He is Risen!

Resurrection Sunday is my favorite holiday and the thing I shall most miss tomorrow morning, will be walking into our gathering and greeting people with, “He is risen,” and receiving in response, “He is risen indeed.” The certainty behind those two stark sentences is the source of our joy, for as Paul said in 1 Cor 15 14 -19 that if Jesus was not risen our faith is in vain. The fact of his resurrection, his defeat of death on our behalf gives rise to worship.

So since we can’t gather tomorrow I’m giving you three of my favorite songs that celebrate the resurrection.

The incredible truth is that not only did Jesus defeat death on the cross, he also overcame the power of sin, and He promised that all those who received Him had right to become chidren of God and to walk in that victory as well. So we have so much to celebrate.

I’ve been part of one community of faith for nearly four decades and as we gather every week to worship I can look around the room and see one life after another that has been transformed by the love and power of Christ. (Wow, I just did the math – that’s over 2,000 times!) I’ve seen people walk through crushing difficulties and pain, the kind of circumstances that can drive you to any one of myriad addictions, and come out victorious, more confident of the God they follow. I’ve seen people shine through chronic debilitating sickness, seen them grow in character through losses, seen them humbly carry success. *

We look back to what Christ did on the cross, we look up to where He is seated in glory and we look foward wholeheartedly to His promised return.

The most delightful surprise I’ve had in writing this blog has been to see readers from countries all over the world – Russia, New Zealand, Mexico, America. If you follow Jesus then we are family – and this morning I greet you, “He is risen.”

* Lest you think I am ridiculously naive or blind to the many who have been hurt by followers of Christ, I am not unaware of that. The church, the body of Christ is made up of a host of imperfect people who are gradually walking out of the darkness into the light, Prov 4:18. As we learn, increasingly, what it means to be recipients of God’s grace, in Christ, we are able to extend that out to a hurting world, without hurting others in the process.

Now Seeds Start Growing

Simple things delight me, a stroll down a busy street in Vancouver in late January would have me exploding in laughter over the buds popping on the trees, while strangers passing by wondered if I were in need of mental health services. Spring comes almost 6 weeks earlier to the coast than it does in the interior of BC, and that is the longest stretch of time in the year – I measure the days by the 3 to 4 minutes added light each day. It’s coming.

Eventually it arrives in the Okanagan, (though not this cold week when I’d hoped to be putting plants out ) and I am just as delighted. Every leaf and blade that works its way up from the grave thrills me. The perennials are like old friends and I greet them as they return, “You’re back. You made it! Wonderful. Welcome.” And I shed a small tear for those that perished over the winter- oh no, not the kniphofia.

But seeds. Well, what can I say? I am awe stuck, over and over. Everytime I see a hint of green poking above the soil in the seed tray, I feel like a toddler shouting, “Do it again, Daddy.” This morning I noticed that several of the calendula have sprouted, one sporting a small chunk of dirt as well as the seed cap – like that same toddler, in morning disarray, with tousled hair.

I wonder how many of you, like me, have every available surface covered in seed trays, juggling them between the best sources of light. I’ve had a small grow-light for years and this spring added another.

They’re up!

When it comes to starting seeds, I am reminded every year of the wonderful Frog and Toad series by Arnold Lobel. I enjoyed it as much as my kids did. And this story, The Garden, was my favorite.

I identify so much with Toad – now seeds start growing. I confess to being an impatient gardener, and have been known to carefully dig around some seeds to find out if anything is happening. Last year the armor coated castor beans seeds, (an amazing but poisonous ornamental that grows to an astounding 8 feet x 6 feet) took over a month to germinate. This year, I both soaked and nicked them and they were up in a matter of days, leaving me to wonder how much living space I’ll have in four weeks.

Because I love gardening so much it’s no surprise that one of my favorite images of God is as gardener. “A sower went forth sowing seeds,” says the parable of the sower – ( I’m sure many of us made imago deo feel that way). Every farmer sows with the expectation of a harvest of some sort, food or beauty. The father/farmer as well. He has given us so much, and I believe His heart for us is to bear both spiritual fruit and beauty.

I am thinking of the seeds that have been sown into my own heart. My father, though long gone, looms large in my life. There are things you absorb by osmosis in a family without a word being uttered.

