Category Archives: Uncategorized

I sit on the bench — always the same one.  Not because it has to be, but because I learned a long time ago that I can concentrate better if I always sit at the same place.  But it isn’t MY bench, or OUR bench, it’s just the place we sit when it’s available — and it ususally is.

Earlier this week, I had spoken to my neighbor about the three children coming to Sunday School.  They were very interested, and it was because of their interest that I had them over on Thursday night.  I felt like I needed to know them a little better, have somewhat of a relationship with them before “setting sail” on a Sunday morning.  Most of my interaction has been with their Mom, and because of her willingness to give life details, I have felt like I knew these children somewhat — even though I hadn’t really had much personal time with them.

On Thursday night, we had about two and a half hours together.  We played games, baked cookies and I read to them.  They were hungry for hugs, very responsive to suggestions, and NOISY.  And BUSY.  And HUNGRY.  And so incredibly precious.  And they really, really wanted to go to Sunday School.

So we made arrangements to pick them up.  This morning, while I finished last minute Sunday morning things, Certain Man went down the road to retrieve the children.  While he was gone, I started to think about what big mess we were into now.  And I thought again about this man I married — and his willingness to be inconvenienced for Jesus’ sake.  Especially when it comes to children.  There are a great many men out there who would be disgruntled, peevish or would even forbid the kinds of involvement that we often find ourselves in.  But he has almost never been anything but supportive, encouraging, and affirming.  I really do have a husband who is one in a million.

So he cheerfully went off, retrieved the three kids and came back home to load up ladies and his scatterbrained wife and we got to church on time (for a change!).

Sunday school went well.  I continue to love teaching this class — which today included two of the three we had brought along.  I was pretty sure that class would be okay — there is plenty of activity, moving around, things to occupy heads and hands and no one is too quiet, at least in the basement class where we meet.  But then Sunday School was over, and the church family that meets at the corner of Canterbury and Carpenter Bridge Roads does not have any separate provision for children during the sermon.

So here we all were, on the bench, and Certain Man was bringing the message.  I got out my Bible and notebook so I could take notes, as is my custom.  I love these Sunday morning times and have a strong commitment to not only staying awake, but listening carefully enough so as to have some insights to carry with me.  Except that this morning, there was no spare time for taking notes.  I watched distractedly while there were stickers and notebooks and markings and whisperings and thumpings and munchings on anything that was remotely edible.  From the standpoint of having extra children in the church, it was wonderful.  It was an answer to my prayers.  It was so exciting.

But there was something else going on in my heart.  It has been many a year since I have had a row of children that I was more or less responsible for.  And all through the sermon, there was a conflict waging in the battlefield of my soul.   You see, I have come to enjoy my quiet bench.  I like just “blending in” and having the freedom to think and pray and take notes and just be my own (selfish) self.  This bench was a radical difference.  And I am all for settling kids down and teaching them proper church manners and how to behave, but I also know these things take time.  And the issue cannot be forced.  Too often children have been made to conform to certain standards of behavior so that a church is satisfied, and the result has been temporary acceptability, but a damaged concept of what it is that God really wants of them.

And so I look at the faces of these kids, and realize that so much more is being caught than taught right now.  And if I am going to be frustrated and impatient and even resentful, they are certainly going to catch that.  So what do I do with this dilemma?

I don’t know.  But I know that God cares about this.  He loves these kids.  It is no accident that they are a part of our lives in this time, in this place, in this way.  And so, I intend to ask Him for the answers.  For wisdom.  For creative ideas in how to keep them excited and enthusiastic and COMING.  And for creative ideas in harnessing the energy, directing the hearts and minds towards things eternal (they are not too young for this!) and for the patience I (and all of us in our complacency) will need.  In the past, I’ve made the mistake of thinking that the children that rode to Sunday School in the Yutzy Van were somehow our “property” to maintain in the church family.  The years, and some heartbreaking failures have shown me how wrong that mindset is.  It’s important for there to be a family that is their primary support/contact and authority, if you will, but it is imperative that these children form relationships within the church family that they look forward to exploring and expanding and enjoying.  Friendships with other children.  Exchanges with trustworthy adults.   All things that can help to point them to a God who wants to be an integral, vital, living part of their lives.

It’s a big order.  And inconvenient.  And it doesn’t feel very “comfortable” or “tidy” or even “safe.”

And that bench that has been so quiet and peaceful and somewhat orderly will just have to embrace the change.

