…if I had my druthers…

…this would be the place where we spend the winter of 2010…

…and we would leisurely stroll each morning to shop for the day’s groceries…

…and in this simple kitchen I would prepare fresh and delicious meals 

while looking out over the blue Mediterranean…

…and after lunch we would load up our reading and make our way down this path…

…and after a nice stroll, a gratefully savored meal, a good read, and a peaceful nap in the sun, I would probably feel like doing this….

 …but that’s only if I had my druthers…

Okay, this might be one of those yawn-inspiring blog posts that isn’t asking for reader input, isn’t a tribute to a loved one (although I have one of those coming in the My Joys section very soon), and it isn’t about a book I’ve read and loved. It’s about my nose, and how it got sick. Why it got sick is another matter – I’m still thinking and praying about that one, because I don’t believe anything happens to us without a reason. No thing.

I’ll give you an out right here. If you’re the type who hates reading about others’ maladies, then try clicking on these links to (possibly) more interesting and lighthearted posts – about me wanting to swim a mile out to sea when I was little, about our two little dogs, about my cardinal collection, about why I love cardinals in the first place, perhaps a really terrific granola recipe, a wonderfully written piece on zip-lining by my friend Diane, a photo of the view I saw from my childhood backyard, or about an ongoing work God is doing in my heart, or maybe about the one post on this blog that is read more than any other.

But about two months ago, at the tail end of a cold, I got another sinus infection. In the last five-six years, I’ve gotten almost one sinus infection a year. From age 0-44, my sinuses never bothered me; they pretty much worked well in conjunction with my lungs to breathe in and breathe out, and filter air and produce moisture (can it really be one quart per day?!) and fill some of those large empty spaces sitting around in my head. I never had allergies, never knew of Neti pots, never felt sinus pressure, until sometime around the year 2002.

Well this last sinus infection was different, because it came to steal, kill and destroy. What it stole, killed and destroyed was my olfactory capacity. My sense of smell is gone. I don’t mean that I have difficulty perceiving smells, I mean I can no longer perceive them at all. If I hold the most pungent items to my nose and inhale deeply, it’s just a blank. Fresh ground coffee, my favorite perfume, bleach, sauteing onions, garlic, whatever. Nada. Zip.

At first I just thought this was a temporary deal because my sinus infection was bad, and held on and held on for weeks. After my Neti pot failed me, I reluctantly went to the doctor who prescribed antibiotics, which I am always loathe to take, because I don’t want to become resistant to them, since I want antibiotics to work for me should the day ever come when I reaaalllly need them. I was sick enough to take them for ten days, however, and they didn’t stomp out the infection. They put a lid on it and I felt a little better, but I could still feel something simmering under that lid.

So after two months of not being able to smell anything, I returned to the doctor. He ordered a CT scan of my sinuses to make sure I didn’t have some sort of growth near the olfactory nerves. Talk about fast drive-up service: I saw the doctor in the afternoon, had the CT scan at 6:00 p.m. that evening, and he called me with the results by 8:00 a.m. the next morning. I’m pretty sure with socialized health care this would not have been my experience, but as my daughter was quick to point out, I also wouldn’t have to pay the bazillion dollars for it that I will when the bills start making appearances in our mailbox. And yes, we do have medical insurance.

So the CT scan showed nothing remarkable in my sinuses, except that I have a deviated septum. Always nice to know. The doctor was inclined to refer me to a specialist, so yesterday I saw an ear-nose-throat surgeon who spent a lot of time with me, listening, taking notes, asking good questions, and he told me I was “a compelling patient.” Because I am so witty and entertaining? Probably not.

I think I saw the light bulb go on over his head when he asked me if I’d ever had any immune system issues and I told him about the nasty bout with Sarcoidosis I had several years ago. “Aha!” his thoughtfully raised eyebrows said, and soon he was explaining to me why what I am going through now, and possibly all the sinus infections I’ve had over the past several years, could all be related to the Sarcoidosis (sar-koy-DOE-sis) I thought had gone into remission (or disappeared altogether) years ago.

