I'm off!

Vacation. Boston. Cute Old Towns. Forts. Nigra Falls. Canada. Spending time with my family.

That's what I call fun!!

Driving more than 40 hours with family. Hotel rooms. Eating out of an ice chest.

Not so much.

On the other hand... I'll whittle away the hours with two new books and two old favorites (YEAH!) I'll soften the uncomfortableness of a hotel bed with a few hours in the hotel pool, and eating out of an ice chest isn't so bad when the ice chest is stuffed with goodies :-)

So over all, it'll be a nice vacation.

See you next Monday!

Faces Of Camp 2009

These are a sample of the lovely faces of the wonderful people at camp this year.

WARNING: Picture Heavy!

I Have A Double LIfe

By day, most of you know me as a sweet-tempered Librarian.

But sometimes, at night, when the wind is right (aka, when I'm in the mood) my secret life calls me...

and I travel back to the 1940's and my life....

... as a Vogue model.

John 3:16

"For God so loved the world,
that he gave his only begotten Son,
that whosoever believeth in him
shall not perish,
but have everlasting life."

*Squeal*

Here's a trailer/promo for the new BBC adaption of Jane Austen's Emma. One of my favorite actresses is playing Emma so I'm really looking forward to seeing it!

Eleventh-hour faith What comes when all hedge funds run dry | Amy Henry

WORLD Magazine July 18th 2009

Desperation has a way of forging a greased path from my mouth to God's ear. It is a cable connection, lightning quick: God, help us. We have no job. The house will not sell. The mortgage payments keep coming. The money is running out. Hurry. Please.

His response, however, comes via dial-up, with finger-tapping, stomach-churning slowness. We are the Hebrews, perched on the banks of the Red Sea, camped between Migdol and the water, horses' hooves thundering, doom imminent. We cry out, "Why did you bring us out of Egypt?" That land of abundance where at least the children's bellies were full. Where we, despite occasional beatings, had homes and occupations and some semblance of comfort. Why?

Who needs faith when the checking account tops five digits, the children are healthy, and the job is "recession-proof?" When everyone is covered 80/20 by a head-to-toe health insurance policy? When business is good and clients abound, when the furnace is working and the pantry is stocked? When transmissions work and no one is in the hospital and the 401K is fully vested and all the disks in our backs are unherniated and no one is complaining of mysterious stomach pain? Faith is a frosting. A fringe benefit. An overly abused nicety that we talk about while sitting on padded pews in warm church buildings.

So, we wonder if we have been brought here just to die in the wilderness. A windy, hot prairie of suffering, with absolutely no hope on the wheat-filled horizon. What comfort now are those mutual funds, those stocks, that perfect credit rating? They offer no comfort now, no hedge against disaster. They are a quilt, wrapped around us on an icy day that, as it turns out, is mildewed and chock-full of moth holes.

The extra bedrooms, the fat layer of space between our neighbor's property and ours, the tax bracket of our particular street bring nothing now but mockery of the faith we put in status and excess and a garage full of a year's worth of toilet paper. Life really can't be that bad if the chest freezer is chock-full of briskets and shredded cheese and containers of last year's raspberry freezer jam, can it?

Whilst chomping on the fatted calf, however, the illusion persists, that somehow it all will save us. That the flat screen TV and the Restoration Hardware couches and the hardwood floors will, really, truly be enough. God is our Plan B, the cream, the juicy red maraschino cherry on top of an already delightful sundae. Not the coarse brown bread, the vegetable stew of necessity. He is the expected, the taken for granted. The water flowing effortlessly through our pipes. The electricity humming silently behind walls.

In the eleventh hour, the walls of the sea parted, the path of safety appeared for the Israelites. Perched on the edge of financial ruin, will He do the same for us? He who could have kept Pharaoh's heart soft. He who could have kept us employed. He who could have opened the seawaters a week before.

The way out, the provision, comes cloaked. No­pillar of fire meets us at the front door. Manna does not rain from heaven, nor water from rocks. But odd jobs appear. Meat goes on clearance. Costco sends a $400 rebate. We winter without a single doctor's visit. Donuts mysteriously appear on the front step. All things we are thankful for, but a question remains: If these physical provisions did not appear, would God still be our Jehovah Jirah, our Provider? How can I sit at my children's bedsides at twilight, hearing their sweet lisped prayers of absolute rock-solid confidence that God will take care of them without resorting to cynicism?

They, in their childlike faith, know the answer, and it is embarrassingly simple: He Himself is the provision. He will not leave us nor forsake us. Perhaps being removed from numbing abundance will be the very thing necessary for the adults in the family to seek the Giver rather than His gifts. For us to feast on Him, and for that feast, even in our time of deepest hunger, to fill us.

