Our town is so tiny (how tiny is it?) that we don't even have a supermarket, but rather, just a convenience store. (Though, after going 6 months without even that, trust me, I'm grateful for it.)
Yet we do have an antique co-op inside of an old 1800's church. Very spiffy indeed. So when we moved here two years ago we visited that antique store and immediately, I fell in love with the hutch you see, above. We sorely needed a hutch like that, what with our drawer-less, upper-cabinets-less kitchen. But the hutch was $600 and we were pouring money into necessary (but kinda boring) things like windows from this century and insulation, having the floors refinished, a whole new garage, concrete, etc.
But for two years that hutch stayed on my mind and we'd visit it, even, sometimes, there at the antique shop.
Then finally we (especially me) felt the time was right to bring our hutch, home. So last Saturday Tom went down to make an offer on it after we both agreed I'd stay home because he loves to make wild low offers on everything and I prefer that both parties get a good deal, causing whispered friction. (Eons ago we owned a little music store and I practically gave away our inventory. My heart is too soft to be a salesman).
Well. They'd already lowered the price on the hutch to $485 and Tom made one of his ridiculous offers to the woman behind the counter. Three-hundred dollars. Good grief. And so the woman picked up the phone to call the owner of that particular hutch to see if he'd accept the offer, but oh my, Tom later told me that she was highly doubtful that this deal would go through.
The owner didn't even make a counter-offer. Instead, he accepted Tom's offer and the woman at the co-op was astounded! She shook her head and repeated over and over while Tom wrote his check, "He just never does that. I can't believe he came down that much. He just never does that."
I love it when that happens. And I also love it when I keep believing for good things, rather than bad. For you know, sometimes my 'expector' gets broken, becomes all negative, doubt-stuffed and pathetic. But more and more, Grace is there to nudge me and whisper, "Hey, Sweetie! Surely goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life, remember? Whatever happened to believing for godly favor, blessings and miracles?"
Yes, Grace. You're so right and I so need those reminders.
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So what are you expecting? Lots of good things or bad?
"And when the people complained, it displeased the Lord: and the Lord heard it... " ... Numbers 11:1
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Never fails. Every summer the Holy Spirit goes into overtime convicting me about my complaining.
Why every summer? Because it begins with my oft complaints about the heat. "Man, it's so hot. I think I'm gonna die. All these fans in here are so loud that we have to shout at each other. This computer is making me even sweatier. So I get out to mow the yard early in the morning, but it's still so blooming hot and wipes me out the whole rest of the day."
But you know where all that leads don't you? Those it's-too-hot complaints come flowing over my tongue so free and easy and then that new complaining habit spreads like a prairie fire.
"I barely slept last night. The garage is a big, fat mess so I'm not going out there until you clean it up, Tom. People are so grouchy lately. It's time to feed the birds again? Man, they're like teensy pigs with wings. My head hurts. I'm sick of reading books--that's all I've been doing because it's too hot to do anything else."
And on and on to infinity.
You'd think I'd learn, but every summer I have to relearn this lesson: Become free and easy with complaining about summer heat and eventually you'll wake up deep inside Sad, Sorry Complaining World.
And that's one dark planet where it's not a cinch to escape.
No, it takes lots of help from God, tons of reminders (dare I say nagging?) from the Holy Spirit to yank you back out to the fresh air of gratitude and acceptance and making the most out of what you have.
I know this. I've been through this. And I'm in the middle of that Holy Spirit Yanking Process once again. Thank-goodness.
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Form a complaining habit and it will carry you to places you do not wish to go.
On these soft, humid mornings when 6:30 comes around, I switch on the old-fashioned kitchen radio and listen to The Writer's Almanac.
Oh, that buttery, soothing voice of Garrison Keillor! I pour kibble into the cats' dishes and ready Lennon's syringe and Garrison tells me about the writers born on this day and that voice, that voice! transports me back to years I never knew, years before I was born and to country places and homes I never visited before where women wore aprons and hummed about the kitchen while pouring tiny glasses of orange juice.
Every weekday morning this is my treat.
And then Garrison reads a poem and oh, those poems carry me even further away until I am not even me, but someone else swooping into windows of houses no longer standing, a fly on the wall watching people no longer there, but in Heaven.
Then at the end of just those five moments Garrison stops speaking, his program's music ends and I'm back in my kitchen, awaking with a can of cat food in my hand at the refrigerator door. And smiling all dreamy-eyed.
Here was the poem Garrison's read just moments ago, but without that voice of his, ah! The voice of someone doing exactly what he was called to do in this world, well, it's a nice poem, yes, but you'll have to do the best you can to find the extra magic.
Letter to My Mother
by Robert PhillipsSpinach Days)
You helped me pack for that milestone event,
first time away from home alone.
It didn't matter the summer camp was poor—long on Jesus, short on funds—
bordering a tea-colored lake.
No matter we could afford only two weeks.
To help get there I hoarded months of allowances.
I was ten, felt grown,I finally was going somewhere on my own.
You folded the ironed tee-shirts and skivvies—you even ironed and creased my dungarees.
In Southern drawl: "And of course you'll dress for dinner!"
you said, packing with the rest my one blazer, dress shirts, and red tie.
I didn't protest, I was an innocent stander-by.
(The suitcase was a new brown Samsonite.Even empty that thing never was light.)
First exhilarating day—after softball, archery, diving instruction (which I took to swimmingly)—came rest hour.
While others took a shower or wrote postcards home,
I dressed for dinner:the white shirt, the pre-tied striped tie,
the navy jacket. In process I received a wry glance from my counselor.
The dinner bell tolled,I felt every bit the gentleman
as I strolled toward the rustic dining room.
I entered, the room exploded with boyish hoots and laughter,
pointing at me, the funniest thing they'd seen.
They still had on their shorts or jeans.
The rest of the two weeks were impossible.
Not chosen for any teams, called a fool,
Mother, I was miserable through and through.
But when I came home I never told you.
"Letter to My Mother" by Robert Phillips, from Spinach Days. © JHU Press, 2000.
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What? You've never listened to The Writer's Almanac? Oh dear. Well, now you can go here and listen for yourself.(Click on 'Listen.') Perhaps some of you will understand my early morning enchantment. Perhaps.
(Any other faithful listeners of The Writer's Almanac out there in Blogland?)
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"Be well, do good work and keep in touch." ... Garrison Keillor
