Bike Thief

As I read Psalm 22 in the truck cab,
a gentleman with bolt cutters thot to nab...

Just a note
On the compost that is
Culture.

Just a word
On the craft of black and
White.

Just a Query
On ingredients for
Order:

When you catch the guy,
HOW SHEW him right?

It took but 2 seconds, the deed to be done.
He had no idea he'd been seen by someone.

When officers said he'd
Not broke much law,
Just vandalized goods,
Cause he stopped when I saw...

200 plus years
Of our culture
went raw.

COMPOST.

Sometimes it stinks
When no air
Can it drink.

Now THINK.

 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

(What the old one-eyed man interrupted with his bolt cutters:

"Praise the LORD, each one of you who fears Him... each of you must fear and reverence His name... He has not turned and walked away. When I cried to Him, He heard and came...The poor shall eat and be satisfied; all who seek the LORD shall find Him and praise His name...The whole earth shall see it and return to the LORD; the people of every nation shall worship Him."
-  -  Ps 22: 24-25, TLB

May He find you soon, Holy One.)

Amn.

Footware

Nothing beats the right pair of shoes. In the garden, you can't beat a shoe that supports old ankle sprains, soothes neuromas, keeps out (most) of the rake dirt, and prevents Olympic sized slip-and-falls like the one that upended me on a wet wheelchair ramp the day I wore old Croc's.

(There's something to be said for the right pair of knee pads, too.)

But you can't appreciate those Merrell boots more, than after a Volunteer day spent in slip-ons.  Somehow the ol' boots got left behind in the kitchen during the usual flurry of 5:40AM coffee refills and searches for garden hats and spare change.

The boots take so long to sock-up and lace that I save the job for the long passenger ride up the freeway. I went to grab them out of my huge Tuesday Morning bag in the back seat. Gasp! They were not there.

There was nothing to be done. Had to spend the whole day in old 'sneaks I'd worn to the car.  

While it wasn't the dismal day I'd feared, my back took the brunt, and the poor 'pups' reveled in hot freedom waiting for my second bus home * .

There's nothing like a full day of pruning acanthus in half bare feet. They survived;

but my pace was slowed, so acanthus, bougainvilla, and a few nut grass subversions were only moderately intercepted. 

Another gardening FIRST:
witnessing the legendary network of nutgrass  filaments for myself.
(Why is my camera so flakey? A challenge for another day.)

My Merrells will ride again next week, God willing. Until then, the art and craft of public gardening must limp along half tended.  How will the wood nymphs sleep at night?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

* "home": my rendezvous with DH for the 30 mile commute back down the fwy.

WORMS!

My FRIENDS!

Just one week ago today, the creepy Bipalium kewense crept right past my in-a-hurry gardener self and returned to the soil beneath my berry bush from whence it came! Once I'd Googlechecked it's habits and reputation, I ran back to the scene to flush him out! Spent over an hour sifting dirt, to no avail; then, helpless nightmares of my dear vermiFriends being liquified by this Kew Worm enemy.

I've been wondering in the days since. If my enemies Googlechecked my habits and reputation, would they find an evil worm who lurks about their gardens to slurp up helpless prey?

Some would say.

My ENEMY!! 

Keeping Your House in Order

Foreign dictators. Closet Christians. Public Servants. Housewives. We all have our duties and obligations. Before God and our fellow messy's, we direct piles of trash out the door and keep the dust clinging to rags 'stead of shelves more. We manage entropy to live out a Deuteronomy 28 perspective.

If we do our jobs, we're happy. If not, "kchthch."

The Gadaffi's and Assads, however. They wonder where they went wrong. They thought they were doing their jobs, sure their exalted positions assured the world that they belong where they are; that any challenge is illegitimate; that power dictates legitimacy. Might makes right.

But they are deceived. The God of Justice rules and reigns. If they were not deposed, our King would judge them in His good time, whether in this life or the next. And those suffering under oppressive rule, who open a Bible to their peril, would receive crowns for boldness, courage rewarded in this life or the next.

