I realize that when it snows I mention it and when it’s bitterly cold I mention it and when the trees are ablaze I mention it and when it’s too hot and humid for my delicate constitution I mention it, but I reside in Northeastern Minnesota and life can be dominated by the seasons here. I’ve said before that growing up in Southern California made me completely weather oblivious, and then I moved here in 1981 and I’ve been obsessed with paid attention to the weather ever since.

I looked at the thermometer on the front deck when I got up this morning, and it read a solid -20°.  After Edith and Millie had their respectively slowly-sampled and frantically-inhaled breakfasts, I let them outside to go potty and then moved to the living room so I could keep an eye on them from the window that looks out onto the side yard. Within 45 seconds, Millie was stuck from the intense cold, crouching and vibrating and unable to move, and lifting one paw in pain. I was in slippers and nightgown and knew I didn’t have time to run and get dressed so I could dash out into the snow and cold to rescue her. (Note: the word “dash” is quite optimistic and perhaps even humorous in describing any movement I might make these days, no matter how desperate the need.) I felt a bit of panic as I quickly unlocked the living room window and raised it a couple of inches, bent down and yelled outside in the dark, “Millie come! Come on, come inside!” and clapped my hands over and over. She heard me and started moving, but it was alarming to see. She was hunched over and pitifully hobbling on three paws, moving at a snail’s pace, and I could see it was everything she could do to climb the deck stairs and get into the house. I almost cried in relief. Edith mounted the steps right after Millie, but she didn’t look quite as impaired by the cold. They both trotted around the house for a few minutes and then curled up for their morning naps. A few hours later the temperature had risen a full twenty degrees, to a balmy 1°, and when the dogs had to go out again, they were able to take care of business and return inside without incident. I keep telling Sara we have such high-maintenance little hounds, and they’re so emotionally costly!

As I was doing my CBS lesson this morning, pondering Isaiah chapter 41, I glanced up and looked again at the beautiful little stained glass window of a cardinal I have in my room. My friend Penelope Wilcock’s daughter Alice made it for me over four years ago, and I have gotten so much enjoyment from it. I had originally intended to hang it from a window with chains and solid fasteners, but we use all our windows and I’ve never been able to decide on where to put it. So instead I have it sitting in a sturdy stand on top of one of my dressers:

The back of the stand sort of obscures some of the details of the window, but you can still appreciate its beauty, I hope. Click the photo twice to enlarge if you like. Isn’t it exquisitely done? I love it.

I’m rereading portions of a book I picked up soon after Michael died. It’s called The Undistracted Widow by Carol W. Cornish and has been very helpful and inspiring. In the chapter I read today she quotes a Charles Wesley hymn I’d never heard before, “Thou Hidden Source of Calm Repose” and the lyrics touched my heart:

1. Thou hidden source of calm repose,
thou all-sufficient love divine,
my help and refuge from my foes,
secure I am if thou art mine;
and lo! from sin and grief and shame
I hide me, Jesus, in thy name.

2. Thy mighty name salvation is,
and keeps my happy soul above,
comfort it brings, and power and peace,
and joy and everlasting love;
to me with thy dear name are given
pardon and holiness and heaven.

3. Jesus, my all in all thou art,
my rest in toil, my ease in pain,
the healing of my broken heart,
in war my peace, in loss my gain,
my smile beneath the tyrant’s frown,
in shame my glory and my crown.

4. In want my plentiful supply,
in weakness my almighty power,
in bonds my perfect liberty,
my light in Satan’s darkest hour,
in grief my joy unspeakable,
my life in death, my heaven in hell.

Have you heard or sung this before? Such rich lyrics, and so wonderful to thrill to something written almost three hundred years ago!

Along with the three or four books I’m reading right now, I picked up C.S. Lewis’s Prince Caspian today. Last month I decided to read through The Chronicles of Narnia again, soaking them in during these cold months that keep me inside more. Since December I’ve read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, The Magician’s Nephew, and The Horse and His Boy, all new and fresh in different ways even though dear old friends. I always manage to sob in different parts of each book. In Lion, I cry when I read almost anything about Lucy Pevensie and her interactions with Aslan. In fact, many years ago I told the Lord I wanted to be more like Lucy Pevensie. She is in awe of Aslan, yet loves Him so deeply she buries her face in His mane, and trusts Him completely when He tells her to climb on his back and hold on before they fly.