I didn’t tell Dr. G. that I distinctly remember when the Evil Sarc Beast finally tucked its tail and left me, running off into the woods after almost a year of torment, never to return. I didn’t tell him that with stance wide, one hand on my hip and the other arm outstretched and raised shoulder-level, with finger pointing authoritatively toward those dark woods, that I yelled in my most stentorian tones, “And don’t come back!” The Evil Sarc Beast left its marks from his visit with me — extreme light-sensitivity in my eyes and some large cotton ball-sized lymph nodes in my brachial area, but the medley of perplexing symptoms involving my shins, saliva glands, ankles, lungs and eyes that were my constant companion for almost a year have departed. I think I could even remember dusting off my hands and squaring my shoulders after telling the beast good riddance, and then resuming my life.

But I didn’t tell the doctor any of this. I don’t think he would have thought I was so compelling for all the same reasons. 🙂

So now I’ve just returned from my second CT scan with injected contrast dye, this one of the whole brain (only took five minutes – ha). I should get the phone call with the results in about seven minutes if I judge by the lightning-speed service they’ve provided up until now. The reason for the second scan is because Dr. G. informed me that Sarcoidosis often causes sinusitis and that perhaps I shouldn’t have been prescribed antibiotics, but steroids. And that I should have taken them weeks ago. The cause of my lost sense of smell could have been a viral infection alone. Or it could be related to the Evil Sarc Beast that I thought was long gone. And the doctor also said I needed a brain scan to make sure that sarcoid lesions (I will not explain because really, no one wants to know details like these) had not popped up in my gray matter. Even though I have not had any recurrence of Sarc symptoms for years? He was emphatic with his yes.

I’m not worried about the CT scan results. I don’t have a presentiment of disaster or any feeling of dread. But I am really sad about something. And I’m feeling a little guilty that I’m so sad about it. Dr. G. told me kindly yesterday that I almost certainly will never regain my sense of smell. He said it usually just doesn’t happen. And he said my one hope (other than prayer, he agreed) was to begin taking high-dose steroids right away for one week. So I started taking the howitzer pills yesterday and now I will wait. And pray. And sniff. I will sniff in more ways than one, believe me.

In light of the problems and tragedies other people are facing, I know so well that losing my ability to smell anything is so minuscule in comparison. My own dear husband struggles with something each day that is so much more serious than my new diagnosis, which by the way is called anosmia (pronounced a-NOZZ-mee-a). A young man in our community severed his spinal column in a skiing accident recently and will likely never walk again. There are adulteries and divorces and cancers and heartaches that are so much more serious than this. I don’t want to lose sight of that fact.

But it’s shocking how much I need my nose. I used to be able to tell just by walking by a bathroom if it needed immediate attention. Not long ago I could smell a mouse in our garage, and when a trap was set, the proof was in the flattened pudding. I could tell when the vacuum bag needed changing, when the oven was set too high for the cake I was baking, when the comforter needed dry cleaning, etc. I miss smelling my husband’s neck, which has been a heavenly scent to me for twenty-eight years. I miss burying my nose in a grandbaby’s skin and inhaling that wonderful, heady fragrance. I miss smelling food. And I won’t know now if my house stinks. For those of you who visit my home, I’m seriously going to depend on you to tell me if I need to attend to something. I miss smelling the fresh air of night. I miss the smell of clean sheets pulled up around my nose when I get in bed. I miss the smell of coffee, even though I don’t drink it much. I miss so many scents already. Vanilla. Estee Lauder’s “Beautiful.” Soap. Flowers. Pine needles. It’s very disconcerting to inhale deeply and with anticipation, and get……nothing. And I won’t even start about how this has affected my ability to taste food. Also, in our part of the country we have the best tasting water in the world, but I can no longer taste it. Sigh…

So I called my friends Carey and Su. Carey promised to pray and was so compassionate. She had me laughing about all these physical things we’re dealing with now that we’ve reached our fifties. And Su reminded me that nothing is impossible with God, and said that she would go to battle for me in prayer. (Jesus looked at them and said, “With man this is impossible, but not with God; all things are possible with God.”  Mark 10:27) She has her own list of physical challenges, none of which she would ever dream of posting on a blog for the world to read about, and she is going to pray for my nose. I thank God for friends.

