slow train coming . . .

My friend on the mountain died this week. Ken stepped out of his earthly tent and was clothed in immortality early Monday morning. His train to glory finally left the station.

I was always struck by the peace that surrounded Ken as he faced his imminent departure from this life. Only once did he express agitation over his condition. And that was in the context of how it affected others.

Ken slept a lot during my visits, but he would always rally at some point during my stay. He'd sit up and eat his Joe's maple bar and chat with me until his energy waned. Ken was always kind and jovial and expressed great interest in my life. About a month ago, however, Ken admitted that he strugged with the process of dying.

"I didn't think it would take so long to die," he told me. "I feel like I've purchased my ticket, gotten it punched and have my seat on the train. But here we are, just sitting at the station. I hate the thought of being a long-term burden to my friends and family."

I quickly assured Ken he wasn't a burden--that he greatly blessed all who were privilged enough to serve him.

"And the timing of this process is up to God," I reminded him. "Ken, I pray for God to heal you every Monday as I drive up the mountain. But more than that, I pray Psalm 139:16 over you--that all the days God ordained for you before you were even born would be fully lived. The fact that your train hasn't left the station just means God isn't finished with you yet. "

That seemed to comfort Ken a bit. When I left, he was peacefully sleeping.

I didn't see Ken the next week because he decided to join all of his children and grandchildren at the coast for their annual beach retreat. Ken was pretty worn out when I came the following Monday, but reported that a wonderful time was had by all.

I noticed that he didn't eat the maple bar I'd brought him, however. He was no longer taking extra oxygen to help him breathe. Sensing his train would depart before I would return the following Monday, I prayed with Ken said goodbye (instead of my usual "see you later!") before I headed down the mountain.

"Oh, and could you hug Jonah for me?" I asked as I headed for the door. Ken smiled and nodded.

One week later, Ken's train left the station and carried him to glory. He is now a part of that great cloud of witnesses, cheering us on as we live out our earthly days.

Thank you, Ken, for letting me wait with you at the station.

And every time I eat a Joe's maple bar, I will think back fondly on my time with you . . .

what has become of our little boy blue . . .

For whatever reason, I don't remember much of my early years. But every now again, something will jog my muzzy brain and a childhood memory will clearly surface. I experienced such a jogging yesterday as I was cutting up old books to recycle into journals.

The book I'd chosen was filled with old classic poems and bits of prose--and I was carefully extracting samples to put in the journal. Some I recognized, others I picked because of interesting titles or subject matter. When I got to page 15, I was startled by the lyrics of a favorite childhood song--one I used to beg my mother to sing for me.

Little Boy Blue (Eugene Field, 1911)

The little toy dog is covered with dust, but sturdy and staunch he stands.

And the little toy soldier is red with rust and his musket moulds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new and the soldier passing fair--

And that was the time that our little Boy Blue kissed them and put them there.

"Now don't you go 'til I come," he said. "And don't you make any noise!"

So toddling off to his trundle bed, he dreamt of his pretty toys.

And as he was dreaming an angel song awakened our little Boy Blue

Oh the years are many, the years are long--but the little toy friends are true.

Ay, faithful to little Boy Blue they stand, each in the same old place

Awaiting the touch of his little hand, the smile of his little face.

And they wonder, as waiting these long year through in the dust of that little chair

What has become of our little Boy Blue since he kissed them and put them there?

I experienced a sort of emotional deja' vu as I read the old poem. The bittersweet ache returned, as sure as if I were leaning on the old piano, listening to my mother sing the melancholy tune. I wiped away a tear as I remembered the love/hate relationship I'd had with the song--loving the loyal bravery of the abandoned toys and hating the harsh reality that stole the little boy away.

Reading the poem yesterday, the mother in me wept for loss of little boy blue. (How ironic that there's an engraving of Little Boy Blue on Jonah's headstone!) But as I read the last stanza, I realized that my young heart ached more over the bewilderment of the toys than the child's premature death. Something in me had resonated deeply with their sense of abandonment.

