Not a Common Thing.....

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Young Ladies Magazine

May-June 2014

A Letter from the Editor:

Dear Young Ladies,

  I don’t know about you, but I have really been enjoying the beauty of this spring!

           Sometimes the most beautiful things in life are the smallest, and spring is the most accurate example of this philosophy of mine.

           When you step outdoors the first sensations you feel are the crispness of the cold air, and you see the world slowing thawing from the stiff embrace of winter. However, what we rarely, if ever notice is the subtle and delicate changes that can be found if we only took the time to bend down and appreciate all of the little gifts that God has hidden in the world around us. Just as often the most beautiful and artistic creatures can be found in the deepest parts of the ocean, some of the most incredible and intricate pieces of life are the most hidden.

             For example, in my view, the loveliest flowers are the tiniest ones. Many of these can be found during the very early stages of the transition into spring. For instance, the next time you go outside,  try looking around under bushes and little corners in the yard, and you just might find many such dainties like the crocus, the snowdrop, or perhaps a few bunches of violets. These flowers are very simple from a distanced view, but peek a great deal closer and you may be surprised by the intricate and artistic detail in these fragile beauties.

             May I remind you in this simple example, that no matter how small, a gift is a gift. And you can never really appreciate the beauty of life until you bend your head and be thankful for every aspect, small or great, of the life that God has given us.

Have a glorious spring!

- Ms. Lindsay D. Miles

 

Chapter One: Stories from Our Readers

Chapter Two: Wisdom from Our Mothers

Chapter Three: Collection of Poems

Chapter Four: Delicious Dishes

Chapter Five: Potpourri of Thoughts

 

Chapter One: Stories from Our Readers

 

            Notes in Blue

                                                                         By Sabrina Thames

                                                                    The journal of a young girl

 

 

 

                                                       August 12^th, 1990

Dear Journal,

This morning was so beautiful when I woke up! There were thick veils of mist over the houses and fields around our little house, and the sky was as white as the mantle of the moon.

The air was crisp with the hand of autumn and the garden was damp with dew. Nothing can even be close in describing the beauty I saw around me when I looked out my windowpane!

You know, it’s somewhat funny how there is always a beautiful morning after a rough night! No matter how dreadful the night can be, the morning will break with beauty. J

The reason for my saying that is because last night I had a very real and important dream. Now, of course, dreams are usually silly, but this one struck me because it was so true!

I was standing in the middle of a huge forest of tall, foreboding pine trees. Their hungry limbs were reaching and stretching towards me as if to ensnare me, and their angry branches covered the sky.

Up ahead I could see a light sparkling and shining through a gap in the trees,  but every time I ran toward it, a piece of me was left behind in the hands of the tree limbs.

I kept running towards the light, and then bumping and falling against the tree limbs, and it was so hard to get up and start running again!

Each time I fell, I received a fresh wound, but the faster and farther I ran, the more it was healed. Every tree I passed by without touching was a mark of joy over my victory. The light was always just ahead ------ and I could barely feel the glowing warmth of its tender beams.

I longed to fall into the light’s glorious beauty, but I first needed to keep running, and learning, and falling, and healing, until I reached it. Once I reached the light, I fell, finished and perfect, into the fragrant warmth of the light of Jesus’ arms.

Oh ---- the pain for my every stumble on the path was keen, and my heart bled from every wound I received. And when I woke up, I asked myself, “Why did I always fall? How could I be so weak when Jesus was so strong?”

And then I understood the meaning.

As we spend the journey of life as Pilgrim did on the road to the celestial city, meeting dangers, falling and bleeding, then learning and getting, back up again, we must remember how important it is to keep on treading the road to God.

Jesus bled so that we could be a part of His perfection, instead of always chasing after a mortal perfection that doesn’t exist. For even a perfect world can become a nightmare of emptiness without Jesus to say, “You don’t have to be perfect on your own. Let Me hold you up with my love and strength, and we can be perfect together.”

Every stumble hurts but it brings a healing through Christ if we allow Him to be our perfection.

