"Romeo and Juliet would've made a good tv show!" - Opie

So, remind me again why we spent four hours last night reading Romeo and Juliet when we could have just listened to this?

I guess 'cause we're homeschoolers who like to "do it by the book." (Yes, that phrase was coined by Shakespeare. Go read the play if you want to know where it comes in. And you do, because it's hilarious. I'm totally going to say it... someday... in particular.)

a little snapshot of happiness

Yesterday, as I was driving, I passed a white convertible, top down, with an older man and woman inside. (By older I mean early seventies or thereabouts.) She was driving, and her long grey hair was flying behind her, she had Audrey Hepburn, white sunglasses, and he had his arm around her, laughing.

I want to grow old like that.

That should buy a lot.

while keeping nursery at church:

Mercy to Maggie: "Do you want to buy this block? How much will you pay?"

Maggie: "I have two boogers."

How about polka dotted?

Me: "AnnMarie, what color are my eyes?"

AnnMarie: "Green."

Me: "They are not, silly! What color are they?"

AnnMarie: "Green."

Me: "NO, they aren't."

AnnMarie: "Okay then, they're orange."

In which my hair is wrapped around my face and gets tangled up in my teeth.

In other words, it's really, really windy. Which isn't surprising, given the fact that March winds are famous.

In spite of the wind, or perhaps because of it, (wind can be intoxicating, you know,) my enthusiasm for a warmer, sunny day coaxed me to go outside and gather violets from their shady nooks, talking to them all the while. (Before you think I've come completely unhinged, know this: it is a scientifically proven fact that violets grow faster and stronger if spoken to. At least, that's what Mama told me when I was six. Maybe she just wanted me out from under her feet and realized I would gladly spend many minutes talking to flowers, because I was definitely that kind of child. Still am, as a matter of fact.)

Beauty — be not caused — It Is —
Chase it, and it ceases —
Chase it not, and it abides —

Overtake the Creases

In the Meadow — when the Wind
Runs his fingers thro' it —
Deity will see to it
That You never do it —

-Emily Dickinson

Go outside. Dance with the wind. Open your windows and watch the curtains swooshing and sweeping around. It's a beautiful life we live.

Yep, we are.

Mama: "Are you almost ready?"

Me: "I am ready."

Mama: "Oh." ::sweetly pats my hair:: "I see we're going with the waif look."

She's pretty great, I'll tell you that.

Anna:

-takes naps during movies

-drinks enough coffee to sink a ship and enough water to maybe keep a ladybug alive

-is a wonderful mother

-patiently loves me even though I fall asleep on the couch whenever we're having an evening together (oh, wait. that statement is backwards.)

-taught me it's possible, and the better part of wisdom, to wear cute and comfortable shoes

-points me to Christ, not only with her words, but with her actions



Happy Birthday, dearest sister. I love you so much.

The Banner of Christ in Salvation

"There is a banner which flies higher than our sins; it is the banner of Christ in salvation." -Jamie Crampton

This quote has continued to encourage me for the three months or so since Jamie said it in his first sermon. I don't know about how you see your sin, but every single day I see mine flying way above my head, out of my reach.

Before I came to know the Lord, I still saw my sin like that to some extent, (I really couldn't help seeing it so, having been raised under sound preaching, hearing the Bible read every day, and even living in the house with the preacher himself,) but contrary to all the teaching which told me I couldn't fix myself, I tried really, really hard to reach up to my sin flying above the clouds and do something about it. I didn't like it. I knew it made me less lovable, less pleasant to be around, but mostly I knew it was just the outpouring of my self-centered, un-Godly heart, and I sure didn't want to admit that my heart was wicked. But it was, and as I saw more and more what a contrast my black heart was to the pure loveliness of Christ, God helped me to give up straining myself to fix my billowing sin. By His grace I put my trust in our Mediator, who daily stands before the throne of God, making intersession for His brothers and sisters.

But even though I am now converted and eating daily at my Lord's table, I discover that my sin hasn't disappeared. Not only has it not vanished down a rabbit hole, never to show its ugly face again, it still billows above my head every day. This is heart-breaking for the believer, because now you see that sin more clearly than ever before, and you have seen, and do see, lovely Christ as your holy Saviour, and you know it was your sin, that same sin flying up in the air, saying "Look at me! Look at me!" that caused him to die on the cross.

It would be easy to despair at this point. There have been oh-so-many times when I've wanted to give up and say "what's the use? My sin is still there; it's still big."

And so it is. But as Jamie reminded me, there is something which flies even higher than my sin. The glorious banner of my Saviour, His work on the cross for His people, His salvation, it soars above the heights of our sins.

When I am at my weakest, He is my strength. When I turn again and again to self and the world for satisfaction, He takes me and helps me run to the cross again.

