Scattered Writings of a Blogger

I've been attending a Bible study on the prophet Elijah by Priscilla Shirer at my church.  We have the workbooks and are watching a video each week.   Last week our lessons were about the widow of Zarephath (1 Kings 17).   This is the passage where Elijah appears in her village and finds her gathering brush to build a fire.  He has been in the wilderness for 18 months or so at this point and I can't imagine what that poor widow must have thought when he appeared and asked for a 'little water' in the midst of a three-year drought...  I know what she thought when he asked for food as well, though, because the Bible tells us.  I'm paraphrasing of course, but she told him, "I've just enough flour and oil to make a small cake for my son and I to share and then we will die."   What came across most strongly to me at that reading was how weary she must have been.  Hungry, frightened, tired beyond words, worried.  It wasn't just the fl...

Recently, I made biscuits.  I ended up with a baby biscuit.  I always have that last wee bit of dough leftover and I go on and make a baby biscuit with it.  Granny always made the baby biscuits and we grandchildren fought over whose privilege it would be to eat that tiny biscuit.  I smiled, thinking of Granny as I made my biscuits this evening and ended with that little one. I've never been able to make biscuits as Granny did.  Mama used the same method but hers were never as smooth and pretty and so exactly shaped as Granny's, though they used the same amounts of everything.   Granny would put her flour in the wooden bread bowl, and she'd make a deep well right in the center of the flour.  Into that well went her measure of shortening and then she'd pour in the milk or buttermilk, and she'd squeeze that shortening into little, tiny bits in that cold milk.  When she felt no more big lumps and was sure that the pieces were all tiny, she'd grad...

 First, I must make a disclaimer and say I don't really 'do' gardening.  I'm not at all serious about it.  I spend more time puttering and arranging my pots of things rather than actually doing the big work that makes a beautiful yard.  I'm not methodical about planting.  I tend to take what I can get through divisions from my own stock or someone else's yard if offered.   I love gardening. I'm trying to do what I can with my personal limitations.  It's not that I'm too old or too frail.  I'm strong enough but I liken it to this:  Gardening my way and gardening in the real way is a bit like the difference between walking a mile or two and running a 15k marathon.  I'm up for the former but not at all for the latter! I have a few plants I've had in pots for years now and the soil has become compacted and hard.  This year I have the task of dividing and repotting many things. They need the old hard compacted soil broken up, the ro...

 A few weeks ago, I had one of those incidents that triggered something deep and dark within that sent me into an emotional tailspin.  After fifty odd years of sorting through my issues and tediously digging into my mental health, must I still have these sorts of things happen?!  Well yes, apparently I must. It started with an eye exam.   As per usual, I had to fill out forms and of course, health history.  I ticked the boxes next to diabetes and high blood pressure, listed my meds and felt a little bit smug that I was on my one little pill daily for each and managing them just fine, thank you. Maybe pride was setting me up that day.  I certainly sound as though it was!  

  When we came home from church Sunday, I sat and looked out of the windows in the kitchen sitting area.  I contemplated that morning's sermon and then fondly recalled other pastors who've preached sermons that stirred me deeply.  I thought how much those who don't attend or watch a church service miss. That made me think of a conversation with someone a couple of years ago who cried out that they missed going to church!   Well, there's one just about anywhere you care to look isn't there?  But I did understand what she meant.  She missed the church she went to most of her life, a simple country church that was closed down 40 years ago.

                                    My great grandmother Della Stewart and my father as a boy. There's an old hymn called  Beulah Land  with a line that always tugs at my heart.  "I'm kind of homesick for a country...To which, I've never been before..."  Well lately, I've been feeling homesick.  I was shaken to the core the other day when I realized the extent of my deep homesickness. I am homesick for much, not the least of which is my spirit's feeling of longing for, 'a country, to which I've never been before.'  More and more these days, as John listens to his news clips and political debates, I feel disenchanted and weary of this world in which we live, where the limits of how vile things can be is constantly being proven an ever-moving line to still more vileness.  

  A fat yellow bud is dangling on one of the daffodils.  It is in a spot where it should be the last to bloom as it's facing due north and is in shade.  But no... it's getting ready to burst forth in joyfulness, not at all caring that it is far ahead of the other daffodils who only this week sent up stems with gently swelling heads as they basked in the sun.  Watching it there in that spot, in that shaded, cold place that rarely gets sun, makes me wonder why I have struggled so with blooming where I am. We went to the mountains on vacation about two years ago.  While we were weaving our way around a stony old mountain face, I spied a wildflower growing out of the face of the rock.  Just that one flower, right smack in the middle of heaven knows how many tons of granite.  How that seed lodged there and found enough nutrient to bloom is only God's knowledge because it is beyond mine.  That was the vacation I spent weeping and moaning and being angry...