Turning Seventy

 

I might have been in junior high when I started listening to Oliver! This musical adaptation of the Charles Dickens novel Oliver Twist was written by Lionel Bart and first produced in England in 1960. That’s according to Wikipedia; you can look up all the details there. I loved the music; I still do. I believe we read the novel in my English class. As a project, I made a diorama of the death of Bill Sykes, using a little six-inch mannequin that was an advertisement for a sleeping aid. Some pharmaceutical company sent it to my dad, the doctor. Believe it or not, I still have Bill hanging in my office.

One of the songs in Oliver! was a lament by Fagin, “I’m Reviewing the Situation.” As the aging criminal/gang leader is thinking of getting out of the crime business, he sings, “What happens when I’m seventy? Must come a time – seventy. When you’re old and it’s cold and who cares if you live or you die.” As a seventh-grader, the idea of being 70 was too remote to be imaginable.

 In the fullness of time, I turned 70 on November 8 this year. I don’t have any real wisdom or pithy thoughts about this, but I did start thinking about other songs that deal with age. Six years ago, I posted the link to the Beatles song, “When I’m Sixty-four” on my Facebook page. That may be the best-ever age-related song. Here are a few others: “It Was a Very Good Year,” by Frank Sinatra. “Hey Nineteen,” by Steely Dan. “On the Edge of Seventeen,” by Stevie Nicks. “At Seventeen,” by Janis Ian. I like all these songs; they’re oldies but goodies.

I Googled “songs with ages in the lyrics.” As it turns out, there are quite a few. Some I’ve heard and do remember: “I’m Eighteen,” by Alice Cooper; “Sweet Little Sixteen,” by Chuck Berry; “You’re Sixteen, You’re Beautiful, and You’re Mine,” by a lot of people. “Sixteen Going on Seventeen,” by Rogers and Hammerstein. And there are tons I have not heard! I might have heard “Fifteen” or “22” by Taylor Swift; maybe not.

I guess I’d have to note that there are a whole lot more songs about people in their teens and twenties; not so many about older folks. Maybe the grim reality of turning 30 takes away all the music.

As I write this, we’re coming to the close of the tumultuous year 2021. My sweet sister Helen passed away in January. The world has staggered under the threat of COVID-19. I am still angry about the January 6 assault on the Capitol. I continue to be bumfuzzled (to say the least) about prevailing beliefs regarding the “stolen election,” the so-called reasons for not getting vaccinated, the polarization of opinions to the point of violence. And then there’s the unending literal violence. I quit listening to the news months ago and limited myself to reading the Dallas Morning News. Nowadays, I have cut that down to the letters to the editor. Everything else makes me depressed and frantic.

On the other hand, my sweet friend Sara beat the hell out of her cancer this year and she’s doing great. We had a baby grandson in August, and learned about a baby granddaughter coming in April. I retired from the church Library, and people sound like they respected what I achieved during my seven years. John and I have made great strides toward downsizing and moving to Plano; we have secured a great apartment we’ll move to in March 2022. I have read more than 100 books and audiobooks this year.

Turning 70 in November felt like an accomplishment. I guess in view of so much tsuris around us in the world today, getting to 70 and feeling good about it is something to celebrate.

On that final note, I hope and pray that YOU may celebrate this year and all the good things around you. Don’t forget: Christmas is about God Almighty Himself breaking through time and space to become human and demonstrate His righteousness, His mercy, and His love. Gloria in excelsis Deo. Come Lord Jesus.

Advice

 Last week our Zoom Book Chat (ZBC) group held our monthly session. Our assignment this time was to share what  piece of advice or information or other thoughts we would pass on to a grandchild, or to any younger person coming up behind us regarding racial reconciliation/social justice.

As you may recall from my last blog post, “Grandmother,” I have recently become one. (Quick update: My husband and I did indeed drive to the airport and fly to Washington to meet Baby John when he was nine days old. So glad we did. He’s perfect. I can hardly wait to see him and his parents again in October.)

Thinking about being a grandmother, I picked the ZBC discussion topic. It sounded pretty good at first. But I was a little stymied about what I myself would say.

I’m hoping racial strife and social injustice are long resolved by the time any grandchildren start paying attention to the world around them. I hope it’s all a thing of the past. I hope that people really do judge one another by their character and not by the color of their skin. I hope that all the built-in advantages of having white skin have been distributed fairly to everyone. I hope that there really is equity and justice in the way people are treated when they apply for get a job, or have a run-in with the law, or try to access food, or look for medical care, or cast their vote.