So if you can stop and smell the roses today, please do. If you can smell pee that needs cleaning up on the bathroom floor, I hope you can smile about that, because that’s a gift. Not the pee on the floor, but the ability to smell it so you can clean it up. 🙂

If I am never able to smell anything again, I will trust God with that. And if I am healed, He will probably be thanked and praised for the gift of smell more than He has ever been. At least that will be my intent…if I can ever smell again.

That, and to tell you all about it here on the blog…

(Note added on April 18 – Dr. G. called to report that my second CT scan revealed a “grossly unremarkable brain” (I could have told anyone that!) with no bad stuff taking up residence there, for which I am very thankful. So my anosmia has been caused by the viral sinus infection, which most likely damaged the olfactory nerves. Still hoping and praying, though….)

Blessings,

I have always loved a good, pithy quotation or saying. I like something that strikes at the heart or mind (or both) in power, but is short enough to mindfully carry around with me for the rest of the day so I can ponder it and make its truths my own.

Once a week I would like to share here on the blog some of these quotes I love, and I thought making it a weekly feature would be neat. But I would love some help from all of you in naming the feature.

Occasionally I write blog posts on “Thankful Thursday,” about things I’m grateful for, so that day of the week is already taken. And in observing a day of rest I don’t post things on Sundays.

But the rest of the week is open, and I would so welcome your ideas. These are the possibilities I thought of for a specific day/feature for quotes on the blog:

“Saturday Sayings”

“Wednesday’s Wisdom”

“Wisdom for Wednesday”

“Mindful Monday”

And now you can understand why I’m asking for ideas, because that’s all I’ve come up with so far.  Please help!

What do you think the weekly feature could be called? I want to know what your thoughts, and I thank you ahead of time for sharing any ideas you come up with. The title certainly does not have to have alliteration as the ones above do. If you have more than one suggestion that’s even better!

Put on your thinking caps, your pondering pants, your funny fedoras, your creative capes, or your wisdom wigs, (you can clearly see that I need your assistance) and help name the new feature on this little blog.

Thank you!

When I was almost seventeen years old, I got engaged. It was a very unwise thing to do, but that is another blog post for another time. So then I got married when I was eighteen, in a little mining town called Rough and Ready, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I really thought I knew what I was doing back then. Today at age fifty-one, I look back on the common sense I was obviously lacking and all I can say is “Oh brother. What was I thinking?”

As most young women do when they’re daydreaming about marriage and the ruffled kitchen curtains and strawberries and cream for breakfast and sunbeams waking them each morning to (gasp!) yet another day of love, I dreamed of someday having children. And I even thought ahead to the beautiful names we would choose for our offspring.

For a whole year, even though we didn’t have plans to start a family right away, I was certain that if my first child was a girl I would name her Farrah Fawn. Yes, you heard it here first. Farrah. Farrah Fawn. While living in a three-room trailer on the banks of the winding Yuba River in Smartville, California, I doodled the name Farrah Fawn L____, Farrah Fawn L____. Apparently the famous Farrah was at the height of her famousness during this time, and the name had crept into my brain as a good choice for my first daughter. I was never a fan of “Charlie’s Angels” nor of deer. I repeat, what was I thinking? Today they say the adult brain isn’t fully developed until the age of twenty-five, and I think my little foray into weirdness with the name Farrah Fawn is good evidence of that.

During that first year of marriage I was far away from my home town and from the family and friends I had taken for granted, and I had a lot of time on my hands. It certainly didn’t take long to clean three small rooms in a trailer that measured eight feet wide by forty-eight feet long. And panning for gold on the Yuba lost its luster when the few flecks we found were smaller than DNA. We had two dogs that kept me company while my military husband went to his military job each day. One pooch was a stout-bodied little Schnauzer named Prissy; the other was a massive and tangled canine mop — an Old English Sheepdog named Amy. I learned to cook Pepper Steak and Rice — something I’d never eaten in my life, but a dish my husband loved. I read John Steinbeck. I got my first sewing machine and started making my clothes. I listened to Fleetwood Mac on our stereo. And I doodled the name Farrah Fawn on sheets of notebook paper, picturing how absolutely perfect that name would be for our first daughter, if we should ever be so blessed.

