“Naked came I out of my mother’s womb and naked shall I return: the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”  Job 1:21

Never was this truth so poignantly displayed as in the wee hours of this morning.  Family members were gathered around the hospital bed of my father, who was struggling to take his final breaths on this earth.  As we watched the numbers on the monitor drop and the heartbeat become more sporadic, it was clear his 88 years were coming to completion.  Slowly and peacefully he drifted off, leaving us to wonder what he was experiencing and with whom he was reuniting. 

Within minutes of the straight line on the monitor, a sound from down the hall:

a newborn baby cry. 

My dad: January 10, 1923 – March 29, 2011

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

There’s been a lot of crud going around: sore throats, headaches, stomach flu.  Unfortunately, my office computer caught a virus, too.  This morning my screen flashed a big red warning that I was under attack.  I was a little suspicious when I saw “Your’re at great risk!!!”  Your’re?  I’m no computer wiz, but I am a pretty good speller. 

A kind soul came to my rescue and spent several hours trying to undo the damage.  The kind soul promised to come back again tomorrow to continue the battle against the demon in my pc.  I asked my friend where these virus’s come from.  Evidently my eyes glazed over as the explanation became technical, so he simply said, “There are people on the other side of the world sitting in dark rooms coming up with ways to infect your computer.” 

Huh.  People in some foreign country are sitting in windowless rooms driven by the goal to frustrate a 51-year-old Christian Education Director at a church in a small midwestern town?  I’m not that important, really. All I want to do is download the Sunday school curriculum and print out a sign up sheet for VBS.  Not exactly earth shattering stuff here. 

I feel a headache coming on…..must be the virus.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1

Last November, I wrote about the gift of an hour.  Now we have to give it back.  You’d think losing an hour would be a real downer, but Daylight Savings Time has a redeeming quality: it’s a sign that spring is coming.  In light of that good news, it’s hard to get too worked up about moving the clock ahead.  Time is fleeting, after all.

Back in the day, when the kids were little and we homeschooled, we had a really long timeline up on the wall, covering 1400 A.D. to 2000 A.D.   It wrapped around the dining room and continued down the hallway and back entryway.  When we moved to a different house, the timeline went all the way around our big open basement.  The kids added all kinds of visual reminders to the one-of-a-kind border depending on what they were studying, whether it was history, science or literature.  As the years went on, the timeline filled up and became a real work of art that summarized twelve years of educating four kids.  I found it ironic that our last kiddo joined the ranks in public school in 2000, the year our timeline stopped.  The day my baby walked down the street to his new school with his new backpack, I took down the timeline.  It was a very emotional day for me.  This is what I wrote:

“It’s the end of the line.  The end of the timeline, that is.  Six hundred years wrapped around our family room.  Four children’s educations wrapped around my heart.  K’s renaissance people and famous Americans….  S’s world wars and sports heroes….  A’s presidents and favorite authors….  J’s inventions and discoveries…  It’s all rolled up (I feel it in my stomach).  The wall is so bare (I feel it in my heart).  It’s the end of our line of time.”

Time is fleeting.  So losing one hour?  Not such a big deal!

Hold it.  I’m not talking about basketball here. 

I’m just saying: March really makes me mad.

Dear March, 

  You are a scheming, underhanded deceiver; pretending to be spring one day, then turning around and slapping us in the face with winter the next.  How dare you turn on us, you fickle, conniving month.  March, we detest you for it.  Just when it appeared the end of the race was near, you tripped us and sent us sprawling.  Tired of snow, Me

Dear Winter,

   Can’t you take the hint that we just want you to go away?  You are the company that doesn’t know when to leave.  We try to be polite and take into account your spontaneous and reckless nature, but eventually your welcome wears out and our tolerance for you is gone.  Winter, it’s time for you to go.  Longing for spring, Me

See?  March.  Really.  Makes.  Me.  Mad.

As in angry.

And maybe a little crazy.

Last week, PB and I snuck (sneaked?) off to Vegas.  As in Las Vegas.  Nevada.  To see our niece perform in her high school musical.  Honest.  Most people who take a long weekend to Sin City go to see shows and gamble in casinos.  Driving down The Strip was just about enough stimulation for me.  I felt a little out of my element, I guess.  Thankfully, my brother-in-law and his wife have a lovely home in a very normal residential area of the city.  And they let us stay free, drive their car, and eat whatever we want out of their refrigerator.  We had a good time hanging out together; their kids and grandkids provided plenty of entertainment.

On our way to the airport Sunday morning, a billboard caught my eye.  It had a picture of a long-legged woman on it with the caption, “JUST THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF WRONG.”  I admit, it caught my breath.  What is the right amount of wrong, exactly?  Just enough to feel like you are getting away with something without getting caught and having to pay any consequences?  And, right and wrong according to whom?  And, how do you know when you’ve had the wrong amount of wrong?  Is there a wrong amount of right?  Or a right amount of right?  I honestly don’t know where to go from here, so I’ll stop this madness. 