As will the graying grandma who likes to sit there.

“I intend to be inconvenienced for Jesus’ sake!” 

These words are ones that often ring in my head when
I have decisions to make about involvement in other people’s lives.

Do I really mean this?
They are very hard words, to be honest. 
And the very word “inconvenienced” is something that goes against my grain.

Sometimes I tell myself that I am getting older.
That I deserve some peace and quiet.
That my heart has been walked on enough. 
And when all is said and done, how much difference will my contribution to the Kingdom really make?  How much of it is wood, hay and stubble?
How much is gold, siver, precious jewels?

And how much is my “inconvenience” enabling someone else to ignore what God wants to say to them through the struggle?  Do I allow people to struggle just because it is “good for them” and “they’ll never learn if they don’t hit bottom” (or some other inane thing I like to say when I really don’t feel like being involved)?

And why are the most heartrending stories on my back door step?

And why are they so incredibly cute?

“Lord Jesus, the children, THE CHILDREN!!!

May you have mercy on us all!

And in that mercy, may your greatest gift be that of showing us the way to love as you do,

Inconvenienced, or not.”

The 2010 Christmas Village . . .

. . .that gave us all so much enjoyment, (but especially the Small Fry) . . .

Has been taken down . . .

And (along with the manger scenes) been boxed up . . .

And put away.

The Sun Room at Shady Acres is back in place.

And it feels good to have it back to normal after two months of Christmas village.

Now that we can get out of the front door of the Sun Room, we are celebrating our finished deck railing

We are so very happy with how it turned out. 

Thanks, Davey!

I’ll try to remember to post a better picture when the weather turns warmer, but we think it’s really, really nice!

I celebrated the end of the Season by making a big pot of Chicken Rice Soup.

It has been warm and comforting on these wet, cold and silvery winter days.

There is much to be thankful for.
  My heart is full.
And I give grateful praise.

This morning, in our church gathering, our song leader, Joel Bontrager, chose the song, “God of Grace and God of Glory“  (from the Mennonite Hymnal, song #434).

It’s funny, yet delightful, how certain songs will trigger memories that make you smile on a Sunday morning that has been difficult (at best) and made more difficult by a bad attitude (that was me this morning, sorry to say!).

But Joel led the song, and I suddenly remembered Chorus practice at Greenwood Mennonite School.  The year was ’66-’67, and there were two new teachers at our school that year.  A very, very young Don Yoder and a new EMC graduate, Henry Shank. The two of them took the Greenwood community by surprise, and I dare say that more than just a very impressionable eighth grade girl were never the same again. 

Some times I wish I knew the adult dynamics of those days.  (I suspect that I’m better off not knowing.)  But Don Yoder was a much loved cousin who had actually boarded with my family on weekends while he went to LMS, and in my eyes, he could do no wrong.  And then there was Henry Shank who somehow looked at this insecure and often ridiculous teenager and decided that he saw some things to encourage and bless, and did so with an open and generous hand.  It wasn’t long until he was also a trusted and much loved advisor.

Mr. Shank directed the high school Chorus that first year that he was at GMS, and Mr. Yoder also participated, lending his great voice to the young men’s section of the choir.  One of the songs we sang was “God of Grace and God of Glory” and one day after practicing it at great length, Mr. Yoder, having observed that it was a great favorite of Mr. Shank, made one of his quiet snide remarks about it being “Mr. Shank’s wedding song.”  Of course, this little joke went around the students, who were quite interested in the fact that Mr. Shank was planning his wedding to a certain beautiful Lois Bechtel in the near future. Somehow the lyrics made us snicker when we applied them to a marriage.  How little we knew!

And then, one day at practice, as we prepared, once again, to sing the song, a student happened to mention, sotto voce, but still heard by our director, “Humpf!  Mr. Shank’s wedding song!”

First a look of puzzlement, then one of enlightenment, and then one of humor passed across Mr. Shank’s face.  And soon he was laughing out loud as he gleefully said to a somewhat amused but red-faced Mr. Yoder,  “You’re responsible for that!!!”

Ah, Mr. Shank.  We couldn’t know then that your life would be cut short — that you would marry that girl you loved so much, and together would have three beautiful children, and then, only 5 days after your 40th birthday would go to be with the Lord.  Sometimes  I think of the days when you introduced us to some of the great songs of the church, and how music will always be a part of the memories I have of you.  And “God of Grace and God of Glory” will always be “Mr. Shank’s Wedding Song” in my head, though it was, of course, NEVER sung at your wedding.  Today I looked at the words of this great song, and from the standpoint of a marriage of over 37 years, think it might just be one of the best wedding songs I have ever heard. 