Well, we were so blessed. And thank God for small miracles, because I came to my senses and abandoned the harebrained idea of naming my first child (who did turn out to be a beautiful daughter) Farrah Fawn. Instead we opted for something less trendy, less alliterative. Something a little old-fashioned, something classic and feminine, easy to spell and pronounce, but not too common. We named our first child Sharon Lindsay.

Today she is a thirty-something young woman with a great husband we love, and three precious children under the age of seven. She’s over six feet tall, is an LFW, and thankfully doesn’t look like a coy and mane-tossing Farrah Fawn at all. She is lovely, and she looks like a Sharon. She used to teach high school, then started her own business which is doing well. She calls me almost every day and we have to exchange the minutiae of our lives or it just doesn’t seem right. She knows she can tell me something off-the-wall that made her laugh, and that I will get it. We are alike in many ways, and also so very different.

       Sharon and Mr. McBoy

I was not blessed with only one daughter, however. I am a rich woman with three beautiful grown daughters – you can see each of them represented at the top of this page in the three hangings on the wall. I will be writing about each daughter more than once in coming months.

But I was just thinking today about how thankful I am that I didn’t name my first child Farrah Fawn. My first child is probably pretty pleased about that too.

I’m glad I named her Sharon. And I’m so happy and proud that she’s my daughter.

Since the winter-like weather always seems to dominate news and conversation here in Northern Minnesota, I thought I’d share a couple of photos that were taken recently. We live a hop, skip and a jump from enormous Lake Superior, and it’s not unusual to see people walking on its frozen surface during our many winter months. Even in April!

Apparently if you were in the right place at the right time, you could also see a couple of timber wolves taking a Sunday stroll on the icy surface of Superior.

And I wonder if the wolf couple eventually met up with this trio of cyclists, also using Lake Superior for their bike trail?

We have had temperatures in the high forties of late, so the wolves and the bikers have had to seek alternate paths.

Waiting for spring,

I love to read and to talk about books with people. For a decade I was a part of a wonderful book club called The Long Winter Book Club, and I miss getting together monthly with all the smart and funny women, our lively discussions, the creative treats, and the journeys via books that we took together.

In previous posts I’ve written about four of my very favorite books, and now I’ll share about the fifth one/s in my top five. It’s so difficult to choose. Other contenders were Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe, Of Whom the World Was Not Worthy by Marie Chapian, The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis, Expecting Adam by Martha Beck, When God Weeps by Joni Eareckson Tada, The Hawk and the Dove by Penelope Wilcock, The Robe by Lloyd C. Douglas, Treasures of the Snow by Patricia St. John and about eighty-seven others.

I settled on this series, because of the repeated enjoyment I’ve gotten out of them. My husband Michael and I have read these books aloud countless times over the years and have never failed to laugh until we’re both wiping tears. The author was a truly gifted writer whose sense of timing and grasp of language are awe-inspiring. These are books I go back to again and again, and even though they don’t rank up there in literary reputation with Crime and Punishment and Anna Karenina, they never disappoint. People who haven’t read them because they seem to be only about animals and possibly too light a read, are missing out on some of the best books ever.

It all started with this book:

This book made me want to visit Yorkshire. Two years ago Michael and I took an unforgettable trip to England, Scotland and Ireland, and we visited the English Yorkshire town in which James Herriot (real name Alf Wight) practiced veterinary medicine. We toured his home and office, walked the streets of his quaint village – click to see the town square of Thirsk (he called it Darrowby in the books) and stayed in a wonderful bed and breakfast in a nearby village called Pickhill. We thrilled to be able to wake in the mornings and open the windows to the serene views of the Yorkshire Dales…click here. We bought crusty bread, sharp cheese and fresh fruit in a little Thirsk market, and savored that simple meal while almost pinching ourselves to make certain it was all real.