This I do know:  our niece’s play was the best show in Vegas.  She’ll be a star someday.  And our great-niece sings the most fantastic songs about goats you’ve ever heard.  And kids grow up fast when there are big gaps of time between visits.  And there’s nothing like spending time with family you don’t get to see very often.  And I love my little midwestern town.  I’ll leave someone else to figure out the other stuff.

Of the twelve disciples, Jesus frequently spent time apart with a trio: Simon, James and John.  The threesome was often chosen to go special places alone with their Teacher.  They were also the only disciples given nicknames:  Simon was tagged “Peter – The Rock” and the brother duo of James and John was labeled “Sons of Thunder”.  I was always under the impression that those three disciples were Jesus’ favorites, but lately I’ve been wondering.  Instead, what if they were the most unpredictable and mischievous and that’s why Jesus kept them close to him at all times?  Perhaps Jesus took them with him up on the mountain because leaving them behind might have caused all kinds of trouble down below.

When my dear hubby was a little boy, his mother kept him very close to her side.  At three years old, little Blake was already entertaining for large church groups, singing “Open Up Your Heart and Let the Son Shine In” and “I Love to Go to Sunday School”.  But as soon as the last note was sung, mom whisked her little performer off the stage before he started in with all manner of shenanigans.  PB* loved working a crowd, even as a toddler.

The story is told about one particular Sunday morning in the four-year old boy’s life.  As his mom was watching from the choir loft and his dad was preaching from the pulpit, the little guy was up to no-good in the pew.  He wasn’t being bad, just distracting the lovely Methodist folks during the sermon.  So Rev. O stopped his message, had his youngest boy come up front, and sat him down on a folding chair facing the congregation until the closing prayer.  An extreme measure, to be sure, and likely to cause intense psychological scarring to most children.  Not so for our little man.  Dad had hoped this would be a discipline that would end all horsing around during church forever.  But PB looked out over that assembly and discovered a rapt audience.  Now instead of a few pews of eyes watching him, he had the attention of the whole place and he was in his glory!  It was the beginning of a long and successful ministry.

Isn’t it funny how the little ones that try us the most, often grow up to do great things?  Is it because we held their hands a little tighter and kept them a little closer?  Did that strong grip plant a sense of security in them?  I think it did for Peter, James and John.  And PB.

*PB – Pastor Blake, my dear hubby

Well, I can’t pass up this chance to jump up and down and squeal a few “Yay’s” on behalf of my Green Bay Packers!  There’s nothing more fun in the sports world than being a fan of a championship team!

The Pack and I go way back.  I was conceived the same month Vince Lombardi was hired as head coach in Green Bay.  On the day of my birth, first year coach Lombardi and quarterback Bart Starr lost to the New York Giants 20-3.  I waited to make my entrance until after the game was over.  I was six years old when the Packers won Superbowl I.  All I remember is my grandma dozing in the rocking chair and jumping every time my brothers yelled.

When my oldest son entered 7th grade, I became a serious sports fan.  I realized that if I wanted conversation with my pre-teen it was going to have to be about sports, so I read the sports page every day to educate myself.  Our communication revolved around batting averages and ERAs, but, hey, it was conversation.

And how we loved the glory years with Reggie White and that other guy….Brent somebody.  Yah, his picture came off the refrigerator when he committed football adultry and broke our hearts.  We’re still working through it, obviously.

But today is a new day for Packer fans!  We have a new picture on our refrigerator and a Lombardi trophy is on its way to Wisconsin!

*jumping up and down*   Yay!!!  *jumping up and down*

I’m throwing a little celebration here on “small drop” today!  One year ago, on February 2nd, this little experiment began and I had no idea what I was doing.   I still don’t know exactly what I’m doing, or if I’m doing it right, or if it’s even worth doing!  I do know my little blog isn’t fancy-schmancy or in league with the big-girl bloggers out there.  But I’m content with a small space to articulate my small thoughts to my small audience!  So, happy birthday, “small drop”!  Let’s see if you survive a second year!

As I hit this milestone, some thanks are in order.  Plus, I’ve been watching those awards shows and have been making up my own acceptance speeches in my head.

Thanks to my son-in-law, Noah, who said to me one January day, “You should have a blog.”  Within a few seconds and a few clickety-clacks on the laptop, a new babe was born!  However, I was extremely intimidated and it took me a month to get enough nerve to publish my first post.

Thanks to my two girls, who encouraged me in so many ways. They assured me that I did, indeed, have something to say, and then told their girlfriends to read their mom’s blog.   However, if my darling daughters were the only ones who ever read this, it would be enough for me. 

Thanks to my son, who put a link on his facebook page to my “This Is Why” post and gave me the thrill of my blogging life when 78 people visited “small drop” in one day.

Thanks to my other son, who allowed me to write about his escapade in “Take Meat Out to the Ballgame”.

Thanks to PB, who doesn’t mind when I sit him down and plop the computer in his lap and say, “Want to read my blog?”  He loves me.

Thanks to my friends who actually stop by on their way to Pioneer Woman,  as well as readers who drop in by accident.  You have no idea how it thrills my heart to know you’ve been by for a visit!

Thanks to my producer, my director and supporting cast…..oops, getting carried away! 

One more:  thanks to God, who was the original Word that became flesh and lived among us for awhile.  And continues to live among us.  Amen!