What this looks like I do not know exactly. But I suspect I will spend the rest of my life finding out.

So, we wonder if we have been brought here just to die in the wilderness. A windy, hot prairie of suffering, with absolutely no hope on the wheat-filled horizon. What comfort now are those mutual funds, those stocks, that perfect credit rating? They offer no comfort now, no hedge against disaster. They are a quilt, wrapped around us on an icy day that, as it turns out, is mildewed and chock-full of moth holes.

The extra bedrooms, the fat layer of space between our neighbor's property and ours, the tax bracket of our particular street bring nothing now but mockery of the faith we put in status and excess and a garage full of a year's worth of toilet paper. Life really can't be that bad if the chest freezer is chock-full of briskets and shredded cheese and containers of last year's raspberry freezer jam, can it?

Whilst chomping on the fatted calf, however, the illusion persists, that somehow it all will save us. That the flat screen TV and the Restoration Hardware couches and the hardwood floors will, really, truly be enough. God is our Plan B, the cream, the juicy red maraschino cherry on top of an already delightful sundae. Not the coarse brown bread, the vegetable stew of necessity. He is the expected, the taken for granted. The water flowing effortlessly through our pipes. The electricity humming silently behind walls.

In the eleventh hour, the walls of the sea parted, the path of safety appeared for the Israelites. Perched on the edge of financial ruin, will He do the same for us? He who could have kept Pharaoh's heart soft. He who could have kept us employed. He who could have opened the seawaters a week before.

The way out, the provision, comes cloaked. No­pillar of fire meets us at the front door. Manna does not rain from heaven, nor water from rocks. But odd jobs appear. Meat goes on clearance. Costco sends a $400 rebate. We winter without a single doctor's visit. Donuts mysteriously appear on the front step. All things we are thankful for, but a question remains: If these physical provisions did not appear, would God still be our Jehovah Jirah, our Provider? How can I sit at my children's bedsides at twilight, hearing their sweet lisped prayers of absolute rock-solid confidence that God will take care of them without resorting to cynicism?

They, in their childlike faith, know the answer, and it is embarrassingly simple: He Himself is the provision. He will not leave us nor forsake us. Perhaps being removed from numbing abundance will be the very thing necessary for the adults in the family to seek the Giver rather than His gifts. For us to feast on Him, and for that feast, even in our time of deepest hunger, to fill us.

What this looks like I do not know exactly. But I suspect I will spend the rest of my life finding out.

This is Pitiful and I Know it

40 words

Typingtest

I Don't Tweet, Twirper or Have Tweeps.

But this article about Twitter made me smile.

The Day I Almost Died

Wait, I am alive, right?

*checks pulse*

Okay, I'm good.

Anyway...

I almost died the day I had to face this.

Scary huh?

To borrow from Fanny Squeers's quotableness "My heart does SO Palpitate!" Only mine was more of the hammer-again-a-steel-wall-I-can't-hear-anything-over-the-noise type of palpitate rather that the pitter-patter of a love sick heart. Personally I would have preferred the latter...

It was a bad morning, (bad being the mildest term I could use here) Try attempting to control your emotions so you don't burst into tears in a so-silent-you-could-hear-a-pin-drop room of 30 kids who look madly smart and confident. During this time also try to imagine being aware that you're whiter than a sheet and struggling how to do simple things like spelling "concentration" (it's a c, right???) and figuring out what on earth what 6 divided by 2 is. (3?? 2?? 12???). Then you'll know how I felt, sort of.

Like I said, it's was bad morning. I left the test building accompanied by a tsunami size wave of despair a headache the size on Montana. I was angered by the injustice of it, just because I'm not a very apt tester (I do NOT work well under pressure) I was going to get the most embarrassing score of my life and I'd have to take the test again this fall. I was just thrilled. (The former sentence is just dripping with sarcasm.)

I got my test scores on Saturday.

I stared hard at the envelope that I was sure held my doom, I wasn't even sure I wanted to open it.

But I did, because among all my faults the greatest is a maddening inclination towards curiosity. It killed the cat, and I was sure it would kill me too.

*reads score*

*re-checks pulse*

*pinches self*

*re-reads the name at the top of the results*

*re-re-reads MY name at the top of the results*

*blinks eyes*

*screams*

*jumps up and down*



This proves that there is a God in Heaven.

This proves miracles to happen.

(FYI the ACT is scored 1-36, 21 is the national average.)