I am a very blessed person. I am blessed with a family. I am blessed with sight. I am blessed with mobility. I’m blessed with friends. I’m blessed with provision. I am blessed with the certainty of God’s nearness and care. I am blessed with hope. I am blessed with love. And perhaps at this time in my life, no other love goes down deeper into my soul than the love of my grandchildren. I don’t know how they do it, but somehow they know how to say just the right thing, squeeze just the right hug, which sends pure, nourishing, liquid love down into the driest, darkest nooks and crannies of my soul. *Sigh*

And my grandchildren make me laugh.

Last week I picked up Clara and Elijah after school for another W.W.G., which I will explain and write about soon. We were almost home when Clara said softly from the backseat, “Grandma, I love you so much, sometimes it makes me cry when I think of you.”

I knew exactly what she was talking about, and told her so. Sometimes love is so intense it feels wonderful and awful, thrilling and painful at the same time. I told her I feel this kind of love for my grandchildren quite often, and that it’s normal for some people to feel love in such a way that it causes an ache or a yearning.

I saw her nod sagely in the rear view mirror, and then she added, “Grandma, sometimes I love you so much that when I think of you a tear runs down my face here, and I feel a little pain right here in my heart.”

Oh my, I thought. This little seven year-old girl feels and expresses love so deeply, and as we pulled into our driveway I had to suppress the tears myself as I pondered what Clara was saying.

Elijah had been attentive but quiet for most of this conversation, and I could see in my mirror that he was soberly taking it all in and giving it careful six year-old consideration.

As I eased the van into the garage and hit the button on the visor to close the door behind us, Elijah nodded at me and then commented casually but completely in earnest, “Yes, and sometimes when I think of how I miss you and love you, it hurts me right here in my neck.”

🙂

For almost eight years, I’ve been in a women’s group called The SAGs. If you don’t know the story of how we came to be, if you’re not aware of why we call ourselves The SAGs, if you are procrastinating about manually cleaning out your septic system to save some money and don’t have anything better to do right now, you can read about the four SAGs right here.

The four SAGs meet together monthly for dinner and catching up and laughter and prayer and tears and compassion and sisterhood. We have never gone away on any kind of trip together even though we’ve talked about it many times.

Well, that is about to change. Today we’ll be heading north for a few days to a cozy two-bedroom cabin right on the edge of Lake Superior. The cabin has a nice kitchen, so we’ll be taking turns cooking dinners. There’s a fireplace too, so you might be able to imagine how in the chilly evenings we’ll pull our chairs up around the fire with our books, our conversation and our sighs.

Gail is bringing a yummy breakfast casserole, coffee and popcorn. Lorna is bringing the veggies, the key lime pie, and the crab salad. Pat is bringing the chocolate peanut butter bars, the chai tea, and the fixings for her delicious spaghetti carbonara. I’m bringing homemade granola, fixings for one dinner I’m still trying to plan, the fruit and the Scrabble game. If we get settled in and realize we need something, we won’t be so far away from civilization that we can’t run out and pick something up.

The place where we’ll be staying doesn’t have telephones or televisions in the cabins. (Someone should now belt out, “Hallelujah!”) So the noises we’ll hear will likely be the crackling wood fire, the call of the loons and the sound of lapping waves from the Lake, the rustle of leaves in the brilliantly colored trees around us, the quiet click of Scrabble tiles being placed for triple word scores in the evenings, and the satisfying conversation that comes from loyal and long-time friendship.

I will also take my camera, so I can share a little about our SAGs retreat in an upcoming post.

In the meantime, I hope your weekend finds you enjoying something or someone that nurtures your soul…

Do not have your concert first, and then tune your instrument afterwards. Begin the day with the Word of God and prayer, and get first of all into harmony with Him.

James Hudson Taylor

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In a recent post I asked readers to share what October meant to them. Their thoughtful and descriptive answers made me wish they would all start blogs or write books so I could read more of their thoughts, feelings and/or adventures. Thanks to all who left a comment.

This month’s bloggy giveaway winner is Sue R., a dear friend and faithful reader, who will receive a Barnes and Noble gift card! Sue will have to bundle up to use her card, because during the night it snowed in our part of the country and the winds are howling this morning, welcoming us to Month Number One of our annual Six Months of Winter. 🙂

I have over thirty rough drafts of blog posts I’ve saved and intend to put up someday. Here are some I’ve been working on that might make an appearance in the next few weeks:

Heart Monitor

Virginia, My Mom

Mildred’s Ears

Humiliation on the William A. Irvin

Honey on His Toes

“Yook at dat yake!”

