I've been careful for the last eighteen days.  I put a spray can of Lysol on the front porch so when anyone has something to give me, they spray it down.

Today, Becky came with something she found for me.  At first I couldn't tell what it was.  It was 18 inches square, dark brown wood with raised black reverse letters and symbols.  It took me a minute.

It was exactly what I've always needed!!  A printers block with raised reverse print and reverse Marine Corps emblem.  She said it was what they used to make license plates in the late forties early fifties for Marine vehicles.  When you pressed it down, the symbols came out in the right direction.  Not reversed.

Now all I need is a tank.  I can print a tag for it.

I could tell it was a printer's block because I was born back when they used them to print on things.  But it was fun to see the Marine symbol on it.  I'm going to hang it in the back bedroom which has become the Marine museum.  All of Ken's stuff is on the walls.  Grandkids love it.

You never know what it is you don't have that you really need.  The only thing of Ken's that I lost in the million moves we made were his LSO (Landing Signal Officer) paddles.  The ones he used to wave planes aboard the carrier.  A few years after we were married, the Navy quit using them and mounted mirrors and lights on the carrier to guide the pilots in.  And LSO's were obsolete--until they had a fire or lost the lights and mirrors in an accident.  Then they were scrambling for an LSO.  Hopefully without the mirror the pilots had watched the old movies and could interpret the LSO's paddle signals?  If anyone out there has some old LSO glow-nylon paddles, I'd love to have them.

When Ken and I got married, we moved to Pensacola where he was teaching cadets to land on a carrier.  Sunup to sundown.  But on Saturdays, we would play cribbage.  I had never heard of that game, but it is very mathematical.  

There's a pegboard, pegs and a deck of cards.  You deal two hands. He taught me how and of course he beat me every time.  Until one day.  Once I got the hang of it we were pretty well balanced.  It was a lot of fun.

You lay a card down, the other guy lays one on the stack to add up to fifteen.  It doesn't take long to realize if you lay an 8 down, he's going to lay a 7 on it to add to fifteen for two points.  So I have 7+8, and 9+6 pretty well drilled in my head for life.  Of course we all have 10+5 is fifteen.

It's involved.  You peg around the board---and out.  First around wins.  He would deploy and when he got back from deployment, he had played cribbage with the guys so many times that he would beat me at it until I caught up with him again.  

Then we had kids and played games and puzzles with children.  We both went to college, work, and life and never had time for cribbage again.

I woke up this morning thinking about cribbage.  I haven't played in a million years.  It's hard to learn to play.  And people don't play games anymore with other people.  They play on their phone, or computer by themselves.  Sad.

My grandson David always played gin rummy with me.  There came a day that he beat me for the first time, and I knew the feeling he had.  I had that feeling the first time I beat Ken at cribbage.  It feels really good!!

My birthday came and went.  The best part was the phone calls.  Thank all of you for the voices.  It was wonderful.  But it was definitely the strangest birthday I have ever had.  One highlight was getting out of the house and walking the dog.  Squig and I made it to the end of the street--but it was so hot we had to come home.  I hear we set a heat record yesterday for March 26.

I did clean out my freezer for some entertainment.  Mercy.  Stuff that I had no idea about was in there.  I got it organized so I at least know what I have.  I am definitely not going to starve.  I even found a turkey!!

People are worried about me being here by myself.  No problem.  I know how to do this.  I spent a lot of time alone in my early (age 18-28) married years (except for company of my children)   Ken was always flying somewhere.  And gone for three months, here or there. In the first ten years, he had two different deployments overseas for thirteen months each--leaving me to parent alone.  I'm well trained for managing things on my own.  I've dealt with crisis before. 

When we got married, Ken said, "I'll fly the airplanes and you will have to be in charge of everything else."  And that was what happened.  I remember one hurricane--there was more than one I went through on the east coast and the gulf at Pensacola. I went through it with three kids.  The pilots took all the A-4s and flew them inland so they wouldn't be damaged.  They spent the time playing Acey-Ducey and left wives and children to manage the hurricane.

We managed.  Plywood on the windows, sandbags ready for flooding, and enough water and food to make it through.  When it was over, the guys flew the planes back--safe and sound.  Marines go to war.  Their wives do the rest.  "Crisis management" is my middle name. 

My daughter Pat spends unending minutes on the phone with me helping me when I have a computer problem.  Most of it saying, "Hush, hush.  Just listen to me while I explain this."  I spend most of the time saying, "I feel so bad taking all of your time helping me with this."

To which she always replies, "I don't mind.  I'm glad to help you."  She has the patience of Job.  She is also an excellent teacher--after almost forty years in the public education field she knows where to start explaining a problem.  Step one, step two...

When God assigned "gifts" to people, I was not assigned patience.  Some people have varying degrees of this gift.  I scored a zero.  Maybe my score was in the negative numbers.  Pat said, "Aren't you glad you and I have different personalities.  What if I was like you!!"

