Eclipse

            Waking up in time to see the lunar eclipse, I was happy that my bedroom window faces east.  All I had to do was prop up on my elbows and lift the window blinds.  There it was:  even more stunning than I had imagined.

            Several hours later, I woke again, smiling with the memory of the eclipse, which seemed almost like a dream.  As I thought more about it, I realized it WAS a dream.  That stunning view had been of Earth, the continents a shimmering white against the backdrop of the dark oceans. 

            Oh, well.  There will be another eclipse in the spring.  But I doubt I will ever see Earth from space again, unless in my dreams.

Powerless

            Hot yellow flashes crackled in the night sky.  Trees frantically tossed their branches.  Wind gusts buffeted me across the street.  Cool rain splashed on my head and shoulders.

            I turned on the TV news and started to pour protein smoothie ingredients into the blender.  The power went off.

            “No problem,” I thought.  I was wrong.  The power stayed off:  that was Monday evening.  Today is Wednesday.  Residents of the Oak Park neighborhood are still without power.

            It doesn’t help that I’ve been sick all week with allergies.  There are all sorts of cleaning tasks I could tackle without electricity if I only had the energy.  Of course, then I’d sweat even more.

            The worst part about being powerless is the standstill it creates.  The freezer and refrigerator food that will have to be tossed don’t bother me nearly as much as life without central air.  Admittedly, there is more that I miss.  I can’t pay my online bills, check my email, or post on Facebook.  I can’t check the weather or see the news.  I can’t transcribe those 1913 letters of my grandparents, use writing software to plan a novel, or complete the final edits  in my Random Reflections manuscript.

            How did my life become so technology-bound?  Though I can power up my electronic devices at the library and use the internet there, it seems that a few hours is not enough.

            So I sit here in the dim light of morning without electricity.  I am gradually getting hotter and definitely guaranteed all-day pain in my right arm from wielding a pen.  I stop writing to blow my nose, sip some lukewarm water, cough, and then close my eyes with the exertion.  Maybe once I’ve stopped whining, I will think to bow my head and confess my personal powerlessness to the Creator.  But I think I’ll ask for central air, too.

Google Joys

            On the Internet a few evenings back, I started thinking about friends from long ago.  And, yes, I googled them.  And, yes, I found them.

            Google people searches are currently my only detective outlet.  In elementary school, I was a big Trixie Belden fan.  I fancied myself a brave detective, an expert horsewoman, and a charming tomboy.  That is how caught up I was in the ever-expanding book series, believing fiction as truth.  You see, I was definitely not like Trixie. 

One time a friend and I decided to go play detective, largely because she had an amazing miniature camera.  We also carried pencils and memo pads.  We snuck up to an abandoned house.  She was ready to peer in the windows and click a few pictures (this was in the old days of film cartridges)—but I was extremely nervous.  What if someone saw us standing right by the house?  What if the police came and we got in trouble?  What if—horror of horrors—the house turned out to be occupied after all?

Every time I read a Trixie Belden book, I imagined myself galloping on my horse right alongside Trixie.  Except I didn’t have a horse.  Nor had I ridden one more than once—and that was a recalcitrant old trail horse that knew to walk slowly following the others and ignore whatever I tried with the reins.  (Actually, I tried nothing, because I was gripping the whatchamacallit thingy on the front of the saddle, terrified I might fall off.)  Interestingly enough, even after that single riding experience, I still imagined myself a terrific horsewoman, accompanying Trixie and friends on their countryside trail rides.

So, a detective and a horsewoman I was not.  Neither was I ever a tomboy, despite my inner identification with Trixie.  Timid is too weak a word to describe me as a child.  I didn’t swing high and I didn’t climb trees.  I was even scared of teeter-totters.  However, when I was 10 or 11, I had my shoulder-blade length blonde hair cut into a pixie and was delighted when a little child at the playground thought I was a boy.  Every Saturday morning I indulged my tomboy fantasy as well as my sweet tooth:  I woke up early and read in bed, devouring the current Trixie Belden book along with the special-flavor packages of Lifesavers that I hoarded in my room.

Now that I’ve established that I am neither tomboy nor horsewoman nor detective, I can return to Google.  And here is where I confess that this blog title is somewhat misleading, because there was a Google sorrow, too.

You see, there was this person I dated on and off in the 1970s, the “off” part mostly because he would periodically disappear and then eventually reappear.  (This was clearly a different era, before social media.)  Bob was a sweet guy despite his alcoholism, which I suspect had something to do with a tour of duty in Vietnam.  Now and then I get a twinge of nostalgia and wonder what ever became of him.  So I did a Google search and employed my best detective skills.  I was sad to discover that he died nine years ago.  That set me back a bit.

Hoping for a better outcome, I started another search because Bob’s last name reminded me of a college friend’s last name.  This time I hit pay dirt.  There she was, the pastor of a United Methodist Church in Illinois.  I read through the church website, knowing she must be a wonderful pastor and happily noting that her sermons are available to listen to online.

There must be a way to wrap up these ramblings so it at least appears that I had a point in mind when I started writing.  To be honest, I didn’t.  I was just following the trail of a title that popped into my mind:  “Google Joys.”  About a paragraph ago, I suddenly realized that the title was more descriptive than I had thought.  Take the “s” off “Joys” and you have the first name of my college friend.  I guess I have some detective skills after all:  I figured out how to finish this post.

The Rest of the Story

          The email came while I was visiting family and friends in Washington:  would I preach on August 10?  At first I thought no, and then I reconsidered and said yes.  At Whidbey Presbyterian Church on July 20, I mentioned the request to my former pastor.  His immediate response, given with a smile, was “what’s your topic?”  I didn’t know.