So as I soaked in the fantastic grandeur of this morning I repeated that thought over and over in my head. And it gave me so much peace!

Well, I have to go now-

                                                     You’re Friend,

                                                                Ellie Christiansen

 

The Blondest Easter Ever!

By L’Abri Green

                        

 

Each of us has our own idea of a perfect day, and more specifically, our perfect Easter.

For weeks, I had been looking forward to Easter and all it entailed, and my perfect Easter was pretty detailed. Running chronologically through the day I imagined it something like this:

 

I would wake up an angelic mood—not one weary or cross thought to mar the perfection of the morning. Then I would get dressed in record speed, creating an incredible hairstyle in only a few minutes. After this would come the flawless transition to the car which can be difficult with a family of sixteen. Usually one of my many siblings has lost a shoe or a coat, or refuses to comb down their cowlick, and then there is always a hullaballoo. I was hoping we would be early to church—no stops at the gas station. Then the morning would flow smoothly. Easter breakfast, complete with pancakes and syrup, would be wonderful—I’d sing like an angel in the choir, take copious notes during the sermon and not feel the desire to stretch pr take off my boots when I was supposed to be sitting still. Then would follow an afternoon filled with guests and perfect hospitality and I would arrive unmarred at the end of the day without a headache.

 

It was sic o’clock in the morning—my beautiful Easter Sunday was about to begin!

 

Ha-ha.

 

The first few minutes went well enough—my angelic feelings weren’t as strong as I would have liked, but they would have to do.

 

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I pulled on my light blue Easter dress, only to be told by a helpful little sister that part of the skirt was tucked up. Thank goodness for slips!

I ran around getting all the little Sunday morning things taken care of, the most important of

Which was making a cup of tea to soothe my throat. Wouldn’t you know it, the day before Easter I caught a cold! Maybe you can sing bass with a cold, or even tenor if you’re talented, but soprano is absolutely impossible. I spent the entire drive to church, including the unwanted stop at the gas station thinking, “To sing, or not to sing?” It was a haunting question.

 

At church, while running around, carrying tubs of kitchen supplies, setting tables and the like, the same question followed me around. “I’m not going to sing,” I’d say, and one of my fellow sopranos would wail, “But you can’t just desert us!”

One of the other sopranos had gone off and caught a cold as well. Great! Now there were two of us singing through our noses. I decided not to sing and then to sing half a dozen times. I realized I’d forgotten my tea at home, and hadn’t even brought a throat lozenge!

I continued worrying and wondering all through the morning. When we gathered to eat, I was struck by a very strange and sudden stomachache. I stood in the potluck line trying to look dignified, and not like a doubled-over jackknife.

 

As I was limping through line I remembered another potluck-breakfast experience I’d had a few months past. I had been standing in relatively the same spot, and a few spaces in front of me was a young man, whose name I won’t mention for kindnesses sake.

Now I had made bread-pudding that morning, not because I particularly like it, but because we

Had a lot of extra bread, and we were trying to be practical.

 

“Look at that,” I heard the young man say to one of his friends, as he stared down at my bread-pudding. “It looks like someone ate it, mutilated it, and spit it back out!”

 

I was so wounded I couldn’t think of a comeback, which is probably a blessing because I usually regret my brilliant responses later. I just stood there, gazing sadly at my bread-pudding, which did look a little frightening, and trying to forgive the very blunt young man.

Anyway, nothing looked good to me that morning, but having learned from his mistake, I was careful not to say anything. I managed to eat a few bites, wondering all the while, “Will I ruin the choir if I sing?” Anyone who loves to sing as much as I do, will realize dropping out was a hard choice to make.

After all, we’d been performing choir practice for weeks--including grueling hours of scales and

throat massages.

In the end, when the time rolled around, I did manage to squeak out the two choir songs—though they sounded forced and weak to my somewhat congested ears and I had a cup of water sitting behind me on the stage in case of emergencies. I decided not to sing the congregational songs leading up to our choir numbers in order to save my pitiful voice. I felt really unspiritual, standing stoically and looking at the screen, but refusing to sing! I kept telling myself, however, that it was all for a good cause. After the choir was over, I breathed a sigh of relief.

