Thrifty? Or just hopeful?

Part of this year's move is downsizing.  I've acquired a piano (it was Great-Grandmother's, how could I say no?), and I intend to make space for it in the moving van by ditching it's cubic-foot equivalent in boxes of other stuff.  So it's out with the extra tongs and rarely-used spatulas, vanilla scented candles and flower vases, lidless Tupperware and tired-out clothes.  I'm even sorting through boxes the boxes we we left in the basement labeled, but unpacked.

There's one corner of the basement, though, that pains me each time I walk past.  It's the corner where we've piled up the bins of clothes our son has outgrown, the supports for the cradle we no longer use, the baby toys he doesn't like anymore, the box of maternity clothes I haven't worn in years.

In saving them, I had no question I would need some of them again- at least the maternity clothes.  But possibly those baby clothes as well.  We could have another boy!   So we kept them.  A year passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  I moved them that summer, thinking they'd save us money if we had another boy on vicarage.  But the year passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  I moved them again.  Another year has passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  Now they sit in the corner of the basement, reminding me all the while that there still is no other baby to wear the clothes, despite all of our prayers.

I can't help but wonder if there ever will be another baby to wear those clothes.  I can't help but wonder if I'm missing the small wonders happening around me with the son I do have by holding on to those clothes and moving them one more time.  I can't help but wonder if I ought to let someone else get some use out of them, and trust that God will provide should he see fit to give us another child.  Perhaps letting go of those clothes would help ease some of the pain.

Market to market

In a few short weeks, I'll be moving home.  Home, I say.  Home.  As in, the place where memories meet futures and I can sit for long evenings at my mother's table and share with my son the stories of our lives.  As Call Day approached, I had imagined I would end up feeling a bit like Sarai or Ruth; but like Naomi, I get to go home.  While I'll still be 75 miles from my mother's kitchen table, I'm certain I'll find it's a rather short distance for my homesick heart.

What's more, I'm not just returning a place where my mother is.  I'm returning to a place whose stories have become intertwined with mine.  A place whose customs and traditions have influenced my view of the world, and set me apart from so many others I've met along the way.  A place like no other place; the good life.  I am content.

A Pie is Worth a Thousand Words

When it comes to meeting new people, I can rock it for all of ten minutes.  I'm good with names, and can come up with a few good questions to get some key details and information out of someone.  But put me with a stranger for any longer than ten minutes, and I'll start wishing I had a Smartphone, a magazine, or anything to draw the attention away from my inability to gab.

So with Call Day two weeks away, I've come to realize that I'll soon be thrust into a congregation full of strangers, and expected to talk to them.  I figure I'll be set for the first few Sundays.  Those early Narthex chats will be all about basic information, and I'll rock.  After that, my plan is to hand out pie.*  They'll forgive my speechlessness if I'm passing out homemade confections, right?

Mmmmmm, boy! Pie Heaven!

*You may be wondering why I would pick pie.  After all, it has a reputation of being finicky, and Pillsbury seems to be making a killing off everyone's fear of crusts.   I don't mean to brag, but merely state the facts.  I always rock at pie.  Always.

First Real(ish) Six-String

This is by far the coolest thing I've made for my kid.

Now if I can only get him to understand it's a "Guitar," not a "The Guitar."

He Is Not Here, He Qi

 

The day of resurrection!
Earth, tell it out abroad,
The passover of gladness,
The passover of God.
From death to life eternal,
From sin's dominion free,
Our Christ has brought us over
With hymns of victory.

Let hearts be purged of evil
That we may see aright
The Lord in rays eternal
Of resurrection light
And, list'ning to His accents,
May hear, so calm and plain,
His own "All hail!" and, hearing,
May raise the victor strain.

Now let the heav'ns be joyful,
Let earth its song begin,
Let all the world keep triumph
And all that is therein.
Let all things, seen and unseen,
Their notes of gladness blend;
For Christ the Lord has risen,
Our joy that has no end.

All praise to God the Father,
All praise to God the Son,
All praise to God the Spirit,
Eternal Three in One!
Let all the ransomed number
Fall down before the throne
And honor, pow'r and glory
Ascribe to God alone!

The Day of Resurrection, John of Damascus, John Mason Neale, trans.

Calvary, Andrea Montegna

What punishment so strange is suffered yonder!
The Shepherd dies for sheep that loved to wander;
The Master pays the debt His servants owe Him,
Who would not know Him.

The sinless Son of God must die in sadness;
The sinful child of man may live in gladness;
Man forfeited his life and is acquitted;
God is committed.

O wondrous love, whose depth no heart hath sounded,
That brought Thee here, by foes and thieves surrounded!
All worldly pleasures, heedless, I was trying
While Thou wert dying.

For vainly doth our human wisdom ponder—-
Thy woes, Thy mercy, still transcend our wonder.
Oh, how should I do aught that could delight Thee!
Can I requite Thee?

But since my strength will nevermore suffice me
To crucify desires that still entice me,
To all good deeds, oh, let Thy Spirit win me
And reign within me!

O Dearest Jesus, What Law Hast Thou Broken, sel. verses, Johann Heermann, Catherine Winkworth, trans.

Really, this won't take long . . .

Isn't it interesting how when the internet is available, you can find infinite ways to spend your time doing really cool stuff that would have knocked the socks off your third-grade self, only to realize you haven't really accomplished anything at all?

Then, it's taken away from you for a week or two, and you have to find different ways to fill your time, and you realize you've accomplished more in one day than you did in all the other past weeks, and you wonder why you bother paying the internet company to bring the time-sucker back into your home.  But you do it anyway. And then you blog about it.

Or is it just me?