I don't know when or how the fear of abandonment took such deep root in my life--if there was a particular event, it remains locked up with my shadowy childhood memories. But I think those abandoned toys helped me be brave through my early years as I wondered what had become of the ones who loved me and then quietly left me . . . either emotionally or physically.

Interesting, isn't it, the little things that will jog such grand epiphanies?

And, no, I didn't put that poem back in the journal I made. I may just have to frame it or tuck it away in some extra special spot . . .

hemmed in

About a month ago, when I was visiting my sick friend up in Welches, I felt prompted to read Psalm 139. Ken sleeps most of the time I'm there, so I usually bring my Bible and have a leisurely "quiet time" while he's resting.

I flipped to the middle of my Bible and began to read one of the most beloved and oft-recited portions of scripture. I didn't get very far, because when I reached verse 5, I had an encounter with God.

You hem me in—behind and before;
You have laid your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.

What does it mean to be hemmed in? I wondered as I read the verse. The thought hadn't even finished forming when I sensed the Lord's presence, pressing in upon me from all sides. I felt surrounded--or hedged in, as some translations put it--by God's comfort and peace.

The finite hemmed in by infinite Love!

Since that morning, whenever I think about that verse, I experience God's "hemming" all over again. It must be how a newborn feels when it's snugly swaddled: warm, safe, secure, content and unafraid.

I can't make a wrong move when I'm in that place. I can't worry about the future because I'm so peaceful in His presence.

If only I could learn how to stay within His divine hedges . . .

extra msg added

You may or may not be interested, but here are some things I've learned about MSG in my recent research. I've suspected that I'm MSG-sensitive for years, so have been trying to figure out how to avoid the tasty culprit.

1. MSG, monosodium glutamate, is the sodium salt of glutamic acid, a non-essential amino acid. Too much of this substance in our bodies can be toxic and people have differing levels of sensitivity to glutamates.

2. MSG and related glutamates containing substances have a variety of names, such as hydrolyzed vegetable protein, autolyzed yeast, and more . . . gelatin (including the gelatin capsules many supplements come in) contains MSG

3. MSG is not a seasonsing, but a flavor-enhancing neurotransmitter that can actually destroy brain cells.

4. Headaches are the most frequently reported reaction to MSG, but stomach issues, mood disorders, insomnia, irregular heart beat/chest pains, asthma, ADHD, and a host of other symptoms are connected to the substance.

5. The amount of MSG in processed food has doubled over the past 10 years

6. MSG can take up to 24 hours after ingestion to cause a reaction, so most people don't realize their symptoms are MSG-related

7. Some researchers believe there are links between MSG ingestion and ALS, Parkinson's Disease, Autism, sleeping disorders, and many more serious conditions


This is just the tip of the ice berg. If you want to know more, there are some great websites. www.msgmyth.com is good for starters. I just finished reading "Excitotoxins, the taste the kills" by Dr. Blaylock and am now reading "Battling the MSG Myth" by Dabbie Anglesey.

I never could figure out why I still had reactions (my digestive system hates MSG, I have immediate stomach issues after ingestion), but after the research I've done I realize that just the supplements I take add up to a lot of glutamates in my diet via the gel-caps. I am now experimenting with supplements (in vegetarian capsules) that are reported to block MSG reactions.

BTW, this post is dedicated to my good friend Alex who likes to ask for "extra MSG" when we dine at asian restaurants ;)

ode to recycling

recycle: to undergo reuse or renewal; be subject to or suitable for further use (Random House dictionary)

I was into recycling before it was hip--although I didn't realize what I was doing back then!

My initial experience with recycling involved garage-saling with a quirky young man from our first youth ministry. Randy invited me to tag along with him and his grandma one Saturday morning as they followed the intimidating maze of Garage Sale signs around the sleepy burg of Turlock, California.

I'd never heard of such a thing. The very term garage-saling conjured up bizarre images of Randy's grandma's buick, pirate-ship sails unfurled and billowing, driven through town by the central valley wind. Plus, the thought of shopping in other people's garages rather unsettled me--until we made our first stop and I realized this was one of the most brilliant things I could ever do.