After you read the first Herriot book, you want to go on to the rest of the series right away. Have any of you read these? If not, I encourage you to visit the library and get started. Each chapter is usually a short story itself. You will close the last cover of the last book and never forget what a rich reading experience you just had. As a matter of fact, it’s been a few years since I’ve read these myself. I think I know what my 2009 Summer Read will be: All Creatures Great and Small, All Things Bright and Beautiful, All Things Wise and Wonderful, The Lord God Made Them All and Every Living Thing.

Michael and I enjoyed reading these so much, we then acquired all the DVDs from the British television shows made in the seventies and eighties from these books.

And here’s a photo of Michael, sitting in the actual car that was driven by the actor who played James Herriot in the TV series All Creatures Great and Small.

We were so smitten with Yorkshire we hope to go back someday and spend more than two days there. Until that happens, the next best thing will be to reread this wonderfully written series.

What book have you read recently that you could recommend? Why did you like it? Is there a book you’ve read multiple times already yet plan to read again?

Many book blessings on you,

I found it interesting what some of you are buying at the grocery store. I learned a lot! I found out from Jessica that I should try eating hominy because it’s so yummy. And I have a mental picture of those of you who commented, either sitting on your back deck overlooking the lake and drinking a big glass of red grapefruit juice, or hauling in gallon after gallon of milk to your kitchens, and of whipping up delicious peanut butter shakes in the blender.

I’m in a giving mood today, so instead of choosing just one winner for the April bloggy giveaway, I think all four people who commented should win!

Carolyn wins a large frozen bag of chicken necks and gizzards. (Please hold your applause until we finish announcing the other winners and prizes…)

Kay wins a year’s supply of Parkay and a bag of mangoes.

Jessica wins one dozen mushy cylinders of Liverwurst (my husband craves this)

And Dorothy‘s prize is a $100 gift certificate for Oscar Mayer Bologna, which might make her cry for more reasons than just the obvious one of what a fantastic gift that is to receive.

Actually you know I’m just kidding. Everyone wins a gift certificate to Target. I’ll mail them to you all shortly.

Thank you for entering and reading.

Have a very blessed Easter as you ponder the Real Gift that matters most.  🙂

It’s time for the April giveaway here on the blog! What are the items that you buy almost every time you go to the grocery store? Those things that you reach for so automatically, you don’t even have to write them down on your list?  Some of the things we always buy are:

Greenish bananas

Boneless, skinless chicken breasts

Arrowhead 1% cottage cheese

Spinach pasta nests

Real peanut butter

Brown rice

Canned, diced tomatoes

New England bread

Puffs tissues

Baby carrots

String cheese

Baby red potatoes

Raw almonds

Land O’Lakes 1% milk

Cruz corn tortillas

Honeycrisp or Golden Delicious apples

ERA laundry detergent

Cheerios

And at the checkout line, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. 🙂

And here are some things I have never, ever purchased at the grocery store:

Beef liver

Swiss chard

Fresh apricots

Cinnamon raisin bread

Beets

Fava beans

Wonder white bread

Mountain Dew

Cat litter

Lobster

Charmin’ toilet paper

Hominy

Chocolate covered raisins

Gum drops

Cream of Wheat

Seven-bean salad

Fruit Loops

Now it’s your turn – you could be the winner of this month’s bloggy giveaway!

Tell us a few things you always buy at the grocery store, and a few things you have never bought at the grocery store.

You have until 10:00 a.m. on Tuesday, April 7th to leave your comments – good luck!

Aside from the handful of blogs I like to visit fairly often because I know the people who write them, there are also a couple I read because, well, I’m not sure why I read them. I don’t know the bloggers personally. I guess it’s interesting to have a peek into someone else’s life and thoughts once in a while. It’s funny, because there are people out there who use their blogs as a place to publicly chronicle their days, in a play by play format, and in spite of how boring that might sound, I don’t usually find those blogs boring at all. If I posted similarly on this blog, it might read something like this.

Yesterday, on the last day of March when heartening signs of spring are supposed to be popping up everywhere, we sat at home in yet another blizzard. The snow fell from the sky horizontally all day, and the dry patches of grass that had begun to show in the yard are now all covered by at least six inches of newly fallen snow. It’s magical and beautiful in November, and enough to make you groan and pull your hair out on the first of April.

