I didn’t read these words from a modern place.  Rather, an ancient one.  1 John, in fact.  These are his key words.  We’re reading all about the love these days, in light of the upcoming Holiday.  Love.  Everyone has an idea of what love is.  It’s conclusion reached by our experiences, what we’ve absorbed from other viewpoints, or dreams and hopes of what it should contain.  Love.

It is believed that 1 John was a circular.  A letter that moved from church to church, from believer to believer.  It wasn’t addressed to a specific group.  It’s universal.  The language projects into our modern and messy world.

Love it.

How long has it been since you were a student?  For me?  Too long, I think!  After Christmas, The Man encouraged me to use some of our gift money to enroll in an acrylics art class.  What fun!  And exciting.  A tad humiliating.  I am a bit sheepish when asked about my experience level.  To strike out, attempting something I’ve never done at this stage in my life feels silly or self-indulgent.

As other students arrived and introduced themselves, I met an art teacher who has a doctorate.  More education than the teacher he came to learn from.  He explained himself this way, “By becoming a student again, I see what I’m asking my own students to accomplish.  I experience their struggle.  I step inside their perspective and by doing so become a better teacher.  More compassionate.  Understanding.”

Doesn’t that sound just like Jesus?  And this man’s words brought comfort and assurance to me.  I, too, have much to gain by becoming a student.  Not just a simple one-time class or a personal craft or even bible study event, but accountable to a Teacher.  To fellow learners.  Responsible for homework assignments, bracing up for the challenge that  a teacher throws down when he claims there is ability or potential.  I believe him and will bust myself to bring it about.  There is better-ness in me.  And sometimes I need a teacher to tell me so and point me (or push) forward.

My bible reading carried me to a familiar place, the book of Nehemiah.  A favorite, actually.  Personal.  Relevant to me.  To us.  Nehemiah: a re-builder who was focused, influential, discerning, bold.  My scribbles, circled verses and notes catapulted me back in time…  to when Nehemiah and I were seemingly first introduced.

As I turned the page, I saw spidery lines across both pages, smaller ‘annotations’ done by a much, much smaller hand than mine.  I mentally replayed the first time I found the evidence My Boy had found my text…  wry amusement, contented reflection, pondering on the absence of annoyance or anger… only love and wonder.

He wrote in my bible because I did.  He wants to be like me.  But that’s not really the sum of it… My dreaminess turned toward hopeful prayer – some day, one day.  My Boy.  He’ll write in his bible (or mine) with understanding.  When Christ moves on him, reveals Himself, and my Boy bears the impress of His touch.

I leaned back into my downy softness (yes, my devotion time occurs in the cold-ish hours before our heat cranks up for the day – generally when I’m still in bed.) relishing the memory, reliving that hopeful prayer and reflecting on our years since.  Yesteryear deepened, expanded even, as The Boy found his way to me.  We had dialogue about Nehemiah, his role in Jewish history, his foes, his friends, his calling.  We experienced a broadening, a widening and I witness that gentle impress.  I watch as emotions play across his changing features: determination, passion, fierce defense of truth.  A shadow forecasts into a tomorrow…  a young man.

My Young Man.

I recommend this over French Toast (MY french toast – fried in oil) or over Gifford’s Vanilla Frozen Yogurt.  And luckily I’ll share it with you.  However, I didn’t measure so you’ll have to decide that on your own.  Combine the following ingredients in a small, preferably stainless steel saucepan, over low heat until warmed through.

• Maple syrup
• apple butter
• peeled, diced pear
• cinnamon
• chopped pecans

It seems that part of living in Northern New England is crafts, self-reliability evidenced by creating thoughtful tokens that perfectly suits its recipient. We are having so much fun!

The Boy and I have repurposed altoid tins with some paint and a cute nob. We tried our hand at beeswax candles (no guarantees on how they’ll burn) and felted flowers (my favorite). Holiday phrases on become ‘frig or memo magnets. The Boy has some delicious-smelling handscrub for his Grandma, hammered tin ornaments for the favored ‘uncle’ and ‘auntie’… Seriously. You should try this! I found that while crafting my thoughts would turn to the Family. What a great chance to ponder thankfulness, meaning… Okay – and lest you think I’m just too muchy – I indulged in some fudge I didn’t make – by the pound – for the sweeties among us… oooohh and the malted milk balls. Did I tell you about those? It doesn’t take that much time, oodles of talent are not required – it only lends to varying degrees of rustic-ness. May your days be merry and bright… and handcrafted!

Firstly, Dear Readers, you’ve probably noticed my sluggish posting schedule these days. I’m struggling with my blog access and haven’t had time to figure it out. My sincere apologies!

