While preparing tomorrow’s lesson plan for the Sunshine Room, I thought everyone might want to know that we use LifeWay for Buddies with special needs children. It features repetition and many option that make it ready for adaptation to the needs and gifts of the students. As a curriculum writer, I always add my activities which means I am always carrying around objects that clink or crinkle or….. This time we are studying Jesus’ teaching of the widow’s small coin, and I’m taking coins and a noisy tin bucket. Good thing my wheelchair has places to hang things, plus, I have Bob to lug big things. He is a great helper!
Let’s not call those terrible double tornadoes in Nebraska a “God event” as some of the newscasters are doing. Poor God gets credited with everything from car wrecks to sore joints, a serious problem because it keeps us from crediting God with radical, unconditional love, the kind that brings the comfort of knowing God’s presence in times of trouble. If you’re mad at someone for blowing away your home, it’s hard to invite them to walk with you through tragic times. God is love. It says so in my favorite book.
Something I heard in a sermon last week about finding a place to think with God reminded me of Fred’s chair. When Fred and Perk moved (What! Again?), they threw out an old early American wooden winged chair with upholstered cushions. Bob and I adopted it, found an ottoman to go with it and had both of them reupholstered. Over the years the chair became what you might call a friend and a history not only of God Thinks but of my multiple sclerosis.
The first year, a nurse came to give me thirty gamma globulin infusions, and the perfect chair was Fred’s chair with its wooden wings where the IV bag could be taped to the wood.
Over the years I have sat in the perfect chair for breathing treatments during which I always played solitaire, now over one thousand games won.
In between these events this was my chair corner for Bible reading, praying, thinking with God, critical list-making. Yes, I know God is everywhere and doesn’t just live in the chair corner, but it’s my comfort zone. Everyone has a comfort zone for just about everything. This is mine. Thanks Fred and Perk.
Stopped under an underpass at a stoplight yesterday when some heavy equipment caught my eye. In a flash, I wondered what it was doing parked there underneath traffic, where it was going and what it would do when it got there. Then it hit me. My co-teacher must have been right when she told me last week that I am just a person who is curious about everything. Maybe that’s the reason I had a fun rush when I took my young grandchildren to watch a nearby construction project. I was as curious as they were about the huge scoop shovels and pile drivers.
Curiosity is fun and fills my head with smart but often useless information, but it is fun to pry in to the process for something or find out why it looks that way.
Are you just a little curious?
My historical novel set in Texas, The Reluctant Immigrant, will make an appearance in a collection along with three books by Judi Ehresman under the title Long Road Home Romance Collection. Don’t rush out to buy it until November!
Since the book came out, I have been amazed at the number of immigrants within my circle of acquaintances, all with interesting stories including a father who mailed himself to the United States from a foreign country, a family shipped in to a US port during a very hazardout time and someone who waded across the Rio Grande. All immigrants face homesickness, a gripping fear of the unknown, quiet suffering from lack of language skills, strange social customs, and, perhaps most overriding of all, food differences. Try eating beef all the time when you grew up on fish , or discover hush puppies when you never heard of corn meal.
Romance fits in here also, as courting customs vary within geographical areas. In some cases romance with one of “those foreigners” is a community offense, yet the mixing and matching of “those foreigners” brought about a blending of cultures that has enriched our country. My ancestors were French-speaking Swiss from the area of Geneva (Generally considered German-speaking.) who came to New Orleans and went up the Mississippi River. There were some family get-togethers at our house when only French was spoken, and I, a little girl, never understood a word but tried to laugh when everyone else laughed at a joke.
There have been times in my life when I have felt like an immigrant plopped down in a strange circumstance. How about you?