If more of us could live the principles found here, truly petition the requests found here, and invite this “God of Grace and God of Glory” into the heart of our marriage, what a difference it would make in our homes.

God Of Grace And God Of Glory :

It’s been another cold week in Delaware.  Certain Man was sick when the snow fell last week, and he didn’t get the lane scraped.  He thought it was going to snow again and he would just do it all at once.  The only problem was, there were state buses and many different cars and pickups going in and out and that first snow got packed pretty hard on the area right in front of the garage.  Some days the sun would come out a little and melt the top enough to make glare ice when the sun went down.

And then, he was right!  It did snow again.  That is, it snowed again after it sleeted and put some more ice on top of the old ice.  So bright and early on Wednesday morning, Certain Man got out his trusty tractor and pushed the little bit of snow around that was out there so the lane was somewhat clearer.  But that ice, right in front of the garage, stayed right where it was — only slicker and thicker because of the sleet that had fallen on it.

In the mornings, when putting Cecilia and Nettie on the bus, Certain Man’s Wife would look at that thick layer of ice and could almost see one of them crashing down in disarray and disaster.  The bus drivers weren’t happy either.  CMW explained to them that it was because Certain Man had been sick, but it seemed to be falling on unsympathetic ears.  It was beginning to concern her.  What would be the liability if one of the drivers slipped?  And what would happen if one of the ladies went down?  None of these scenarios seemed to be such that it would simplify her life any.  She thought she had seen some salt or ice melt in the garage, but a careful search had turned up nothing.  And since there is no longer a cat in the house at Shady Acres, there was no kitty litter, either.

CMW likes to be warm and dry.  She likes the pellet stove to run without interruption, and though it isn’t her favorite thing to do, she is well able to carry the 40 pound bags of pellets that supply the large holding area in the stove.  It comforts her greatly that Certain Man is very conscientious about keeping a supply of pellets in the garage, off the floor and easily accessible at the top of the ramp that comes into the back door.  A bag lasts a little less than 24 hours in this cold, cold weather, so it is inevitable that, some of the time at least, CMW needs to carry pellets and fill the stove.  Lately it seems like it is all the time. 

It seems like the job of cleaning out the ash tray at the bottom of the stove is also her responsibility.  The very efficiently burned pellets make a fine, dust type ash that pushes out of the chamber and falls into the tray.  Depending on the type of pellets, it hangs over the edge of the burn chamber like a blackened clump of snow, hanging off the roof of the chicken house.  When this happens, whomever is tending the stove takes the pointed claw-type thingy that came with the stove and scrapes it off and into the usually overflowing tray so that the fire can burn a little more efficiently.   It usually makes a bit of mess when the burn chamber is cleaned, but a greater mess is almost always forthcoming when the ash tray gets cleaned because, unfortunately, it seems like Certain Man and CMW tend to wait on each other to do it  — and it gets quite full, indeed.

So, today, CMW was alone in her house — a rarity, and not unpleasant at all, to be truthful.  She had turned down an invitation to go shopping and was pretty tickled about being able to stay in.  And then she noticed that her fire was going out.  She needed to carry pellets.  Then she noticed that the ashes were hanging over the edge of the burn chamber and that the ash tray was overflowing into the bottom of the stove.  That was when she got a bright idea.  What would happen if she were to spread those ashes over that thick pad of ice in front of the garage?  She went to fetch her bag of pellets while she pondered.  H-m-m-m-m-m.  This just might be a good idea!  Whenever she cleans the ash pan, she always just dumps the ashes into the empty pellet bag to carry out, so it would really not be much trouble to just dump it out over the ice.

She hauled the bag of pellets in to the family room and plunked them down on the hearth.  Certain Man always keeps a scissors on the mantel for opening the bags of pellets and she cut off the end and hoisted it up and began pouring it into the hopper.  Suddenly there was the sound of a great spilling of pellets.  Oh, dear!  CMW rutched the bag around and peered under it to see what was going on.  “Oh, dear!” is right!!!  Somehow the bag had caught on the edge of the stove and there was a tear in the side of it close to the bottom and pellets were pouring out at an alarming rate.  CMW stuffed her hand into the hole to stem the tide, and finished pouring the bag into the stove.  Suddenly, a familiar stench accosted her nostrils that made her stomach turn.  Cat pee.  Male cat pee.  Whoo-hee!  Some male cat had found this bag somewhere and marked his territory but good!  And CMW had been hugging that bag with all her might.  So.  Guess what (who) else was smelling like cat pee???