I have been battling a sinus infection for weeks now, and woke feeling blechy, and did not go to Community Bible Study, which is such an important and beloved part of my life. But I didn’t feel sick enough to stay in bed, which I haven’t done for years anyway. After Michael and I made breakfasts, visited with and administered medications for the women we care for, I put the dogs outside. Mildred leaps through the snow all over the back yard like a curious and happy gazelle. Edith takes two tentative steps into the white stuff and then turns back to the door and wants back in, looking tragic. We have to go outside and close the door behind us and yell, “Get out there Edith! Go potty! Now!” And she will eventually comply, but never without our verbal encouragement.

Then Michael and I went upstairs to our comfy chairs in our bedroom, and sipped hot, brisk tea and had two shortbread cookies each while we read aloud from our Bibles. We are reading through the whole Bible together, slowly, and independent from our own reading. We’ve almost made it through each book. Yesterday we read a chapter each from Leviticus, 1 Samuel, and Acts. And we read Psalm 31 aloud. Even though Leviticus can be hard reading, I ended up crying when I realized that I am not required to offer a drink, grain or wave offering to the Lord as His people were before Christ – but that of my own accord I can offer Him something each day. I am not compelled in the way the Israelites were, thousands of years ago, yet I am still compelled, by my heart, to offer gifts to Him today. Yesterday I wanted to give Him a sacrifice of praise, because to do so was harder for me than usual, and it cost me something. I wanted to give Him my attention and obedience, out of a free and willing heart, because He is worthy of that and so much more. It’s pretty amazing how reading through Leviticus can touch my life. It doesn’t always happen that way, but even if lightning doesn’t flash when I read His Word, I know I’m being fed. I don’t remember what I had for lunch sixteen days ago, but whatever it was nourished me. I read and meditate on the Bible for much the same reasons, spiritually speaking. Sometimes I have wow and aha moments as I read, but if I don’t, I know something nourishing and powerful is happening anyway.

Then we went downstairs and I did some laundry and then we cleaned the kitchen, and I got a huge pot of chili started. Then I got out my kitchen step-stool and pulled out my automatic bread maker from the back of a top cupboard, and started a loaf of sour dough bread baking. I looked forward to the aromas that simmering chili and baking bread would bring, especially on a stormy day, but because of my infection, my sense of smell is completely gone. I’ve never had this happen before, and it seems sort of serious to me. I can put my face right up to the fresh ground coffee I’m getting ready to spoon into the pot in the morning, and can’t smell one thing. I can’t smell perfume, bleach, soap, nothing. I know there are problems so much bigger than that (like Parkinson’s Disease and unemployment and family heartaches) but I’m starting to wonder if my ability to smell is gone for good. I can’t taste food correctly, either. I can discern if something is sweet or bitter or salty, but there are no flavors for me. But I digress from the important details of yesterday.

Michael decided since the roads were bad and numerous accidents were being reported, he wasn’t going anywhere either. I thought I would quit procrastinating and start working on a pile of paperwork in my office at least one foot high. I asked Michael if he would keep me company while I worked, to help me just do it. Pathetic, I know. But he agreed, and I carried the pile into the den and began.

I began separating the huge pile into four smaller piles, one for each woman we care for. That took a long time and the den floor was covered. Then I punched three holes in all of those piles, because each paper goes in a specific place in a ridiculously thick notebook, which will be scrutinized with a fine-tooth comb by an agent of the State of Minnesota every other year, and if one thing is missing or out of place a citation will be issued. I am serious.

In between all of this, I kept the laundry going, stirred the chili, let the dogs out and in, out and in, answered phone calls, visited with patient and gracious Michael, blew my nose every few minutes, occasionally glanced at whatever cable cooking or remodeling show was on to keep us company, and watched the snow fall from the grey sky and pile up outside.