No, the dictator does not serve the God of the Housewife, The God of the servant. Our Jesus begs us seek our meaning by serving others, dying to self, seeing our roles as a calling to excellence for someone else's glory, not our own. And so we scrub, learning from dictators that we are only one hairsbreadth from becoming one ourselves. When our efforts become all about us, we beg judgement. Deposed by the demon of self,  the bloodshed begins! Would that I could take back all the verbal cuts and self righteous jabs that arose when I felt self-justified, in charge and infallible.

Furthermore,

The foreign dictator does not differentiate between real trash and imagined.  In the west, Believers recognize that people are not disposable. Gadaffi and Assad do not take our meaning. Little gods unto themselves, they serve only the desire to retain power.  The housewife rules to keep her LORD in power. By gentle service, and vigorous scrubbing, she seats her Saviour in a place of honor** and receives from Him a crown of glory only redeemable in another world. Patient, she waits and trusts and knows. Her fate is secure.

Theirs, not so much.

- - - - - - - - - - - -
Oh. Wait.
In the west do women still scrub their own floors? I know I am daily tempted to hire a maid! I could find a day job to better finance this whim, and witness my dictatorial nature rewarded with handsome compensation. The bitchier I behave, the higher the raise. Bam! Deuteronomy 28 again, the last half this time. (Just how the abandoned neighborhood connects with cultural decline is a long diatribe, but at its core, cheap labor from South America has made leaving home look so rewarding and so easy. But deep down the suspicion persists: the threadbare stay-at-home mom champions western civilization.)
- - - - - - - - - - - -

Explain now, the hard scrabble tears; the anguish when the dirt would not come up and the wrist sprained from fighting indelible wear as sweat and grunts emit like men at the gym under heavy bench press... As if the dirty vinyl were a heartless regime that plies bullets when a Brother in Christ dares talk of Jesus, and when a sign bearer is caught in an untimely street demonstration. As if, by flexing all my weight and strength and muscle I could oust a dictator or free a saint or take a bullet.

Hot tears because I know the Prophesies are true: there is more pain ahead for my brothers. When this regime falls, or that dictator is jailed, demons will take their place. My floors will whether parties and family and gatherings and friends, but in Libya, their fate will frighten. My wrist will heal, but their church will dive deep underground and bear scars that never heal. My vinegar and ammonia will greet many more saints of an oblivious West who rarely give their brothers a thought while gliding past the drive-thru windows.

But Arab lovers of The Savior will pay for their faith in blood.

There are no crowns for clean floors. There is no reward for best homemade pizza. Just eked-out gratitude for a nation that did right once, earning a few generations of Deuteronomy 28 protection.

Dare I hope my clean floor will stave off some imminent household judgement, while I wait in line to become the next inductee to a praying closetful of Grannies changing the world one intercession at a time?

Like drapes twisting in the wind, so is this funnel cloud of time drawing the world closer to a Saviour's re-appearing.

- - - - - - - - - - - - 

(“Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves.”)

Abraham Lincoln)

**9/22/11 note. 
The movie theme of SEVEN DAYS IN UTOPIA gets to the heart of this
in such an effective, powerful way;
perfect for these egotistical, bloggy, shrines-to-self End Times.

Young Mum

We HAD to eat it all; that's whipped cream.

My dear Mother, 85,
Provides my other-worldly drive
To dig and plant, design and rake,
And every now and then, to bake.

She rates.

Once upon a long past time,

Donned polka dots, and then she climbed

Onto the steed of husband's need:

From Catalina 22

to Dreadnaught before all was through,

Obed'nt from her first "I do."

Blessed heart,

Strong back,

Teflon-hardy cooking knack.

This last, I lack!

So, I give back:

From fall to spring
To July wedding,

a few improvements kept me sweating: 

Hardpan soil reconditioned with compost started here last November

Duct tape drainage: kitchen funnel to PVC jerry rig. I am such a "girl."

