Huff-Puff-A-Tron

After yesterday's huff-puff post, I found this fun photo/link on Facebook. Why not try a little play therapy today?

Sally and Nick want to fly their kite, but there’s no wind! Help the Cat in the Hat use his breeze machine by matching shapes and colors in ‘Huff-Puff-a-Tron’ - http://to.pbs.org/szKJhU

Running Shorts

I need to run my own race. That’s the thought that came to me while — what else? — running recently. There’s tons of advice from strangers and well-meaning friends, bombarding and distracting me at every turn (or every click of the mouse, more like). Do I need more advice? Probably not. But I need more time with my Advisor … the Author and Perfector of my Faith … and of me!

*             *             *             *             *

btw, like my new running skorts?
msg me to get your own < $30

On another recent run, I started out fretting that I have not yet gained control over my eating habits — not enough veggies, too many sweets, too much overall… “I’m so ashamed of myself,” I thought. Key word: “ashamed.” Jump! “I am not ashamed of the gospel because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes; first for the Jew, then for the Gentile.” That’s a verse I learned in Bible Quizzing, decades ago. I still remember it, and I still believe it. For the rest of my run, rather than scolding myself, I told myself the truth by quoting that verse and letting God lead me into prayer … and peace.

Later on that same jaunt, God showed me a bluebird! Second one of the year! “Thank You,” I huffed. “Thank You,” I puffed. “Thank You (huff) for the depth of Your love (puff) and the breadth of Your provision (huff, puff, hallelujah).”

(Photo: http://birds.wikia.com/wiki/Eastern_bluebird)

Sunday Lament

photo from http://ordinarysparrow.wordpress.com/

My messes seem too much, O Lord,
my debts too deep,
my habits too entrenched—
and my sweat-efforts trickle
like futile droplets onto a parched prairie.

(Not necessarily a desert—if it were a desert, I suppose I should truly despair.
But now I merely complain and fret
to my God, to myself, and to faithful friends who frequent this blog):

Will I ever live in a somewhat tidy house, devoid of

teensy toys, cracker crumbs, and cardboard boxes
failing to contain the masses of mementoes;
where empty crevices covet clutter and
heirlooms, books and breakables tremble,
ever-vulnerable to destruction?

Will there ever be a day when, as in days of young,

I do not bear the weight of worry when I consider
the Mountain of Expenses
compared to my molehill of money?

Darn you, drought! You discourage me.

But you have not drenched my hope.
You try to douse my dreams with dry heat,
but know:

The River of Life flows within me—

even on days when, in my sad stupor,
I cannot hear its roar.

Why should I feel discouraged,
Why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely
And long for Heav'n and home,
When Jesus is my portion?
My constant Friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

(There's no place like) Our Home

Newsroom

Child care center

Book distribution warehouse

Prayer closet

Library

Diner (notice I didn’t say “restaurant”)

Art gallery

Laundromat

Baseball card crypt

Dormitory

Blog headquarters

(Thanks for visiting!)

Saturday shorts: Library love | Lucky 7's | Sweet struggle

…as in: I wish I had a decent pair of shorts to wear to beat this heat!

…and as in: I’ve only got time for a few short reflections on this super-busy Saturday.

1) The Hoag Library has opened today, and all of A-Town seems elated. OK, not everybody, but certainly the steady stream of folks who’ve strolled through, gape-mouthed and beaming, since Hoag’s doors opened at 11 a.m.

Photo courtesy of The Daily News (vis-a-vis Tom Rivers)

Tom and I were among the privileged few (maybe 100? I’m not a great guesstimator) who got to “sneak peak” the place last evening. I can’t quite articulate the positive emotional charge buzzing about my spirit since stepping foot in that beautiful building, so I’ll just say—in concurrence with the legacy of my friend Gwen’s lovely little Evan: “My heart is happy.”

2) Tom and I are both bound for our 20-year high school class reunions tonight, in our respective hometowns, two hours apart. To quote my quotable father: “What are the odds?” {that our reunions were scheduled on the same day…}

Dad would also ask for a number on the occasion of such a coincidence. (In fact, he did ask for a number this morning when I told him.) His far-fetched theory is that playing a number derived from an uncanny happenstance should surely increase a person’s chances of winning the lottery. Like I said, it’s far-fetched…and (mostly) facetious. So I just played along and said, “Seven, seven.” Today’s date, of course. A few hours later, it occurs to me that Tom and I both ranked seventh in our high school classes. {cue Twilight Zone music}

3) Lastly, I do declare, for the umpteenth, that sugar is the sworn enemy of Marsha! After I posted my discovery of delicious Darrell Lea licorice, I discovered the availability of said sweet on Amazon.com Subscribe & Save. {sigh!} Plus, I discovered the mango flavored kind — killer, killer! Please pray for me. (I am not being facetious.)

Smitten waterfowl…and other stuff that’s just ducky!

^ Of the gazillion-trillion pieces of paper that have migrated from the school to our house since September, I think this is my favorite. For reasons that defy explanation. (Or, perhaps I should say, for obvious reasons.)

< This piece, entitled “Sleepyheads,” is a close second. It reminds me of the crazy quilt my mother made in the early ’70s. (Have I blogged about it before? If not, I must. It is my most prized possession.)

Goodbye, Panda—G’Day, Darrell Lea!>

Best licorice I’ve tasted in…well, ever!

Discovered it today at Rite Aid,

our corner drugstore.

This is potentially problematic.

 As are these sweet potato fries.

When did this

sumptuous-temptation-masquerading-as-an-antioxident-rich-superfood 

join the BK royal menu?!

I just noticed. Unfortunately for my jeans. >

 

< And finally, a happy ending: I recently received this love-ly homemade wedding invitation and am eagerly anticipating a joyous celebration with G&G, the bride- and groom-to-be.

Kindergarten graduation elicits mixed emotions

Lucy dashes to the kinder-grad gathering spot.

I just returned from the paparazzi festival known as A-town kindergarten graduation. Seriously, the Buffalo News editorialist is right: We take too many pictures, people! It’s as if our main purpose in life has become chronicling it rather than experiencing it.

I’ve always been a bit wet blanket-ish about kinder-grad. I mean, c’mon—it’s kindergarten. I’m glad the kids made it through, most of them having learned the alphabet in its entirety and their numbers 1 through 100, but the ceremony seems superfluous.

The “graduates” process into the auditorium (or get herded in, rather, by their harried teachers, who realllllllly neeeeeed that summer vacation!). The superintendent and the principal offer platitudes about the importance of education, bright future, blah, blah, blah, and the children walk across the platform to receive their “diplomas.”

But! Not before the paparazzi—er, parents—take their places at the designated picture-taking seating section situated just below stage right. Yes, really—it’s built right into the program: “Will one representative from each child in Mrs. So-and-so’s class please come forward to the picture-taking area?” 

I refused to go. A decision made easier by Grandma’s eagerness to join the media frenzy. She even shot video footage, a topic for another day. (I mean who watches home videos…ever? Especially if there are hundreds—nay, thousands of accumulated, unedited hours? Not me. No, thank you. There are too many books and not enough time.)

Still, I was caught off guard by the magnitude of the moment—ridiculousness and all—when the canned bagpipes droned over the loudspeakers, signaling the entrance of 79 6-year-olds into the room (representing half the A-town Class of 2024—the silly ceremony would be repeated later for the other half). Little people embodying the hopes and dreams, failures and foibles of their families. Sappy Sallys like the teary-eyed mom to my right and dubious Debbies like the eye-rolling mom to my left.

Both mothers were me, and I sniffled in spite of my cynical self.