Unfortunately, I’m not very optimistic about these hopes being fulfilled, even in the lifetime of anyone I might talk to about them. Maybe because I’m about to start my eighth (yikes) decade on this planet, I’m just more world-weary and pessimistic. And I have to say that some of the young people who are in my sphere seem to have radically different ideas about what I think about racial and social justice issues. There is something about this struggle for justice that seems like the closer you get to your goal, the farther it appears to be.

So, assuming that the world in a few years will not be a noticeably more just, equitable and loving place, what would I “advise” a younger person?

1.      Be empathetic. Try to always imagine how you would feel in another person’s place. How would the words you’re about to say fall on someone else’s ears? What would you do in this particular situation? How would you want others to treat or respond to you?

2.      Assume the best about other people, rather than the worst. Do all you can to resist judging others, unless you are actually a judge.

3.      Make it a point to learn about other people. This includes their own circumstances and background, but also the larger picture of their culture and history.

4.      Be humble. Be willing to admit you’re uninformed or misinformed or – horrors – just plain wrong about something.

Perhaps I would just pass on some of my personal maxims (that I try to observe, even if I fail often):

            

Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your mind. And love your neighbor as yourself. – Jesus

What does the Lord require of you? To do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God. – Micah

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” – Maya      Angelou

** Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels

Grandmother

 

Today I am a grandmother. Actually, I became a grandmother yesterday, August 18, at about 3 p.m. EDT. Welcome to the world, John Edward Thompson IV.

Strictly speaking, I’ve been a grandmother since sometime back in December, right? Or was it when I heard the news from Jett and Kimi back in January? Or was it when we learned the baby would be a boy, and be named after his dad, his grandfather and his great-grandfather? 

Side note: We joked a bit about what we’d call him. Our son, John Edward Thompson the Third, has always been known as JETT. It’s an acroname; get it? So would JETIV be Cuatro? IV (like, ivy)? J4? We can take some guidance, as always, from the Bible. Luke 1:13, 1:60, and 1:63 all make it clear: “He shall be called ‘John.’”

Which brings up another issue. Nowadays, people choose their own grandma/granddad name. I always thought kids kind of came up with names themselves, as they started babbling real words. But I guess it makes sense to give them direction. Just as they learn to pronounce “antidisestablishmentarianism” or “yacht” correctly, they can be taught the preferred rendering of their forebears’ preferred names. So John (Jr.) and I have landed on our names. John (Jr.) is taking the granddad name of one of our favorite Republican presidents – George H. W. Bush – whose grandchildren and even some staff members, I believe, called him “Poppy.” For myself, when I was going to camp as a youngster, people called me “Emmy.” It was my favorite nickname. Thus, we are now “Poppy and Emmy.” Sounds like a puppet show, though, doesn’t it?

We Facetimed with the newbie yesterday. He was so happy and content, skin-on-skin with his dad (John III). Today, we’re seeing more pix. We have reason to believe there will be plenty more to come.

The new parents look pretty serene and joyful, too. Part of their pleasant demeanor may be relief and fatigue. The labor and birth went without a hitch (thank God), but it was about two weeks ahead of the due date, and stretched out over three days. And let’s remember. There’s a good reason they call it “labor.” Kudos to you, Kimi.

Our working plan has been to fly to Washington in early October to meet our new sweetie. We haven’t changed those plans, but I’m sorely tempted to drive to the airport and get on the first plane flying to Washington. I don’t want to miss any of that new-baby aura!

Tomorrow, I’ll pack up and mail a bunch of Jett’s old baby clothes, along with a note that explains why I kept them. I’ll include some of the 479 items I’ve already knit or crocheted. (Okay, it’s not actually 479 items, and I’ve already delivered a number of crafty things.) Then I need to get snapping on the birth announcement cross-stitch and a Christmas stocking! For one who likes to do handwork, having a new baby in the family is heaven.

All in all, this new John in our family is a gift from heaven. Thank you to all, in heaven above and on earth below, for bringing him to us.

Pet Peeves 2.0: Dental Detritus

 

Have you ever been walking along in a public place and noticed one of those dental flosser things? The little plastic ones with a handle that you use once then toss? You have? Yes, I thought so. I seem to see them all over the place. It drives me nuts.

I have no problem with people taking their oral hygiene out of the bathroom with them. Heaven knows, I myself shudder at the idea of a piece of spinach or chicken stuck between my teeth. I used to write for a company that manufactures a sophisticated dental hygiene product, so I am a true believer in the importance of frequent flossing.