...funneling water from where it pools to beneath new plantings.

Prunings cut into new compost. I miss Dad's chipper shredder. 

BEFORE a little visit to the local FAMILY OWNED nursery.
Forgot to take the AFTER photo.
Too sweaty. 

Wanted 

to provide

A place to 'bide

In case 

Th'other fams

Had party plans.

They ran

To Cheyenne

(Street, that is).

Ah, well!

I'm still thrilled

that

She SETS ME FREE

To play wildly.

Thanks Mum. 

"Th'other fams" sent this with love.  (I see my pavers needs a shove.)  

HAPPY BIRTHDAY,

My Dear Mum.

Vaccination Snow Job

Frank and Ernest: "It's worse than we thought. That antibiotic resistant bacteria is reading Nietzsche!"

The media blitz over school vaccination requirements is naziesque; and nearly every query into the status of longstanding exemptions to the new "state law requiring all students present updated immunization records" was blocked by images of various institutions' immunization records.


A frantic query of the CA State Health and Safety Code produced the relief I sought. The old exemptions are still there, thank God, and thanks to a slew of conservative lawmakers who, years ago, spilled blood over those exclusions. But listening to the flurry of radio ads everywhere, you'd never know the government hadn't stripped all our rights and seized our bodies in order to force-infuse foreign substances the likes of which NO ONE can certify are safe.


What schools and radio ads will not disclose: (these contents are found at NVIC.ORG)

120365.  Immunization of a person shall not be required for
admission to a school or other institution listed in Section 120335
if the parent or guardian or adult who has assumed responsibility for
his or her care and custody in the case of a minor, or the person
seeking admission if an emancipated minor, files with the governing
authority a letter or affidavit stating that the immunization is
contrary to his or her beliefs. However, whenever there is good cause
to believe that the person has been exposed to one of the
communicable diseases listed in subdivision (a) of Section 120325,
that person may be temporarily excluded from the school or
institution until the local health officer is satisfied that the
person is no longer at risk of developing the disease.



120370.  If the parent or guardian files with the governing
authority a written statement by a licensed physician to the effect
that the physical condition of the child is such, or medical
circumstances relating to the child are such, that immunization is
not considered safe, indicating the specific nature and probable
duration of the medical condition or circumstances that
contraindicate immunization, that person shall be exempt from the
requirements of Chapter 1 (commencing with Section 120325, but
excluding Section 120380) and Sections 120400, 120405, 120410, and
120415 to the extent indicated by the physician's statement.

In addition to two - -possibly three- - family adverse reactions, another cropped up after teaching preschool age children every Sunday for the better part of twenty years. Emma S, tall, vibrant and articulate, was a little four year old maven who appeared in class one day with that tell-tale bandaid on her arm suggesting Kindergarten shots had recently moved off her Mom's To Do list.

That week, Emma began stuttering.  My only possible response was to pray. I interceded for that little one for months. Not for her speech. That was the least of her worries.  I prayed for her entire neurology. For healing from anything in that noxious cocktail that might produce dyslexia, confusion, personality disorders, or worse. Given my own five year old's Type 1 diabetes back in 1991, I also prayed against anything that might interfere with Emma's little pancreas.  ***

 Her stuttering stopped to everyone's relief, but I began posting (it was always removed), then leafletting the facts about the above exemptions for all the parents of our class. 


A few years later, the S family left our church. But I will leaflet away in the next few weeks. It's that awful time again when schools and governments lie to everyone.


***You don't get it? Type1 Diabetes is an AUTOIMMUNE disorder. Something triggers the white blood cells to ATTACK the pancreas until it's ...DEAD.

Pros and Cons of Monogamy

Never had to go home to mother.  (WHAT was I thinkin?!)

On Falling OUT of Love, and back in again:

http://www.familylife.com/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=dnJHKLNnFoG&b=3781233&ct=11127733

We've all been there. It's our fallen human default setting.

But 

Family Life Today leads the way.  

Praise God for.