We all know people with magic fingers. They are able to craft beautiful objects from the most ordinary material. With a flick of the wrist they can transform a toilet paper roll and a piece of fluff into a shining angel.
There are people who demonstrate the virtues of a glue gun. A dab here, a dab there and presto–a lovely wreath or doll or silk flower arrangement materializes.
I am not one of these people. I have never used a glue gun without burning myself. I can't put down a paint brush without leaving paint on my hands, in my hair or on my clothes. My attempted handicrafts have a bedraggled, waifish look with wrinkled ribbon, misplaced lace, and dripping glue.
So why do I bother? God gave everyone different talents, right? Well, most often I steer away from craft making, but every year when the Christian school bazaar comes around, a voice (my husband's usually) tells me I should craft a contribution. I try to stick to rug hooking or embroidery–something with simple explicit instructions. Then I simply follow the pattern, concentrating on even stitches. My product looks quite good until I get to the finishing procedures. The directions tell me to bind ends, attach beads, mount, frame or simply finish off. But how?
Instinct fails me. Consequently my masterpieces are finished in creative and original, if not neat, ways. This was never a problem at the school bazaar in the community where we used to live. True friends would purchase my works, touch them up and kindly display them in their homes.
Moving to a new community changed that. The people here didn’t recognize my crafts as essentially beautiful or even as needy causes. Last year, in this community, my rug-hooked, puppy-wall-hanging was tossed onto a craft table where it buried itself beneath knitted slippers and cute baby sweaters.
I was tempted to buy the forlorn thing myself, but it was priced at $15 and who would touch it up for me?
One year later at the Christian School bazaar, I casually scanned the craft tables, hoping my puppy would not still be there. When I couldn't find him, I assumed someone must have adopted him.
But no, it was not so. Late in the afternoon as I toured the white elephant room where the tables were piled high with junk, I discovered my puppy. I humbly bought him for 50 cents and hung him in my back hall where I pass him every day. Every day he looks at me sadly and I smile sadly back.
I miss my old friends.
go to next pruned story
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Mrs. Z. Goes to the Hospital
Yesterday 96-year-old Mrs. Z. went to the hospital in an ambulance. Her back was so sore she could barely walk; her eyes, so dim she could hardly see; her appetite, so sparse she scarcely ate. She'd been living rather capably on her own since her husband died in the 70's. That is until the last year. The people she had come to rely on to buy things for her, take her places and help her read labels had each been telling her about senior's residences. When I foolishly mentioned "nursing home," I think she wanted to kill me.
Her main objection to such places, "I would die there."
She was right of course.
Her main objection to such places, "I would die there."
She was right of course.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
What Do I Treasure?
When our 24-year-old daughter Michelle offered to pick up her little sister Amanda and her van-load of belongings from McGill at the end of the school year, Marty and I were pleased. This meant a mini-holiday for Michelle, bonding time for the sisters, one less thing for my accountant-husband to fit into the April tax season, and one less trek for me.When Michelle phoned home to say she and her friend had arrived safely in Montreal late the previous evening, but she had “scratched and dented the van,” we were not quite as pleased. There had been a little altercation with a cement wall in a parking lot. “The door still works,” had been Michelle’s observation to her dad over the phone.
“‘The door still works’ sounds like more than a scratch,” noted Marty after he got off the phone.
Four days later when they pulled into the driveway, I happened to be standing at the front window, looking out. (This was precisely ten minutes from the time Amanda phoned to say they were ten minutes away.) It was a long scratch.
Amanda, who we hadn’t seen for two months, and Michelle, who had suffered a sleepless night before the phone call, hopped out of the van. What were they wearing? Were they smiling? I don’t know. For as Amanda so observantly observed, “You looked at the van before you looked at me.”
Sunday, May 3, 2009
PS # 3: Do I Deserve This Parking Ticket?