To which I replied, "God gave you to me because I needed someone with patience.  She must have inherited it from Ken.  He had the same gift.

I once told Ken's mom that I was praying for patience and she gasped.  "Oh, no!" she said.  "Don't ever do that."  I was shocked and asked her why.  

She then quoted Romans 5:3-4 "...we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience and patience, experience; and experience, hope..."  She added, "When you pray for patience, you get tribulation.  Because tribulation is where patience comes from.  You learn patience from trials."

I've had plenty of tribulations.   My score isn't going up on the patience scale.  I'm obviously a slow learner. 

All I needed was the right word from the weatherman.  And yesterday morning, he gave it to me.  There is going to be a record setting high temperature this week.

I got my daddy's okra seed, a shuffle hoe, and made trenches in my raised garden.  You don't need a measuring stick or a special method.  Dig a one inch trench, over-seed with too many seeds, and cover it back up with dirt.  You can thin it later.  Done in ten minutes.  The rest is up to God.

Now I have to wait.  That's the hard part.  Scott said he bought my Jet-Star tomatoes.  Now all I have to do is get them from him--a hundred and fifty miles away.  He said he would drive here and plant them for me.  That isn't reasonable.  But I'll figure something out even if it means I have to plant another tomato cultivar.

Which would mean leaving the house to go to Lowe's.  I'll have to think about that for awhile.  Do I want Corona-virus, or tomato plants.  Probably the only thing that could tempt me to venture outside to a store.  

I've been in the house for thirteen days.  Except for the day on the street playing my marimba.  But none of us got within six feet of each other that day.  It's okay.  I really don't mind.  All I need is an occasional phone call with a human voice on the other end.  Texts are nice, but human voices are music.

I just finished the book of Jeremiah.  Over fifty chapters.  I underlined all the verses that I want to read again--maybe fifteen.  It's a depressing book.  I think I'll chalk it up as done, and next time I'll read the good parts.  God was angry at his people and telling him what was coming next.  They didn't listen.

A new week.  Hanging in there.  I made one of those shredded potato, cheese, sour cream, sausage, etc. breakfast casseroles three weeks ago--before I was thinking future eating on such an extended big scale--and cut it into 24 squares, wrapped them in "Saran" wrap (cheap wrap substitute) and froze them.

So...I'll have breakfast for awhile.  Along with French toast and egg omelets.

For a year or so, when I cooked, I froze three fourths of it.  So my fridge is full of things to eat.  Single helpings.  I'm stocked.

Only thing missing is people to eat it with.  I miss that a lot.  

Pat came over yesterday to fix my Mac.  I put a folding chair,  a can of Lysol, some hand disinfectant and a rag on the front porch and she sat out there and fixed my computer.  She had been in crowds the last week judging horse shows and riding in competition so she didn't want to take a chance on coming in where I was.  Everyone is trying to protect me.  At 82 (Birthday this Thursday the 26'th) they think I need to be careful.  I have been, and will be.

Ruiz, my lawn man, came yesterday and blew away all the oak leaves and mowed my lawn for the first time of the season.   People in those kinds of jobs are probably short.  I asked him if he would like cash and he grinned.  He usually bills me at the end of the month. 

People have been calling for weeks as the redbuds start to bloom in their neck of the woods, to sing "Happy Birthday."  My birthday is the time of year they bloom, and though nobody remembers the day, they are always reminded when the redbud trees pop out pink.   That's a wonderful thing.

Sunday was strange.  I tried to listen to the sermon on TV.  But I'm a better doer than a listener.  I was sitting in my chair thinking how disconnected it is to listen on line away from friends and was wondering what I could do about that.

I went to the garage opened the garage door and popped the trunk on my car.  I took the seven pieces of my little marimba out to the sidewalk, put the thing together and set it up. (I keep it in the trunk of my car for when I play at assisted living, etc.  I have a big one in the house that I use to practice.)

Got my sticks and started to play.  Amazing Grace, Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus, Leaning on The Everlasting Arms, etc.  Jean and Dean came out to listen and so did their neighbor.  Found out one of the neighbors plays guitar, and another is the praise director at a local church.

I'm thinking next Saturday, I'll type up some bulletins, walk them down the street and scotch tape them to doors and invite everyone to bring a folding chair and an instrument if they have one to join us next Sunday on the sidewalk at 11:00.  Get a little neighborhood band going.  Six feet apart. 

Dean is a preacher.  I'm a chaplain.  Maybe we could start a street church.  I doubt anyone would want to listen to either of us talk, but I'm sure everyone would enjoy the music.

I think that would be fun.  We all might get to know each other.  Maybe there could be something good come from being stuck in our houses while this crisis plays itself out. 