The sermon, although wonderful, was interrupted by an urgent desire to sneeze, which I only barely contained. Based on the combined facts that I have a loud sneeze and that I was in the front row, I considered it a blessing, and the rest of the congregation would probably agree!

When the service was over, I was tripping happily along like a little Billy Goat. My stomach had stopped hurting, the sun was shining, choir was over and ironically, my voice was coming back-- a few hours too late. I managed to cross the street without getting run over or tripping on the curb, and our whole family headed for home in our little blue bus.

We had nearly half the church coming over to our house it seemed like, so there was a lot of bustling around and preparing food and tables. I ended up being set right in the center of the table, where I could hear all of the three main conversations going on around me.

“...I’ve just finished biology this month...”

I loved biology, especially the chapter on earthworms, so my ears pricked up.

“...and then I decided to alter the recipe...”

 

Altering recipes is something I do all the time, with varying levels of success. (Ask my many brothers) I might have joined this conversation with a story about the rolls I made that turned out like potatoes, but I heard someone at the end of the table saying,

“...I used to wear my hair in a ponytail on the top of my head until someone thought I was a girl...”

This last conversation sounded the most interesting so I joined that one. Soon, however, I was interrupted by a four-year-old guest who wanted a cookie, so the discussion went on without me.

After lunch was over, I helped wash the dishes as quickly as I could without breaking the special

‘Easter china’ (I didn’t want to risk seven years bad luck) and we all scrambled to get outside in the sunshine.

Our cousins live next door, so we and all of our guests, joined up with them and all of their guests--together we made an impressive looking flock of young people.

As was Easter tradition, we all wanted to take a walk down to our favorite little gas station. Most of the boys wanted to buy soda or ice cream--not having much money, I just went for the walk.

There were twenty of us, ranging from around ten years old to twenty-seven, and I, at seventeen, was right in the middle.

We were all walking in a group about the size of a herd of buffalo, and some people were acting pretty similar to buffalo, though I won’t mention names. Everyone was in high spirits—behind me I could hear snatches of Spanish songs, the girls were giggling, the boys were shouting, and suddenly came the warning cry of,

“Car!”

Like an obedient flock, everyone moved one way, and like an unruly sheep, I went the other--

straight into the path of the oncoming car.

This brought gales of laughter from all the boys, and a shower of Spanish phrases, which, if they were directed at me, I’m not sure I wanted to understand. Still, it made me wish I’d taken Spanish in school for longer than a few weeks. The only phrase I could still remember was ‘La

muchacha es inteligente’ and I was pretty sure they weren’t saying that.

Of course, I managed to follow the others to the correct side of the road in plenty of time to avoid being squashed by the approaching car, and being used to myself, I wasn’t too surprised at my mistake. My cousin Esther, however, thought it was so funny she could hardly stand up, and she very nearly died of laughing.

In order to avoid walking on the highway, (probably a good thing since I was along) we cut across a large field on the way to the gas station. If you avoid the anthills, it’s a nice field as fields go, and as someone had recently mowed down the grass, it was particularly pleasant. They had also strung up a barbed-wire fence, however, and this would pose a problem.

 

The boys (don’t ask why) bucked at the idea of the gate, and insisted on squeezing through a little gap in the fence. For a boy in jeans it’s not a problem, but I was a little worried about my skirt. Last year, on our annual walk, all of us girls wore our Easter dresses, which were floor length and a little formal. The boys were so embarrassed they almost wouldn’t walk with us, so remembering that, I had changed into normal, practical clothes. I was sure I’d be fine...after all, what can happen when you combine blondes and barbed wire?

There was a long string of us trying to get to the gas station, and the hole was only large enough for one at a time, so I determined to move quickly and smoothly through the little gap like everyone else was doing, and not make the boys behind me have to wait. All the other girls had successfully accomplished a graceful passageway through the barbs, and I was sure I could too.