Whenever I get a parking ticket, I feel injustice has been accomplished. Oh, I agree a city with limited space needs parking regulations. I have never parked too close to an intersection or a fire hydrant (unless, I didn’t see it). I have always put enough money in the meter (unless I forgot). I try to be a conscientious law-abiding citizen.
Tickets should be for those who refuse to put money in the meter, park in no-parking zones on purpose, or block traffic by double parking. Why do I get ticketed? One slip of memory and I’m caught.
For example when I went downtown to buy music theory papers for nine-year-old Angela’s piano lessons, I neglected the meter for mere minutes....
That particular afternoon I had no more than three children in my charge and a car at my disposal. The yellow pages told me there were several sheet music stores right in my neighbourhood. When we arrived at the nearest music shop, Brenda (the chunky two-year-old I was babysitting) was fast asleep. I untangled her from her car seat and lugged her out. There was still time on the parking meter from the previous parker.
My own children, Paul (5) and Michelle (3) questioned: "Where we going, Mommy? Why? Is it here?" I attempted to answer them as we approached the music shop door which was locked.
I could see Angela’s theory papers on a display rack, but a sign in the window told me to come back at 4 p.m. At 4 p.m. I would have three more children and fourteen other things to do.
I buckled us back into the car, all the while explaining to Paul and Michelle where and why. We headed for the other address on my list. Brenda was still sleeping. I parked in a side street where there weren’t any parking meters. I untangled sleeping Brenda and lugged her out once more. Paul and Michelle continued to appreciate up-to-the-minute reports on what we were doing. This time we couldn’t find the door to the music outlet. I asked in a radio and TV place where a man sent us upstairs, but said there was probably no one there. He was right.
On the way to the car, I found a phone booth. With sleeping Brenda propped up on the ledge inside the booth, I searched the yellow pages. I noted a promising ad, but the address was downtown. Oh well, why not?
In the car I looked up the address on my trusty map, carefully studying the direction arrows (downtown was a maze of one-way streets), and planned my route.
I drove right to the store and only had to circle the block twice before I spotted an ideal parking place on a side street. There was a meter; "I’ll feed it a quarter," I thought as I wheeled into place. That would be better than paying two dollars at a parking lot.
I was feeling rather pleased with myself as I untangled sleeping Brenda for the third time and headed for the shop. Paul and Michelle continued to demand minute-by-minute reports. We found the store; we found the theory papers; we headed back to the car. Brenda woke up. She wanted to walk. We ambled along.
We were at the corner of the street where I had parked, when it dawned on me that I hadn’t actually put my quarter in the meter. At that same moment the kids discovered a bench that had to be climbed. I looked up the street–-sure enough, there was an officer with a clipboard standing by my car, writing.
I glanced at the kids who were enthralled with the bench, left them, and ran toward the officer. He was an old fellow who looked at me helpfully as I breathlessly explained I had just remembered the meter and had run back to give it its due.
"Which car is it?" he asked as he looked at the two cars he was concerned with.
"The station wagon."
"Sorry, it’s already written up." He showed me the ticket. "I can’t do anything about it. But, you’ll be okay here for the rest of day, now," he offered.
I felt like one of the five foolish virgins. I wanted to kick the man, or scream or at least kick the car.
Instead I remembered my abandoned children and ran back, hoping they hadn’t been kidnapped. They hadn’t and were ready to leave the bench.
When we got to the car, the officer was gone but the ticket was there on my windshield. In my mind I swore. I strapped the kids into their seats and looked at the dumb thing; six dollars; that’s more than I gave the Cancer Society; it’s more than I paid for the theory papers. I hated paying for nothing. It wasn’t good stewardship. I was sorry I swore.
I asked myself, "How should a Christian deal with a parking ticket?" I could consider it a lesson learned, but I already had that lesson the last time I forgot to feed a meter.
What would Christ do? He would find a coin in the nearest fish and move on.
Pay it, Marian, and take care of your kids.