I started occasionally writing down the fictional characters and real-life people I am so inspired by and would love to be more like. In the back of one of my journals I started my list, which isn’t terribly long, and here are a few of the names:

-Lucy Pevensie (from C.S. Lewis’s Narnia books)
-Matthew Cuthbert (from L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables)
–Betsie ten Boom (a real Dutch person written about in the book The Hiding Place)
-Matty Jenkyns (a fictional character played by Judi Dench in the British DVD series Cranford)
–Anna, the prophetess in Luke, chapter 2, who was a widow so focused on meeting Jesus she did practically nothing else but fast and pray and watch for Him.

There are other names on my “wish” list too. Mostly I think they all remind me of the traits I long to have…gentleness, mercy, humility, devotion, such inner strength from utter dependence on God, and more. I am not much like any of them, yet as long as there’s life, there’s hope. In some way, all of the people on my list are Christlike to me.

Can you think of anyone you might put on a similar list of your own?

Well, it’s getting close to the time when I need to start thinking about what to make for dinner. If I had my druthers, I’d serve Qdoba burritos with pico de gallo, cilantro lime rice, black beans and homemade guacamole, but the likelihood of me going out in this cold is close to nil. I might whip up some omelets instead, butter some whole grain toast, slice some Honeycrisp apples, and then read a chapter or two of Prince Caspian while I wait for Downton Abbey to come on.

Have a wonderful week, dear friends and family…I’m thankful to know you stop by here.

My granddaughter Mrs. Nisky made her daddy a special present for Christmas, because he has read The Lord of the Rings over fifteen times. I guess that makes him a fan of J.R.R. Tolkien.

Here’s how her project turned out:

She walked to Grandma’s house after school several times in the last three months, and worked on it little by little. When everything was finally modeled and baked, she glued it together and gently put it in a box for wrapping. It even has Gandalf’s secret mark on it.

Isn’t it fantastic?

Have you read Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis? I read it again last year and still remember the little blazes of light that came to my understanding as I read. I highly recommend it! Here’s a wonderful quote from the book:

“You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen (college), night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him of whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England. I did not then see what is now the most shining and obvious thing; the Divine humility which will accept a convert even on such terms. The Prodigal Son at least walked home on his own feet. But who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape? The words compelle intrare, compel them to come in, have been so abused by wicked men that we shudder at them; but, properly understood, they plumb the depth of the Divine mercy. The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of men, and His compulsion is our liberation.”   

— C.S. Lewis, in Surprised by Joy

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Sara and I drove to the cemetery recently but right before we left she decided she wanted to make a heart-shaped wreath to drape over Michael’s headstone. The personalized wreath she made for Christmas is still there on its stand, looking beautiful in the snow, but this one is simpler.

She also decided she wanted long red ribbons attached to the wreath, so they would blow in the wind and look pretty and unique from a distance. Here’s a photo of Sara hanging the wreath. It’s on the other side of the headstone and you can only see the ribbons to the right.

As we drove away, the wind was briskly blowing and when we got to the bottom of the hill and looked back up toward Michael’s grave, you could see the ribbons billowing and streaming as if to say, “Look! Here he is!”

We laughed about how incongruous the ribbons are for Michael, a humble man who didn’t want to call attention to himself and was much too manly for a beribboned grave.

And we also know that actually, he isn’t there. Only what’s left of his earthly tent remains, and that isn’t needed anymore. He has a new body, a new smile, a new voice, new legs to run and leap, new arms to raise in praise to Jesus, and joy of joys, his new body will never die again. I firmly believe he will still be recognizable as our Michael, but he’ll be the most beautiful and vigorous he’s ever been, and I look forward to the day when I can lay eyes on him again.