          Returning home to a whirlwind of activity, I still didn’t know.  Should I pull an old sermon from my files and rework it?  The question nagged at the back of my mind, and I started praying about it:  “God, what do You want me to talk about?” 

          Listening to the sermon at Good Shepherd Presbyterian Church on the 27th, I started to get an answer.  Jonah’s unforgiving attitude toward the Ninevites caught my attention.  It reminded me of a novel I had finished reading the day before.  In part, the story was about a character’s anger and bitterness concerning an injustice done to him.  He was stuck in past pain because he refused to forgive.   Hmmm.

I love a good story.  I’ve learned over the years that my seemingly random choice of reading materials often becomes an avenue for God to communicate timely truths to me.  So I should not have been surprised when I started to read the second library book I had checked out the week before:  it, too, contained a subtext concerning unforgiveness.

Okay, so there was the topic, delivered to me via sermon, a Cape Light novel, and a Terri Blackstock mystery.  The next step was easy:  look in the topical files I started to keep close to twenty years ago and see what there was in the forgiveness folder.  I found plenty of notes from various books.

I kept praying and pondering, chose a scripture text, and then started writing.  Draft one was followed by revision one a couple days later.  On August 4, I checked the Whidbey Presbyterian Church website as I do most Mondays and saw that the pastor’s sermon was up from the day before.  To my surprise, his text was Matthew 18: 21-35, the same text I had chosen.  Sure enough, listening to that sermon gave me just the insight I didn’t know I needed for the first part of my sermon.

All that remains now (today is August 7) is to preach it.  No matter how well or how poorly that goes, I am deeply grateful that God spoke to me through two sermons and two novels to identify and confirm a message that we all need to hear:  God forgives and so must we.

Countdown

            The countdown begins.  Suitcase, backpack, and purse are packed.  Kitchen should be cleaned up (oops, have not done that yet).  Overnight I will charge my Chromebook, Kindle, and cell phone.  Between those three gadgets, I should be sufficiently armed for a long day of travel.

            And in the morning my daughter will drive me to Tulsa.  She will be back home before noon when her husband redeems my Father’s Day present to him:  my regularly scheduled massage at Wellness for Life.  By then my son may even be awake, missing my Kindle and maybe me.

            By early afternoon I will be changing planes in Denver.  Three hours later, I will be at SeaTac International Airport claiming my checked bag and catching the 4:45 p.m. shuttle to Whidbey Island with my friend Cathie, who is returning home from a month with her family in Texas.  At 6:45 p.m. my brother John will pick up Cathie and me from the shuttle at the Greenbank Store.  We will go eat a late dinner in Coupeville and then drive on to Cathie’s home in Oak Harbor. 

            The two weeks on the island will fly by in a delicious flurry of visiting with friends and family.  I will savor the 70 degree temperatures, enjoy the local coffee, indulge in some Chocolate Shop red wine, and take as many walks on the beach as possible.  Perhaps I will remember to take pictures.

            And then on the 21^st, I will board the shuttle in Coupeville to start the long trek back to Bartlesville.  About eleven hours later, my son-in-law will greet me at Tulsa International Airport to drive me home.  I expect that when I see my grandchildren the next day, Benjamin will be more than ready to play our monkey game together, and Joelle will probably have progressed from walking to running. 

            And I will be tired but refreshed.

Dear Anne

Dear Anne,

            I miss you.  Tomorrow would have been your 61^st birthday, and you’ve been gone almost five years already.

            I miss your hearty telephone greeting:  “Janis!”  I miss your overbearing personality.  I miss your tender heart carefully hidden beneath a gruff exterior.  I miss your sense of humor and verbal word play.  I miss your hand gripping mine and your piercing gaze.

            I still count those 66 days with you at the end of your life as a cherished yet profoundly difficult time.  I am so grateful that I was able to be your support and advocate.  Those long hours at your bedside taught me the ministry of presence.  So human and so holy, that time bound me to you in your suffering.  I learned the tiniest fraction of Christ’s sacrificial love.

            Anne, far more than I feared you as a child (you really were the older sister from hell!), I love you and miss you.  I’m glad you found the missing true love of your life, Jesus, at the very end. 

Love,

Janis

Me and My Mud Dauber

            To the left of my front door and clear up in the top corner where brick meets eaves lives a black mud dauber wasp.  For the past few weeks, I have noted her daily progress adding more cones to the single one she emerged from earlier this spring.  Diligently, she daubs—or whatever that is called, making a nest.  She has not once bothered me.

            So today, when I returned home after babysitting the grandkids for a bit, I was sad to see that her nest had been knocked down.  Likely, it was not the wind but a well-meaning gesture by my son-in-law when he went in to deliver my share of the Bountiful Basket we purchase every other week.  I have never been particularly fond of wasps, especially since the long-ago day on my grandparents’ farm when I was stung by one.  But I also have never developed a friendly co-existence with a wasp before.

            My mud dauber, oblivious to my compassion for her, was perched in her usual upside-down position working on the remaining single cone of the nest.  Unperturbed, she was at the usual task of making mud.  It is a fine place for a wasp to live, there in the corner by my door, because of the smallish spiders that spin their lines to trap little bugs but become prey for the wasp instead.  Since I prefer wasps to spiders, she provides a helpful service keeping the front-door spider population down.

            Perhaps I should not be surprised at this affinity with a well-behaved wasp since I am of Wasp heritage myself.  However, neither of us is waspish in the least.