A Little Linky Love

When we took our long trip out west last fall, we made sure to have a goodly supply of audiobooks along. We have been collecting them for quite a while, and if you watch what you are doing, you can actually get a lot of them free. We have been favorably impressed with the quality of the recordings on Audible. You get a free month trial right now, which would put you right into March and springtime. How is that for a deal? My highest recommendation from Audible is God’s Smuggler, by Brother Andrew. It is almost 9 hours long, and all of them are worthwhile hours.

We also like Christian audio, which has a free book featured every month. Sometimes they feature biographies, like Corrie ten Boom’s The Hiding Place. We have bought books at both of these places, and have no complaints. Some of the books are on both sites, but this is two ways of getting free ones and deciding whether you want to buy more. 😉

And finally, I have a link for episodes of Adventures in Odyssey. The ones on this site are free samples from their CDs. (Thank-you so much, P.D. and Leeny, for telling us about this. 🙂 ) Our children have listened for hours this winter, and they never tire of them. I want to buy them some of the CDs in time, but for now they are happy with the partial stories.

The time to listen to audios is… anytime. We do it while we cook or while we fold clothes or even while we pick up the stuff around the living room. If the work slows down too much because of how absorbing the story is, I just pause it and everybody jolts right back to reality quickly so that Mama starts the story again. Happy listening!

I Want Warm Snow

It snowed overnight, a gorgeous layer of white covering up all the ugly gray from the road dirt. I can’t help it, I do love a fresh snowfall. It’s just the cold that gets me. There is this ski slope, manmade in Dubai, totally indoors. Wouldn’t that be strange, stepping out of the blazing hot desert to go skiing? I am certain that if I lived in a climate where average daytime temperatures are above 100 degrees, I would fantasize about winter in snow land.

Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow yesterday, they say, although I don’t know how that is possible, since it was dreary and cloudy. We sure didn’t see any shadows yesterday. But now they say we are going to have winter weather well into the month of March. According to this news article, Phil has seen his shadow 100 times to 17 times of not seeing it. Isn’t that annoying? “No one questions Phil’s dedication to prognostication, but his accuracy is an unending source of controversy.” Well. Duh.

I thought Groundhog Day was unique to PA, but lo and behold, there are quite a few states with this silly little ritual. Atlanta’s groundhog is called General Beau Lee. New York’s is just Chuck. Oh well, I suppose we have to do something between Squirrel Appreciation Day (January 21) and Valentine’s Day.

Compassion: desire to relieve the distress of another

We are in the deep freezer again, with quite a few days of frigid temperatures predicted. Like I mentioned before, I am grateful for every piping hot drink, for my coat with omni-heat technology in the lining, for the radiating warmth in the leather seats in our vehicle, for the down comforter on the bed instead of a sleeping bag on the concrete. After googling “how to live in your car” out of curiosity, I scrolled through the tips with rather horrified fascination.

Coincidentally, or maybe not, I just read a book by John Grisham titled The Street Lawyer. The story follows the ruthless climb of a brilliant young lawyer, Michael Brock, who has lost touch with his conscience in the pursuit of money and partnership in his firm. He is rudely jolted to reality in a violent encounter with a homeless man who had been evicted without notice by the firm’s real estate division. Mr. Brock starts to research homelessness, volunteering time at soup kitchens and shelters. In a short time he decides to ditch the high-power job to be a voice for the homeless community in Washington, D.C. His work gives him the satisfaction of seeing a shred of dignity restored to the least of the people. This book has less intrigue and more heart than any of the other legal thrillers I have read by Grisham. I can’t shake the story.

I think about my life, about the two sets of parents, the seven siblings or in-laws who would open their homes to stand between us and destitution, the whole community at church who would share with us until there was nothing left. It seems so far removed from us, like it could never happen. It seems so unfair; I can’t not care.

Without a Net is the personal story of Michelle Kennedy, raised in a middle class home, college educated, who finds herself where she never thought she would be: without a home, living in a car with three little children. When I read this a few years ago, the impossible suddenly seemed plausible. Homelessness is not just for junkies in the cities. It happens on all levels. I don’t know why these stories grip me so strongly. I wish I could just feel pity and forget about them.

What, you may ask, are you suggesting that we do? For starters, I am calling us all to gratitude. True thankfulness demands a response, a sharing with others in any way we can instead of merely pitying them. Long ago crowds of people asked John the Baptist what they should do to live rightly. The first thing he said was, “If anyone has more than one coat, he should give the extra away.” I think the point is sacrifice of stuff, time, money, effort.

Today the ladies at our church got together to make colorful comforters out of fabric scraps. I stayed home to school my crew, but I have confidence that those blankets will keep shivering people warm, and that it counts just as if they were Jesus. Pity would say, “I am sorry your teeth are chattering and your nose is running.” Compassion hands over a blanket and says, “Here, come in out of the cold. You can have my handkerchief.”

Years ago a group from our church went to Pittsburg for street ministry. One of the men met Homeless John and offered him a place to live. The rest of us thought he was a bit crazy. To our utter disbelief, John rode along home with us, out to the country where everything was strange and scary. As far as I recall, he was honest and respectful, happy for a chance to have a roof over his head. I am sure that the man who took him under his wing will have rewards in heaven the same as if he had sheltered Jesus.

Most times when we see someone with a sign asking for help, it is only change they expect. What if we put in the 20 dollars of grocery money that would have bought cheese and ice cream? What if we didn’t look away in embarrassment from the eyes that are already downcast and the lives already downtrodden, but instead asked them sincerely how they are doing and what they need? What if we actually saw them as deserving so much more than shame and condescension?