My problem is: Why do people feel it’s okay to just drop them any old place? How hard is it to dispose of the little piece of plastic appropriately? Most public places have lots of trash cans, only steps away from where these flossers are tossed. A used flosser is not as gross as a used tissue. Why couldn’t it just be tucked away in a pocket or waistband till a trash can is accessible?

You can hardly walk through a public parking lot without seeing one or several of them just lying around. (The parking lot at White Rock Lake always seems to have dirty diapers and used condoms lying around, too, but that’s not something I want to discuss in this blog.)

I snapped a photo of a flosser some time ago. Shortly after that, I started noticing other artifacts that people use for oral care. A dental tool that the hygienist would use for scaling and planing. A plastic invisible aligner for teeth straightening. And of course, countless baby pacifiers. See my photos below.

Maybe I do understand the baby pacifiers. I also see lots of baby socks that got tossed out of strollers, too. But that other stuff? And those millions of flossers all over town?

I just don’t get it.

Decluttering, Part 2 -- Frogs

 

Anyone who’s ever visited my house knows that I have thing about frogs. I guess you could call it a collection – that sounds much better than “obsession” or “addiction.”

I have frogs all over the place, literally in every room of the house. I have semi-useful items such as frog towels, frog soap dishes, frog wind chimes, frog candlesticks, frog napkin holders, etc. The majority of my frogs are decorative pieces. I have some elegant examples in ceramic, wood, pewter and glass. I have some pitifully cheap ones in plastic and even paper. I have lots of  toy frogs, including some satin ballerina frogs, and some bean-bag frogs. There are even a few that I stitched myself. 

Pride of place goes to two plush frogs. One is Ferrington, my very first frog, who was a Christmas gift the year I turned nine years old. Ferrington went with me to summer camp, to Japan (where I was an exchange student for a summer), to college, and even into my adult homes. I knew my John was a keeper when he respectfully hopped Ferrington off the bed. The other plush frog is Fred. He’s a replica of Ferrington, but much larger. Fred was a gift to my big sister Helen from her high school boyfriend. Apparently she thought I would enjoy this giant stuffed frog more than she did. Or more than she enjoyed that boyfriend, for that matter.

I also have a shadow box with about 60 tiny frogs on it. I knew my new cleaning lady was a keeper when she -- on her own initiative -- took the time to dust every one of those little guys. She was very relieved when I told her she never had to do that again.

Over the years, I have purchased many of my frogs. I can hardly resist a cute or interesting frog that’s not grossly expensive. My friends and family realized early on that they could always count on my effusive gratitude for a frog gift. Their shopping was always a no-brainer, and my collection has been enhanced by my friends’ generosity.

I mention all this because as I prepare to declutter and downsize, I am a little distraught about what to do with my frog friends. I love them all, and it pains me to think of getting rid of a single one.

As we think about a new place to live, we’ll have to consider proper places for the frogs. When we eventually move, we’ll have to carefully pack everyone up for the journey.

And then there’s the problem of the ultimate disposition of my frogs. Should I give them away to friends and family in advance? Do I put them in my will? Do I leave behind a mandate about how the frogs will be cared for in perpetuity? I fear my children do not have the depth of feeling for the frogs that would lead them to love them appropriately. 

In short, I struggle with what will happen to my frogs when I croak.

Guilty Pleasures 1.0 -- Flamethrowing

 

I have a lot of guilty pleasures. This is just the first I'm confessing. 

One recent guilty pleasure is responding to the emails I receive from a certain political party soliciting my support (i.e., donations). I get these emails daily. They come from politicians at all levels, in my state, other states, the national organization, et cetera ad nauseum. Literally ad nauseum.

Receiving the emails is not the pleasure. (See “ad nauseum” above.) The pleasure is in replying to the emails.

I get to vent my spleen! I get to use language I wouldn’t use elsewhere! To be clear, I don’t use profanity, but I have a whole store of fifty-cent words that would sound pretentious and arrogant to use with most of my communication. I just want these recipients to know that they are sending emails to someone who is sophisticated and well-educated. That’s because it would appear that whoever they’re targeting must be brainwashed or brainless. (IMHO)

Let me state here that I'm pretty sure my own preferred political party sends out the very same kinds of solicitations and they are no less infuriating. In politics, it's equal-opportunity nauseum. 

The thing is, I see lots of quasi-political posts on my social media. Sometimes the posts are about some profound “issue,” but they express a worldview that is clearly partisan, and not my kind of partisan. Since my social media is confined to people I know pretty well, I just don’t feel right lambasting them when they post something that irritates me.