Next Pruned Story
Tickets should be for those who refuse to put money in the meter, park in no-parking zones on purpose, or block traffic by double parking. Why do I get ticketed? One slip of memory and I’m caught.
For example when I went downtown to buy music theory papers for nine-year-old Angela’s piano lessons, I neglected the meter for mere minutes....
That particular afternoon I had no more than three children in my charge and a car at my disposal. The yellow pages told me there were several sheet music stores right in my neighbourhood. When we arrived at the nearest music shop, Brenda (the chunky two-year-old I was babysitting) was fast asleep. I untangled her from her car seat and lugged her out. There was still time on the parking meter from the previous parker.
My own children, Paul (5) and Michelle (3) questioned: "Where we going, Mommy? Why? Is it here?" I attempted to answer them as we approached the music shop door which was locked.
I could see Angela’s theory papers on a display rack, but a sign in the window told me to come back at 4 p.m. At 4 p.m. I would have three more children and fourteen other things to do.
I buckled us back into the car, all the while explaining to Paul and Michelle where and why. We headed for the other address on my list. Brenda was still sleeping. I parked in a side street where there weren’t any parking meters. I untangled sleeping Brenda and lugged her out once more. Paul and Michelle continued to appreciate up-to-the-minute reports on what we were doing. This time we couldn’t find the door to the music outlet. I asked in a radio and TV place where a man sent us upstairs, but said there was probably no one there. He was right.
On the way to the car, I found a phone booth. With sleeping Brenda propped up on the ledge inside the booth, I searched the yellow pages. I noted a promising ad, but the address was downtown. Oh well, why not?
In the car I looked up the address on my trusty map, carefully studying the direction arrows (downtown was a maze of one-way streets), and planned my route.
I drove right to the store and only had to circle the block twice before I spotted an ideal parking place on a side street. There was a meter; "I’ll feed it a quarter," I thought as I wheeled into place. That would be better than paying two dollars at a parking lot.
I was feeling rather pleased with myself as I untangled sleeping Brenda for the third time and headed for the shop. Paul and Michelle continued to demand minute-by-minute reports. We found the store; we found the theory papers; we headed back to the car. Brenda woke up. She wanted to walk. We ambled along.
We were at the corner of the street where I had parked, when it dawned on me that I hadn’t actually put my quarter in the meter. At that same moment the kids discovered a bench that had to be climbed. I looked up the street–-sure enough, there was an officer with a clipboard standing by my car, writing.
I glanced at the kids who were enthralled with the bench, left them, and ran toward the officer. He was an old fellow who looked at me helpfully as I breathlessly explained I had just remembered the meter and had run back to give it its due.
"Which car is it?" he asked as he looked at the two cars he was concerned with.
"The station wagon."
"Sorry, it’s already written up." He showed me the ticket. "I can’t do anything about it. But, you’ll be okay here for the rest of day, now," he offered.
I felt like one of the five foolish virgins. I wanted to kick the man, or scream or at least kick the car.
Instead I remembered my abandoned children and ran back, hoping they hadn’t been kidnapped. They hadn’t and were ready to leave the bench.
When we got to the car, the officer was gone but the ticket was there on my windshield. In my mind I swore. I strapped the kids into their seats and looked at the dumb thing; six dollars; that’s more than I gave the Cancer Society; it’s more than I paid for the theory papers. I hated paying for nothing. It wasn’t good stewardship. I was sorry I swore.
I asked myself, "How should a Christian deal with a parking ticket?" I could consider it a lesson learned, but I already had that lesson the last time I forgot to feed a meter.
What would Christ do? He would find a coin in the nearest fish and move on.
Pay it, Marian, and take care of your kids.
Next Pruned Story
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Rewards and Challenges of Being Mom
Challenge: Choosing not to make Elizabeth's bed.
Reward: Elizabeth decides to keep a neat room for no apparent reason.