“But [we are different, because] our citizenship is in heaven. And from there we eagerly await [the coming of] the Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ; who, by exerting that power which enables Him even to subject everything to Himself, will [not only] transform [but completely refashion] our earthly bodies so that they will be like His glorious resurrected body.”   Philippians 3:20-21, Amplified Version

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Last night I took my two Fosters out to dinner and we used an Olive Garden gift card I had received for Christmas. The gals had Chicken Alfredo and Lasagna, and I had the Chicken Marsala. By the time we got home and put our leftovers in the fridge, let the dogs out and turned on a fire in the dining room fireplace, it had begun to snow outside. I stood and watched from the kitchen window, looking toward the streetlight across the street and down aways, and was happy to see big, fluffy flakes blowing around. It snowed about an inch or two, but it’s a light, powdery snow, easy to shovel, and right before I went to bed around 10:00 p.m., I let the dogs out one more time (such high-maintenance pooches — always wanting to potty outside!) and then shoveled off the deck in a couple of minutes.

When I can be outside on a winter night in my flannel nightgown and slippers, with no coat, hat or socks, and it feels brisk and refreshing, then I know it’s at least 26 degrees out. My internal thermometer tells me so. When it’s below 20 degrees, I feel the chill seep deep in less than a minute and don’t watch and wait for the dogs on the deck but from inside the house. If the temperatures are close to zero or even below it (as is predicted for this Sunday — 10 below — gahhh) I might go outside to hurry the dogs down the deck steps so they won’t lollygag and end up with painful feet, but the bitter cold brings aching pain in seconds and I can’t get back inside fast enough.

I’m a homebody anyway, but there’s nothing like a northeastern Minnesota winter to underscore that tendency. Since Michael died on February 9th, I have cocooned myself as much as possible in this home I’m so grateful for, to heal, to ponder, to insulate, to cry, possibly even to prepare. I’m not sure what I’m preparing for, but I feel like there’s something. Maybe a trip abroad? Maybe the writing of a children’s book? Maybe my own death? We never know how long we’ll have, and I think when you lose a loved one, mortality stops being a hunched, shadowy figure darting from bush to bush in your peripheral vision, and instead walks up those front steps, rings the doorbell and offers its hand in a bold hello. And it’s not scary.

Two things make death not scary for me: Michael’s death, and Jesus. The ways the Lord beautifully tended to our family, and to His beloved Michael, during the final week of Michael’s life, forever changed how I think about the process of dying. I do realize that not everyone gets to experience what Michael did, but I hope I learned a deeper level of trust in the Lord for when my own time comes. And pretty much the whole Bible points to how God dealt with the problem of death (and in Genesis it became a huge problem right away) and His answer was, by the time the New Testament was penned, Jesus. Writing this makes me think of Fernando Ortega’s song “Give Me Jesus,” especially the lyrics, “and when I come to die, give me Jesus.” If you haven’t heard it, you’ll be blessed to listen, right here. I asked my friend Lorna to sing this song at Michael’s funeral.

I’m reading a book right now I think I can safely recommend, even though I’m only in the second chapter. One of my eleven readers, Nancy, mentioned it in a recent comment she left. It’s called Evidence Not Seen by Darlene Deibler Rose, and it’s already stirring my soul.

I want my soul to be stirred, yet this past year I have done all I can to hole myself up so my soul is not stirred. Maybe that’s not the most accurate way to put it. Maybe I want my soul to be stirred, but my life to stand still for a while, which of course is foolish. I need to start moving again. My grief and inactivity have added pounds to my already ample frame, and my joints never let me forget it. This thought came to me the other day: I buried my husband and am now trying to bury myself as well. Not literally bury in a grave, but am I trying to wrap and hide myself from all that life still offers? If so, why? I have no idea. If I knew the answer to that I probably wouldn’t have written the last paragraph.

The sun hasn’t come up yet, but I have a hot bath drawn (with my favorite mild bubbles from a splash of Amway’s LOC) and several things on my to-do list today. Grocery shopping, foster report writing and mailing, laundry folding, my Community Bible Study lesson, prescriptions to pick up for my gals, and if I can reach to the depths for a shred of self-control and discipline, a walk.