The first thing I was consciously aware of was my father’s compassion. He cared for the oppressed and was ready to help with whatever was needed. Our doors were always open to neighbors, and though that often looked like chaos, I was proud of my dad’s tenderness.

The next seed he sowed – again unwittingly – was forgiveness (and I am so grateful for this one). Someone close to him had embezzled a large amount of money while my dad was overseas for 3 years during the war. Not once did I hear my dad defame this man; not one negative word escaped his lips. He simply, as Rudyard Kipling says in the poem “If”, stooped to rebuild.

Finally, industriuosness and integrity. He worked hard to support us and was scrupulously honest in his dealings. I had much respect for him.

I wish I could say all of the seeds he sowed took off and germinated as soon as they’d been sown. That would be a lie. But one of the incredible facts about seeds is that they can lay dormant for a long while. Some seeds won’t sprout until a fire has passed by, wreaking destruction, others need to be submerged in water – and the odd ones thrive having passed through a birds digestive tract. Hmmm. It took a serious fire in my life to force some seeds to grow.

I know that God is patient and is not standing over me, drumming His fingers, like Toad, shouting, “Now seeds grow.” He is the great gardener and knows when the appropriate rain, drought, fire or passing bird is going to be helpful in getting those seeds growing.

Oh – all this written before I came home yesterday to find a quarter of my home under an inch of water. That’s not good – at least it doesn’t feel good. But a couple of generous neighbors, (one who I hardly knew), vacuumed up the mess, attempted to clean every backed up orifice, and ran a snake down the drain – all the while maintaining strict social distancing, (sarcasm intended).

But possibly, just possibly, there are a few seeds lying dormant that need, that require, a flood to germinate. I have known God’s goodness and help over and over in my life, and today I am choosing life, choosing trust.

Held Together in the Storm

Although I am a word person and not especially visual, sometimes a word picture grips me and touches me where the words themselves may have just floated by without my noticing their import.

That happened recently when I heard a teaching on Hebrews 4:16. “Let us draw near…so that we may find mercy and grace to help in time of need.” The word help in Greek is translated boetheia and has a powerful, rich meaning. In the era of wooden ships, when a vessel was at risk, perhaps not considered strong enough to withstand the storms that might threaten it, 4 or 5 turns of cable wrapped rope would be wound around its hull to ensure its safety. It was bound up, strengthened, able to survive the storms.

About 18 years ago I cared for my granddaughter one night a week while my daughter was taking a night school course. I remember walking, rocking and singing – mostly singing a lullaby I had first heard on a Disney tape.

I loved the words to this song and was delighted to find it today on Youtube. The lines, ‘faith is keeping her afloat, and ‘the law of the ocean is that you shall never fail,’ held great meaning for me. There were long stretches of time where I felt I might not hold together. I wish I’d known then the picture of that word boetheia then – though even without it, I was held together.

And who knows what gets embedded during those times because some years later that same granddaughter, in turn, painted this picture for me.

The Tiny Little Skipper

Being raised on the prairies, I never saw the ocean until I was almost twenty, and I did not like it. The shoreline was littered with all manner of weird creatures, the water was salty, and you could not trust it not to knock you off your feet. Not at all well mannered like the lakes on the prairies.

I wrote this poem at a time when my life felt particularly out of my control.

Rip Tide
The ocean is a single-minded beast
and powerful like rivers rarely are.
I am most respectful of its nature;
you cannot push the ocean very far.

I was content to paddle in the shallows.
I thought it wise to wade close to the shore.
I could not plumb the ocean, I was careful
to go so far and not a fathom more.

But though I never gave it half a chance,
and only tip-toed till I reached my knees,
an undertow of violent foreboding,
sucked me out and carried me to sea.

How am I to live in this environment?
A flounder on the shore would do as well
as I, when all I touch and see is foreign,
and I am captive to its every swell.

I used to pick my way and live with caution,
careful not to put my faith to test.
Now that I am carried by the ocean
I’m doing what the ocean thinks is best.

We are still in the middle of this storm brought on by Covid 19, we have no idea of the long range impact it may have on our country, its economy, culture and freedom. There are times when I feel a small shudder of fear. And then I remember I am being carried by God and that I don’t see the whole picture.

I miss gathering together with my church family where I was regularly strengthened by worship, word, prayer and the care of my friends. We are doing that as best we can, but virtual fellowship is not quite the same.

