I’m writing this the Saturday before the 2nd Sunday of Advent because my life is being slowed down next week with eye surgery. A problem will be corrected, yet the viewing of the week will be a blur. The blur is a little like the evolving of a celebration for the long awaited coming of the child Jesus. I did some very casual research and how the day is marked has had components added and taken away and, by the early Puritans, almost totally ignored. I’m just throwing out some ideas and you make what works for you to affirm, inspire, or remind.

First, I am not sure that those who longed and waited for the coming of God to step into history really thought of His coming as a baby in spite of Isaiah and those defining names. Even when a mature Jesus preached and healed around Nazareth he was just a local boy, Mark 6:3 “Isn’t this the carpenter, the son of Mary?” After crucifiction and resurrection, anticipation was for the 2nd coming. Another chance to get it right.

Secular and sacred began blending over the years. My most interesting enlightenment was that from Babylonian times until 1752, various countries began a new year on the spring equinox, March 25. Annunciation or Lady Day was March 25 in the church. After that it made sense for Christmas to be December 25. Advent used to run to Epiphany or the coming of the Wise Men with Jesus’s baptism leading into Lent. Changes came in the form of trees and gifts and posadas in the Latin countries. The most liturgical moment of my childhood was attending Christmas Eve at the Episcopal church which involved a processional with candles! I lived without Advent until my mid-thirties. My daddy carved a straight wooden piece with four holes as a candle holder for our children. Was a circle too difficult? The choices still vary with colors of the candles and the name and order designating each Sunday. This night I’m writing, ads are proclaiming Only 21 Days until Christmas. What have you chosen to lead you in hope, joy, love, peace to that day when the moment of waiting turns to arrival.

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

Luke 2:6 – 7

Some of you who are squeamish may have already assumed this one is not for you. It’s your lost. Since I am the one who writes, I am the one who gets to choose and I am not ready to leave Thanksgiving yet. This is how the title ties in. My daddy taught animal husbandry and I know odd facts not necessarily discussed in the general public. The cows he raised had four parts to their stomachs. Instead of chewing food thirty times like your mother taught you, they have a system of chewing, bringing up, chewing again, until finally it completes the cycle that gives the most nourishment from what is given.

That’s how Thanksgiving was for me this year. I was suffitted with traveling demands, change in schedule, an abundance of relatives and their love, and, of course, a variety of food. Throw in a piñanta and a group picture of 51 in a barn and the not able to digest level was reached. The trip home required focus on navigated through intense rain showers. Home had a list waiting that was demanding my attention.

So, it wasn’t until I received the file of pictures that middle son sent out that I could pull out moments and really cherish each. I have come to the ranch for most Thanksgivings since 1963 and some of those present were part of the original gathering. The first year had only 15 of us and this one was the chance to see how branches of the family tree had grown new twigs. I attached names to the great-greats that I did not have sorted out and which ones belonged to whom. One picture was an early morning coffee with me and a niece up early to tend turkey #1 even as her mother had through so many years, Her grown up son, my son, and I stuffed non-candy in the yellow bird piñata they took to hang at the barn. I got to greet one group who came from Chicago and hold a 9 month old who came to me cheerfully before he entered the main house and noise. Relatives and fringers who were related to someone organized food and set up tables on an extended porch. We wouldn’t have had that amazing all together picture if a sister of an in-law hadn’t been a professional. What had been a overstuffed feeling eased as remembering each bite of an overwhelming day helped the whole be a thankful time to be savored and nourished to meet the need to belong and to celebrate.

God sets the lonely in families. Psalm 68:6

The choice of the second word was deliberate. Not a casual comment of “Hey, you,” to that unknown character chewing gum and walking away without a backward glance. This is a request to a person of noble statue who has been taught two magic words, please and thank you. The behest is made to each of us and how the duo is received and offered tinges our whole day. The national thanksgiving of this week is for gifts of intangibles like survival and friendship and for tangibles like food and shelter.