What do you have planned for today? Or tomorrow? What are you reading right now? Are you preparing for something too?

I took some photos of our table as Sara and I were preparing for our Christmas Day family brunch, but they were “in process,” and I forgot to get any shots after the glasses, cups and silverware were added. So these are incomplete, but I thought I’d share anyway. Also, we do have a few pictures of actual people in our home on Christmas rather than just dinnerware, but I’m waiting on those to be sent to me from the person whose camera contains them.  🙂

I used to think my decorating style was simply called “traditional” — I’m drawn to rolled arms on couches and chairs, wingbacks, darker woods. But when we moved into this house on May 31, 2012, it was full of light wood, clean lines, modern hardware and Scandinavian touches, so the two styles had to co-exist together. And I have relaxed a bit and like the meld.

So I’ve taken to calling my odd decorating style “Scottish Traditional Mismatched Ornithological, with hints of French-Scandinavian Eclectic.”

You can see it all here, and the photos can be enlarged by clicking if you like:

Plaid plates, Swedish placemats, wintry woven Norwegian placemats with reindeer on them, brass candlesticks, toile-ish plates, cardinal napkins and salt and pepper shakers (a lovely gift from my dear friend Kristi), and a traditional-yet-slightly-modern centerpiece made by Sara.

Sara also pulled our deacon’s bench to the table, and three little children occupied that spot.  🙂

A closer look at the centerpiece Sara made. For whimsy, she draped some antique glass beads over the branches.

Scottish-Norwegian-Ornithological:

And here’s Vivienne’s little red wax sculpture of a cardinal again, perched on a candlestick. And a closeup of the adorable salt and pepper shakers:

I’ll post some photos of the people who ate off these plates soon — they might all be dressed in various ugly Christmas sweaters.

Have a blessed week,

I have enjoyed Downton Abbey on television ever since it debuted, and I’m looking forward to seeing the sixth and final season which begins here in early January. Sara and I have been watching the episodes straight through on DVD, and we’re almost done with the fifth season.

She and I were talking about it this morning as she was taking down the tree and other Christmas decorations for me, and we each guessed what might happen to the regular characters. I haven’t read any spoilers and don’t plan to, so if you know something about season six please don’t give anything away!

Here are my guesses:

Robert and Cora Crawley: I’m not sure what I think might happen to them, but my guess is that they’ll be happy and stable, enjoying two of their grandchildren (George and Marigold), and accepting of the new ways coming to Downton.

Mary Crawley: Contrary to probability because Mary seems to have so many suitors, I think as season six closes she will remain unmarried. I don’t think anyone can satisfactorily take Matthew’s place. She will transition toward being the Countess of Grantham and she and George will face the future together as she learns how to keep Downton running and hopefully prosperous.

Edith Crawley: I think Michael Gregson will come back from the dead, so to speak, and return to Edith and Marigold. I don’t think his alleged death at the hands of Hitler’s “thugs in brown shirts” really happened, although he was probably severely injured, and I think Edith is going to get her happy ending. If she doesn’t, I might throw a shoe.

Tom Branson: Tom will take his little daughter Sybbie and sail for America, as was mentioned in season five. Hopefully without Miss Bunting.

Bates and Anna: I predict a happy future and a much wanted pregnancy for this couple we’ve all come to care about.

Barrow: I think Thomas will be one of the characters who will walk into the future with sorrow. I’m betting the writers don’t put him in a relationship and will instead focus on the loneliness of his homosexuality, with him having a “well, of course this is the way my life would go” sort of outlook.

Mrs. Patmore: I think she will retire to her newly-purchased little cottage and be a surrogate mother/encourager to Daisy.

Daisy: I think Daisy’s pursuit of education to better herself will pay off and she will be a success, perhaps running the Mason farm and spending time with Mrs. Patmore there.

Carson and Mrs. Hughes: These two will get married and I will cheer.

Rose and her husband: I’m not sure about these two because I never really got into her character. Ho-hum.

Isobel Crawley: She won’t marry Lord Merton and will instead become closer to Dr. Clarkson. She and Mary will have a close relationship due to their deep love for Matthew.