But the political party that sends me these emails obviously does not know me. If they did, they would take me off their list. So I get great pleasure from laying into them.

I know, I know. The replies I send go into that great electronic dumpster in the cloud. I’m sure if I don’t actually donate—often and lavishly—the politicians don’t actually care what I think.

Furthermore, even if there were some humans that read my replies, I seriously doubt that they would go to their higher-ups and say, “Hey! There’s this wise, thoughtful, erudite, articulate woman in Texas who thinks differently than we do. We should listen to her opinion and change our misbegotten ways.” 

I can dream, can’t I?

Life is short. We should maximize our pleasure while we can. I’m starting to look forward to each day’s biased and incendiary emails from this political party so I can have the guilty pleasure of flame-throwing in return.

 

Evasion in the Grocery Store

 

I was bopping through the grocery store the other day when I caught a glimpse of someone. She was masked, and it was a quick glance, so I certainly could have been mistaken. But it flashed into my brain that this was the former principal of my child’s grade school. I wheeled around. I headed the other way. I put as much distance between her and myself as I could.

Let’s think about this: My last child’s last day at that school was in May of 2003. This principal was already gone by then. Come to think of it, she was in charge when my older child was there, and his last day was in May or 1999. So it’s at least 20 years since our paths crossed.

Needless to say, I did not like nor admire this woman. She established herself as a petty tyrant when she started. She disgusted our group of working woman moms by saying once, during what was supposed to be a free exchange of brainstorming ideas, “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.” She irritated the mucus out of me when she started driving a bright red Lexus to school. I know, I know: I’m the petty one here.

Throw a stone at me if I am the only person guilty of evading someone in the grocery store.

Most of the time for me it’s when I see someone who might be a tiny bit chatty and I don’t want to linger. Sometimes it’s a person I just don’t like very much. I can’t say I scamper away because I’m not looking my well-groomed best. I gave up on that long ago.

Once in a while, though, it’s someone like this former principal. Someone I REALLY did not like. Years ago, I had a female boss who lived in my neighborhood. I would run into her in the grocery store from time to time. I left the company because I figured out she was kind of a narcissistic psycho. To this day – and here we’re talking 35 years later – if I glimpse someone resembling her, I do an about-face and head for the opposite end of the store.

What does this say about me? I’ve admitted in former blogs to being petty. I also freely confess to impatient, irritable, disdainful, etc. etc. Pet sins, each and every one of these.

And yet, what’s to be gained by taking the chance on a face-to-face encounter? It’s not going to make me revise my feelings about said person. If I haven’t rethought my antipathy in 30 years, it’s not going to happen while we’re selecting oranges together. It’s not going to raise my esteem in the other person’s eyes. I suspect one of the reasons I didn’t get along with such a one is because he/she didn’t like me, either.

No; I don’t think character building would occur. And besides. I’m usually in way too much of a hurry to chat.

Decluttering: Part 1, Books

 

In the not-too-distant future, John and I will be downsizing. I get kind of jazzed thinking about moving to a lovely new smaller place. We haven’t actually started looking yet, but it won’t be long.

Meanwhile, I have committed myself to decluttering, or getting rid of stuff. Just arriving at the commitment stage has been a challenge. How many years have I been saying, “One of these days, I’m going to have to deal with all this…stuff.” The time is now.

My first foray a few weeks ago was books. TBH, dealing with books may be one of the biggest roadblocks to prudent decluttering. But I got a good start. I went through four rooms with bookcases and filled about 13 boxes with books. As I scanned the shelves, I tried to be ruthless. I’d ask myself, “Would I read this book again?" Or, since several books have never made it to my bedside reading table, “Am I really interested in reading this book--ever?” I reminded myself that most books are available in the public library. 

There were a few very old, sort-of interesting books. The old, hoarding me would think, “This might be valuable; I should hang on to it.” The new, enlightened me thinks, “Whether it’s valuable or not, I don’t have the time or energy to figure it out. Off to Half Price Books!”

I realized there were a lot of books I loved so much when I first read them that I thought I’d save them and read them again later. For decades that “later” meant “after I retire.” I’ve been more or less retired for a few years now, and I’m not any more motivated to re-read some of those old favorites than I was before. There are a few, but for most of them: Off to Half Price Books!

I came up with a new rubric for determining the fate of some of the books that were still on the shelves: “Are you worth packing up and dragging to a new home?” That was a very useful criterion for getting rid of a bunch of books.

And yet, there are tons of books I did not pack away that I have yet to deal with. I comfort myself by saying that I don’t have to deal with all of them right now. Not that I have any idea when I’ll be more motivated, unless the moving van is at the back door.

