Sunday afternoon meditations

"Is it a little too much for all our moments to flow in ceaseless praise? Well, where will you stop? What proportion of your moments do you think enough for Jesus? How many for the spirit of praise, and how many for the spirit of heaviness? Be explicit about it, and come to an understanding. If He is not to have all, then how much? Calculate, balance, and apportion. You will not be able to do this in Heaven - you know it will be all praise there; but you are free to halve your service of praise here, or to make the proportion what you will.


YET - He made you for His glory.


YET - He chose you that you should be to the praise of His glory.


YET - He loves you every moment, waters you every moment, watches you unslumberingly, cares for you unceasingly.


YET - He died for you!


Dear friends, one can hardly write it without tears. Shall you or I remember all this love, and hesitate to give all our moments up to Him? Let us intrust Him with them, and ask Him to keep them all, every single one, for His own beloved self, and fill them all with His praise, and let them all be to His praise." -Francis Ridley Havergal (writer of the hymn, "Take my Life and Let it Be")


I read this passage and began to think of the week ahead.


It's easy on Sunday afternoon to relax, enjoy a book, a friend, or a nap, (and all those things are wonderful, of course,) instead of thinking anything about applying what I heard this morning to Monday morning. You know, I find myself often falling into a rut of thinking Sunday is over when I come in from church. But that really isn't true, is it?


The whole day has been given to us by God as an opportunity to rest from the distractions of the world, and possibly take the chance to spend some extra time asking Him for strength for the days ahead, when life twists and turns us in all directions except toward Christ.


I thought what Francis Havergal said was a good reminder to desire each of our moments, every minute every second, to be orchestrated around Christ. It seems like an overwhelming lot, doesn't it? But when we really think of how much we've been given by our Heavenly Father, it somehow doesn't seem unreasonable to live every moment for Him.


Will I do that perfectly this week?


Oh, no.


(Just ask my sisters, they'll assure you I don't even come close to perfection.)


But none of us should want it said that we "have not because we ask not."


Our God is kind and patient, and He will help me and you to live unto Him.

oh, dear.

I’ve done a really good job of not dreaming too much of Autumn all during this long, hot, humid, sticky, hot, dry, hot summer. Because I knew that the moment the Fall-lust entered my heart, it would be there to stay. For good. And the only cure would be one or two delightfully crisp, rustle-y, pumpkin filled months, where the geese wing overhead and the leaves gently desert their tree and settle on every available inch of ground, be they welcomed or not.

So, it’s to my great dismay that while August is still very much holding court, my longing for Fall has begun.

I say it’s all the much-longed-for cooler weather’s fault that my love for scarves is gently enfolding me yet again, that I’m beginning to think how soon I can make it by a Starbucks to suck down one of their Spiced Pumpkin Lattes, and that I’ve started panting for the day I can wear my snazzy fur-lined boots, (which Lee called my “fertilized boots,”) for the first time.

And the thought of the First Fire in the fireplace makes me the closest to high I’ll probably ever be.

I’ve started dreaming a bit too early, it’s true.

But I’d rather be the kind of person who dreams early than the kind who doesn’t dream at all.

well, not exactly.

Me: "Phoebe, do you know what the Civil War was?"

Phoebe: "Oh, yeah. It was a war that was civil."

It's a good thing there's "no charge for awesomeness." Because everyone who knows Trey would be really poor.

Hey, look! One of my bros is having a birthday!

Trey, I love you - even though you married my sister instead of me. It broke my six-year-old heart, but I seem to have recovered splendidly.

Thank you for always being there for me, whether the lawn mower is broken, there's a superduper big spider in my room, a mouse on the sticky trap, AnnMarie desperately needs entertaining, I need to learn to drive stick shift, I'm having an emotional upheaval, or any of those precious times when a big brother really comes in handy.

I'm so very, very grateful that God put you in our family, and that you live right next door so we can "holler if we need anything." (Trey's standard parting from me and mama.)

You're the bestest of the best.

Happy Birthday, big brother.

Dear Courtney,

You remember the morning we made waffles together after our first spend-the-night? When I stirred the waffles with my hands, (because the lumps just wouldn't come out with a whisk,) and you didn't run screaming from the house, I knew we were going to be best friends.

And I was right.

Happy Birthday. I love you.



-Me

in the [very probable] case that you are comfortably taking almost everything you have for granted...

