Oh, Lord, thank You for the energy and focus to finish book number 24. Couldn’t go out to celebrate, though. What to do? Instead, Steve and I watched the Cubs’ 2016 World Series victory and snarfed take-out sundaes from Ivanhoe’s. OMG, thank You that despite the current crisis, we have a gazillion reasons to celebrate!
When you hear the word
“treasure,” do your ears perk up like a kitty’s at the whirr of a can opener?
My ears wiggle, too — though as a
child, jewels, in particular, fascinated me.
When I was a preschooler, a kind lady,
aware of our family’s poverty, offered to buy my sister and me Easter clothes. She
was rich, so I reveled in fantasies of princess dresses of red velvet,
encrusted with precious stones.
Instead, we wore blue-and-white gingham. Not a single sapphire or diamond on them anywhere.
At sandy beaches, I buried quartz
pebbles, marking their hiding places with an X. Someday, I would dig them up and
sell them for millions. Then I’d wear princess dresses and eat Dilly Bars every
single day.
In my heart of hearts, I knew few
found for-real treasures in Indiana cornfields. Jesus told a story about a man
discovering a “pearl of great price” in a field, but I never found one.
Still, I tried to hide my everyday
treasures, with limited success. My younger brothers, who couldn’t find their
shoes if their lives depended on it, possessed sophisticated built-in systems
that detected all candy bars within 50 miles.
I also loved fruit — another
commodity that disappeared quickly at our house. When my mother brought home
ruby-red apples or golden oranges, I sneaked several and hid them in my bed’s
headboard for secret indulgence while I read Little Women or Black Beauty.
Much later, I learned that I came
from a long line of fruit pirates. My Southern grandmother treasured apples as
if they were made of gold. When Dad brought her bags of apples from the
Midwest, they vanished. An even better treasure detector than his sons, Dad found
them under her bed. Once, while visiting my parents, I was vacuuming bedrooms
when I discovered his apple stash as well.
Thus, my toddler grandson’s precocious ability to hide treasure shouldn’t have surprised us. He mostly spirited off other people’s valuables. When car keys, remotes, or backup flash drives vanished, his parents immediately identified the chief suspect. After extensive treasure hunts, they might find their billfolds nestled in 50 pounds of cat food.
Or maybe not.
They still considered that little
larcenist a treasure — and Grandma certainly agrees.
I’ve never dug my fingers through
piles of gleaming doubloons or gems, but the ring of precious faces around my
table glow with greater worth. The only diamonds I own are small solitaires
that shine on my left hand and on a silver anniversary necklace, courtesy of
the shy, loving guy whose once-hidden treasures have taken a lifetime to discover
and enjoy.
Makes my ears wiggle just to
think about it.
Your
Extraordinary Ordinary: What do you consider your treasures?
O Lord, everyone’s wearing masks and bumping elbows. No handshakes. No hugging allowed! OMG, You are the God who touched lepers. I’m so glad You and I don’t have to do the Wuhan shake.
Clutching my second grade reader, I watched cars and
semis whiz past on the highway, but my school bus didn’t appear. Only my
imagination kept me company.
Image by Pezibear from Pixabay.
My imagination and the wind. It swirled, breathing earthy
spring smells and twittery bird songs.
What do you do when you’re seven years old with no agenda?
You dance with the wind, of course.
I skipped and leaped more like a spring calf than the
ballerina twirling in my head.
The porch light went on. Mom poked her head out. “Honey,
are you all right?”
What kind of question was that? “I’m dancing with the
wind.”
“Oh. Okay. Just don’t get dirty.” Mom closed the door.
The wind and I resumed our dance until the bus arrived.
Eventually, I learned to keep my performances secret,
though spring’s Chinook, as Laura Ingalls Wilder called it in The Long Winter, and I continued joyous
rendezvous.
However, watching evil Miss Gulch of The Wizard of Oz during a cyclone gave me second thoughts about Mr.
Wind.
My own stormy encounter at age 18 confirmed the wind’s erratic
moods. Trees fell around my car, power lines sparked, and a nearby chimney exploded.
Had the wind gotten up on the wrong side of the continent? Still, I loved its
gentler caresses.
My husband never has understood my wind fetish. One sultry
night during our early marriage, even the open window above our pillows didn’t
cool me. I moved mine to the foot of the bed. Ah, the ecstasy of wind on my
toes!
Hubby, who awoke to feet in his face, wasn’t ecstatic.
Ceiling fans help keep us together.
Lately, I’ve winced as the wind has powered trash cans
and downspouts past my window. I don’t relish the prospect of spreading Weed &
Feed® mostly on me — and Rhode Island.
If we camp this spring, we and our camper may follow Miss
Gulch to Oz.
At home, you might find me and my laptop in the bathtub,
a refuge reminiscent of the tub where I once read to three antsy little children
until an all-clear siren sounded. Thankfully, our bathtubs were/are of the
literary variety.
Despite grown-up reservations, the wind still holds a
fascination for me. The force that spins windmills like pinwheels recalls Jesus
reminding rich, powerful Nicodemus that the wind — and God’s Spirit — are way
beyond our control.
Image by TheOtherKev from Pixabay.
The spring wind still burgeons with life. Some dark,
early morning, I’ll answer Chinook’s call. We’ll dance while no one watches, turns
on a porch light, or calls the police.
Why do I want to dance with the wind? Possibly because my
grandmother passed down her Native American heritage.
Her middle name was Zephyr.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Have you ever danced
with the wind?
Say the word “lilac,” and ghosts
of perfumes past waft through me. Bushes pour their lush scent through an open
window into my teenaged soul. My toddlers take turns carefully sniffing purple blossoms
along a neighbor’s fence. My husband plants a lilac for me on Mother’s Day.
