A Marathon, Not a Sprint

"And we desire that each one of you
show the same diligence--->
to the full assurance of hope-->
until the end." Hebrews 6:11

Some twenty years ago, I was studying about the resurrection from the classic passage in I Corinthians 15. Although the doctrine of the resurrection had been deeply ingrained in my theology since childhood, it suddenly--whoosh!!--became a hope so sure, so solid that I was literally engulfed in the sweetness of it. The ancient fear of death vacated my heart and the full assurance of hope took up residency in its stead.

What if I had not exerted the effort to study that passage of scripture? The diligence of study was an invitation for the Holy Spirit to breath life into the truth, transferring it out of the mind's data bank and into the treasure vault of my heart.

Full assurance isn't obtained by minimal exposure to truth, but by diving into the depths. There is a labor involved in mining, a diligence required of the "workman who needs not to be ashamed, handling accurately the Word of truth." That diligence must extend PAST the assurance of hope. Once that assurance has been obtained, the directive in Hebrews 6:12 further warns us:

"do not become sluggish"

Human nature pulls me back, tempts me to be sluggish. The Apostle Paul is an example here: at the latter end of his years he continued in fruitful service even when confined to a Roman prison. He said, "I press on..."

"imitate those who through faith and patience inherit the promises." Hebrews 6:12b

That is why I like to read biographies. They are the ongoing chapters of the book of the Acts of the Apostles, the flesh and blood examples of saints who have inherited the promises via their persevering faith.

Some scriptural promises are not realized at all apart from persevering faith. My own perseverance is stimulated by the examples of those who have walked the road ahead of me. I take courage from their possession of the goods.

Christianity is a marathon, not a sprint.

Book Review: Island of the World by Michael D. O'Brien

The Island of the World by Michael D. O'Brien

My rating: 41/2 of 5 stars


The Island of the World is not reached by swimming the shallows. This is a book with depth and pathos, a tale of a Croatian who suffered unspeakable horrors and loss as the winds of war engulfed his country. An 800+ page tome, the lengthy story begins in 1933, painting the picture of the idyllic and remote mountain village into which Josip Lasta is born. The author takes great pains not to sweep over this happy season quickly, imbedding vivid scenes of Josip's simple and wholesome childhood deeply in the reader's mind. Tender moments with his Father, books he loved, the first stirrings of love, the little game he plays with his Mother as she is hanging out the laundry---evocative pleasures are painted in a way that leaves one feeling the way a child feels; the days are long but the years are short. Because the reader has lived with Josip during his brief, happy years, the stage is set to also deeply feel the loss he endures during the later phases of his life.



One would think that a handful of apolitical peasants in a mountain village, tucked away from the strategic centers of war, would be safe. But no one was safe during the storm of WWII. Josip Lasta suffered unimaginable loss and witnessed horrific scenes of such violence that it took his entire life to wrestle with their aftermath.



Michael D. O'Brien's talents lie not just in storytelling, but in art and iconography as well. The reader will pick up and collect many icons along the way, just as Josip Lasta does: the swallow, the dolphin, the white stag. There are many layers of spiritual depth in much of the reading, many wisdom nuggets to pick up. Most of it was enriching but toward the end of the book I felt it was becoming a little too much. One can only pick up so many nuggets before they become heavy.



That was a small fault, however, and gladly exchanged for the privilege of the interior ruminations of a man who clung to life and love with a tenacity that was remarkable. Josip Lasta's life was ultimately a triumph of faith and sacrifice over a set of circumstances that can only be described as "hellish". A truly brilliant picture of a simple kind of hero.



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Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton

Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I waited too long to read this book, probably because the title makes it sound like something boring and straight-laced. It is not! Chesterton engages in a game of verbal ping-pong, bouncing around modernist notions such as evolution, progress, equality, materialism, crime as a disease, miracles, and science. Sometimes I would get bogged down because he can talk an issue to death. But most of the time I found him pithy, witty, humorous, and profound. Always, Chesterton was able to lucidly argue his way through modern truisms and come to the finish line: TRUTH as contained in orthodox Christianity. Highly recommended.



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Smoothies and Mom Toys

My recipe for pink smoothies, which I posted w-a-y back in 2006, when I first started blogging, has served us well. I still make smoothies several times a week, an excuse to call the troops together for a break and a few moments of conversation. They are refreshing when the weather is hot, and when winter comes we enjoy them in front of the fire. A couple of things have changed:  4-oz. smoothies are no longer large enough for teens! I buy yogurt by the quart in order to accommodate. The other thing that has changed is that I now have a "Mom toy" for garnishing the smoothies with real whipped cream. The kids bought a whipped cream dispenser for me for Christmas a few years ago and it is fun to use.

Often we think of family traditions as they relate to holidays and birthdays, but the little rituals woven into our daily routines contribute so much color and strength to the fabric of our lives. I treasure the fleeting moments I have with my young adults and find that the time I spend in the kitchen, whether it is to prepare a meal or a smoothie, is one of the best tools in my arsenal for creating an atmosphere of togetherness.

Post-Feast

Like the savory smells that linger in the kitchen after Thanksgiving Day, the memory of a lovely Thanksgiving feast leaves a residual glow in the heart. There are many pieces to the mosaic:

• The sparkle of fine crystal and the patina of well-loved silver
• Mom's tangy-tart cranberry sauce
• A pause for praise, offered from honest lips
• Lighthearted word-play over a game of Apples-to-Apples
• Grazing on leftovers in the evening, while perusing a fat newspaper
• A bedtime meditation and prayer

I like best to celebrate Thanksgiving in my own home. Even during the years when we traveled 3 hours to be with family, we rose early to host a Thanksgiving breakfast in our home for the waifs and wanderers who found their way to our table: A Japanese student. A young military man. An aspiring rock star. The elderly widow. A middle aged divorcee...Some guests have faded from memory and others have become "regulars"at our table.