CMW wrapped the bag up good, and went over to the large family trash can to see if there was a bag there from the previous fill.  There was.  So she discarded the torn bag and went back to the family room and emptied the ash pan into the large pellet bag.  When everything was in order, and the stray pellets brushed together and picked up from the floor and the hearth and the stove was steadily burning, she washed the offensive smell off her hands and forearms and changed her clothes.  Then she proceeded to the outdoors and attempted to scatter the ashes over the ice pad in front of the garage.  That was almost an exercise in futility.  The ash was such a fine dust (see paragraph #5) and the wind was just strong enough that most of it blew away and ended up against the white siding of the farmhouse. 

“Certain Man will not appreciate that!”  Thought CMW, just a little bit ruefully.  She looked at the muddy looking mess the ashes (that had managed to go where they were supposed to!) were making on the top of the ice and it began to dawn on her fur brain that there might be something else that Certain Man wouldn’t appreciate.  He had just gotten his driveway sealed before the cold weather set in and CMW was suddenly concerned.  “This might not have been the best idea,” she admitted, feeling guilty.  “What do I do now?”

What she did then was to go back into the house and tried to forget about it.  It was still morning.  The sun hadn’t moved to that side of the house and who knew what might happen when the sun hit it?  Besides there were things on her “to do” list that needed attention.  But it kept nagging at the back of her brain, so a little before two o’clock she decided to go and check on things out there.  The sun was shining brightly, but that ice pad in front of the garage looked pretty much the way it had three hours earlier.  CMW decided to have a go at it with the snow shovel. 

At first the going was tough.  And the sturdy snow shovel just couldn’t move the ice.  But as CMW kept chopping and hacking away, slowly, slowly, the ice started to chip off and let go.  CMW began to feel a little bit cheerful.  Chop, chop, chop.  Shovel, shovel, shovel.  The progress actually began to impress her.  “I could be paying someone to do this, ” she thought.  “I wonder what Daniel would have been willing to pay someone to do this?”  And she began to hold imaginary conversations in her head with her better half concerning the dangerous situation if the ice wasn’t removed and how much he may have been willing to pay to have the ice removed if someone did a really careful job, etc., etc., etc., until the job was suddenly done!  The ice was all gone and with it the ashes. (Which, incidentally had seemed to have a sort of reverse effect on the ice.  Where there was a liberal sprinkling of ashes, it seemed like the ice had gotten harder and adhered to the blacktop and didn’t want to come loose!)  It was getting colder, and even though the sun was still shining, it felt like it was time to get inside.

CMW took one last look at the clean area and was very content.  If Cecilia or Nettie or even one of the drivers fell now, it wouldn’t be because the area hadn’t been cleared off.  That felt a whole lot better to CMW.

And she went into the house to get a cup of hot coffee.

Back when Oldest Son was in Nepal, I wrote the following after talking to him one evening. 

We talked to him tonight.
Half a world away.
I’d guess you’d say
“A world away.”
If he were any further,
He’d be getting closer,
Around the rim of the world.

I hear it in his voice.
I know he thinks that I don’t
But I do.  He hangs on at the end
Like the child that doesn’t
want to hang up.
I get off the phone and cry.
My Son, My Son.

They say he will be home
Before we know it.
It’s already too late for that.
They say he is safe.
And I know that when he’s
In the Father’s hands
He may not be kept from harm
But he is safe.

I wish that I could see his eyes.
They’ve always told me
What was in his heart.
I remember days when the
Joy could not be contained.
I remember days when the hurt,
Stark. devastating. bewildering,
Lay smoldering there.

What is in your heart tonight, Son?
Are you simply enduring to the end?
(There’s virtue in that, if it’s the best you can do).
Is there hope?  Plans for the future?  Praise?
Do you have purpose for your days?
Do you sleep carefree at nights?
Do you see this as something more
Than something to “get through?”

Do not let the moment slip you by.
Do not waste these days of adventure and opportunity.
Do not forget why you are on this earth
Do not miss the reason for your absence from home.
Do not neglect the gifts you’ve been given to expand The Kingdom.
Do not back off from service.