To deepen my feeling of how “thank you” colors a situation, I went back and looked at two examples. One is a thank you I never gave. I asked a couple to stand in a situation where I really needed help. The moment (well it was more than a moment) passed, and I got caught up in something else, and then I really felt awkward coming back to the incident, and then I lost the contact. In this lifetime, they may have moved on, and I am left standing in a well-deserved mud hole. On the other hand, I have offered an action that required, if not sacrifice, but commitment on my part only to never receive a response. In one case, I stewed and fumed and almost prompted, “Was my offering helpful?” each time we met. I still wonder if what I did was worthwhile. The shoe was on the other foot.

So, this became more personal than I planned and more scattered than a national syndicate will want to pick up and publish. Yet, I looked at the faces your e-mails represent and wanted to say “thank you” for letting me invade your space. I wandered aimlessly in Kroger at 9:00 this morning and one of the stockers said, “Can I help you find something? Let me show you.” No way could I dash on without a smile and “Thank you,” before he turned away. The coming up weeks will be filled with giving and taking, both because it is someone’s job or just someone’s place in life for now. As days unfold, note how footsteps are made easier for you or you can ease the way for others. Note times someone steps up to help and when you are called to do the same. James reminds us that all gifts have an ultimate source. We still have to ask with “Please” and receive with “Thank you.”

 Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above,

James 1:17

More than just death and taxes are certain. Comments after elections are always rampant. Some are how well the process was handled this year while on the other hand probes must be made into “allegations (not proven facts yet) of improprieties ( missed standards stated or expected) in the way elections were conducted.” This was a word for word quote from the Houston Chronicle. I did some Wikipedia type research and a review of my memories and can state that unequivocally no election has been without fraud since Roman times, my earliest starting date. One site even listed eleven ways that unscrupulous citizens, or even aliens for that matter, could mess up the hope of validity. Because voting involves numbers, mathematicians have a field day dealing with totals, and age groups, and absentee against on site, and that not to be argued with proof of ratios and percentages.

Consider personal experience. This year you may have been am eighteen year old able with a bit of pride to cast your first vote. I have a variety of experiences under my belt. The earliest was sitting on a counter next to my daddy who inked an eraser on an unsharpened pencil and marked a paper ballot. Some years I’ve had to sign my name under a voter registration list and other years they just looked me up in a book and put a tic next to my name and recently my driver’s license was my proof of identity. I voted with a mail-in ballot one year and followed the directions to sign my name where it crossed the seal of the envelope, so no one could open and change my choices. I have stood behind a machine and had to move buttons and a yellow knob to go through a long process before check and submit. This year I needed help to understand feeding a sheet of paper through a voting machine and then taking it to be scanned and printed before handing it in. I have visited with friends at a local church while waiting to vote and have also been one in a long line at a municipal center. I missed the years where voting was a stating your choice in a loud voice while someone else wrote it down, so in each case mentioned, my vote was my private opinion.

Two caveats as I wrap up. I do respected the frustration of those whose right to vote was made difficult or impossible this year because of non-validation of themselves or non-availability of a voting site. As a woman, I am aware that offering that right to have a say in government was a long journey even in a democracy. And, I offer utmost respect to those paid and otherwise who moved machinery, set up sites to be used in the most effective and efficient manner, and stood their post all day to answer questions and encourage as needed. Once again, I cast my one vote – the only voice I have. I voted against a few candidates while not feeling strongly about the one I did choose. For some slots, I definitely wanted that one with the box checked. The next day, my candidate won, In some cases, my candidate lost. Across the slate, may each of us have wisdom and commitment to respect how our individuality makes for a stronger community. The verse is true in a variety of situations that require the power of one.

Choose you this day. Joshua 24:14

Basics can get the point across. “Supper’s on!” ” Let’s paint the bedroom.” “Nice picture. Put it on the fridge.” An article in the paper reminded me that to be memorable, a distinctive appellation adds that pizzazz to capture your attention. You may not know that Benjamin Moore’s choice of color for the year is “Raspberry Blush.” A song written in its honor can be found on Spotify. Neither by name nor hue does that attract me. Being in a room that color would lead to an itchy feeling. It calls to a mind the face of a high chair child feeding itself a red treat. The reason for choosing says it is time “to take a step out of the comfort zone.” One does have other choices. “October Mist” a gentle sage green. “Wenge” charcoal gray, and my favorite, “Cinnnamon” which is , of course, rust. In the end you’ll probably say, “Come see the dining room. We painted it a dull blue.”