I ended up lugging home a crib, matching dresser and bags of baby clothes that day, all for under $50 bucks--sweet finds for a struggling couple fresh from seminary. To say I was hooked is an understatement--I'm still treasure hunting 30 years later!

I didn't apply the term "recycling" to my hobby until we moved to Alaska in 1989. As the new pastor's wife on the block, I got invited to attend the annual spring brunch and fashion show. Several of the church ladies worked at the Nordstrom's in Anchorage, so the spendy store's new spring designs were featured by the models.

Prior to the event, someone at the church discovered that I sported Nordstrom threads from time to time--and that I'd never paid more than $2 for an article of their clothing, no matter how upscale the label. They thought it would be fun for me to model my second-hand finds, contrasting the price I'd paid with the newer versions.

I usually took great delight in boasting about my clothing coups. But I was a little hesitant to admit to this group of well-heeled women that I bought most of my clothing in other people's garages. It was then I hit upon the concept of "recycling".

To break the ice at the fashion show, I had a friend of mine strut down the runway dressed as a bag lady--representing the ultimate second-hand-clothing consumer. Nothing matched or fit my maverick model--and she topped off the outfit with a rainbow-colored beanie (which, I recall, had a propeller attached). Once the ladies stopped laughing, I came out wearing my swankiest outfit and espoused the benefits of buying recycled clothing.

New, my dress sold for $75.00. I'd paid fifty cents for it at a garage sale! I also had my daughters model cute outfits I'd purchased for them at either yard sales or thrift stores.

All the Nordstrom junkies skittered up to me after the show and gushed about my wonderful presentation. I'm glad they liked it, but I never ran into any of them at any garage sales after that. But still, I'd made my point.

Speaking of great deals, I'm still gloating over the suede boots I found at Goodwill last week. I've been wanting nice dress boots--something I could wear with skirts--but was appalled by department store prices. So as I made my regular circuit of Portland thrift stores, looking for books and paper for the recycled journals I make, I kept my eyes open for the perfect boots. And I prayed--fully aware that this was definitely a want and not a need. But I asked anyway :)

And then last week I found them--the sweetest pair of boots with just the right heel, right style, right size, and right color. They didn't appear to have ever been worn, either. When I got them home, I googled the label to see what the boots were worth.

Did I score? Let's just say I could make our next house payment if I could sell those boots for what they were going for online (if they aren't knock-offs, which they probably are).

But I won't, of course. I'm pretty sure those boots were "recycled" just for little old me!

Mother's intuition, part 2

So Candyce drove a van full of DTS students to Estes Park, CO and back to Salem this past week.

And I was really snxious about it!

You'd think after all that girl has been through--the land mines, the LRA gunfire, the refugee camps, the malaria--I wouldn't think twice about a cross-country road trip. But for some reason, I felt compelled to pray--HARD--and it turns out there was good reason!

For starters, the queen mother of October storms hit on Thursday, dumping several feet of snow in Colorado. The highway out of town was closed (thank You, God) so their departure was actually delayed a full day.

Then, operating on very little sleep, Candyce did most of the driving during the two day trip home. I wasn't aware of this, but felt continually prodded to pray for safe travels, as I envisioned angels devotedly surrounding the packed van (kind of like those kitchy pictures of angels watching over semi-trucks barrelling down the highway).

The angels got their workout about half-way through the Gorge. Candyce said she was zooming over the pass, anxious to get home, when a loud BANG rocked the van. The blowout flung the vehicle across several lanes of traffic, stopping just short of the median. Candyce was able to quickly regain control of the van and manuevered back across the road to the shoulder . . .

. . . where the little stud muffin insisted on changing the tire herself!

Strangely, I'd texted her about this time, needing assurance that she was still in one piece. She didn't reply, but called when she got back to Salem, downplaying the whole event with the words, 'I thought we were all going to die, Mom!"

Not as long as moms pray and angels respond and God had big plans for your life, my dear!