Molesley and Baxter: I think there’s something to their friendship that will deepen as season six draws to a close. I love his kindness toward her, and how she has never failed to take humble responsibility for her former actions.

Violet, the Dowager Countess: I think Violet will die at the end of the series, deeply loved and grieved, especially by Isobel, whose friendship with her was an unexpected blessing to them both.

How about you? If you’re a Downton watcher, what are some of your predictions? No spoilers though! Gahh!  🙂

I love December the 26th. If Christmas has been a particular happy one, then the day after Christmas is a good time for basking in the memories we’ve made the day before. If Christmas has been difficult (and I’ve had a few, as I’ll bet most have), the 26th feels like a new start, a return to the blessed ordinary, even before January 1st arrives.

Our house is in wild disarray this morning, but it’s because we had a blessed Christmas yesterday. We had eighteen of my favorite people on earth in our relatively small living room/dining room space. Because this was our first Christmas without Michael, I’m keenly aware that things can change in an instant, and today I want to replay all the snapshots of yesterday’s joy in my mind and write them all down in my gratitude journal to tell the Lord I saw. And received. And marveled.

I took a few pictures yesterday before everyone arrived, and will post more in a few days. Today I’ll share a picture of the additions to the front deck planters Sara did this week. Usually all the large ornaments are on the outside of the planter so they can be seen from the street. This year Sara decided we needed to enjoy the beauty more from inside the house as well, so she drove up to Menard’s and bought more outdoor ornaments and affixed them to the side of the planters we see from the the dining room. Since I have a lot of dark blue, deep red, and some robins egg blue decor, she chose those colors.

You can click to enlarge if you would like to see more detail.

I have this CD playing softly right now and the snow has begun to fall outside. A little while ago I stood out on the front deck in the dark as Edith and Millie were sniffing around in the yard, and I could see how thickly the flakes were falling in the glow of the street light. A winter storm warning has been issued for our area and we could get seven inches of snow. An inch an hour at times is what the weather man says, with very gusty winds. Of course that means it will be a blessed day at home, puttering, putting things back to normal, doing laundry and paperwork and my Community Bible Study lesson, making tea.

How was your Christmas? Did you have a joyous day of family and food and fun? Or did you spend it alone and weighted with sorrow? Was there strife or loneliness or disappointment in your celebration, or lack of one? I pray for all of us that Psalm 16:11 will guide us through the coming year:

You make known to me the path of life;
in your presence there is fullness of joy;
at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.

Lord, I pray that you will lead us on the paths you have set out for us, and give us all grace to truly follow you. I ask for your comforting presence to be with us in personal ways we can recognize, and that we will experience the fullness of your joy, which we know doesn’t depend on our circumstances, but only on you. And I thank you in faith for the pleasures you give, not as the world gives, but gifts that last forever and keep us close to you, dearest heavenly Father. I pray this for every soul reading, and for all those we love…in the name of Jesus, Amen.

Last week as Pat, Gail and Lorna sat in my living room after dinner (we had homemade pizza and panzanella salad), we spoke briefly about how meaningful the lyrics of so many Christmas carols can be when we’re paying attention. Just that very day I had been thinking about the words to “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” particularly the line “God and sinners reconciled!” and how miraculous and comforting that truth is. Lorna said the same line aloud and how much it meant to her, and I said, “Lorna, today those very words were what touched my heart so deeply too!”

When estrangement is your family’s norm, then the word reconciled grows to mean so much.