And though I cry — and miss you so much,
I am so proud of you.  I pray for you.
I remember the bright-eyed baby
That I held on my shoulder and believed
That you were spared for a purpose.
And that God would do great things through you.
And most of all,  I will always love you.

Last night, we skyped with Rachel.  We have such an incredible provision to see her face and listen to the inflection in her voice and actually be able to know what she is looking like when she talks to us.  It is such a blessing to this Momma’s heart.  But it makes the spaces of our home so empty when we close the connection.

And that’s another thing.  When we close the connection.  Like her brother before her, Rachel hates to be the one to say “good-bye.”  We say our “I love you’s” and “We’re praying for you’s” and “We’re so proud of you’s” and “We miss you’s” at least once and then we say them again. 

And then she says her famous, “I will NOT break this connection.  I CAN’T!!!  You are gonna’ have to do it.  I just cannot make myself do it!”

This Momma has learned the hard way that when something needs to be done, and no one else will do it, sometimes you need to steel yourself, harden your heart and do it. 

Like those many years ago when there were chickens to butcher and no one would do the Dastardly Deed of cutting their throats.  I remember a line of chickens, hung up by their feet, waiting for The Knife.  Certain Man claimed ignorance.  He also claimed that it was too hard on his heart.  (I know him well enough to know it was . . .)  But someone had to do, and so I made sure the butcher knife was sharp enough to shave hair off an arm, and I did what I saw my Daddy do so often — except that I closed my eyes while I did it.  And I got it done, even while a little part inside of me died, and that part that died, turned to stone.

Last night, I looked at that “end call” button and knew that someone had to do it.  I reached out my finger when it could no longer be delayed by one more “I love you” and pushed it hard.

It felt like I was putting a razor sharp knife against her vibrant life.  One instant, her image was there, the next, the image was gone.

I shut the computer and turned away.

Whatever was in my heart hadn’t died, hadn’t turned to stone.

It hurt too much for too long.

And that was (almost) comforting.

I’m off to Grampa and Grammy’s house.

So many things to get into there!

And, NO, I don’t want to play with the toys!

Grammy, can you find something for me to do???

Well now, this looks interesting!

H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m, I can pretend I can make letters —

I know “F”  and “A” and “P” (and some more that I can’t remember right now).

If only I could make them just the way they look on Mommy’s refrigerator.

ALL DONE!!

I think I will go see if I can get into a manger scene somewhere . . .

This is one view that I took before I got started yesterday —

And this is how it looked when I got done with this one area —

I made even more progress than this, but this is the one area that I got completely finished.

Today I made a big pot of Beef and Barley soup.  Youngest Son and His Girl were here for a
few hours, and tonight I’ve been trying to wrap up loose ends, get ready for Sunday School Class,
finish cleaning up the kitchen, etc..  Usual Saturday night stuff.

I was lugging a big plastic container of wrapping paper from the study to the top of the basement
stairs this morning, and I came around the corner, and saw Certain Man on his La-Z-boy where he
has spent most of the last three days, sick.  I looked out the window, saw the wonderful snow and
without thinking, caught myself smiling.  Unfortunately, Certain Man was watching at that moment,
and must have thought that I was happy that he was sick!

“WHAT?!?!!??” he demanded from his chair, startling me out of my wits!  I looked over at him in
his misery and thought how it must have felt to him to feel so miserable, and have me look over at
him and smile.

“Oh, um,” I stammered, wondering how I could explain to him why I was feeling so happy this morning.
“Well, it’s just that I’m happy,” I said lamely.  “It’s snowing and my husband is home and it just
makes me happy!”  I kept on lugging the heavy container towards its destination, and he looked like
I had taken leave of my senses, but he kinda shook his head, and settled back into his chair for another
nap, and I went on with my morning chores.

I’m really rather tired of him being sick.  But knowing him as well as I do, I know that he is far more
tired of it than I am.  He got a little bit antsy this afternoon, and wanted to go out and scrape his lane.
I advised against it, and he took my advice without too much fuss.  That is one thing that tells me that
he really is feeling bad.  The hardest thing is when a husband is almost well enough to do what he wants
to do, BUT NOT QUITE, and then does too much and gets a real set-back.  And there is a
CERTAIN MAN who is rather famous for such shenanigans.  So I was rather happy to have him just
take it easy all day. 

I’m going to see what else I can quick finish up tonight —
Sunday is almost here, and I do love me some Sunday!

Okay,  you all–

You had better pray for me!

I’m cleaning my study!