Magic Man

Carlene

Play Date

Organ Lessons

Once Upon a Toile…

Dixon, Missouri

The Loch Ness Project

Spam and My Man

As you can clearly see, my brain works in exceedingly creative and exciting ways, so I’ll try to finish one of these promising posts and get it up on the blog so you can savor it soon. 🙂

For today, I have furniture to put together, meals to make, shopping to oversee, laundry to fold, radiators to bleed, paperwork to file, pictures to hang, books to cull, Bible study lessons to do, grandchildren to Skype, a Mitford book in which to bury my nose, six knee socks to fill with salt, red spots to count, a husband to hug and prayers to bring to Jesus’s feet.

Have a peaceful weekend!

When you think of your front yard, what phrase comes to mind? Postage Stamp? Tricycle Parking Lot? Leaf Graveyard? Gardens of Versailles?

Just in my neighborhood alone, the different front yards could have titles like, “Neighborhood Bus Stop,” “Garden Oasis,” “Piney Grove,” “Squirrel Haven,” and “Maple Park.”

A friend sent me these photos yesterday and they made me grin from ear to ear. There are only a few states in which a citizen could wake up in the morning to find that their front lawn had become a moose nursery during the night — Alaska, Maine, and Montana are three of those states. And my beautiful state, Minnesota, is another.

Recently a front yard a few miles north of us could have been dubbed, “Moose Nursery.”

Tell me this photo didn't make you smile or say "oooohhh."

Above, mama moose is vibing out her power and intimidation to the photographer. Moose are known for their poor eyesight, but it’s dangerous to get close to them. Postnatal moose have stomped people to death before.

Time for a nap in this Minnesota Moose Nursery

Blessings,

Autumn has always been my favorite season of the year, and if I had to narrow down a favorite month, it’s a toss-up between September and October. No other season elicits the renewed energy, yearning and musing as much as a Minnesota fall does for me.

October means breathtaking colors in the trees….fierce winds that make you stare at the leaves blowing around outside while it feels safe and quiet inside….turtlenecks and SmartWool socks….simmering soups and warm crusty bread….school buses with tiny cap-covered heads in the windows….a chilly house in the morning and the sound of the furnace clicking on at 6:00 a.m….tangy Bayfield apple cider in thick mugs….the smell of woodsmoke in the air….increased squirrel activity as winter food is gathered and hidden….perusing the cooking sites for new bread recipes to make at home….storing the hammock….getting up in the morning when it’s still pitch black outside….having the furnace cleaned and serviced….making sure we have bags of salt and plenty of shovels….stocking up on gloves and mittens for the grandbabies….dry, brisk, invigorating air….needing lotion for dry hands….lower in the sky, more golden light glowing in the windows….apple crisp with double the crumbly topping….lots of daydreaming about the Highlands of Scotland….picking numbers for Christmas shopping….wondering if I should have a women’s Christmas luncheon this year….the comfort of a pile of books always waiting nearby….weekly attendance at Community Bible Study….a hike to Carlton Peak….migrating birds….the heightened awareness of life and death, darkness and light, and the quiet pondering of what is temporal versus what is eternal.

Notice I did not write anything about eagerly anticipating winter and snow and bitter cold and ice and heating bills that are half a thousand dollars each month. 🙂

Now it’s your turn to share, and I will be so pleased if you do. A winner will be selected from all who leave a comment, and that person will win a nice bloggy prize.

What does October mean to you?

Recently our dear friends Bob and Linda asked us if we’d like to get together for breakfast at an establishment I’d never heard of – The Swamp Sisters. Apparently this diner/cafe in Twig, MN is a pretty popular eatery, and you have to be intentional about visiting because it’s only open on Fridays and Saturdays, May through October.

The four of us rode together to The Swamp Sisters, a place run by a group of sisters (duh) on their old swampy farmstead. They raise and sell bison, and some of their recipes have bison meat in them.

When we arrived the parking lot was full and we had to park around back, but we were able to get a table right away. It was like taking a welcome step back in time. Simple paper menus, vinyl checked tablecloths, friendly, apron-clad waitresses, and simple and hearty fare about as far removed from nouvelle cuisine as you can get.

All four of us ordered the special egg/bison sausage/potato/green peppers and onion/melted cheese skillet with a side of salsa and toast, and it was unique, delicious and filling.

It was such a treat catching up with Bob and Linda, who have been our friends for twenty-five years. We talked about our jobs and our children and our blogs (here’s Bob’s blog) and our families, and fell into that easy and comfortable conversation that always happens when we’re with them.