By the time I was thirteen years old, I’d seen some estrangement. My oldest brother had moved out of our house years before and his relationship with my dad was strained at the very least. My dad had wonderful traits, but could be a volatile man and it never brought about good things when he was challenged. Then the summer of my thirteenth year, my dad and other brother became completely estranged and my brother actually changed his last name because of it. Not long after that my parents’ marriage of thirty-one years ended in divorce, and aside from the destruction that brought, my maternal grandparents became bitterly estranged from my dad, a son-in-law they had deeply loved and trusted who had betrayed their daughter. By the time I was in my mid-twenties, one of my brothers and his wife estranged themselves from me and my family and he began sending cruel, sick things to me in the mail. He did the same thing to my older brother. My two brothers are still estranged. Around this time my older brother broke off contact with my ailing mother because she loved his little boy (her first grandson) and wanted to reach out to him, as he’d been estranged from his daddy at a young age due to his parents’ bitter divorce. My oldest brother resisted the contact his only son tried to make with him for almost forty years, and his son died suddenly last year, never having been reconciled to his father as he so desperately wished. When my father died in 2007, the estrangement between him and my youngest brother continued in a form, as he refused to attend his father’s funeral. My older brother (whose relationship with my dad was never very good) did attend the funeral in California, as did I. Now in his seventies, one might think that as the end of his life draws near, my older brother might want to end the estrangement with his only brother, but sadly, that isn’t the case. My niece and nephew are estranged from their father, who is ten years older than I, because of the way he has treated his family. My other niece is estranged from her father (the one who wouldn’t respond to his adult son after almost forty years), who is fifteen years older than I, because of the way he has treated their family. And while I do have contact with my older brother, he would cut me out of his life in an instant if I did or said the wrong thing (and indeed has threatened to do so). And I do not have a relationship with my other brother, because as much as I want the best for him, he has proven he cannot be trusted time and time again, and this is the way it must be.

So I know a little about dysfunctional estrangement.

But here’s the saddest thing of all: every single person mentioned in this tragic narrative above is a Christian.

And I have no answer for this.

So when I think of reconciliation between God and sinners as the Christmas carol says, tears well up and my heart wrenches in gratitude and hope. Because it seems like estrangement in one form or another is all I’ve ever known. It was in the air that I breathed.

I do not deserve reconciliation with God, but He has reconciled me to Himself through the blood of His Son. This is what Christmas is all about, why Jesus came to earth. God is still with us (Emmanuel) in the midst of our messes, and He bridged that horrible chasm between us and Him, because of His great love.

You might be able to understand why this passage from the third chapter of Titus means so much to me:

At one time we too were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another. But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, He saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of His mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, whom He poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Savior, so that, having been justified by His grace, we might become heirs having the hope of eternal life.

This wasn’t exactly a bright and cheery Christmas post, but I do wish you and yours a peaceful Christmas and a wonderful 2016.

I hope that God will bring reconciliation to us all,

It seems to me like the older one gets, the less resilient. Our nine year-old Miniature German Schnauzer Mildred Virginia Sizzlelorum (Millie) is one example.

When Millie came into our household, we already had Edith Elaine Bubbleloo, another Schnauzer four years Millie’s senior. But Millie wanted Alpha dog position and just took over, and Edith assumed a deferential demeanor and let her have her way to keep the poochie peace.

Millie still likes to be first and displays very jealous behavior when anyone is paying attention to Edith, but as she has gotten older, she seems to be more emotionally fragile. Millie is afraid of sounds. She hates the vacuum, while Edith watches languidly when I’m doing the carpets. Sharon came over to take the dogs’ pictures for us yesterday and we learned another sound Millie hates: the soft click of a camera’s shutter when a photograph is taken. Millie could barely bring herself to look Sharon’s direction because of the clicks. She had to be restrained from running out of the room.

If anyone ever makes a raspberry sound with their mouth against a baby’s belly, Millie slinks from the room in fear. When the microwave beeps its signal that a cup of water has heated, Millie looks up nervously from her own personal wingback chair in the living room, clearly considering whether or not she should run to the back of the house or brave it and stay put.

So you can imagine what might happen if one of the smoke/carbon monoxide detectors in the house has a battery that’s fading and begins to chirp loudly every minute. This happened recently and it took me a couple of minutes to find which one it was. We have one in each bedroom. By the time I had gotten the step stool and unscrewed the unit from the bedroom ceiling, my ears were ringing, and Millie was nowhere to be found. At least nowhere usual.

I finally found her in the corner of my office, vibrating pathetically. I felt so sorry for her.

Later, she was clearly done in and needed a lot of rest. She spent most of the day recuperating on my unmade bed.

Poor Mildred. She has such a hard life.