I’ve missed us. I’ll get it figured out – but in the meantime I can’t blog in my normal fashion – just the words – it’s all we can accomplish for the moment.

My telephone rings and as I scan the caller I.D. I see 31… so click the ‘talk’ button guessing that one of The Man’s relatives are calling with Thanksgiving tidings.

Me: “Happy Thanksgiving!”
Male: “Hello! Yep, the turkey’s in the oven.”
Me: “Ours is, too. [silence] One glazed in maple syrup since we’re Vermonters now.”
Male: “Vermonters, huh?” [sense humor-ish question mark]
Me: “Yep. Well, for now. [more silence] I mean, we hope it’s for a long time.” [even more silence] The boys are outside playing in the snow. We got 6-12 inches, you know? [silence] So, what are you doing today besides eating turkey?”
Male: “Well, Peggy’s parents are coming over.” Peggy who? I don’t even know a Peggy.
Me: “Do you want to say hello to The Man?”
Male: No, that’s okay. [broad silence]
Me: Well, have a great holiday. It was so nice to hear from you.
Male: You, too.

We end our call and I ponder… Who could this have been? Checked the number again. NOT the state I thought it was. I just had a lengthy conversation with a befuddled stranger.

I just had to write my age on a form. It made me sick to my stomach. I’m serious.

“…take heed to yourself, and diligently keep yourself, lest you forget the things your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart all the days of your life. And teach them to your children and your grandchildren…” from Deuteronomy 4:9

This morning was one of those gloriously lazy events where one can snooze, stretch, spread out under that hugely fluffy winter comforter. As The Boy came scurrying in shivering a bit before slipping into bed for the fleeting ‘snuggle’ he queried me to tell him stories of ‘back when’… I ignore the rather unpleasant thought that tries to interject – the one that is disgruntled and says I’m not quite old enough for these ‘back when’ conversations… I suppress the thought and turn instead to the humor and silliness of yesteryear. Something about this time of year, Thanksgiving, Christmas, turns our thoughts toward tradition, hones in on those memories that may be insignificant to others but carry such weight with me and mine… We look back to the Pilgrims, to the Native Americans (more on that later) and to our own lives to remember. To impress these memories into the little lives that follow along behind ours. Nostalgia is catchy. Reminiscing often brings that oozy glow that casts its yellowy haze around all.

So today The Boy heard about how I slipped while tree-climbing (I was four or five) and hung upside-down by my boot until a sibling brought Mom to retrieve me. He giggled as I dropped my voice to a hush, describing how I hid in Mom & Dad’s waterbed (had to take a side-trip to describe what a waterbed was and when it was most popular – the 80s. “It sounds cool,” was my reward.) for when my dad knelt to say his goodnight prayers (another thankful memory of his modeled consistency and commitment to his relationship with God) only to leap out with a shout that caused him to almost croak in shock. Another favorite, my sibling’s attempt at building an ice rink in our backyard – inspiration struck while my parents were away, of course. Their return found us all exhausted from mopping all the water out of our kitchen and dining room and said sibling atop the counter blow-drying the ceiling. These are ties that bind. Perhaps The Boy won’t always find our antics so hysterical but for today, it was perfect.

As our days and thoughts shift toward Thanksgiving and Christmas, I earnestly hope to convey, even somehow transfer to my Boy, the ‘real’ elements of happiness, peace, contentment, health, friendships, and God-ness – knowing Him and learning more about Him. Always.

I watched an elderly lady leave her table and walk toward the door. She was at least 70 but possibly into her 80s. “How beautiful she is,” swept through my mind. Her hair was a thousand shades of silvery gray and white. She was meticulously dressed in a smart, red cardigan and slacks. Her gait and posture was sloped yet somehow whispered of another day when she was more assertive, showed greater determination, stood taller and stronger. Her face had wrinkles and wear. Not in a bad way, just in a life way.

Age occurs. Age is not what causes diminished beauty. We have all seen (or been) the ridiculous: the pre-teen who collided with glam-magazines and emerges as a trippy-looking 20-something, the senior citizen who insists she’s still the same 20-something, with odd color choices of hair and makeup. I’m convinced this is what undermines true beauty – the act of portraying something we’re not. Please don’t confuse my intent by assuming I mean we should passively allow age to encroach and cloud over us as moss would cover the north side of a rickety barn… No! Be beautiful in who you are today. We can wear young motherhood gracefully and with dignity, reflecting that inner beauty of Christ. We consent humbly (or at times grudgingly) to reflect Christ rather than disease that may ravage the body. We can provide gentle, loving guidance to younger women who need us.

These are the ladies I crown with praise and admiration. The ones I wish to emulate. The beautiful.