Oh, the beauties of our Lord and Master! What kindness, what grace is found in Him. Stronger than the mighty ocean, deeper than the deepest sea, greater than the greatest mountain, His love hath conquered and shall conquer.

an invasion of the Fiercer Sort

As you probably gathered from my recent I-despise-abominate-and-abhor-nyquil post, I'm sick. It started out as drainage, that lovely occurrence which results in having a rotten egg-esque residue in your throat all the time, and all your food tasting like pig slop rejected by the pigs.

It then progressed to a sore throat, which involves setting personal records for how long you can hold the spit in your mouth since swallowing is like gulping down flaming swords.

And at last this pleasant lapse of my immune system bestowed on me The Cough.

I haven't actually hacked up any of my intestines yet, but it's been very, very close a few times.

My kind sisters, whose purposes were no doubt to encourage and cheer me, agreed yesterday that I sounded like some tuberculosis patient from the movie "Tombstone." Oh, goody! Just what I've always dreamed of! It isn't every one who reaches that height of achievement.

All I hope is that my immune system will get with the game by Emily's wedding, because coughing in time to Canon in D isn't my idea of a good time. And I'm pretty sure no one else would appreciate it either.

Dear Little Black Flats,

You looked so perfect tucked in that shoe box. So innocently pretty, with your sleek gathers and your prim little knots. I thought, "At last! My search for black flats is over. And, behold, they're on sale!"

Little did I know.

Sunday, I wore you to church. By the end of prayer meeting, the back of my foot was smarting and stinging. "Oh, dear!" thought I, "perhaps I got the wrong size!" But oh, no. It was your treacherous edges. They're just dull enough to not hurt during the five minute try-on in the store, and yet sharp enough to cause a tiny drop of red blood to ooze to my poor skin's surface after an hour.

How could you deceive me so? I loved you. I bought you. I took you home and gave you a nice spot in my closet. I was prepared to wear you often.

Then you had to go and be wickedly uncomfortable.


Sincerely,
Your Formerly-Deluded Owner

make me Thy fuel

From prayer that asks that I may be
Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee,
From fearing when I should aspire,
From faltering when I should climb higher,
From silken self, O Captain, free
Thy soldier who would follow Thee.

From subtle love of softening things,
From easy choices, weakenings,
(Not thus are spirits fortified,
Not this way went the crucified)
From all that dims Thy Calvary,
O Lamb of God, deliver me.

Give me the love that leads the way,
The faith that nothing can dismay,
The hope no disappointments tire,
The passion that will burn like fire;
Let me not sink to be a clod:
Make me Thy fuel, O Flame of God.

-Amy Carmichael

Nyquil and I are tight. Like a porcupine and a new-born baby.

I am trying to take Nyquil. Please note the key word, "trying."

I pour it out. It thickly slides into the medicine cup.

I look at it. It's red and thick.

I smell it. Words fail me.

Ugh.

I remember why I usually say, "Well, I'll just let this horrible, throat-wrenching sickness run its natural course without the help of dope."

I lift the cup to my lips.

I lower the cup.

I tell myself I'm a big baby. Countless memories of mama standing over me and forcing me to swallow Nyquil come rushing back. (I'm not kidding. She actually had to force open my mouth on more than one occasion.)

I think "just do it! it'll be over! you'll feel better; you'll sleep."

don'tthinkdon'tthinkjustdrinkitdownjustdrinkitdown...

here goes...

(don't you love how I'm giving such a [very] literal blow-by-blow?)

What?

Nobody is still reading? Why ever not? 'Cause this is thrilling edge-of-your-seat kind of stuff.

Come on, you know you've done this before.

Yes, I'm stalling.



There. The deed is done.

It was as nasty and thick and thick and nasty as I expected. But now I'll sleep like a baby. (Except that most babies don't sleep very well, you know? They wake up lots during the night and scream. So, how did that simile get started? By someone without kids?)

Addendum: My throat feels better already. I suppose it was worth it.

Sorrow and Love

Today is four years since Daddy left these shadowlands and saw his Saviour face to face.

I still miss him so very, very much.

Every time I see a pack of skittles or a diet coke, I think of our excursions together into town when we'd stop and "get a little something" at the gas station.

When I mow the grass, I think of our last real conversation together a couple of weeks before he died, when he told me I'd have to learn to mow the grass now, and he was sorry he couldn't teach me.

I never look at our Henty bookcase without hearing his voice reading those adventures to me and pausing to explain the history as only Daddy could. I read two of them out loud to him when the cancer and chemo made it impossible for him to read to himself. One was about Venice, and one was set in India, and I absolutely butchered the name pronunciations, believe me. Once, poor Daddy stopped me and whispered, "You've said that name three different ways." I wish I could read to him again.

When I hear whistling, I think of Daddy. He whistled all the time.

When I learn something interesting in history, (his favorite subject,) I ache to tell him about it and get his opinion.

When I come across a verse in the Bible which isn't clear to me, I miss him terribly, because he was often much more understandable than any commentary.

The bottom line is, I'll always miss him. Almost every area of my day-to-day life is affected by my strong, loving Daddy. I love him so much. Always have, always will.