Morning in the kitchen can get by with , “One scrambled egg with no runny whites.” Or DMS looking at a waiter and saying, “A hamburger well done. BURN IT!” Check out the blog on “Captivating menu descriptions” from the handheld menu to the over 100 selections of names for home food delivery. Younger eaters now like the words locally grown in the presentations along with healthy, naturally. Why else do you eat? Quoting my favorite suggestion: “Grandma’s Sunday gravy. A secret sauce with San Mazano tomatoes and fresh oregano simmered for eight hours and poured over homemade spaghetti.” She either cooked Saturday night or missed church for a mid-afternoon meal.

I did not go to the Metropolitan in New York to brag I had seen Untitled No. 47. I have read that even well known artists use that term to keep the viewer from pre-deciding what the artwork can mean to them. I don’t want that responsibility. Even little hints like Figure Study and Landscape Sketch # 273 point me in the right direction. Classic artists always named the work. When the name is mentioned you see Mona Lisa and Whistler’s Mother. A pause of thankfulness comes to mind standing in front of The Angleus. Even though he wasn’t painting from life, Dali brings a moment of reality to the crucifixion in his Christ of St. John on the Cross. Simplicity counts, even vagueness lends direction, yet at times the right specific word exalts.

 She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.”

Matthew 1:21

Conversation lags. Avoid arguments, yet stir up some interest. Try dropping this sentence in the air, “How many beds have you bought in your life?” Then lean back, fold your hands on your lap and listen. One couple of you fair readers tried a water bed. The tale is that the wife filled it in the bedroom while the husband crawled under the house to be sure the floor wasn’t buckling under the weight. A daughter had a queen size bed delivered to a second story bedroom by way of a crane over a balcony. Men at either end would never have been able to make the curve around a narrow stairwell without being permanently stuck. My history has been a double that I still have from childhood to a king down to a queen and now I have moved to another room and a single for two reasons. It is easier to make up and I don’t have to worry about wearing out sheets on just one side.

Which leads to everything else needed to make that mattress useful. The inclusive term is bedclothes or bed linens, if you’re more picky, that are used over the mattress for hygiene, warmth, and maybe decoration. My mother was white all cotton, line-dry, press the top fold if necessary. I leaned toward wrinkle free colors, but didn’t go far enough to have all match through the bedspread and extra pillows. We had a crocheted bedspread that my husband’s grandmother made for each grandson which looked like the love it represented. However, toes around a sheet went through the loops when one turned over. For awhile it was put in a chair at night and folded at the foot of the bed in the daytime. I don’t know when it became no more. My mother-in-if law had monograms on sheets and pillowcases. Part of naming our daughter Sarah was because she felt monograms looked more impressive with the same letter on either side of the married name. Hers was HSH.

Whatever the term for a now generation is, they are seeking to do away with the top sheet in place of a duvet which, of course, needs a cover over the mundane down or polyester base. WSJ had a article on how and why this is necessary. Maybe the arching necessities are more simple. To have a clean bed is always a treat. To come back to your own bed after a trip says home at last.

In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety.

Psalm 4:8

Being saintly has different meanings to different people and in different locations. As a Baptist in South Louisiana, names and attributes floated around the fringes. Four have become more specifically important to me. As a high schooler, one March 19, a group of us got introduced to St. Joseph. I attended the teacher training school on the college campus and our learning to be home economics teachers loaded a group of giggly girls in a car for a night time ride on back roads to visit various Italian homes loaded with a variety of offerings to celebrate the breaking of a drought in Sicily way beyond anyone’s memory. Ladened tables spilled over from the dining room to the front yard. Gathered around under lights strung in tree branches were generations of family, neighbors and a few dogs. I would read announcements of locations in the New Orleans paper, and the church in Ponchatoula still celebrates. I think you have to have a certain ethnic heritage and an abundance of crayfish to properly honor the day.