 

~Let he who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall.~

 

This must be my life verse.

 

I walked through the little gap, stepped over the barbed wire on the ground, and was immediately caught on the barbed wire at my side.

The boys let up an amused cry of, “Oh, you’ve caught your skirt!” (Which, by the way, I ripped,) so I leaned down to untangled myself.

At this, the boys let out a tremendous racket, louder than the first, all of them crying delightedly, “And now you’ve caught your hair!”

And I had. If you’ve ever been a pig with your head stuck in a bucket, it’s pretty much the same thing as being a girl with your hair stuck on a barbed wire fence. It was impossible to untangle myself--I couldn’t even lift my head. One thing I will say is that when I get myself in a pickle, I get myself in thoroughly. I really couldn’t see anything but the barbed wire fence and my hair blowing around like corn tassels, but I could hear all the boys dying of laughter behind me, and assuring me we could always find scissors and cut it off.

My hair has gotten stuck in the strangest assortment of places--down the drain in the bathtub, on a gentleman’s classes from church, in the car door, in the vacuum, on someone’s bracelet and in a donkey’s mouth.

Someone’s always there to give me the helpful assurance of, “I’ll go find you some scissors and we can cut it off!” but I think this escapade was my largest audience.

Somehow over their howls of laughter and over my wailing of,

“I’m sorry! My hair’s always in the way!” a few of the girls managed to untangle me from the fence, and lead me away before I could cause any more damage. It took a few minutes to get over my mortification and see the funny side of things, but once I saw it, I probably laughed harder than anyone else.

It struck me as something an absentminded heroine in a book might have done. You know--Anne of Green Gables stranded on a pier, L’Abri of Lochseloy with her head in a fence--it’s all pretty much the same thing.

 

The boys, however, should realize that blue jeans and cropped heads make dealing with barbed wire fences easy, whereas fluffy skirts and flapping hair do not. After this interesting ordeal, we   all managed to make it across the field, (even me), climb over the little wall, and arrive at the gas station. I’m saving all my money for a plane ticket back to Berlin, so I decided not to buy anything. One of my brothers however, kindly handed me a soda, and a sister gave me an ice cream cone! I was certainly well taken care of, though I felt like a mooch.

 

We all walked back in much the same way we’d come, only the younger boys were even more rambunctious, thanks to the added caffeine. The girls talked about everything from Bible reading to lipstick, while the boys kicked their empty cans down the street, sprayed each other with their soda, and had generally a wonderful time. I managed not to do anything ridiculous, so by the time we reached home and a game of dodge ball was announced, I decided to join.

 

After all, what could happen?

 

As a little kid when I played dodge ball with my siblings, one of us would always be the tagger, and would hurl balls and wallop everyone else as fast as they could. In this game, however, the tagger was constantly changing as the ball switched hands, and this kept everyone on their toes.

 

All of the players were gathered in a large rectangle that had been measured off. Everyone still ‘alive’ was on their feet, while everyone who was out was trying to sit in the moist grass without getting wet.

 

I joined the game, and got the ball within the first few minutes. I was doing pretty well for only my second game! I grabbed the ball, whirled around before someone could snatch it from me, and aimed at a relatively young target I knew I could hit. The disease called ‘bad aim’ struck me suddenly, and the ball flew through the air and walloped the poor kid in a way that’s usually considered dirty play.

 

For the next five minutes he was doubled over on the field, I was apologizing profusely, and everyone who walked by was expressing their amused surprise at how violent I was.

 

Despite the fact that I’m Irish, sometimes my luck is terrible.

 

Well, the game picked up after that. Everyone was in good spirits, and everyone played by the rules and was generally enjoyable. The ball flew through the air for what seemed like hours, but everyone was having too much fun to stop, or even mind the blows they took to the head. I was accidentally tackled by one of my younger brothers trying to outrun the ball. Whether or not he escaped the ball I’m not sure--but the incident gave me a headache.

 

At around seven the group dispersed, a little reluctantly, and we all went our separate ways, calling goodbye to each other, and nursing our wounds. By this time my headache was full blown, and I could count the causes on my fingers.