Yet, much as the fellowship of believers strengthens and encourages us, ultimately our fellowship must be with God Himself, 1 John 1:3 “…truly our fellowship is with the Father, and with his son Jesus Christ.” Not bad company in the midst of a lockdown. There’s wisdom, strength, direction and boetheia available – enough for all.

Lunar Reflections

Something wasn’t quite right when I woke this AM at 5:30. There was light where there shouldn’t be – a bright light pouring in my kitchen window from the west. It took me a few seconds to sort it out – ah the moon – full and glorious in a cloudfree sky. I grabbed my binoculars to enjoy the last of it before it set behind the hills above me.

Now, an hour later, the hills to the east are thrown into relief with an apricot glow behind them. A beautiful start to a week where many things may be brought into sharper relief. Light has a way of doing that.

Because I prefer being outside to in, I’ve spent a good amount of time observing the heavens – and someday I may share a very funny story about just that. But not today. Today I give you –

Lunar Reflections  

She is by nature drab and dull,
 (and yet tonight she glows),  
barren, dry and desolate
 – but look at her tonight.  
Streetlights pale in brilliance 
to her borrowed beauty. 

She lifts her face to her source, 
unveiled and unprotected, 
and we  
 – who dare not or be blind – 
can gaze on her in wonder. 

If she, like I am,  
made of dust,  
can manifest such beauty, 
then we made in His image 
 shall shatter dark with glory.

The NT verse Matt. 27:51 has always struck me with awe; I tremble when I read it. The significance of this one verse can hardly be overstated. A huge heavy tapestry veil woven of twisted linen hung in the temple in Jerusalem to separate the Holy of Holies, the earthly place of God’s dwelling, from the rest of the temple – where animal sacrifices were made daily for sin. I won’t go into great detail, here’s a link if you are interested. https://www.gotquestions.org/temple-veil-torn.html

But what actually shakes me, and is perhaps the screenshot of history I most wish I could have seen, was that the moment Christ died on the cross, when he uttered the words, “It is finished” – that veil was rent in twain from top to bottom. The significance of that moment – that a mere mortal could walk into the presence of God, through Christ’s sacrifice (2 Cor 3:16) is breathtaking. And so, with that veil removed, we – you and I -and all mankind, anyone who chooses to draw near to that light, ‘unveiled and unprotected’ may go out into wherever we are in April 2020, reflecting God’s glory, shattering the darkness, bringing His light.

Yes, our going out is somewhat restricted these days, but there are many ways to shine and one of the joys of this lockdown/shutdown has been discovering the myriad ways people are lifting their torches and swords high. So shine my friends, there is no veil.

Hope Rises

I have a confession: I don’t watch the news, even now, especially now. But somehow last week, after a Youtube program finished, the NBC barged in, all elbows and shouting. Good grief. Not to diminish what is happening but stranger things are happening yet.

I will comply, keep my distance, wash and wipe as decreed. But, as the punch line in the anecdote about the child ordered to sit down by an exasperated parent concludes, “I will sit, but I’m standing on the inside.”

  Hope Rises

 Enough with fear and dread - 
leave off the constant sorrow of the world. 
This cannot be submerged. 
It bubbles to the surface 
persistent as a spring. 

The evenings’ news 
is solemn stuff indeed 
and all man's woes. 
But the giddy trill of brook on stone  
 cannot be stilled 
while all creation fiddles.
Collapse and contagion are  real, 
not to mention global warming. 
But the  melody rings louder yet 
and must not denied. 

So I follow, 
so  I dance.
Gravity decrees, 
You must descend. 

I shall plunge from the cliff
 – laughing and jubilant - 
into the welcoming arms of my lover. 

My addiction to reading novels, escaping reality into another’s story, began benignly enough. What parent decries a child bringing home stacks of books from the library? Like all addictions though it began to exert control – why study when beauty, nobility, peace, and love – everything my hungry heart cried out for, could be found so easily between the covers of a book? Why take on any challenge? Why leave my room when there were whole worlds to discover safe in my cocoon?

I had not yet learned discernment so I consumed much chaff along with the wheat. But a scene from Elizabeth Goudge’s, Green Dolphin Country (which I read when I was 16), stayed with me.