And even though that brings hurt now, as well as sweetness, I'm thankful beyond words that God gave me such an earthly father... that I had him for thirteen years... that he helped me appreciate classical music, that he read out loud to me for countless hours, that he walked before me in the fear of the Lord, and that by God's grace he taught me this beautiful lesson:

Disease can tear a body apart. It can be ugly, it can be overwhelmingly sad. Death comes, takes someone strong and wonderful, and makes him nothing but a cold, lifeless body. But disease cannot take away hope and peace in Christ. Death is nothing but a tool in the hands of our Creator, and for the believer, it is a wonderful thing, because it carries us away from this imperfect world to our Heavenly Father.

Daddy was excited about death. (He used to say that he wasn't afraid of death, it was the dying that gave him some fear.) He was yearning to walk and talk with Jesus in a better way than he had ever even imagined.

And now, he is.

Thanks for telling me this?

Today, I learned what a pill-plunger for cattle is. Yes, it's as gruesome as it sounds.

I also learned what will invariably happen if your sheep has a bloated stomach.

It will die.

Oooohh, our house smells delightful.

Mama called me from Memphis a few hours ago and asked me to turn on a pot of beans which had partially cooked earlier in the day.

I performed said task with alacrity, then returned to my movie. ("To Catch a Thief," in case you were wondering - Grace Kelly + Archibald Alexander Leach= amazing. Now I don't wonder why movie stars often change their names. "Cary Grant" is way snappier than Archibald Alexander Leach.)

Anyway, in a very few minutes, (I mean, like, a very, very few,) a repulsive scent wafted to me on the breeze. Yep, the beans were burnt. Quite completely, in fact.

Mama wasn't too happy.

She put on another pot when she came home, then went along with her business. (I don't know exactly what it was, 'cause I was hiding.) (Okay, not really hiding.)

And then a strange thing happened. I smelled something disgusting. Something nasty. Something which turned my insides upside-down.

A burn smell fresher and stronger than the previous one, which had begun to slowly die away.

Yes.

She had let the second pot burn.

That's what you call ironic.

When the moon goes from flat to round...

"At around age six, perhaps, I was standing by myself in our front yard waiting for supper, just at that hour in a late summer day when the sun is already below the horizon and the risen full moon in the visible sky stops being chalky and begins to take on light. There comes the moment, and I saw it then, when the moon goes from flat to round. For the first time it met my eyes as a globe. The word 'moon' came into my mouth as though fed to me out of a silver spoon. Held in my mouth the moon became a word. It had the roundness of a Concord grape Grandpa took off his vine and gave me to suck out of its skin and swallow whole, in Ohio."

-Eudora Welty

My mother is so gullible.

The other day, something came to her email as "a screen cleaner that will reach all the hard-to-clean places on the inside of your computer screen."

Ladies and gentlemen, she fell for it hook, line, and sinker. She clicked where it said, firmly believing that some magical spray was going to rid her screen of all those unsightly smudges.

HERE is the magical spray.

Valuable information:

The record temperature low for March 1st, (which is today, in case you're living in la-la land and aren't aware of that amazing fact,) was 16 degrees in 1890, and the record high was 80 degrees in 1997.

Man, I wish time travel was an option. 'Cause I would so totally go back to 1997 and bask in the warm, blessed sunshine. I would mow the grass. (I've missed it, you see.) I would go on a picnic. (And yes, I'd share my bread with the ants.) I'd wear the bright green sundress I bought today, (it was on sale - yay!) I'd take my violin out on the roof and fiddle away to my heart's content.

Aren't you glad that they, (whoever that elusive "they" is,) took the time and energy to document the temperature of every single day of the year, including March 1st, so that we can day-dream to our freezing, bitterly cold hearts' content? I am.



By the way, if time travel was an option, and if I did go back to 1997, be assured that I would keep my fashion of today. Because, wow, were the nineties rough on the eyes. All that permed hair, all that gold jewelry, all those baggy t-shirts... all that hairspray... I bet that a hundred gallons of hairspray were used in one year by my older sister and my three first cousins alone.

(I know what some of you are saying - coughLauracough - "Just you wait, those fashions are coming back!" I know, I know. Some of those trends are okay. And I'm totally cool with the seventies coming back. Just not the two pairs of colored socks worn at the same time, the scrunchies, and the long dresses and white tennis shoes. Please, no.)

(Don't you love how my post about the weather turned into a fashion dissection? Yeah, I'm female.)

World peace? All we need is a little duct tape!

THIS is a link for my big brother, Trey, who thinks everything - from bleeding gashes, to water pipes, to loose engine parts, to the national budget - can be fixed with duct tape. (Okay, okay, maybe not the loose engine parts. Or the national budget. But still.)

He's pretty much the best handy man going, and he has rescued me via phone from countless difficult I-have-to-fix-this-right-now-or-the-world-will-explode situations.

Thanks, bro.