The saint I try to stay on good terms with is Saint Anthony of Padua, affectionally known as Tony. He first intervened in my life in May, 1985. All the students of a K – 8th grade school were gathered noisedly in the school gym to wrap up an end of year Field Day. I reached up and one of a favorite pair of earrings was gone. I bent down to sweep my hands between moving feet. My Catholic friend questioned why and immediately said, “Stand up, turn around three times, and chant, ‘Tony, Tony, look around. Something’s lost that must be found.'” And, lo, there it was in front of me. Through the years I’ve had other validations, one as recent as this past week. Though that one involved a book that took two months to show up. I still believe.

Then two saints are just women I’m glad I know existed and can call to mind. Julian of Norwich may or may not be canonized depending where you get your information. She is called an anchoress, one who chooses to live alone next to a church and offer wisdom. Her bedrock statement is “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” Some mornings that gives stability to the jello that I feel surrounds me. The last I’ve just learned of. Formally she is designated as St. Thérèse of Lisieux; fondly she is called “Little Flower.” She felt unable to meet the great deeds and miracles of some saints, yet she committed herself to doing small deeds with great love. I can take a deep breath and accomplish one or two of those myself. I feel confident of this. I may not be voted a saint by those who confer the appellation, yet I’ve already been given the reason for trying.

However, you are chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, people who belong to God. You were chosen to tell about the excellent qualities of God, who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.

1 Peter 2:9

Spoiler Alert! For those who have been faithful and even affirming readers, I want to say I have struggled over this week with an under the skin topic bothering me. This morning I woke up thinking how I can handle it maybe with grace in the last paragraph. If not, you may quit reading, delete, and even write me. Just don’t go away. Life may improve.

Back to title. What isn’t used, or gets messed up, or just goes bad while sitting there must be dealt with. At times someone else can rescue and redeem. Middle son had permission to walk the block on trash day. He came back with treasures like 47 no spring tennis balls and several sheets of drywall to upscale the tree house. Yes, eventually all went out for our trash man. For a bit, they had a second life. A variety of other waste just goes. My earliest memory was a some number gallon garbage can which was put out at edge of our property once or twice a week. In Hammond, ours sat on a 17 brick square to keep the bottom dry. A hand cart was nearby to help my mother roll it out front. The mother of a friend of mine regularly scrubbed hers with clorox. I’m not sure the garbage men either noticed or appreciated.

Probably the most exciting part of trash disposal may not be available now. To make it work, one needs a daddy, a pick-up truck, and a sense of adventure. At times, we had something, (I can’t remember specifics) that needed hauling to the city dump. Those who went put on boots and took gloves. One paid for the privilege of driving to a parking area, looking at a glorious array of whatever, and maybe spotting rodents with long tails as one tossed over the offerings you were adding. The trip made for exciting if unacceptable dinner time conversation. Trash is more classified now. A garbage disposal may be first line of defense. Black and green city bins take care of their assigned contents on schedule. Compostable bags hopefully stay in one piece until yard trash is collected.

Yet one kind of garbage, still trashy, exists. I believe in reading and have cut a wide swarth in my lifetime. I have quit some books a chapter in because I didn’t need the content in my memory or because the writing was so poor I kept reaching for a pencil to correct. Other books, not connected to any part of my life or heritage, I have finished. These gave me a window into pain, or struggles, or even historical truth.Those words helped me understand reality in newspapers or from media reports. I have read myself, taught, and read aloud to my own children books on the banned lists, not to their detriment, I hope. So, my struggle this week is how to allow the same privilege of choice to all without denying the possibility of treasure amidst trash to others. Only one book explicitly states its purpose, and it is all good.

All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the people of God may be complete, equipped for every good work.