There were several worthy themes in that novel, which is set in the late 1800’s in both the Channel Islands and New Zealand. The scene that had such impact on me, the sentence that intrigued me, took place during one of the Maori uprisings when Samuel, a loving and gentle pastor/missionary was dragged to the top of a cliff to be thrown off it. The native men respected him enough to allow his one request. He disdained to be thrown but “…ran from the cliff like a bride going to meet her groom…” – the line which inspired this poem.

That’s probably not an exact quote – I loaned my copy to a friend. And I never understood why that scene gripped me so until I re-read the book years later, after I had decided to follow Jesus. Then, the book’s strong theme of sacrifice fell into place for me, like the tumblers in a complex lock.

Rooted and Grounded

This poem is part of the series I named The Difficult Years, of which there were more than a few. Much of this revolves around two major life issues: first my lack of the character qualities and maturity that would allow for a relationship, as interdependant as marriage, to be a healthy one. Second, my tendancy to idolatry, by which I mean bowing down to my need for security, worth and approval by refusing to be the person I was created to be. It took a long time for me to recognize that fact.

All my writing about that time was a reflection of where I was at, and may not be a picture of the reality. Much as I hate the term, my truth, this is how it seemed to me.

Rooted and Grounded

I found a blade of grass grown through the concrete path.
You could crush it if you wanted.
Thus, I have made a niche within your heart.
Tenuous? Not really.
The soil is thin there, gravelly and porous.
Water seeps through quickly.

Deep rooted,
I am like the native grass
that survives the lengthy drought, 
falls fell winds and winters frigid fingers:
Withered brown and stiff.
My source secure,
I will be green again with April’s rain.

If this poem is about anything other than poetic devices, it is found in the solidity of the last two lines, my source secure… And that is what my whole journey has been about, finding that source of life that allowed me to weather the uncontrollable vicissitudes of life.

Those were challenging but ultimately the most rewarding years. If you have read the Narnia series, and I hope you have, I’m sure you will remember Eustace, from the Voyage of the Dawn Treader. “There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb and he almost deserved it.” Such a delicious line.

There is a time when the unpleasant Eustace, through a series of events, awakes one day to find he has become a dragon, the logical consequence of his choices. Which, at first, has its upside – he can now exercise more power than he has ever known, but he soon enough experiences the downside and wants to be human again. He tries and tries and tries to rid himself of his dragon skin and finds himself powerless to escape – himself. And then Lewis paints this incredible picture in Chapter Seven.

“Then the lion said – but I don’t know if it spoke – ‘You will have to let me undress you.’ I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.

“The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know – if you’ve ever picked the scab off a sore place. It hurts like billy-oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.”

Here’s an excerpt if you don’t have a copy nearby.


And that is my story too, like Eustace I needed the lion to undress me. And I’ll stop with another favorite quote, this from the Velveteen Rabbit.

“Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’

‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.

‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’

Be blessed my friends and brave in these strange days.

Lockdown Kraft Dinner

Day 17? Day 18? It’s all a bit of a blur. While that’s not too unusual for me these days, as my ever-so- patient-friends will attest to missed dates, excursions or confused locations, I am glad in the midst of all this that there are several anchors for my days, concrete things that must be done that keep me from floating off into oblivion. (Hmm, concrete anchors – perhaps cut out mystery novels.)

While my daughter is homeschooling 3 kids upstairs, with every surface covered in books, or art and science projects, I have taken on the task of preparing lunch for us all. Which brings me to the empty shelves at the grocery store. No Kraft Dinner – no problem. Fret not, surely one of the blessings of this time must be the internet.

Thanks to the wonder of the www I was able recently, to solve a small problem, itself the result of a large victory. My first attempt at growing butternut squash last year produced a bumper crop. I hovered over the plants all summer, and even pollinated the blossoms by hand when I didn’t see enough bees – having learned how to sex squash blossoms (which is not as racy as it sounds). At the end of the season I had 13 glorious, good sized squash. And no takers. Seems the kids – usually good eaters – were not fond of squash. So I gave several to friends.

But I wanted to save some for winter and then one day while browsing recipes I found https://www.gimmesomeoven.com/butternut-squash-mac-cheese/

Not wanting to prejudice my case, I did the prep of the squash under cover. Alas an errant squash seed in the final product gave it away. But I’ve repeated the recipe several times now and the kids have grown to love it. Today the youngest, Henry, ate 3 helpings.