 

1. Not enough water

 

2. Too much Dr. Pepper

 

3. Sitting in the direct sun being ‘out’

 

4. Being tackled by a compact fifteen year old

 

I must have looked pretty funny, wandering around our kitchen, rambling on about how much fun the game had been, and holding my head with both hands.

 

“You probably ran too much,” said one of our guests, who was still sitting around and eating pie instead of going home like he should have been.

 

“Probably,” I said, and then added the laughing confession of, “actually I was sitting on

the ground for most of the time being out.”

 

My head still aching, I laid it down on the cold granite of our countertops, which I thought would be an improvement on the icepack. Then I saw an empty glass sitting around, so I picked it up, turned it upside down, and put the cool bottom of it against my head. A trickle of water ran out of the glass which had not been quite empty, and so my Easter of many mistakes ended with more laughing and a mess to clean up.

 

Sometimes I amaze myself. If someone were to do a blind study of my life, they would end up with the conclusion that I was some sort of monk---trying to humiliate the flesh.

 

Well, I’m not. I’m just an absentminded girl.

 

“I think the Lord has a sense of humor,” said my older sister when I related to her all the events of the day.

 

If you think about it that way, it makes sense. After all, if the Lord has a sense of humor, shouldn’t we develop ours? I’m sure the best way of developing your sense of humor is laughing at yourself, which is something I certainly did that day.

 

Looking back, it was the most memorable and enjoyable Easter I’ve ever had--and I think the

barbed wire only enhanced it.

(That being said, I am seriously considering getting a bob.)

 

Chapter 2: Wisdom from our Mothers  

 

Martha’s memories

True events from the memory of Mrs. Martha Anderson

The Great Depression

 

    You children have always known relatively good times. Young people as a whole didn’t want to hear the “oldsters” yammer about the hard times.

       Let me tell you about the Great Depression which my husband and I experienced, although I don’t think one can understand unless one has lived through such times.

       People were being warmed in 1928 when everyone was making money that it wouldn’t last. They were warned that there was too much borrowing.

       On September 3, 1929, the United States Stock Market reached the highest level ever achieved up to that time, followed by a series of violent selling attacks which culminated in the infamous Black Thursday, October 24, 1929, when the stock market collapsed. End of the great American success story!

       This symbolized the end of the gold-plated prosperity of the 1920’s. Seemingly out of nowhere came the avalanche of selling. Out o the flamboyant 1920’s of cheap commercialism and spiritual emptiness came the 1930’s.

       By 1030, the Depression had swept throughout the entire world, and from 1930 until July 8, 1932, the stock decline was precipitous and virtually uninterrupted.

       It was severest in the early 1930’s—factories closed, people lost mortgaged homes, money was scarce. A dollar was a dollar and often hard to achieve. Everyone in our family worked. We could thank God that no one starved or was on welfare. I do know many who took advantage of the free food and fuel given by the government just as there are now those people who take advantage of food stamps, A. D. C., and General Assistance.

       We were rigorous people who lived a hard life compared with today’s living. We lived on our own production – growing or making most of the things we needed or went without. There was work to do, and busy people are happy people I believe. We had gardens, flocks of chickens, eggs, our own meat, raised potatoes, and cut wood to burn.

       A relative of ours sat around bemoaning the fact that he couldn’t get a job, but he wouldn’t do anything else. My father needed someone to help dig potatoes and cut wood on shares, but this fellow preferred to be a recipient of the government and whine.

       Besides raising our won beef and pork, we canned, salted it, cured and smoked it, and packed it in jars in its own lard. The lard was tried out so we had shortening for baking. Believe me; trying out lard is not an easy task.

       We were pretty independent individuals – honorable individuals. We wanted to work to earn a living and wanted to pay whatever bills or debts we might have incurred; but it was hard. However, we didn’t suffer – only experienced physical tiredness.

       We learned to economize, which didn’t hurt us at all; in fact, we grew up frugally. I wonder what would happen if a severe depression should come in these days.