2 Timothy 3:16-17

The world is divided into….so step into this narrative wherever you fit. I am a child of the early 20th century and lived in a small town. General news arrived by a morning and evening paper. Various size radios and some phonographs were the entertainment. If an appointment was required for anything, you dialed the appropriate number, called the receptionist by her name (she either went to your church or shopped at the same grocery store) and stated what you needed. She said, “Let me see?” to the sound of flipping pages. The answers were either come on in now or what about next Tuesday. A decision was made, a pencil scraped to write it down, and both of you moved on to other things until the moment of appearing arrived. At some point, the date and time was written on a card to be thumbtacked to a bulletin board unless it was lost in the shuffle. You remembered a little late and called. You might be told to come on. Mrs. Lincoln can wait a bit and all was ok. A big mistake and you just started over with an apology and a new appointment. No extra charge and no group seemed to go out of business.

Moving toward the 21 century and the imperceptible take over of technology. Instead of your writing info on a calendar, some of you entered it on your phone which beeped up reminders of what was in your future. Then multiples of people must have quit paying attention because a forgetting to appear began to carry a financial punishment. Starting weeks ahead if necessary, everything from a haircut to a surgical procedure is delivered to your e-mail or text and requires a response that you have been called to attention of the commitment. In some cases, affirmation requires a portal and a password to perform the asked for reply. Last week one message was so garbled, I called a phone number. After explaining twice and holding back tears, the voice on the other end said, (These are exact words.) “I found the request and verified receipt manually. This matter is taken care of.” I grabbed a cold Root Beer and went to bed.

May this have been tongue in cheek enough to generate a little humor. After a four appointment week, I needed to name what I accomplish by my own consideration of its importance. For years, I got my family up and off in four different directions just by routine and dent of effort. Yes, I did hear, “When are we going to eat?” yet no one starved or was ever malnourished. I meet my own exercise requirements, make my bed, and tend the yard. And I pray over my day. That command once given has never been revoked. I don’t know the whole setting; however, this verse speaks to having responsible bootstraps.

Arise, for it is your task….Be strong and do it!

Ezra 10: 4

The title comes from a 1950’s responsive poem for elementary classes. The rest of the line says, “Makin’ things to grow, Doin’ what I can, Nature’s hired man.” I’m not a master gardener; however, genetically, one of my favorite places is outside “tending” whatever that means at the moment. I had two daddies for whom the morning activity was checking the garden, and they brought me along for the morning lecture. The love I have has been passed on. The three year old I planted anemone bulbs with as she patted the dirt and said, “Sleep tight,” now has pots of cacti and succulents. Middle son as a teen had a ficus begamina tree in his bedroom until the cat tried to climb it. Elder son took me shopping for summer plants on a recent trip to Steamboat.

I have a plot by the back porch that hasn’t quite defined itself: mint, parsley, dill for butterflies, and some amaryllis that needed dividing. This spring was the time to try eatables. I chose spineless okra and Japanese eggplant. Okra and tomatoes are a favorite summer dish and the eggplant was the experiment. Weather matters. High heat and extreme dryness slowed the whole growing process. Forget the eggplant. Squirrels must have out spies. Almost enough length to harvest one day and gone the next morning. The okra has been a learning curve that could require several paragraphs as it is just now coming into its own. I’ve had one side dish and have cut and frozen others for future delight. The most unusual revelation is that okra grows from the back of the flower, pushing the bloom forward until it finally falls off. Apples and peaches come from the center of the blossom as the stem still holds to the tree. Think about that and draw a picture if necessary.

Okra is one of those vegetables that divide the world. The word itself can bring smiles or a stuck out tongue and a gagging sound. A subdivision are those who like it prepared some ways, yet they have an overwhelming dislike for the slimy boiled presentation. Gumbo and mixes with other vegetables are my preference. If I move beyond my resolution for less fried food then a bowl of breaded crispy circles are as good to me as popcorn. Okra needs a summer growing season. The grocery stores of my childhood just had a bin with various sizes dumped all together for you to pick what you wanted. Now they come in plastic boxes; some you will keep and some you will toss. While this experiment in backyard growing may not have been the success I envisioned, I will probably try again next May. After all, even in the desert on the way to freedom, the Israelites still missed the food of what had been home.

We remember the fish we ate in Egypt at no cost—also the cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions and garlic.

Numbers 11:5