So after our meal and visiting, which passed as quickly as our very lives have these past two decades (whoosh!) we moseyed on out to the car for the drive home. There were a couple of huge chickens strolling around the tall grasses on the property and Michael knelt down and tried to bond with one but she wasn’t having any of it. She gave him that jerky and suspicious sideways glance that chickens are famous for and went off into the brush.

Aside from the always-satisfying experience of being with Bob and Linda, the morning’s best surprise was a dilapidated and leaning barn behind The Swamp Sisters cafe. I was so glad Bob and Linda had a camera with them.

Here they are, looking quite marvelous and upright in front of The Leaning Barn of Twig, MN.

Sometimes old things are just better. I like old songs, the kind Perry Como and Jo Stafford sing. I like old books, the kind that Jane Austen and George MacDonald wrote. I like old barns that whisper of stories I wish I knew. And I also like old-fashioned food that doesn’t have the words aioli, ganache, infusion or gastrique in their descriptions. (Although to be honest, I enjoy those kinds of foods too.)

And I like old friends. I like the memories we have that no one can take from us. I like how even when we don’t see each other as often as we’d prefer, we still slip right back into that companionable conversation, that trust, that love, that never goes away.

This morning as I get ready to tackle the things on my to-do list, I’m thinking of The Swamp Sisters bison breakfasts, I’m picturing The Leaning Barn of Twig, and I’m smiling as I think of our wonderful friends Bob and Linda.

On the marquee of our local veterinarian’s office:

“Dogs have owners…cats have staff.”

🙂

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Among the many hats I wear (virtually all of them are rumpled and fall down over my eyes), the chef’s hat is the one I am most plagued by these days.

On average I make about twenty meals a week (we usually go out to dinner once a week) and I am losing steam and good ideas about what to prepare. It’s not for lack of great recipes. I guess I’m just entering a phase of life that makes cooking seem like climbing Everest. Does anyone out there relate or am I the only one?

Breakfasts are easy enough, as all of us have specific things we prefer and most of us don’t deviate from that. Michael wants a bottle of kombucha as soon as he sets foot in the kitchen in the morning, soon followed by toast and peanut butter or eggs and hash browns. I like a small bowl of homemade Swiss Muesli, and Millie and Edith like Natural Balance. Others in our household like cereal and fruit, or two pieces of toast and two eggs, over easy. So when I’m bumbling around in the kitchen each morning (and it’s now dark outside when I get up) I can make all these things without thinking, as if I’m Rosie the Breakfast Robot.

Lunches aren’t bad either, but they aren’t quite as easy for me as breakfasts. I have to pack one or two lunches in the morning and I’m always trying to think of creative twists to making a sandwich or a container of leftovers (everyone around here loves leftovers, so that’s a plus), a serving of fruit, a salad or serving of vegetables, a slightly virtuous snack and a drink.

Here’s a quick lunch that I feel a little guilty about: a turkey sandwich on WW bread with mayo and lettuce, a banana, two ginger snap cookies, a small bag of grape tomatoes and a can of someone’s favorite diet pop. Here’s a lunch I feel better about, because I am on the slippery slope to becoming my mother and somehow think that home cooked means better, which I know isn’t always the case: a small container of the chicken, squash and rice casserole we had the night before that everyone raved about, a small container of my marinated red cabbage salad, a small container of fresh, sliced pineapple, a hard-boiled egg and a bottle of water. Maybe it’s the small containers that make me feel better about some of the lunches I make.

Dinners are another matter. I am managing and no one is complaining, but since I’m the only cook in the house, every morning I have to think ahead about what we’ll have, and I should be working on it by 10:00 a.m. Our days can be so busy that to turn my thoughts toward dinner at 3:00 p.m. just doesn’t work for me. I have friends who just do the “fend for yourself” method with their families occasionally, but again, we couldn’t do that here.

Michael readily admits that cooking is not his forte. If it were up to him to cook, we would have sausage, fried eggs and hash browns for dinner each night. Because I halfway value our cardiovascular health, we don’t go this route. 🙂

One night long ago Michael and I had a rare evening alone. Everyone else was being treated to dinner and a movie out, and we were home and I didn’t have to cook! In fact, I didn’t even want dinner. I wanted the luxury of not cooking and not eating dinner for one night. I gently told Michael he could have whatever he wanted for dinner, but that I was taking the night off from cooking.