This is admittedly more work than packaged mac and cheese, but it is also healthier, tastier and much more attractive with the vivid orange of the squash. (If you happened to have frozen squash on hand you could whip this together in no time.) Today I had a nice knob of Gruyere that I sacrificed to the cause but you could add whatever cheese you have on hand. I have used about half that milk so maybe add it gradually to see how much you need. Also I skipped the sage bit as I didn’t have any and I added a tsp of oregano to the sauce instead.

I like to top mac and cheese with a bread crumb topping. I freeze all the heels of bread and when I have a bag full, I pop them in the food processor with (ahem) a goodly pat of butter. I use them for toppings for desserts as well and they can be added to a soup to thicken it – and stretch it if you must.

You don’t need to bake this but I like to give it 15 minutes at about 325F just to brown the topping.

And that’s it from my bunker where I am hunkering down waiting for the storm to pass. Just had a funny phone call from my grandson Jesse on Skype, where they apparently think phone calls are improved by adding an app that morphs your face into all manner of hideous shapes. My face, on Skype, is quite scary enough, thank you.

Bless you all to find peace and comfort in the middle of uncertain times.

recipe https://www.gimmesomeoven.com/butternut-squash-mac-cheese/

A Scribe By Trade

It is inevitible that my writing reflects my love of relationship, with first and most importantly the God who loves and sustains me, and then with people, nature and words themselves. If I could, I would cover my walls and ceiling with the words that have stretched, delighted, comforted and shaped me. (Which could explain my unique decorating style, Buried In Books.)

My own writing is accesible and a reflection of the hope I cherish. Some is written tongue in cheek; I like humor – even slightly dark, but always pointing towards the light that I have experienced. I just found this lovely rendition of a song I heard sung at a funeral recently. The lyrics in the second verse capture my goal in writing. While my writing is nowhere near as distilled as Mr. Leheman’s, I hope it reflects something of the vast scope of God’s character – though perhaps still more like a carnival mirror* than the Hubble Telescope.

  The Love Of God 
Could we with ink the ocean fill,  
and were the skies of parchment made,  
were every stalk on earth a quill,   
and every man a scribe by trade,   
to write the love of God above   
would drain the ocean dry;   
nor could the scroll  
contain the whole,   
though stretched from sky to sky.
 Frederich Leheman   


I just discovered this group, Eli Eli, and I love the simplicity and purity of their music.

*I’ve never used an asterisk before and I don’t have a category for fashion tips. But here’s a freebie. The full length mirror in my bedroom has a happy flaw, a slight concave curve. So that, although the Lord saw fit to give me legs that barely reach the floor, the mirror sends back a lovely leggy image subtracting at least ten pounds in the process – a great advantage if your self worth still depends on your appearance and if you just happen to be stress eating during the lockdown.

Cautionary Tales

Asparagus Risotto

Much as I grumble about winter, I do enjoy living in a seasonal country.  The anticipation of the delights that each season bring is what makes them so sweet (and maybe melancholy).  Asparagus is right up there on the top of the list for spring.

One of the regrets in my life is that I have never grown asparagus. Imagine the joy of walking out to the back 40 (feet in our case) and picking your own asparagus. Alas, asparagus takes 3 years to mature fully to harvest (which explains how pricey it is), and until recently I’ve never had a full sun spot to plant it. Three years is committment!

Photo by Eneida Nieves on Pexels.com

Asparagus Risotto The ‘grands’ next favorite dish is Asparagus Risotto, another labor of love. But isn’t that what cooking is about? https://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/rice-recipes/asparagus-mint-and-lemon-risotto/ ( I like Jamie’s site because you don’t have to scroll through dozens of images and ads to get to the recipe. ) Rice pudding had been a go-to comfort food all my life so it wasn’t a stretch to try a basic risotto and then move on to some of the more exotic variations.The challenge here is that risotto will never have its celebrated creamy yet slightly al dente texture when reheated, so it simply has to be done while you are surrounded by guests. Fortunately it doesn’t require too much thought – just constant stirring for 20 minutes. I think it’s worth it.

You need to start with a good quality chicken broth. Homemade, on hand, in the freezer is the best – but purchased will suffice. A cup of white wine or even champagne definitely improves the flavor but can be omitted if you drank the whole bottle. Tsk tsk. The Parmesan also makes a difference – if it’s a ‘pull out all the stops’ event, go for broke and buy the best. I’ve been able to impress the ‘grands’ using the round shaker brand. But I only use butter.