I worked on the paperwork for five and a half hours, straight, and then exhaled and called it a paperwork day. I estimate that I was able to complete 3/4 of one person’s paperwork (out of four). Today I hope to finish that one person’s paperwork and start on a second. That’s how much there is. I’ve said it before – my piles look like the Alps to me. I think I’ve learned a lesson about procrastinating though. I don’t ever want to face these mountains again.

Michael commented on the savory smells off and on all day, and I smelled nothing. I am taking Amoxicillin (ten days’ worth!) for my infection, and I can tell it’s not knocking it out. A friend at church asked me what I was taking and said “Oh, that’s the weakest antibiotic there is! It doesn’t help for sinus infections – you need to go back and get _____.”  And now I’m wondering if she’s right. And wondering if my sense of smell will ever return. I used to be able to smell if there was a mouse outside my back door, and a dirty sock near the bed. Now I can’t smell anything. But I think I said that already.

So then I visited with the women we live with, and their conversation was pretty much all about how sick and tired they are of living in a place where it can snow a foot in spring, while other places in the country have cherry blossoms and daffodils. “I hate this snow, I want summer!” one gal kept saying, and I couldn’t have said it any better.

We all enjoyed a hearty dinner, I finished the laundry, chatted some more with our gals, tended to medications, answered e-mails and marveled at how funny and interesting other peoples’ blogs are, and as the darkness of night began to fall, I started to yawn, which is the norm for me. I always turn into a pumpkin as soon as the sun goes down, so in winter I often head upstairs before 8:00 p.m.

Michael was watching the Timberwolves on TV, and I sat with him for a few minutes while he scratched the ridges in my ankles made by my SmartWool socks, and I sipped my necessary nightly concoction, a “Cappuccino Cooler” I could make in my sleep. It has caffeine yet I can fall asleep in no time after drinking it.

Then the snowplow guys came and I put on shoes and went out to move Michael’s truck out of the driveway so they could plow it unhindered. I drove around the block and sat and pondered the day and the ways of God (and the seeming slowness of His timing) while I watched the two guys clear our large driveway with a truck and blade, and shovel a path to our front porch. Our back yard, full of tall trees and a small winding creek, looked like Narnia to me. I’ve asked my grandchildren what they would think if we walked back into those snowy woods someday and found a lamppost. We always smile at the thought of that.

When the snow guys were done, I parked the truck in its now snow-free spot, went back inside, said goodnight to Michael. I read a wonderful book in bed on my new Kindle. It’s a book on prayer, so while I read I prayed and cried, prayed and cried. And I asked God to teach me to pray – so much differently than I do.

Michael came to bed just as I was finishing the book, and the dogs took their places – Edith curled in a tight canine circle in my black plaid bedroom chair, and Millie stretched out on her side on the bed in between Michael and me.

The snow was still falling, but not as heavily. I thought about the next day, which is today, April 1st, and knew I would try to say Rabbit to all my family members first thing, hopefully beating them to it. I thought about how Michael will be 60 years old on April 2nd, and how grateful I am for his love and steadfastness. I thought about how much I want God to bring Ginger the lost cat home to my daughter and her family. I thought about how I will pick up my granddaughter Clara from school on Wednesday and take her to her dance class, and how sweet my time will be with her. I thought about how much I long for my daughters to have peace and joy and purpose and wholeness. And how I want those very things for myself.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m making any difference at all.

And in no time, I slept.

This is one of the chairs in our (still not quite finished) living room. There’s a taupe-colored couch in there too, but this post is about chairs, not couches. This plaid chair hopes to have an upholstered, floral chair to keep it company someday.

And this is one of the chairs in our den. The dogs like to lay on the doily and shriek bark at any and all movement outside the front window.

And this is  another (very old) chair in our den. It used to belong to my mother.

And this is one of the six (identical) chairs around our kitchen table.

This is the chair I sit in most – it’s in our bedroom sitting area. I read here, write in my journal here, and often talk to my heavenly Father here. I’m also trying to learn to be still enough to hear His voice more often.

And this is the other chair in our bedroom sitting area. Michael prefers this one because it’s firmer. We sit together in the late mornings and this is where we read the Bible, pray together, and sometimes have Scottish shortbread and tea while we enjoy a few minutes of quiet.