Thirteen boxes is nothing to sneeze at, although some of the books were so dusty that I did indeed sneeze a lot.

And, by the way, apparently some of those 13 boxes had some books of value. Altogether, we amassed about $100 from Half Price Books. By contrast, another two boxes of parenting books that we found in the garage only netted $1.97.

Terms to be Retired

 My topic today is words and phrases that have been overused. This topic itself is probably way-overused. It seems to pop up on someone’s social media every once in a while. Nevertheless, I think all of us can relate to the aggravation of hearing terms too many times. It calls for venting. Here are some words and phrases that IMHO need to be retired.

“Absolutely.” I was listening to a really interesting interview on KERA-FM (Krys Boyd’s “Think”). The author was really interesting, but she began every answer to every question with, “Absolutely!” I got so distracted, I couldn’t pay attention to what she was discussing. I also noticed that this kind of thing happens a lot.

Here’s another one: “I mean…” Which is a verbal tic or place holder. It’s akin to the “…aaaannnnddd…” made famous by Barak Obama. Obama, I like to think, would do that to organize his pithy thoughts before saying them (unlike some politicians who just blurt out anything). I know a woman who talks incessantly, mostly about herself, and uses the drawn-out “aaannnd” to make it hard to jump in and cut her off.

“Just” as an adverb almost requires its own blog post. Not “just” as an adjective, as in, “God is righteous and just.” Rather, the limiting adverb, as in, “I just took fifty old T-shirts that belonged to my son, cut them up, sewed them together in an intricate pattern and had someone make them into quilts.” Or, “I just cooked dinner for 25 people that included 15 different recipes and required two weeks of prepping and planning.” I’m always amazed that people use the term “just” to downplay astounding feats they have accomplished. Just don’t.

“In these uncertain/difficult/anxious/etc. etc. times…” I guess this also comes from listening too much to KERA-FM, the local public radio station. Have you noticed how darn many companies start their ads with that phrase? I think it’s worse for radio. In fact, I’m thinking the for-profit classical music station in Dallas may be The Worst. I hope and pray that as our country conquers the plague of COVID, there will be less usage of this phrase. Sadly, that’s probably wishful thinking. I suspect that “uncertain/difficult/anxious/etc. etc. times” will be with us for a long while.

The use of “chilling” has also run rampant. As in, “Seeing the rise of neo-Nazi groups and white supremacy legislation has been chilling.” Just as there have been so many worrisome things during these uncertain/difficult/anxious times, there have been many things that are chilling. No question. But maybe it’s time to expand our repertoire of adjectives: horrendous, terrifying, ominous, inauspicious, doomed, menacing, foreboding. 

“At the end of the day.” Somehow, this always makes me think of that old movie, The Remains of the Day. Since the phrase often comes toward the end of a long explanation or soliloquy, my mind tends to drift to re-running that movie in my head.

 “Baked in.” I’m hearing this a lot lately, too. I suppose it’s better than “it’s in our DNA” or other expressions. But just as “at the end of the day” makes me think of an old movie, “baked in” makes me start thinking of ovens and recipes.

I’m always intrigued when I hear an interesting word that suddenly gets repeated endlessly. A couple of years ago it was “pivot.” Thankfully, I don’t hear it as much nowadays. I have to wonder why these words ebb out of circulation, too. Here’s hoping some of the above-mentioned overused terms will go the way of “pivot.”

What are some overused terms that get under your skin? Let me know!

Fasting

                             

Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. A lot of people have a long history with Lent, but at my Baptist church, it’s kind of a new idea. Only in the last ten years or so have our pastors led us to observe Lent in some way. There are three major spiritual components of Lent: Fasting, prayer, and giving.

Traditionally, people fast during Lent. When I was growing up, my Roman Catholic friends always gave up something they liked, such as chocolate, for the forty days of Lent. I believe many of their families had Lenten meals, that is, meals without meat. My family never did anything like that.

I gave up something for Lent a few times in the past couple of years. One year I gave up alcohol and coffee. That was a sacrifice, especially since it took me three days to quit having morning headaches due to the absence of caffeine. I gave up swearing one year. Sadly, that did not become a continuing habit for me.

The times I eschewed alcohol made me really ponder the purpose of Lenten fasting. Is the purpose spiritual? A matter of mindfulness? A daily/hourly reminder to seek the Lord in prayer? Or, as it felt, just mortification of the flesh?