This involves lots of giving things away,
Sorting through things–
Organizing what can be organized,
Putting things where they belong,
Throwing things out,
Recycling some stuff,
And sending things to Salvation Army.

Oh, and getting rid of some books.
  There is just no sense in keeping
some of these old books,
(much as I love to look at them).

I did take some “before” pictures,
But I think I’ll put the “after” ones on later.

My Grandmother Wert used to say that any dirt we took into the New Year
would stay with us all year.

If that’s true, I’m in trouble this year!

One more thing:  I found two ink cartridges (hp 96 – black, and hp 97 – tri-color)
that someone can have for the taking.
They are still in their original plastic sleeves that are sealed, but not the outer packaging. 
We got rid of the printer and these are of no use to us at all.
Let me know if you are interested!

We took the table down.

Certain Man suddenly began pulling it apart, and taking out the many boards.  I watched as he took it all the way down to the usual single board, and then he asked about the tablecloth.  I fetched the flannel backed padding from the study where I had carelessly folded it and laid it haphazardly on a box that held stuff that needed sorting.   While he spread it out, I went and searched out a tablecloth for the suddenly smaller dimensions.  We smoothed it down, and it looked crisp and non-themed.  I was working at things in the kitchen, so I returned to my chores there, and saw that he brought the two chairs back to the family room that get relegated to the living room when we open the table.  He put the round berry tea light holder over the small glass manger scene that fits so perfectly on the inside of the ring, and set the two Home Interior wooden sconce holders with votive cups on either end.  And then he lit the candles.  I watched with a sense of gratefulness, as he carefully lit six tea lights and two votive candles.  I looked over at them twinkling in the shadows, and knew he was feeling like things were getting back to normal.  It was comforting and reassuring.

“It’ s kinda nice to have things back in place, isn’t it?”  I ventured bravely.  He’s been a little unpredictable these last couple days (weeks or months would be more like it).  I think he’s grieving, though he isn’t really aware of it, and I thought he was getting sick.  A bad sore throat, and general weariness.  He was scheduled to preach last Sunday and when the snow stopped it, he decided to keep the sermon for this Sunday, even though it had a Christmas theme.  He particularly liked this sermon, though preaching is hard for him.  He never feels good on the Saturday before he’s to bring the message, and I suspect all the things out of kilter around here haven’t helped any.

“It sure is!” He responds with feeling.  “It is high time!”  I think again about the days that are passed, and wonder what is really in his heart.

The table has been big for a long, long time.  It sat in our dining/family room for many days with the extra boards in it, and some days, it was pulled out the full thirteen feet.  The people we love gather around it,and there is pleasant conversation, food of the Season and peace.  This year, since putting up the Thankful wall, we’ve had Early Christmas, Youngest Son’s house church group, the Yoder cousins to visit when we had revivals with a relative from Illinois.  We had the office open house, we had cookie baking day, we had Christmas Eve, we had New Years Eve, (and probably some I forget) and every time the table got pulled open and most of the time, stretched its full length.  Sometimes I didn’t take it down because of how soon the next event was taking place.  The table is a wonderful thing for big events, but it seems to hamper family togetherness in every day living.  I was glad to see it come down for that reason.   And I suspect that Certain Man was tired of walking around it to his favorite chair. I’m also glad because, with all the wonderful times we’ve had with friends and family this season, I have MISSED my girlie so much.  I hate it that I still cry at least once every day.  I was going to be wise and cheery and upbeat and proud and supportive and optimistic and an inspiration to my fellow man and patient and thoughtful and GODLY (Don’t forget GODLY) about it all.  But I’m not.  I am struggling with a sadness that I can’t seem to shake and I realized that the relief I felt when the table came down was a pretty good indication that I have some “soul work” to do.

And so, today, I am sorta’ digging out.  Packing a box for my girlie, trying to do laundry, trying to get the weekend and some of the season mess straightened up, trying to set some goals for the next weeks. And remembering that every passing day is one day closer HOME, not only for my girlie to be back with us again, but for us to be HOME to Heaven.

That means I cannot afford to neglect what is of eternal value.  I cannot allow distractions to take root in my thoughts and keep me from concentrating on what is good.  I cannot allow what feels like a justifiable sadness to color all of life with its malevolent darkness.  There is too much at stake.

What does God’s word say about this?  Something about “the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness” and “Oil of Joy for mourning?”

It would appear that the best solution for this situation is to begin to “Get dressed!”

Garment of praise, would you clothe me in joy?