I just heard about a condition called “compassion fatigue”. Apparently it affects those who work constantly with victims of tragedy. I do believe that the vast majority of us are more likely to have compassion deficit. Maybe if we are aware, if we read their stories, if we see through the eyes of a most Compassionate Savior, then when the opportunity comes to change the space someone lives in we will do it instead of simply feeling pity and walking on.

If You are Fortunate Enough to Have a Door

Whenever we have unusually severe winter weather, I think about my friend of 15 years ago. I lie awake remembering her and how invisible and worthless she felt. I recall how shocked I was when she told me what it was like to have no home for seven years. I am haunted by the thought of having no door between myself and the world at large, no windows to close against the elements. I remember her describing finding a bridge to sleep under when there was no money for a room and no man interested in buying her a room. She was aging, no longer so pretty, her teeth rotting out from the crack, her hair ragged and brittle, the look of a woman unloved.

There in the brilliantly lit prison visiting room, hot in summer and winter alike, she told me that the fourteenth arrest was rather a pleasant change, what with the regular meals and a bed to sleep in, the drugs just as available as outside. It was a better place to be pregnant for sure. The guard sitting outside the delivery room, the utter lack of compassion during a very difficult birth, the stripping away of her little companion, these things pained her excruciatingly. She fed her 1 week old baby a bottle of formula while her own milk dripped down the orange prison jumpsuit. The regrets shadowed her life and made her cry as she handed her beautiful baby girl back to me at the end of the first visit.

I grieved over the little girl who was raised in pleasant middle-class circumstances, the beloved only daughter with five big brothers, her father in the police force. I was sad when she said the drugs started in the junior year at high school, bad choices followed by awful choices in the need to support a habit. I felt so helpless to do anything except cherish her child for her. And when she got out, I prayed that she would find strength to say no, to stay in her therapy, to live a different life, become fit to be a mother. Three times there was the cycle of in and out to the streets and then in again. “Never again,” she would declare. “I have been clean for 54 days now. I am so sorry I messed up.”

There was no address except the prison. Her family had long given up on her, closed their doors on the disappointment that was Sue. The letters went back and forth, and once a month there was a visit. The chaplain would call and tell us if she wasn’t there. The intervals on the street were usually very short. And then all my letters were sent back, stamped “return to sender”. Just like that, she was gone, the homeless girl with the sad, sad life didn’t even have a prison address anymore. I had no way of finding her, but I am grateful that she shared her story with me, the naive, unbelievably blessed and sheltered girl who lived four hours away from the big city. It still haunts me on the bitter cold nights. I lie wakeful under the warmth of the covers and I pray for her and all the others who have no homes. Sue, you can never be invisible to me again.

Why I Don’t Pin my Interests (Much)

The simple truth is, I can’t handle Pinterest. That takes some courage to admit, since everyone knows that you consult Pinterest to find out what is going on, you know, to see what the latest in trends are.

When I start sniffing around Pinterest, I become gripped in a strangle hold of fascination. All the beautiful people with their beautiful ideas and beautiful lives in beautiful pictures. Suddenly I realize that I must be the world’s most un-creative person ever.

For starters, my house is all wrong. Not only is my decorating sooo 20th century, but my house isn’t big enough and the windows aren’t big enough, and all the furniture is arranged around the walls. In fact, it isn’t even the right house.

I move on to the food pins, and find that I can no longer cook. I thought I nourished my family fairly well until now, but I am paralyzed by this vista of foods I never even heard of. Apparently my life will always be incomplete until I have mastered the art of sushi. I humbly acknowledge that I am in culinary preschool.

Neither am I a good mother anymore. I haven’t ever made a lollipop bouquet. I just hand out the lollipops. There are days and days worth of fun activities to do with my children. What is wrong with me that I never thought of this stuff? Boring old Peek Around the Corner and I Spy, that’s what we do.

The photo shoots… well, suffice it to say that my photography skills stink. I really should learn to edit my pictures so that we would have beautiful memories too. Yes?

I don’t repurpose old tee shirts, except as rags. Who knew that you could do so many different things with them? And my fashion sense? Well, let’s just say I feel fairly confident that I can tell when an outfit works versus when it looks tried, but my style is pretty understated and I don’t tend to wear orange stripes with purple plaid and a green scarf.

I emerge from the dark hole that swallowed me and realize that I just swallowed a bunch of lies. I have not been able to scoot around Pinterest without comparing myself and my life with all the other lives. The Apostle Paul has something to say about that. He says it is not wise. Then there is the indisputable fact that, having been given 5 precious children, I am called to be a keeper at home. I cannot afford the time it takes to gallivant through everyone else’s houses every day. Nor can I indulge myself in the twin sins of ungratefulness and covetousness. When I have a specific thing to research, like a birthday cake for a small boy, or what to cook with kale, then Pinterest is a great tool. Otherwise, it is better for me to stay out.

I found this bit of meaningful advice for people like me. It is the counter balance on the Pinterest scale for me.

“Learn to like what doesn’t cost much.

Learn to like reading, conversation, music.

Learn to like plain food, plain service, plain cooking.

Learn to like fields, trees, brooks, hiking, rowing, climbing hills.

Learn to like people, even though some of them may be different…different from you.

Learn to like to work and enjoy the satisfaction doing your job as well as it can be done.

Learn to like the song of birds, the companionship of dogs.

Learn to like gardening, puttering around the house, and fixing things.

Learn to like the sunrise and sunset, the beating of rain on the roof and windows, and the gentle fall of snow on a winter day.

Learn to keep your wants simple and refuse to be controlled by the likes and dislikes of others.”

-Lowell C. Bennion