... read this.

Read it in your nice, cool living room. Read it and think of the well-stocked fridge a few steps away. Read it and put your loved one's face in place of those girls.

If you have an ounce of compassion in your soul, you'll want to DO something. I can't tell you exactly what that will be, but you can pray that God would show you some tangible way to help, and you can most definitely pray for these beautiful, REAL people. Shame on you, shame on me, if we don't pray and do for them.

the windows of Heaven opened - and the rain came tumbling down.

Rain is gushing down in wild torrents, so solid they look like sheets of some thin fabric flapping about in the wind.

Silvery grey puddles are all over the yard, making rainboots and toy boats seem like the most fun ideas of the summer.

Most of all, for the first time in months, it isn't unbearably hot. Warm, yes. But oh, such relief for grass and trees, flowers and birds, animals and people, is this rainy day!

The fat drops hit the asphalt looking for all the world like fairies dancing, and if I didn't have a headache, I'd go out and join them. But it's wonderful to sit at the window, cup of tea in hand, and just watch the tired, sagging, hot earth be renewed and refreshed.

I'm so grateful I wasn't born before the Flood, because how boring and uninspiring would it be for mist to rise from the ground and do all the watering? I imagine that even the people who were about to die couldn't help but admire the magnificent first rainfall. Maybe that was the moment they actually believed in God.

But for Noah and his family, safe in the ark, with the hand of God protecting them, what a gloriously sad sight the first rain must've been. What a fulfillment of promise! For surely some of them had, at one weak moment or another, allowed a creeping bit of doubt to enter their minds about the validity of God's statement and command. After all, they and their parents and their grandparents and on and on had only known the quiet moisture seeping up from the earth. Water from the sky? Massive amounts of water breaking open the earth? Enough to engulf the whole world? Likely there was a tiny bit, (or a large bit; we aren't really told,) of incredulity in some of their hearts.

And then, aboard the ark, they witnessed, or at least felt, the "windows of Heaven opened and the fountains of the deep broken up."

God had fulfilled His promise, and if there had been skepticism in any heart, I bet it was banished in the twinkling of an eye, and the man or woman who had doubted the Creator of all felt very foolish.

Maybe there will be a pale, watery, but absolutely beautiful, rainbow this afternoon, calling to mind God's promise to never flood the whole earth again. And we can rejoice, as countless generations before have rejoiced, that our God is a God who keeps His promises.

a memory, and some thoughts which sprang from it.

As I walked home the other evening from Mamaw's, on the path leading from her house to ours', I was vividly reminded of sundry other late-night walks home on that very same path... walks which were accompanied by the genius of an over active imagination.

When I was Quite Young, whenever the need arose for me to walk home after dark, I was terrified, yet old enough to want to prove myself brave and fearless.

Ha. Now I've just accepted the fact that I'm not brave and fearless and moved on.

So off I'd go, in mortal terror of drifting off the path and into the sewer that was close beside, and in total dread of something Getting Me. Now, what exactly was going to try Getting me was hazy, but that's where my stellar imagination came into play. Oh, yes. I could think of hundreds of animals, bugs, and evil people who might be lurking in the cornfield through which the path ran, ready to pounce.

My solution?

Well, you have to realize that I was a somewhat superstitious child who half-way believed in faeries and probably would've made an awesome Catholic.

So, I would make sure I was safely past the sewer, squeeze my eyes tightly shut, and take off like a rocket in the general direction of home, reciting the 23 Psalm out loud all the while. No joke.

I was apparently laboring under some delusion that prayer would automatically keep me safe, and that reciting a Psalm was easier than actually making up a prayer as I went along. I also remember thinking, "Maybe if a bad guy hears the 23 Psalm he'll leave me alone."

Yes, I was that sort of child.

I'm not really sure what sort it is, but it's definitely a Sort.

As I walked home the other night, (walked, not ran-with-my-eyes-shut, yelping out Psalm 23,) I enjoyed the cool grass under my bare feet, I whispered secrets to the crescent moon hanging low in the sky, and I listened to the pleasantly scratchy sound of the cricket orchestra in the grass. And as always happens when you're in the dark long enough, my eyes grew accustomed to the night, and I could see the path in front of me.

I thought of all the lovely things about the velvety night I missed when I let my fear get the better of me.