Clearly, I’ve never been good at fasting. The idea of going hungry—the classic concept of fasting—is simply too abhorrent to me. (I never said I was all that spiritual, right?) There are other ways to fast besides giving up food or beverages. People can fast from other pleasures such as social media, or entertainment. Apparently, there is a movement for people to give up plastic for Lent. I read a book once where a character gave up pride for Lent. 

This year in Texas has been a lengthy exercise in fasting. Coming off a year of COVID quarantining (which continues ad infinitum), everyone has fasted from fellowship and restaurant dining. Let me not be flippant here; the COVID and the quarantining have been a terrible hardship for far too many people.

This week in Dallas, we’ve had severe winter weather, with the coldest temperatures in decades, snow, and worst of all, massive power outages. I have been spared (to date) from losing electricity, but friends and family and people I don’t even know are really suffering. I have been praying intensively for all of these.

Maybe this is God’s way of making all of us who believe in Him garner the effects of fasting. When we fast, we are to pray more frequently and fervently. We are to realize our humility, our utter dependence on God’s provision. We are to take more notice of the people around us who are in need and respond as best we can with giving. We are to amp up our gratitude for the blessings we have that often get overlooked. This has been the case for me, and I hope for you, too.

I’m eager for this imposed, frozen“fasting” period to end, but I’m hopeful, prayerful, that the after-effects of gratitude, humility, and concern for others will carry on in me long after the power goes back on.

 P.S. Our church has published a wonderful 40-day Lenten prayer journal/devotional. Click here for the link to the downloadable PDF. Let me know if you do!! 

Picking up Pennies

 

Whenever I see a penny or other coin lying around, I pick it up. This seems like such a geezer thing to do. But in a way, it’s more of an iconoclastic reaction to the old (read: Depression era) people of my youth. I’m not sure whose voice is in my head when I hear, “Nobody picks up pennies anymore. In my day, you could buy a lot with a penny…” I’m also not quite sure why that voice and sentiment are so irritating to me.

A couple of years ago, I got irritated to the point that I decided to see just how many pennies I could pick up in a year. Who knew what an interesting adventure it would become! I just put the coins in an old spice bottle and total up the amount at the end of the year.

The most I ever got was $5.13 in 2017. That included the Day of My Great Haul. I was walking on the busy street by my house when I spotted some coins in the lane by the curb. Watching carefully for cars that were whizzing up over the hill when the traffic light turned green, I started picking them up. I went through several cycles of that traffic light to pick them all up! They totaled $2.72 in coins. I could only conclude that someone had thrown a bunch of coins out the window. And I had a good time dreaming up what scenarios would lead to coins being tossed.

YEAR	TOTAL AMOUNT
2017	$5.13
2018	$4.00
2019	$4.15
2020	$3.46

 

This hobby is not without some tricky bits. One day a few weeks ago, I was passing a parking lot on my noontime walk at White Rock Lake. Just as I passed a car with two people in it enjoying their lunch, I spotted a penny in the parking space next to them. I ambled over and picked it up. Normally, I drop the coin in my bra so I’ll be sure to remember to put it in the jar where I keep my found coins. However, with these two people watching me, and no doubt wondering what the heck I was doing, I decided it was probably better to put the coin in my pocket while they were eyeing me.

Picking up pennies is a delightful enterprise. Every time I find a coin, it makes me happy. Sometimes if feels like a sign from God, although I try not to be superstitious about it. Back in the summer, I was wrestling with a decision about whether to take a short trip with my family during the height of the COVID crisis. The morning of the day we would leave (or not) I was going to walk before dawn and found a bright shiny penny right by my car. A few minutes later, I saw a luna moth flying around. I had never seen a flying luna moth (only dead ones) and I’ve never seen any at White Rock Lake. Honestly: wouldn’t you take that as a sign from God to go ahead and take the family trip? As it turned out, that trip was the last time my family visited my sister before she was diagnosed with her terminal illness.

So, trite as it may seem, I’m going to go with the idea that these really are pennies from heaven.

In Memory of Helen

 

My big sister died last week. Here’s the short version of the obituary:

Helen Margaret Martin Jungemann Schmeling passed away, January 22, 2021 at home in Scroggins, Texas, following a short illness. She was born December 20, 1941, in Aurora, Illinois. Her parents were Albert Gould Martin, M.D. and Ruth Baker Martin. She graduated in 1959 from West Aurora High School and from SMU in Dallas, Texas in 1963. She was married to Roger Jungemann for 50 years; then to Daniel Schmeling for four years. A 30-year resident of Scroggins, Texas, Helen volunteered for the El Dorado Property Owners Association, and Christus/Mother Frances Hospital in Winnsboro, Texas. She was also employed to teach parenting classes at the North Texas Child Advocacy Center. She was preceded in death by her parents and brother, Tom Martin. She is survived by husband, Dan; daughters Leslie Jungemann (Thomas Moran) and Amy Jungemann Hidajat (Arif); grandchildren Erin Marie Moran and Andrew Thomas Moran; sisters Ruth Ann Martin and Emily Martin. Many more nieces and nephews also cherish their memories of Helen.