Say the word “lilac” to my allergy-ridden
friend, and she thinks “dynamite.” She once considered sneaking into her
churchyard at night and blowing up bushes that every spring swelled her nose to
clown size.
The beauty of a scent is
definitely in the nose of the beholder. For one conscientious church custodian,
ammonia spelled righteous spring cleaning that should characterize God’s house.
However, my office faced a restroom door. Ammonia’s powerful fumes wiped out
this choir director’s brain cells — critical because she owned so few.
Cultural factors play major roles
in olfactory opinions, too. Many Frenchmen eat Époisses cheese. Southeast Asians consider the
hedgehog-shaped fruit durian delicious. But because of their, er, distinctive
smells, laws in both areas forbid taking these foods on public transportation.
And you thought your Uncle
Archie’s garlic breath reeked.
Thankfully, many scents imprint
positive impressions. Hubby’s marriage-long aftershave. Vanilla tippled into birthday
cake batter. Autumn’s smoky, smoldering leaves. Plump baby necks. A new book
with crisp, untouched pages. (Kindles will never replace that.) An old book
with its mellow air of wisdom. (They will never replace that, either.)
A tiny tinge of flavor in warm spring
air proclaims, “ice cream.” My husband says I can sniff out any ice cream
within 50 miles. (Ice cream trucks, take note: add extra guards.)
Perhaps your nose, like mine,
shifts perspective per experience. The smell of June roses may recall an evil
prom date who handed you a corsage one night and, the next, dumped you for
Bambi LaBody. Contrariwise, the return of a familiar bison ambiance to your
college-age son’s bedroom fills your heart with joy.
Image by Kirsi Kataniemi from Pixabay.
Given the power of smells, shouldn’t
we be grateful our Creator did not design us like dogs? Their noses are 10,000
to 100,000 times as sensitive as those of humans. I am doubly glad I am not an
elephant — and not only because that nose might mess with family portraits.
According to a Baltimore, Maryland, zoo, this pachyderm’s trunk can outsmell
any canine nose, anytime!
In heaven, someday, perhaps mine
will surpass them. My allergic-to-lilacs friend, Uncle Archie, and I, sans
furry nose or undulating trunk, will together inhale the beautiful fragrance of
Christ. No more “ewwws!” or “aaa-chooos!” Only “ahhhhs.” Our holy noses’ sensitivity
will make those animal buddies’ olfactory talents compare to stuffy-sinus flu.
Even better, every smelly memory
will be a perfect one.
Image by RitaE from Pixabay.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary:
What are your favorite smells?
O Lord, I thank You for a steaming cup of coffee this chilly March morning. My husband thanks You for a cup of tea. As we’ve aged, we hope we’ve grown in wisdom. In insight. In compassion. But one thing is sure: OMG, our cups have grown with us.
When I was a preschooler, my mother said umbrellas kept
high-wire performers from falling. Would carrying an umbrella atop a swing set morph
me into a lovely lady wearing a sparkling bathing suit? Then, perhaps, the
world would see the magic me.
But the umbrella didn’t turn into a parachute. I fell
like a rock.
Nevertheless, umbrellas continued to enthrall me. Why
wouldn’t my mother buy them?
I understand now.
First, what five kids can do to a helpless umbrella
staggers the imagination. When my mother gave in and bought one, all umbrellas
in the store bowed in a moment of silence. During initial roughhousing, someone
raised the newcomer inside the station wagon, resulting in broken ribs.
Sometimes, a lucky umbrella survived and took refuge in the
front closet, buried among mittens, hats and boots. If not so fortunate, it
found itself in a fencing match with a broom, both wielded by little brothers.
Occasionally, a foolhardy umbrella permitted itself to be
discovered. It faced more fencing matches at the bus stop and a school bus ride
among 40 passengers intent on poking each others’ eyes out. However, after
occupying a dusty corner of the lost-and-found, it eventually vanished into the
Alternate Universe where half of all children’s possessions abide, never to be
seen again.
As a preteen, I decided to purchase my own umbrella. Because
awkward Jo March in Little Women found
true love under the umbrella, I thought I might, too. But umbrellas cost three
whole dollars. When a friend from Indianapolis offered to buy me one for only
one dollar, I requested red with polka dots. Instead, she bought one covered
with old-lady pink and yellow flowers. Mom made me smile, thank her, and pay
her $1.25.
Still, it possessed a magic of its own. On rainy Saturday
mornings, I ventured into our slumbering village, rendezvousing with imaginary
loves who shared my umbrella and the rain’s gentle, percussive music.
When did the magic disappear? During college in Bloomington, Indiana, which boasts more rainfall than your average Amazon jungle. I often left my umbrellas in classrooms. Skipping lost-and-found, they entered the Alternate Universe, leaving me to empty my tiny bank account to buy another. I also shared elevators with 30,000 other umbrella-wielding students. My love affair with umbrellas might have ended forever — except that a special young man raised his below my dorm window to signal his approach. We have shared umbrellas for 45 years now. …
This chilly March day, as I again walk a college campus,
umbrellas bloom like spring flowers, sheltering laughing, shivering students on
their way to class.
Do they feel the magic, too?
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Do you like rainy
walks under an umbrella?
O Lord, You remember when I couldn’t wait for my March birthday. January slogged along like, well, molasses in January. But February was short! Except during Leap Year, I had to wait a whole extra day.
Now, OMG, I see Leap Day as Your gift. BTW, couldn’t You add a few extra days … weeks … months before I turn another year older?