Challenge: Saying No.
Reward: A random hug.
Challenge: Trusting Amanda.
Reward: Being able to trust Amanda.
Challenge: Buying the right shampoo.
Reward: a big hug.
Challenge: Letting Allison make mistakes.
Reward: Hearing Allison pray to God.
Challenge: Letting Paul do it his way.
Reward: Watching Paul succeed.
Challenge: Making a supper everyone likes.
Reward: I believe in miracles.
Reward: Elizabeth decides to keep a neat room for no apparent reason.
Challenge: Saying No.
Reward: A random hug.
Challenge: Trusting Amanda.
Reward: Being able to trust Amanda.
Challenge: Buying the right shampoo.
Reward: a big hug.
Challenge: Letting Allison make mistakes.
Reward: Hearing Allison pray to God.
Challenge: Letting Paul do it his way.
Reward: Watching Paul succeed.
Challenge: Making a supper everyone likes.
Reward: I believe in miracles.
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Case of the Disappearing Aortic Aneurysm
"Marian, I have something to tell you," Sheila bubbled. She had bought four (buy three, get one free) Blooming books from me the week prior. Sheila had given one of the books to Phyllis, her 84-year-old neighbour who was suffering from an aortic aneurysm.
The doctors had put Phyllis through a battery of diagnostic tests and she was scheduled for an appointment with a surgeon. She had been told she would need a risky operation. Not to do the operation would mean possible rupture which would cause severe pain, as well as internal hemorrhaging which, without prompt treatment, could mean a quick death. Phyllis was scared.
Phyllis would read a couple of pieces from Blooming every night before she went to sleep. One night after reading about some of the answers to prayer in the book, she prayed, "Lord if you did it for her, you can do it for me."
Soon after that she saw the surgeon. He proclaimed her healthy and well.
The doctors had put Phyllis through a battery of diagnostic tests and she was scheduled for an appointment with a surgeon. She had been told she would need a risky operation. Not to do the operation would mean possible rupture which would cause severe pain, as well as internal hemorrhaging which, without prompt treatment, could mean a quick death. Phyllis was scared.
Phyllis would read a couple of pieces from Blooming every night before she went to sleep. One night after reading about some of the answers to prayer in the book, she prayed, "Lord if you did it for her, you can do it for me."
Soon after that she saw the surgeon. He proclaimed her healthy and well.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
* PS # 2: The Questions of Life
Have you ever had one of those Mondays? I think God sends them to test endurance. I mean a day when the baby (the same baby you bragged about to your friends last night) whines and cries all afternoon while you are up to your elbows in apple peelings that belong to a bushel of over-ripe scabby apples that your sister-in-law decided to bless you with.
Is it good stewardship to throw the little ones away? Is it poor stewardship to spend seven hours peeling what amounts to enough applesauce to keep a family of six supplied for four weeks...grocery store value $8.00? Oh well, there is nothing quite like homemade applesauce. Never mind the apple stains on my fingers guaranteed to remind me of this day for the next three weeks.
While the applesauce debate is running through my head, my three-year-old has a private brown-sugar feast. How much sugar can a three-year-old boy eat in ten minutes without a spoon?
As the day slides by, I have more questions. Is it a sin to let the Mary Kay lady on the phone think I am writing down her number? I mean I might have written it down if I didn't have applesauce all over my fingers and on the phone and if I had a pen.
Or, I might have let her know I was totally uninterested except that she sounded so hurt when I told her I'd thrown out her letter which came with the Baby Welcome Wagon months ago. Can I help it that I'm married to a man who likes a tidy place? It's difficult to be rudely truthful to someone who happens to like the name Michelle which just happens to be our baby's name.
Which recalls another question: was I being rude when I told the lady from the Kinsmen Club, who wanted a small favor (she didn’t say what), that she was interrupting lunch and to call back later? She did ask if she was interrupting anything. She hasn't called back yet.