That applies to life, too, you know. Are we so intimidated by the dark and the sewer that we try to gingerly rush through whatever-it-is that's going on? Do we choose blindness and "safety" rather than trust God to give us eyes that see in the blackness? What about prayer? Has it, the act of praying, become something you lean on rather than Christ?

I should never be content with fear and trembling.

I have a Heavenly Father who cares for me.

I suppose I should be flattered.

Me: "Isaiah, maybe someday you'll have a puppy."

(Only if aliens come and drastically reconfigure Anna's DNA, but I didn't tell him that, since I don't want to shatter his little castle of dreams.)

"What will you name it?"

Isaiah: "Uh, Katie!"

Okay, so...

I don't usually talk a lot about friends' blogs. There's a list of 'em over in the corner, and I just leave you to find out their respective awesomeness for yourself.

But.

This is my friend Julia.


She loves cheesy, cheesy, cheesy puns and jokes. Like, they make her absolutely burst out laughing. She likes the Beatles, and she can speak Spanish. She cooks yummy food. Ellie and I rolled her room with toilet paper, (because we didn't want to roll her yard since it was December and therefore we would've been freezing,) and she was totally fine with it. Well, mostly fine.

Uh, Julia? Do you still love us?

Anyhow, she's pretty cool. (Get it, "cool" because she's holding a fan? That pun was specially designed just for you, Jules.)


And she's started a blog. So, hop on over here, and read what she's written so far. I'm just gonna say that you'll probably need to go ahead and follow her, because you'll definitely want to keep up with the fount of wisdom, brilliance, wit, and love spewing from her pen.

Or keyboard. Whatever.



p.s. yep, that's a tombstone in the first picture. we're the kind of friends who pose with unique tombstones.

At least he was prepared.

As I walked into the Library day before yesterday, I noticed a shirtless man slouching down the sidewalk towards me, beer belly jiggling with each step. As he reached the Library door, he fished a wadded up t-shirt out of his pocket and pulled it on as he walked inside.

My day was so much improved by yon show of just how classy Tippah County is.

a hazy summer evening at the County Fair.

The wilting heat,

the smell of grease and cigarettes,

the shaky rides,

the enamored couples wandering aimlessly about, hand in hand,

the toothless and liberally tattooed workers, (seriously, almost all of them were toothless, and every one of them had at least three tattoos,)

the sickly sweet, sticky cotton candy sticking to lips and fingers...

the Fair is in town.


With friends and plenty of wet wipes, it's a blast. Maybe I'll remember the wet wipes next time.


At the Fun Slide, we did get some pretty strange looks from all the wee kiddos in line behind us. But it was totally worth it.

and on that note, here's a truly delightful thought shared by Julia as we settled into our seats on one of the spinning rides -

Julia: ::leaning her head back:: "Mmmm... just think of all the lice that are probably living in these seats."

it's my favorite compliment, by the way.

as I walked out of our tiny post office after mailing a package...

post office lady: "Bye-bye, little Kathy. Girl, you look just like your mama."




I didn't know anything about her, (except that she works at the p.o.,) but it turns out her sister was in Mama's graduating class, so she knew Mama back in high school. I love living in a small town.

You could say it runs in the family.

I'm sure lots of y'all think I'm weird, especially after reading random musings like this and this.

And that's okay. I have peace with that. (Because secretly, I know it's really you who is the weird one.)

But I want to assure all and sundry that I come by this strange propensity to be curious about perfectly common things, and then make up stories about them, honestly. I suppose it's just in my blood.

Case in point:

while at Joseph and Andrea's house, curling my hair in the bathroom, Joseph walked in and said,

"I don't know how y'all's hair doesn't shrivel up and die with all the stuff you do to it."

me: "Well, I put lots of good things on my hair, too."

Joseph: "Yeah, like shampoo with fruit in it. Ya' know, the shampoo industry has struck gold with this whole 'add a little bitty splash of fruit juice to our product and then market it as essence of banana' or some such exotic name, and then every woman out there rushes to buy it. I wonder whose idea it was to begin with? The shampoo people's? Or was there a bumper crop of papayas one year, and the growers got together to talk about how they could get rid of all those extra papayas? One would say, 'Oh, let's put papaya juice in motor oil!' and then another would say, 'No, that might hurt the cars. I know! Let's put fruit in shampoo!' And thus a star was born."