       Father took wheat and corn to the feed mill to be ground into flour and meal. He brought it back in one-hundred-pound, cloth sacks. He usually took enough grain, especially wheat, for one-half ton of flour, which supplied us enough for winter.

       There was an extra upstairs room where the provisions were stored, such as sugar in hundred-pound sacks, the flour, dried beans, dried apple slices, and even dried flowers for a winter bouquet. Catnip was hung up to dry for medicinal uses.

       Mother made underwear out of the white flour sacks; and from the colorful feed sacks she made curtains, clothes, towels, etc.

       Ma made her own soap out of wood ashes, rain water which made lye, to which she combined leftover lard to make soft soap.

       Grandmother, Mother, and I used solar energy to dry our washings in summer. I winter, they hung the inside on the coldest days. I was happy to have partitioned-off room and a furnace to dry mine.

       I would dread to have to wash clothes in a tub using a scrub board. Evidently we didn’t change clothes as often as people do today taking a shower every morning. We changed from our school and church clothes each time and put on our work clothes.

 

 

 

Chapter Three: Collection of Poems

 

Santa Filomena

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

When e’er a noble deed is wrought,

When e’er is spoken a noble thought,

Our hearts in glad surprise,

To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls

Into our inmost being rolls,

And lifts us unawares

Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds

Thus help us in our daily needs,

And by their overflow

Raise us from what is low!

Thus thought I, as by night I read

OF the great army of the dead,

The trenches cold and damp,

The starved and frozen camp.

The wounded from the battle-plain,

In dreary hospitals of pain,

The cheerless corridors,

The cold and stony floors.

Lo! In that house of misery

A lady with a lamp I see

Pass through the glimmering gloom

And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dram of bliss,

The speechless sufferer turns to kiss

Her shadow as it falls

Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be

Opened and then closed suddenly

The vision came and went

The light shone and was spent.

On England’s annals, through the long

Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall oast

From the portals of the past.

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand,

In the great history of the land,

A noble type of good,

Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here

The palm, the lily and the spear

The symbols that of yore

Saint Filomena bore.

 

(The Name of Filomena was given by Longfellow to Florence Nightingale, mainly because the name closely resembles the Latin ‘philomela’ which means ‘nightingale.’)

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four: Delicious Dishes

Moist Meat Loaves         Yield: 4 loaves (6 servings each

8 eggs lightly beaten                                      2-2/3 cups milk

6 cups (24 oz.) shredded cheddar cheese      12 slices white bread, cubed

2 large onions, finely chopped                        2 cups shredded carrots

7- ½ teaspoons salt                                         1 teaspoon pepper

                        8 pounds lean ground beef (90% lean)

Additional Ingredients for each meat loaf

¼ cup packed brown sugar                         ¼ cup ketchup

                            1 tablespoon prepared mustard

 

Step 1: In two very large bowls, combine the eggs, milk, cheese, bread, onions, carrots, salt and pepper. Crumble beef over mixture and mix well. Pat into four ungreased 9 in. x 5 in. loaf pans.

Step 2: Cover and freeze three meat loaves for up to 3 months. Bake the remaining loaf, uncovered, at 350 degrees for 1 hour. Combine the brown sugar, ketchup and mustard; spread over loaf. Bake 15-20 minutes longer or until no pink remains and a meat thermometer reads 160 degrees.

 

TO USE FROZEN MEAT LOAF: Thaw in the refrigerator overnight. Remove from the refrigerator 30 minutes before baking. Bake, uncovered, at 350 degrees for 1 hour. Combine the brown sugar, ketchup and mustard; spread over loaf. Bake 30-35 minutes longer or until no pink remains and a meat thermometer reads 160 degrees.

 

      

 

    Chapter Five: Potpourri of Thoughts

A Walk in the Park

             Written by Esperanza Eduardez

 

 

 

 

“Where will we be walking this time Gramps?”

Jenny buttoned the top of her red coat and bent down to slip on her black flats.