The food on the table might be traditional...or not. This year I carefully roasted the turkey using Cook's Illustrated instructions and I tried a new recipe for fennel stuffing (a keeper!)  But other years we've had quiche, pumpkin soup, stuffed pork loin, or grilled sirloin. No pumpkin pie because I cannot make good pie crust, but a pumpkin cream cheese cake roll or a marbled cheesecake will make a worthy stand-in.

Recalling my Grandmother's feasts, I might try to duplicate her famous spanish rice. Somehow, I can't pass a Thanksgiving holiday without thinking of her! Oh, she took this holiday seriously. There were l-o-n-g tables set up in her basement, enough to accommodate all of my aunts and uncles and cousins. Together we sang the "Doxology" before digging in. Sometimes there would be a goose alongside the platter of turkey--seems that dark meat was more popular back then!

I am grateful that God has blessed me to be able to hang yet one more happy vignette in my museum of memories. What a joy to have such a holiday in our heritage, one that links us to past generations and yet extends outward to enfold orphans, widows, and strangers.

Blest be the tie that binds,

Our hearts in Christian love.

The fellowship of kindred minds

Is like to that above.

Amen 

The Soul of an Artist

nuchylee / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Sometimes we know a person in just one dimension, and when we learn something new about them we are inspired and enriched. My hairdresser, whom I will call "Naomi", recently invited me to peek inside her art studio (a.k.a. a "kitchen" but that is of secondary importance to her). On the wall, on the easel, everywhere I looked I saw oil paintings of rich depth and complexity: landscapes, people, still lifes.  I marveled at her talent and the story behind it.

Noami had desired to paint all of her life, but with a half-dozen children and a career she didn't have the time to pursue it. It was one of those unfulfilled dreams, and at the age of 56 she figured it wasn't practical to consider starting a new hobby.

Enter a 90-year-old customer, who came in for a haircut and style. This lady was an accomplished artist and she encouraged Naomi to "GO FOR IT!"

"But I am 56 years old! What could I possibly accomplish now? Isn't it too late for me to become proficient as an artist?"

The elderly artist replied, "No. I began when I was 60."

That encouragement started Naomi on the path to a new passion. She bought video lessons and after the beauty shop was swept clean and the doors locked, she painted. She painted 7 to 8 hours, oblivious of the time. "It seemed but a few minutes," she recalls.

Within 90 days, she sold her first oil painting.  By the end of the year, she had sold nearly half of the 80+ works that she created.

It wasn't long before Naomi graduated from video lessons to receiving instruction from master artists. Her way is to learn all she can from a given teacher and then move on. A decade later, she is still reaching higher, pursuing a greater level of artistic achievement.

Her next dream? Remodel that kitchen so as to accommodate her art paraphernalia and to convert it to a bona fide studio. 

Meanwhile, she paints. She makes do with the space she has and dreams of a better studio do not rob her of the joy of painting now.

She paints alone. Sometimes she also enjoys the comfortable camaraderie of other artists when she sets up her easel at a local art studio.

I loved lingering after my hair appointment to see Naomi's studio and to listen to her story. So many of us have secret dreams that lay dormant in the heart. We never know when the conditions might converge to awaken that seed to sprout forth to life. Old age holds no fear to the one who can realize that THIS season may just provide the fertile ground for a new interest to flourish.

C.S. Lewis wisely expressed it this way:

"You are never too old

to set another goal

to dream a new dream."

Cheese, Qualified

"...he sat sadly consuming that impassive pale substance known to the English as 'cheese' unqualified (for there are cheeses which go openly by their names, as Stilton, Camembert, Gruyere, Wensleydale or Gorgonzola, but 'cheese' is cheese and everywhere the same)..."

                                           Dorothy Sayers- Whose Body?

I have 10 days left of my summer break, and I am only just now getting the chance to dive into the reading I wanted to do. Oh my, I am enjoying Dorothy Sayers!

Don't you just love this quote about the cheese?  I'm familiar with all of them except the Wensleydale.  I find it interesting that her words were written in the 1920's and the cheeses have maintained their original identities nearly a century later.  Here is a little run-down on the "qualified cheeses" she mentions:

*Stilton- think blue cheese. By law, it must be produced in one of three English counties to earn the name.

*Camembert- a soft French cheese made of cows' milk.  Its name comes from the mold, penicillium camemberti used in the ripening process.

*Gruyere- sweet, a little salty, with a grainy mouth feel. Named for a town in Switzerland, it is the familiar swiss cheese we love to use in quiche and fondues.

*Wensleydale- new to me, but my internet search tells me it is still widely loved and popular. First made by the monks in the Roquefort region of France, it is crumbly, moist, and can be made from the milk of either cows or ewes. "Roquefort" salad dressing is familiar to me and gives a clue that it is a cousin to the Stilton blue cheese.

*Gorgonzola- bearing the name of the Italian town of Gorgonzola, this cheese is often associated with pasta or pizza. Pungent and crumbly, it is another member of the blue cheese family.

My husband and I drove through cheese country (Wisconsin), on our honeymoon. We took the uncharted back roads, happening upon wonderful dairy farms by serendipity. Every day we feasted upon an assortment of cheeses and french bread and 34 years later I can still conjure up the pleasure. I have often wondered if those family operations still exist, or have the big corporations swallowed them all up?

What is your favorite cheese?