Yeah, Joseph. I'm sure that's exactly how it happened.

family, warmth, food, and tradition - all in one battered book.

You know how there are certain staples in everybody's home? Things that never change, except to become more loved over time, things that are used daily, or at least weekly, and have their own subtle part in shaping the fabric of a home?

Our Better Homes and Garden cookbook is one of those dear, essential things.

Every time I see its honest cover, red-checked and worn, with little nicks and tears and stains, I feel comforted. And hungry. My! Some of those recipes just make you want to fall on your knees and give thanks for the blessing of cooking.

(Or they might make you want to throw up. Potato-Beet salad, anyone? How about some delicious Sparkling Beet Cups? Or jellied chicken salad? Gross.)

It was given to Mama about a year and a half after she got married, as a thank you gift for letting someone stay with them in Germany. It's been a go-to for all of us ever since... I've learned to make pie crust following its recipe, (which has been used so many times that particular page has loosened all together and now has to be folded carefully in after each use,) I've seen it out on the counter, open to one spot or another, almost every time we're expecting guests, and all of my married siblings own a copy of it.

My point being, it's so much more than a tattered cookbook.

It's a tradition, a little tangible piece of our family's day-to-day life.

I love little pieces like that. They make me fall in love with common, simple things we all take for granted, but influence us more than we guess. And most of all, they cause me to dream of having such bits and pieces woven through my own home's tapestry some day.

"Thou hast made him exceeding glad with Thy countenance." - Ps. 31:6

My heart for gladness springs,
It cannot more be sad,
For very joy it laughs and sings,
Sees naught but sunshine glad.

-P. Gerhardt

And isn't this truly the case for the believer? Now, of course Gerhardt isn't saying, (and no Christian who has lived long could say,) that everything is sunshine and roses and ease once we are in Christ. That isn't so.

But it is true that there is a deep-rooted gladness, a sweet and precious joy, which will always be in the heart of Christ's followers... because of Christ Himself. We have no cause to be sad unto despair when He is our Comforter. There is no room for fear unto hopelessness when He is our Captain. No hurt, physical or emotional, will be so great that it cannot be soothed by He who is the great Physician.

We will fear, be sorrowful, and have pain. But Christ is ours forever. He is with us through every day. How then shall we not have joy and gladness because of our Saviour?

sneakiness isn't her strong point.

while at the pool:

Charlie: "KK, will you let me drink this pool water?"

Me: "No."

Charlie: "Then will you shut your eyes for a minute?"

Me: "Why would I do that?"

Charlie: (matter-of-factly) "So I can drink the pool water."






p.s. the backs of my legs are sunburned. boo.

Well, SOMEBODY has to think these things through.

Am I the only person who feels a trifle uncomfortable that toothpaste tubes have a warning on them, telling you not to swallow any toothpaste, and "if any is accidentally swallowed, contact a poison control center right away"?

Hello?

This stuff is going into our mouths... being rubbed on our teeth... covering our tongues. Do I really want to know that it's harmful if swallowed?

What if you were a really obsessive person who always took every single thing you read at face value?

::brush, brush, brush:: "AAAHH!! Was that a bit of tooth paste slipping down my throat? Did more than I realize get swallowed? Am I dying?! Is my throat about to explode? Or rot?? Should I call poison control? Will they just laugh at me? What if they tell me it's okay and just to go on with my life, and then I take their advice, but they were actually wrong and I collapse into a coma?"

Okay, now, there probably aren't a whole ton of people out there who even read the back of the toothpaste tube; (I'm just weird like that,) but I can't help being curious about all this.

Why are we brushing our teeth with such unhealthy chemicals? Is it all a vast dentistry conspiracy? Are they exaggerating the magnitude of the don't-swallow-this-toothpaste part? Or are they downplaying how bad it really is?

And you have to understand that I'm pretty intimately connected with my toothpaste. When I'm stressed, I go brush my teeth. After I cry, I brush my teeth. Before I leave for anywhere, I brush my teeth. When I get home, one of the first things I do is lather my toothbrush up and scrub away all the faults and fears of the day. It's like my own personal version of Linus' security blanket - except better. I'm refreshed and rejuvenated by this amazing, magical paste.

And now it's potentially so poisonous they recommend the poison control center if a bit accidentally gets swallowed?

I'm disillusioned.