There’s so much that doesn’t go into a death announcement like this. I wanted to record some of my own memories.

Helen was 10 when I was born and a lot of the responsibility of taking care of my mom’s fourth baby fell to her. Last September, when I visited Helen in the hospital, she told one of the nurses that I was her “first baby.” Indeed, Helen was very much  a mother to me.

I remember, vaguely, riding on her back and being fascinated by her ponytail. When I was about five, she took me with her to stuff paper napkins into chicken wire as the high school choir made homecoming floats. She went to college in Dallas when I was in third grade. One of my happiest surprises was seeing her come home for Thanksgiving. (I’d been told I wouldn’t see her until Christmas). Another year, there was a deep, beautiful snow on the ground the morning after she came home for Christmas, and I felt as blissful as I ever have.

A lot of my memories are about summer camp, Minne Wonka Lodge in Three Lakes, Wisconsin. Helen first went to the eight-week camp for girls when she was nine. By the time I was nine, she was a counselor, and as cool as could be. My sister Ruth Ann was there, too, and I completely idolized them. My second year at camp, I was terribly homesick, so Helen and Ruth Ann snuck me out of my cabin after lights-out one night to walk me around and help me feel better.

Helen and Ruth Ann preceded me at SMU where all three of us were Delta Gammas. They both came to my initiation in the spring of 1970 when Helen was expecting her second baby, Amy. (Her first baby, Leslie, managed to be born on my 17^th birthday, November 8, 1968.) Later that same year, December 1970, I called Helen about a boyfriend problem. She calmly gave some advice, then said she had to go…to the hospital because she was in labor.

During college, Helen coached me on other issues. One time, she and Roger hosted me and an off-beat boyfriend for dinner and a lesson in playing bridge. (The boyfriend was snarky and disdainful because I wasn’t catching on quickly enough or taking it seriously. That was my first and last foray into playing bridge.) When I graduated, Helen hosted a luncheon for me and some of my girlfriends.

She was there for all the major events in my life, good and bad. When I got fired from my first job, Helen reassured me that I’d move forward. Christmas and Thanksgiving were usually at her home for years, until I had a house of my own so we could alternate. She and Roger and their friends Dan and Ellen Schmeling did all the serving at my (very modest) wedding in the DG house.

No one was happier than Helen when John and I finally got around to having our first baby, Jett. If I was Helen’s first baby, Jett was her first grandson. Three years later when Lily came, Helen made supper every night for John and Jett during the weeks that I was confined to a hospital bed. Lily was born eight weeks early and spent the first five weeks in the NICU. On day three, Helen brought her Lutheran pastor to baptize Lily. John and I, Baptists who believe in believers’ baptism, were deeply touched by this compassionate gesture of concern.

We did a lot of things together over the years. When my mother was battling cancer in New Orleans, Helen and I had some surprisingly enjoyable road trips to visit. She invited us to come to her lake house in Scroggins, sometimes even when she wasn’t able to be there. During the last year or so before she moved out to the lake house full time, we had lunch together once a month. How I enjoyed those regular get-togethers!

A couple of years ago, she went with John and me on a hilarious road trip to Iowa to visit her granddaughter Erin. One of my greatest disappointments is that we had to cancel our Viking river cruise last summer due to COVID. During the time we would have been gone—along with Dan and Ruth Ann and her daughter Jennie—Helen got her diagnosis of stage IV melanoma.

The last few months have been rough. Let’s just say that I was relieved when she passed away because the suffering was over.

We Christians take comfort from our faith that Helen is in the arms of Jesus now. She has a new life, rejoicing in the presence of the Father. Yay.

I also take comfort that her spirit lives on in the warm, happy memories cherished by her surviving friends, family, and especially her baby sister.

Morning Star

 

On clear mornings, when I get to my prayer chair before sunrise, I can see the planet Venus in the east. It’s so bright, sometimes I have to stare at it for a while to make sure it’s not an airplane heading toward Dallas Love Field.