I thought you might like to see the gourmet meal he prepared for himself. He was quite resourceful, using the leftover homemade spaghetti sauce (my grandma’s recipe that can’t be beat) I had made two nights before. Maybe Michael’s meal could be featured in the next edition of “Three-Ingredient Dinners” cookbook, because it consisted of 1) whole wheat bread, 2) the aforementioned homemade spaghetti sauce, and 3) grated parmesan cheese.

Pioneer Woman, read it and weep.

He asked if I wanted him to make some for me. He said it was delicious.

I politely declined.

He’s thinking of opening a diner soon – he’s sure that there are many people out there who would appreciate a simple home-cooked meal now and again.

I’ll give you plenty of warning before it happens, though.

We have some beautiful cemeteries in our area and I like to take my grandchildren there. They aren’t quite as interested in strolling through the centuries-old headstones and reading the names and dates as I am, but our grans do like to feed the ducks and the geese that live on the beautiful grounds.

At one of our cemeteries there are two large ponds surrounded by trees (and graves), and there are gaggles of Canada Geese and flocks of Mallard Ducks always waiting for handouts of cheap bread that I buy at the local Piggly-Wiggly. (That we even have a grocery store called Piggly-Wiggly is another story in itself; when I moved to Minnesota from California in 1981, it took a long time to get used to writing checks made out to Red Owl and Piggly-Wiggly.) There are other kinds of geese and ducks at the cemetery too, but I don’t have time to look up their different names. The other geese have huge, orange knobbly beaks that bulge out in between their eyes, and the other ducks have iridescent purple feathers on their wings and shoulders. Maybe these other birds are called Knobbly Beaked Geese and Iridescent Purple-Feathered Ducks.

Anyway, not long ago Grandpa Michael and I took Elijah to the cemetery to feed the geese and ducks. The grandchildren consider this outing to be great fun, and I enjoy it because it’s quiet and we can be outdoors, and we almost always see something that delights us.

The morning we went it had rained and it was still a little foggy out. As soon as the birds saw our van they started waddling toward us, and here are some pictures from our time.

Greeted by a gaggle

Elijah loved feeding the baby ducks

Elijah tries the Wonder Bread

Birds have always loved Michael

Elijah waiting for the babies to approach

Audacious Gander

Our future resting place

A few weeks ago I took Clara to the cemetery to feed the birds. After we tore up and doled out two loaves of Wonder Wheat Bread, we drove by a different pond with lily pads on the surface. Clara spotted a Blue Heron standing quietly in the reeds, and we pulled over to watch him. He slowly picked his way through the shallow water, lowering his head down at an angle now and then to spot a meal beneath the surface. How odd to see his long legs bend in the opposite direction as he stepped! Clara and I sat for at least ten minutes watching him, and twice he grabbed a small fish with his pointy beak and his long neck rhythmically convulsed as he swallowed.

Before Grandpa, Elijah and I left the cemetery, we rolled down the van windows to honk at the geese and quack at the ducks, then we drove around and looked at some of the names and dates on the older headstones. Elijah wanted to know why some markers were flat and some were tall. He wanted to know why some people were buried above ground in marble crypts. He asked why some graves had benches to sit on with the departed’s names on them instead of headstones. He wondered why some headstones were pure white instead of the more common gray. And of course he wanted to know why dead people are even buried in the first place.

I’m not sure I did a good job explaining everything to him, but I tried. I even told him that someday (hopefully many years in the future) Grandpa Michael and Grandma Julie would probably be buried right in this very cemetery. I told him that while our bodies would be there under our headstones, our spirits would not. I told him that our bodies were just temporary containers that hold who we really are inside, and that someday they would stop working. I tried to explain in terms a six year old could grasp, that when our bodies die, our souls and spirits live on – forever. I tried to explain that when we die here, it’s not so much an ending as a beginning – that it’s really like opening a door to our new (and more real) life. And that if we have trusted Jesus in this life, we will go to live with Him, and that it will be so wonderful, so fun, so beautiful, so exciting, so amazing, that there aren’t even words on this earth to describe how good it will be.

I knew I was falling short at describing death and heaven to Elijah. I prayed that something I said would take root in his little self.

We’ll go back to the cemetery soon. And the Knobbly Beaked Geese will run toward us with wings far outstretched and flapping, and we’ll empty our bags of bread and then search for a fishing Blue Heron. And then we’ll drive around and look at the names and dates on the grave markers, and I’ll pray that someday in God’s timing each of my grandchildren will fully understand how wide, long, high and deep is the love of Jesus for them. And how the knowledge of that love will change their lives here. And how the knowledge of that love will secure their lives there.

I pray that out of His glorious riches He may strengthen you with power through His Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.            Ephesians 3:16 – 19

I want to better understand this love for myself as well.