I’m always looking for shortcuts that won’t compromise quality so I cook the sliced asparagus (briefly) in the chicken broth while it simmers – a much simpler method. When I don’t feel like stirring for 20 minutes at all, or don’t have arborio rice on hand I substitute penne – cooking the asparagus in the same water as the pasta and then tossing them both with olive oil, slivered garlic and lots of parmesan.

If you want to learn more about making great risotto here’s a link that covers the basics plus lots of ideas for variations. https://w ww.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=94939511 I make a killer rice pudding using arborio rice, but this article suggests adding chocolate – a whole new level of decadance akin perhaps to ‘gilding the lily’.

I first learned about risotto when I watched Big Night (1996), an understated foodie movie about Italian brothers who own a restaurant and long to serve authentic Italian food. The care they lavished on making the risotto intrigued and inspired me. Some other favorite food movies I’ve enjoyed are Mostly Martha, Babette’s Feast, The Hundred Foot Journey, The Lunchbox, Julie and Julia, and Ratatouille. Both books and movies have expanded my repertoire.

Right now I’m following a mystery series by Martin Walker about a French detective, Bruno, who is passionate (of course, being French), about cooking and gardening as well as justice. Walker and his wife, food writer Julia Watson, worked to produce a cookbook based on meals from the book. https://dianerehm.org/2015/09/22/recipes-from-the-new-bruno-chief-of-police-cookbook

“Only butter’ could be my cooking mantra – and no doubt accounts for the slightly raised triglyceride levels my doctor nags about. Perhaps describing a rice pudding as killer is cutting a bit close to the bone. According to Julia Child the secret to French cooking is to simply add 4 times as much butter as the human artery can physically withstand. A

This delightful old poem ‘Little Thomas’ by F. Gwynne Evans, springs to mind – very entertaining for young and old – a great Thanksgiving read. My granddaughters had great fun memorizing it last week. It’s always handy to have a little verse up your sleeve to entertain the troops. .http://signpetch__1.tripod.com/laurelsaslthanksgivingharvestasl/id8.html

I learned the poem about Jim and the lion by Hilair Belloc when I was in grade four – it may have been the first seed planted that grew into my love for poetry. https://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poems/jim-who-ran-away-his-nurse-and-was-eaten-lion.

Both these poems were written in the Children Should Be Seen and Not Heard era of history in which properly trained children were instructed with cautionary, morality tales through story and poetry – which going into week three of the lockdown, some beleagured parents may wish to revive.

Bless you my friends.

Sylvia Was Right

The first assignment in the writing course I took at Regent College was predicated on a statement Sylvia Plath had made – that she could not put a toothbrush in a poem. Our assigment was to do exactly that, (bonus marks for making it a love poem.) Dare I say that many bristled at the suggestion and wanted to brush it off? Okay, sorry, I won’t do that again.

I had some fun with this one and was glad I was able to capture my heart as a writer in this little ditty.

Photo by bongkarn thanyakij on Pexels.com
Sylvia Was Right  

I'd like to write a line that makes you laugh, 
  or moves you from your self to someone's pain,  
or opens up your eyes to see again.  
I can't do that with a toothbrush.
I long to touch your core and make you weep.  
I want the truths that I have plumbed to leap  
from my heart, to the page, to your soul,  
(like the last jig-saw piece that makes you whole).
I can't do that with a toothbrush.
Now if they'd given me a truthbrush I could try 
 to wash the blinding log out of my eye,  
or it might be used to scrub my errant heart 
free of sin's plaque. But that's an art
 that cannot be accomplished with a toothbrush.

Photo by Pietro Jeng on Pexels.com

So happy there is one who can transform us and cleanse us –

And now for something COMPLETELY different. My daughter came home from school in about grade 3 with this cute little song her class had to perform for a school concert. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zFfgmsziUS8 This version is a bit screechy but there is a longer sort of vaudeville version on the next clip.

So perhaps Sylvia couldn’t celebrate a toothbrush – but aren’t we all learning to appreciate and be grateful for the mundane things we have taken for granted. Perhaps a good thing to do today would be to make a list for the many gifts in your life – including your toothbrush. Be blessed today.

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