There’s something reassuring, perhaps even friendly about that star/planet. I’ve taken to saying “Good morning, my friend.” Venus is sometimes called the Morning Star. Apparently, Sirius (the Dog Star) and the planet Mercury are sometimes a morning star, too. If I were more of an astronomer, I could give a cogent explanation of why it’s usually Venus.

By the way. Is it just me, or does it seem like I write a lot about celestial lights? This is the third post I've done about sunrise, stars, lights, etc. 

The term “Morning Star” appears in the Bible a few times. In Isaiah 14:12, it’s in a well-known passage that some think describes Satan (“son of the morning star”) also known as Lucifer. More likely, that reference is to the king of Babylon, the personification of arrogance and oppression.

In the New Testament, the term is used quite differently.

2 Peter 1:19 -- We also have the prophetic message as something completely reliable, and you will do well to pay attention to it, as to a light shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.

Revelation 2: 26-28 -- To the one who is victorious and does my will to the end, I will give authority over the nations—that one ‘will rule them with an iron scepter and will dash them to pieces like pottery’—just as I have received authority from my Father. I will also give that one the morning star.

Revelation 22:16 -- “I, Jesus, have sent my angel to give you this testimony for the churches. I am the Root and the Offspring of David, and the bright Morning Star.”

The Revelation 22:16 passage is clearly a reference to Jesus Christ. The references in Revelation 2:28 and 2 Peter 1:19 are a little less clear, but very likely are also references to Christ.

As I see it, the Morning Star is associated with Jesus. While it is still dark, the morning star is a bright light, a promise of the coming sunrise. I think Jesus, as we know Him now, is similar. A bright, guiding, comforting light that we perhaps see dimly and intermittently. But the morning star is an early sign, a herald, of something much more brilliant and glorious. Venus presages the blazing sun; Jesus presages the glorious, promised New Heaven and New Earth.

I don’t know about you, but in these very, very dark days (January 2021), I really treasure and long for that Morning Star, the promise of the coming Brightness.

Check out these two YouTube videos of a couple of anthems I love that are relevant. The hymn, “O Morning Star, How Clear and Bright,” and “Choose Something Like a Star,” from a poem by Robert Frost. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. 

The Case for Quality

 

I was admiring the progress on my “All Is Vanity” cross stitching the other day. It feels so rewarding to see how the image is emerging. I admit that I congratulate myself on all those tiny stitches and my surprising attention to detail on the piece. You can see my first post on this topic, published on November 11, 2020. 

I noticed, though, that the area I had stitched in black floss didn’t look as good as it should. The white Aida cloth showed through. This surprised me. The other floss colors covered the canvas very well. Even the other dark colors. The only problem was the black floss, and I had used two strands just as I had with all the other colors.

My first thought was that perhaps I wasn’t using actual DMC floss. Over the years, I’ve accumulated leftover floss from stitching kits. Most of those kits enclosed their own brand of floss, which, honestly, is rarely as good as the DMC brand. DMC floss appears to have a slight sheen to it; most of the non-DMC brands do not.

There might be a life lesson here. (I love to deem random observances as life lessons.)

The quality of what goes into a project determines the quality of how it turns out. I know. This is not rocket science; I’m not the first to figure this out.

In fact, it made me think of something my mother told me when I was learning to cook. “Use the best ingredients,” she taught me. “Then, even if it doesn’t turn out quite the way you expected, it will still taste good.” That’s assuming you measure correctly and don’t burn or undercook it, of course. A corollary idea is attributed, I think, to Julia Child. “If you make a mistake and a dish is still edible, just change the name.”

How else can we apply the principle of good materials? Here are a few other examples.

My Thread Head friends are very particular about the yarn they choose for the caps, scarves, sweaters, socks or mittens they knit or crochet. Some of them start with wonderful yarn, then figure out what to do with it.

We used dollar-store puzzles in our church library (when we had patrons there all the time). The pictures were nice, but the die-cut pieces were substandard, making the puzzles really hard to complete. On the other hand, maybe we just weren’t as good at puzzling as we thought we were.

I have had bad results with cheap nail polish. I strongly prefer gel ink pens to stick Bics. I once had a wool suit that I paid way too much money for, but it lasted for more than 20 years.

Back to the cross-stitch. I bought more DMC 310 and tried using three strands. That seems to solve the problem. And, at some point, I plan to redo or stitch over the wimpy black portions that I discovered the other day.

Do you have any additional applications of the “use good materials” principle? Let me know!

Here's an update on my All Is Vanity stitching, as of January 5. Most of the image is complete. Since the background is black, there's a LOT of DMC 310 stitching in my future.