much that she can’t clean up in a jiffy. A yard bigger than a postage stamp, but smaller than a park.
bear chair detail, as seen at the National Zoo
Our relocation agent has her work cut out looking for our just right.
One tidy, cozy, move-in-ready, little house on the prairie with a soccer field for a yard that doesn’t back up to another house or a cemetery.
Hibernating would be simpler. Any empty caves available in Sedgwick County?
Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. Ephesians 4:13 NIV
“It’s not what you think. I mean, it’s not a devotional per se.”
“What’s it about?”
That question strikes me dead in my tracks. What’s it about? What’s it about?
At a marriage conference once, I heard a speaker talk about a woman’s talent to “spiderweb” in conversations. How it can drive a man into circuit overload.
Spiderweb used as a verb. Very appropriate. Goes something like this:
I don’t like ice. Except when I take my child ice skating. We wear bike helmets to protect his sweet little noggin.
She shoots a gossamer thread.
He insists we both wear helmets to ride our bikes in the neighborhood. I like my bike. And I love my neighborhood.
Vanilla Ice is cool too, pun intended. He may be more down-to-earth now that he’s rehabbing houses on DIY. Yeah, Vanilla Ice is all right even though, as I said before, I don’t like ice.
You’re caught.
“So what’s your blog about?”
“It’s about a lot of things. You should probably just read it for yourself.”
Good idea.
She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. Proverbs 31:25 NIV
Spider-Man and I would like to wish you a fun and happy Halloween!
L’oreal Mica. Love at first sight. Faithfully wore it under Bonnie Bell rollerball lip gloss until the 80s crumbled with the Berlin wall.
Neutrals flooded the early 90s. I fell for Clinique’s Honey Ginger in a free gift with purchase. Head over heels, I broke up with Mica and never looked back.
But Honey Ginger was too orange for me. I began seeing Think Bronze on the side.
Then in 1995, I got married in real life. A Clinique free makeover introduced me to the soft, creamy neutrality of Tenderheart. It would be my steady companion for 10 years, with interludes of Bronze Leaf.
In 2005, I emerged from a postpartum haze looking a little worse for wear. Time for another Clinique free makeover. The gentlewoman in the white lab coat coddled me.
berrylicious
“You’re a Winter,” she said. “I’d hate for you to miss out on color. Let’s try some berries.”
She spoke my language. I was a Winter. I am a Winter. I needed berries. I needed Berrylicious.
Berrylicious sang on my lips. A soul mate in a tube. We spent four beautiful years together. Until that fateful day in Macy’s.
“What do you mean it’s discontinued?!” I said as the salesgirls cowered. All I have left are the flattened remains in the silver cylinder, tarnished with years.
Tried Water Violet for a spell. Tried Heather Moon. Returned to Tenderheart, with interludes of Chocolate Ice.
tenderheart & chocolate ice
Finally, I could stand it no longer. I took my pitiful, leftover Berrylicious on a mission to color match.
After a few discouraging tries with other brands, I stood staring forlornly at the Macy’s Clinique display. The gentlewoman in the white lab coat approached.
“Have you tried Perfect Plum?” she said, “It’s the Butter Shine formulation.”
The heavens opened. Perfect Plum wasn’t Berrylicious, but it was, well, perfect. We’ve been inseparable.
perfect plum
I go through tubes of it, relentlessly applying and sealing with gloss. Bonnie Bell rollerballs are no more, so I’ve taken up with the seasonal delicacies of Philosophy high-gloss, high-flavor sweet candy lip shine instead. Mmm.
Had a scare earlier this year in the makeup capitol of the mall. Couldn’t find Perfect Plum in the Clinique case at Sephora.
“Do you have any Perfect Plum?” I said breathlessly after a sprint to the Macy’s Clinique counter.
They did and I do. Clinique headquarters assured me it’s not discontinued. Yet.
Berrylicious is gone forever. So is Honey Ginger. My other past Clinique colors are still available. And recently I bumped into Mica at Walmart.
Mica looks good. I was tempted to buy. But I look good too. So I’m dancing with the Perfect Plum who brought me. For the time being anyway.
Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Hebrews 13:8 NLT
I’m not being paid to endorse any of the companies mentioned in this post. One company could, however, consider throwing me a bone for all the press I give them here and in The Great Clinique Heist of 2011. We’ll call it even for discontinuing my favorite lipstick.