Her straight, blonde hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and she was wearing a black turtleneck and a pair of black leggings. She smiled and stood up to wait for her grandfather. Jenny looked to be about twenty-three years old, while the elderly man next to her more or less a full fifty years her senior.

The older man zipped up his large, black coat and pulled down his black ski cap over his head until the mass of white, curly hair was out of sight. Stamping his boots on the rug behind the front door, he flashed Jenny a cheesy grin while she turned off the light and opened the door.

Stepping outside, the air was crisp from the cool, night air, and the bright, fall-colored trees stood solemnly outside the small apartment building off of Chester and Main. The whole street corner was quiet and except for a couple sitting peacefully on the park bench by one of the trees, no one else seemed to be on the street that night.

Jenny locked the door and softly slipped her arm through her grandfather’s, and breathed in the night air as they crossed the corner towards Chester Street.

Her mind drifted off for a few moments before a deep, Santa Clause-like voice brought her back from her momentary reverie.

“Got any ideas tonight Jenny-pie?”

“Nah, Gramps - Just listening to the quiet. Besides, you didn’t answer my question earlier about where we’re walking this time.”

The older man softly laughed to himself and glanced at his granddaughter while they strolled down the street.

“I figured we would just walk along until we run into Park Place. I don’t have much of a plan tonight.”

Jenny smiled to herself and she squeezed Gramp's arm teasingly.

“Oh – you always have a plan Gramps. But I guess I’ll play along like I do on all our Friday-night walks.”

“I didn’t say I was unprepared,” Gramps said with a laugh.

“I’m glad that you always have something up your sleeve, Grampsie.” Jenny’s face crinkled for a moment as she laughed to herself. Putting her head on her grandfather’s shoulder, she sighed deeply and watched the mirrored reflection of the trees in the puddles on the street. Her face was very serious and she seemed lost in her thoughts for a while until Gramps spoke up.

“What are you thinking of, Jenny-pie?”

She sighed, “Oh- a thousand little things. Not much to say, of course.”

“I bet I can guess what you’re thinking about right now,” he replied assertively.

“Alright, Gramps. Go ahead and guess. You’re so old and wise I’ll bet you have it right on the money.”

Jenny picked up her head again as they watched the light from the lamp posts lining the street, reflect off of the puddles like the hall of mirrors at the palace in Versailles.

“You’re probably wondering to yourself about the future. And I bet that the reason your crinkling your nose right now is because you’re also asking yourself ‘what’s next?’”

“You won the bet Grampsie,” Jenny laughed dryly. “Have any solutions?”

Gramps smiled knowingly and gently patted the small hand that was resting on his arm.

“Well, let’s see now. When I was your age someone told me that the best way to figure the future out was to start with a goal. Do you have any goals Jenny-pie?”

Jenny hesitated before replying, “Not exactly. I mean, I just don’t feel like goals are going to help me at all right now. For gosh sakes Gramps, I’m already twenty-three. Besides, no one I know has really been able to keep the goals they set for themselves anyhow.”

“Well, I guess that’s because they chose goals that didn’t really mean that much to them. It doesn’t help anyone to make a goal they know they won’t try to follow.”

“Yes, but goals aren’t all that important now. I mean, well, that they aren’t exactly going to be much use. Look at the facts. I’m still single, working as a nanny, and living with my parents. I don’t think it’s going to help me now, Grampsie.”

“Well, as I see it honey-pie, you’re like a boat in the middle of the ocean without a rudder. Not because you don’t have one, it’s just that you haven’t found it in order to use it.”

Jenny smiled strangely at the mental image that description produced, but still wondered what he was getting at.

“I still don’t quite get it Grampsie. What do you mean?”

“Well, Jenny. I guess another way of saying it is that goals make the difference between a pilgrim and a tramp. Goals help our journey of life to make sense.

You know sweetheart,” and here Gramps laughed to himself. “You remind me of a poem I memorized when I was a young boy. I’ll bet I can still say it after all these years. Let’s see now,” and here they stopped by a bench and as Gramps scrunched his face to produce out of his memory banks the poem from his childhood, they sat down and rested against the cold, damp boards.

