A Few Yards Short of a Washcloth

I settled down with my laptop at the kitchen table and watched an episode of Road to Avonlea while crocheting a kitchen washcloth with some leftover yarn. While I reveled in the beauty I have found for well over a decade in L.M. Montgomery's Prince Edwards Island, I crocheted stitch by stitch. The purple gave way to the green which melted into cream, easing back into purple. I felt that sense of growing, peaceful accomplishment I get when I crochet. The rows piled up one upon another until I reached the end of the ball of yarn.

Now this is not the first time I have crocheted something that wound up too short because I ran out of yarn. There was also this black scarf - bulletproof we called it. It was made from chunky yarn and I chose stitches that were too close together. Even after two skeins, the scarf still insisted on being migit-sized. My husband teased me about it, and I tucked it away in a dark corner to let it think about the embarrassment it had caused me. But one night, it found its purpose for life. That purpose was to be my husband's favorite neck scarf. The poor, laughed at scarf has kept him warm through the coldest nights of this winter. Its hefty weave provided extra insulation, and its short stature became convient because it did not dangle out from underneath his coat.

My new odd-shaped washcloth will be better treated than her cousin scarf. She will be appreciated from the start and put to use at once.

You know, life is like that. We all have a useful purpose. We have all been created for a purpose. We or others may not see it at first, but if we will allow ourselves to become useful, we will be.

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Dancing With Stress

My entire life I have had a constant companion. His name is stress. I am just one of those people who get stressed out even when it is a perfect day - and no day can be that perfect! I have fought him with piano playing, motrin, and pampering. I have ignored him, hoping he will just go away. I have cried, felt sick, and gotten frustrated. But through the years he seems to have claimed Matthew 28, "I will never leave thee or forsake thee."

Maybe instead of fighting or ignoring him, I need to dance with him. To accept it and make the best of it. To anticipate his next move, and like Ginger Rogers, "do everything he can do, but backwards and in high heels." I'm pretty sure now that I'll never get rid of him, but when he:
~ pops out of the envelope, we'll tango
~ when he knocks on the door, we'll twirl
~ when he whispers in my ear, we'll waltz
~ and when he threatens ruin another perfect day, we'll do the electric slide.

Instead of running and hiding, I will learn what he has to teach me. I will learn to make better decisions, to say the right words, to be secure in both my God's and my husband's love for me, and to laugh instead of taking offense.

Stress can be my worst enemy or my watchman. He can constantly taunt me about my inabilities and my failures, or he can gently point out my weaknesses so I can learn to become a better person. When my shoulders tighten and my jaw clenches, I can remember to be thankful for all I have, and say, "Stress, may I have this dance?"

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Know Ye Not That Your Body is the Temple...

I think of these words that the Apostle Paul penned when I think of the incredible life of Temple Grandin. I stumbled across the story of her life in an unusual way. Normally I learn about these kinds of people from reading a psychology textbook or reading a little known biography, but this time I found her by desperation and dvd.

When one has at least some set of standards for what they allow themselves to watch and does not have a subscription to Netflix, one can become dvd desperate. In my life this desperation looks like me combing yet again through our library's collection of dvds for check out. I dislike rewatching movies; life is too short. After a year of checking out all the good movies, and some of the "well-I-won't-watch-that-one-again" movies, there is not much left.

This week I was skimming through them again and saw the sticker NEW attached to a case entitled Temple Grandin. Weird name for a movie. Oh, it is someone's name? Ok, what's the review? I whip out my smartphone, and my fingers almost automatically find the IMDB (Internet Movie Database) application. Checking the parental guide (I guess I must be my own parent), I am satisfied that it does not contain corupting influences. I am also surprised at its rating - 8.4 stars. It didn't look that good.

So yesterday afternoon, instead of taking the nap my body was asking for, I crocheted through this amazing movie.

Temple Grandin was an austistic child, who did not even learn to speak until the age of four. She suffered from a major lack of social skills and dehibilitating panic attacks. Wasted life? Not Temple's. With the undying support of her mother and aunt, she went on to receive her at least her masters degree. She never gave up, and she learned to use the incredible mental skills she did possess to more than compensate for any other lacking areas in her life.

I was touched, inspired, and learned about a new subject -autism - in an extremely powerful way. Go HBO for producing a film that does much more than entertain - it teaches, both the mind and the heart. I wish every time I was desperate to find a new dvd, I could be as fortunate as when I found Temple Grandin.

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The Writer Caged Inside

I have a prison deep inside me. With deep dark walls covered in slimy moss. In this prison I stuff the very part of me that is me. The writer that took control when I was just eight years old; composing through me "The Goo-Boos' Village".

It has tried throughout the years to claim its rightful place in my life as resident author, journalist, editor,.poet, and muse. But instead of welcoming its presence, I have allowed a few rejection slips for mid-teen writing cultivate fear, laziness, and good old fashioned writer's block.

I'm a copier; I always have been. My mother used to be able to tell who I been visiting or talking on the phone with by the way I sounded afterwards. My writing style is no different. Give me a hundred pages of Lemony Snickett, and I writing will be running from Count Olaf right alongside the poor Baudelaires. Then give me the fresh, surprising joy of reading my friend's blog Ironic Daises, and her deep, quirky perspective rubs off on me.

Which one is me? Do I have my own voice? Can I really write? Will I be fearless enough to truly realized that the only failure is not trying? And will I realize that I really shouldn't blog under the influence of Nyquil?

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Mein Kampf with Mein Kampf

Throughout the years I have toyed with the idea of actually reading Adolf Hitler's Mein Kampf.  It almost seems sacrilegious to read his writing.  As if reading it would be tipping my hat to him, so to speak; raising my hand and mumbling, "Heil, Hitler!"  Though it may be tipping my hat at his greatness, for though evil, he was great (not all that is great is good), it is most certainly not allegiance.  Hitler was evil, but not the mindless evil I was inclined to believe.

I learned while taking History102 at Pensacola Christian College, that Hitler's reactions were perfectly logical; if what he believed was true.  So my planned journey into Mein Kampf is to understand what he believe and where he wend Biblically wrong.  I have bought the book, and sits on the top of one of my bookshelves, awaiting the day when I take the Nazi by the horns and Kampf with Hitler.

When Justice Fails, God Doesn't

Playing Nazi Zombies with my husband on Call of Duty World at War made me want to research medical experimentation done by Nazis.  Reading about the horrible acts they committed against humanity, their cold and calloused documentation of medical grafts, wounds, etc makes me almost sick.  Some of these doctors never even faced the judgment they should have here on earth.  They escaped death and died naturally many, many years later.

This fact made me angry until I realized that they really did not get away with their atrocities.  There judgment was only delayed.  God is always just, and He gives to each man what he deserves (unless he trusts Christ).  These evil men pay constantly for eternity for that they did to the helpless Jews and other nationalities that they carved, butchered, and experimented on.

Et tu, Hancock?

Ok, so I'm still studying about Samuel Adams, but haven't gotten to the part about why he opposed the Constitution.  But I did just add more fuel to my curiosity - John Hancock, the famous signer of the Declaration of Independence, also opposed the Constitution!  Wow.  Why?  I will get to the bottom of this.

-- Independence Slueth