The big question of the day arrives with the school bus. How many times may a grade-two Christian-school student correct her mother's pronunciation of “Ahithophel” without causing her to lose her temper? I found it hard enough to ask Bible review questions loud enough to be heard over the noise of a food processor, a preschooler and a baby, without concentrating on my pronunciation.
Was it a blessing in disguise when I gained 20 minutes in supper preparation time because my husband was busy picking up the 500 books that toppled with the new book shelf when he walked into the sunroom shortly after coming home from work? Books I had spent Sunday afternoon arranging according to the Dewey Decimal System (sort of). Or, come to think of it, does it mean I shouldn't work on Sunday? Last time I tried to do a load of laundry on Sunday, I ended up flooding the basement.
Why on a day such as this does my three-year-old finally for the first time in his entire life decide to tell me he wants to do his big job on the toilet and then actually do it? My brother would call it a bit of luck. My sister-in-law would say it was a blessing. I say it's proof that God does care. It definitely saved the day from being a total write-off.
Knowing that I may not be sending the kid to school in diapers after all, I can even smile when I brush my teeth with Marty's toothbrush before I lie me down to sleep. I wonder where my toothbrush went?
A Christian follows Christ. Christ never did anything wrong. I call myself a Christian, but I can’t figure out the difference between right and wrong.
Go to Pruned Story #3
Is it good stewardship to throw the little ones away? Is it poor stewardship to spend seven hours peeling what amounts to enough applesauce to keep a family of six supplied for four weeks...grocery store value $8.00? Oh well, there is nothing quite like homemade applesauce. Never mind the apple stains on my fingers guaranteed to remind me of this day for the next three weeks.
While the applesauce debate is running through my head, my three-year-old has a private brown-sugar feast. How much sugar can a three-year-old boy eat in ten minutes without a spoon?
As the day slides by, I have more questions. Is it a sin to let the Mary Kay lady on the phone think I am writing down her number? I mean I might have written it down if I didn't have applesauce all over my fingers and on the phone and if I had a pen.
Or, I might have let her know I was totally uninterested except that she sounded so hurt when I told her I'd thrown out her letter which came with the Baby Welcome Wagon months ago. Can I help it that I'm married to a man who likes a tidy place? It's difficult to be rudely truthful to someone who happens to like the name Michelle which just happens to be our baby's name.
Which recalls another question: was I being rude when I told the lady from the Kinsmen Club, who wanted a small favor (she didn’t say what), that she was interrupting lunch and to call back later? She did ask if she was interrupting anything. She hasn't called back yet.
The big question of the day arrives with the school bus. How many times may a grade-two Christian-school student correct her mother's pronunciation of “Ahithophel” without causing her to lose her temper? I found it hard enough to ask Bible review questions loud enough to be heard over the noise of a food processor, a preschooler and a baby, without concentrating on my pronunciation.
Was it a blessing in disguise when I gained 20 minutes in supper preparation time because my husband was busy picking up the 500 books that toppled with the new book shelf when he walked into the sunroom shortly after coming home from work? Books I had spent Sunday afternoon arranging according to the Dewey Decimal System (sort of). Or, come to think of it, does it mean I shouldn't work on Sunday? Last time I tried to do a load of laundry on Sunday, I ended up flooding the basement.
Why on a day such as this does my three-year-old finally for the first time in his entire life decide to tell me he wants to do his big job on the toilet and then actually do it? My brother would call it a bit of luck. My sister-in-law would say it was a blessing. I say it's proof that God does care. It definitely saved the day from being a total write-off.
Knowing that I may not be sending the kid to school in diapers after all, I can even smile when I brush my teeth with Marty's toothbrush before I lie me down to sleep. I wonder where my toothbrush went?
A Christian follows Christ. Christ never did anything wrong. I call myself a Christian, but I can’t figure out the difference between right and wrong.
Go to Pruned Story #3
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