It wasn’t long before Gramps found what he was searching for, and his voice softly repeated the poem in a meditative way, and his kind face took on a faraway look as he began.

“He stood at the crossroads all alone, the sunrise in his face;

He had no thought for the world unknown—He was set for a manly race.

But the road stretched east and the road stretched west,

And the boy did not know which road was best,

So he took the wrong road and went down,

And he lost the race and the victor’s crown.

He was caught at last in an angry snare ---

Because none stood at the crossroads there

To show him the better road.

Another day at the selfsame place, a boy with high hopes stood;

He, too, was set for a manly race,

He was seeking the things that were good.

But one was there who the roads did know,

And that one showed him which way to go.

So he turned away from the road that went down,

And he won the race and the victor’s crown.

He walks today the highways fair, because one stood at the crossroads there

To show him the better way.”

 

As he finished speaking he smiled and looked up at the stars while waiting for a response from Jenny.

She was focused, looking at the toes of her flats, staring and thinking. Her nose was crinkled again. It always was when she was pensively in thought.

When she finally broke the silence she said, “Does God have our lives planned out like a map or is it every man for himself?”

She straightened her slumped back and look straight at Gramps uplifted profile.

He was still thoughtfully stargazing.

Jenn started again in a sarcastically monotonous voice. “Earth to Gramps, earth to Gramps.”

He slowly turned his face and looked into her questioning eyes.

“What do you think?”

She slumped back down. Her nose crinkling again.

“Man, I guess there’s got to be a purpose for everything, right? I mean, I’m here for a reason and maybe there is a point to today and tomorrow, and this conversation right now.” Her voice paused. “ I don’t know, Gramps. You tell me.”

His voice was steady and assuring when he began.

“You know Jenny, life doesn’t always make sense. When I was twenty-three I was poor and both my parents didn’t care where I decided to go or what I did. I Had no one to lead me, no one to stand at the cross roads of life and say, “this is the right way to go- go down this road!”  So I went to the military for the answers to my questions. Do this, do that. You had a select list of choices to make. When I got out I was still as bewildered as before. It wasn’t until I asked Jesus to lead my life that I rested from my constant search for answers. Questions about why I was even here on earth, why I was even born, seemed to make sense in that I didn’t have to know why. He knew. A close friend told me that a goal could help me sort of set things aside. My “goal” was that I wanted to be whatever God chose me to be, but I also had a desperate longing to share the gospel to people who were as lost and confused as I was. People like me. People like you Jenny. Young kids who were set on a multilane road without a compass or a guide to help them choose the right way.”

Jenny’s face relaxed in a more understanding expression as Gramps went on.

“So I knew that my ultimate goal, in Christ, was to share what I had found to good kids and bad kids alike. I grabbed my bible and my faith in God’s plan and headed to wherever it was God told me to go. I ended up, as you know, in many places.

California---talking to drugees, addicts, and gang-leaders.

Seattle-------spreading God’s word to the homeless young people living in bewildered hopelessness on the streets.

 New York---ministering to the school kids who were stuck in a culture of wealth and empty luxury.

And many others that I never even thought God would send me to. I didn’t have to know that after five years in the ministry I would marry and have four kids and six grand-kids, one of them named Jenny.”

And here he smiled and playfully yanked her blond ponytail.

“The point is, yes, God does have plans for us; and He is the rudder to that lost boat of yours. He is your guide and your compass Jenny. All you need to do is give your questions to Him. He always has an open ear, you know.” He smirked just then and looked up again at the stars.

Jenny understood. She rested the back of her head against the cold wood of the bench. The stars twinkled in the night sky like a sparkling map—so full of outlines and designs that you couldn’t even count each detail.

And for the first time in the twenty-three years she had lived on earth, she closed her eyes, and prayed.

“Seek first His kingdom and His righteousness; and all these things will be added to you. Therefore do not be anxious for tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself.”

Matthew 6:33-34

…………………………Possibly to Be Continued