Pecan Hollow Nitty Gritty Church Street Band. 

Staying home gets old really quick.  I haven't been out of the house for a week.  This is one of the most interesting events in American history that I've ever seen.  Every thing in our country has come to a screeching halt.

I have to figure out how to get library books on my Mac.  So far, however, I've kept busy just doing things I should have done all year and didn't do.

A huge percentage of our populace lives from paycheck to paycheck.  Be as generous as possible.  Share what you have.  

We will all be exposed eventually.  We just need to spread the exposure out--as far into the future as possible.  Otherwise, if we all get sick at once, there won't be hospital equipment or personal to care for us.  This isn't going to go away anytime soon.  Stay home. Don't get exposed--for as long as possible.

I met a lady last year at a luncheon who said she washes her strawberries with soap before she she serves them--because soap kills the germs.  Good grief, I had no idea that a grown woman didn't know better than that.

Soap breaks up grease, fat.  That's it.  You use soap to remove stuff from your hands.  It doesn't kill germs. Stuff sticks to the natural oil on our skin.  Soap cleans away the oil that holds that stuff to your skin.  My brother spent 37 years in China where they had to disinfect every single fresh vegetable or fruit that they ate--water diluted with a little bleach (Clorox) usually does the trick.

The virus now going around has a "greasy" surface (or so they say).  Soap can break the oil surface on your hands and wash stuff away.  Wash your hands. Disinfect as well, but wash, wash, wash.    

Use bleach.

I got locked out of my bank account.  Of course, after over thirty minutes of trying to figure it out, the bank couldn't discover the problem and couldn't fix it.  They told me I would have to get a computer expert to do it.  Luckily Craig was available.  But now every other account--including this one--has to be fixed.  And of course, I don't know how to do that either.

Every time something happens, I have to come up with a new password--which drives me nuts.  I do not, do not, Do Not like change.  I like being in a rut.  I like to be able to count on my routine to stay the same.  I always used Safari, but now I have to use Chrome.  I'm distressed.

I listened to the BBC account of the mess America is in right now.  Since the British aren't Republican or Democratic--trying to fix the blame on each other--it was interesting to hear their account of what is going to happen.  Which I happen to agree with.

That is, this virus that everybody is being exposed to isn't going away any time soon.  And America is ill equipped to deal with it.  Ta-Dah!!

And until we have a vaccine, we will all have to be careful.  Life isn't going back to normal for awhile.  I tend to be a hermit so I'm okay.  But "people persons" are going to suffer and go stir-crazy.  

And until people get out and start spending money, the stock market won't recover because it depends on companies making money by selling stuff.

Good thing God is still on His throne.  Good thing He is in control of the world He created.  Sometimes we forget that.  Maybe this will be a wake up call.

I've been getting calls from neighbors and family to ask if I need anything.  Only thing I need is for someone to take Squig to the groomers, and Craig just let me know he will do that.  People have been bringing me food and picking up groceries, but I really don't need anything.

First time ever in my life, I cancelled my Bible class last Sunday.  They didn't cancel church, so I made an executive decision and did it myself.  Everyone in the class has underlying conditions.  As the teacher, I was responsible to do something, so I did.

I am by nature a hermit, so staying home is fairly normal for me.  I rotate between writing, editing, eating, sudoko, (Or some other math puzzle) the newspaper, crossword, reading a book, then repeating that sequence all over again.

No one but me is here ninety percent of the time, so my three back bedrooms and extra bath are untouched.  Only the area around my chair is a mess.  Not much to clean.

I feel so bad for all of the "working poor."  The non-working poor will still get disability or welfare checks.  But the working poor are in a world of hurt.  They need help.  So if you use curb side pick up at a restaurant, don't forget to tip.

If you cancel your help, pay them anyway.  This isn't the time to be stingy.  They depend on your check.  Some, or most, live paycheck to paycheck.

If there was ever a time to love others as you love yourself, this is it.

Got some feed back about what I told you concerning the outhouse and the corncobs.  Where do you think the old saying, "Rough as a corncob" came from?  It's an experience you'll never forget.  My Gran lived in Wilburton Oklahoma.  She had an out house.  Everyone did if you lived in the country. 

Farms depended on well water for the kitchen.  When you were through washing dishes, you threw the water out to the flower beds or garden.  Everyone had an "Ice-box."  I can still hear my Gran yelling at me to shut the ice box door so the ice wouldn't melt so fast.  But it did eventually melt, and filled the drip pan underneath.  That melted ice water also went to the flowerbeds or garden. 

Gran would send me to the well for water.  I was fascinated by the bucket and line that dropped down the well and filled the bucket.  Ice cold.

I don't remember anyone ever wasting anything.  No matter what it was, it was repurposed.  Innovation was rampant in the 40's.  You used what you had. 

We didn't have much.  But nobody knew it--because there wasn't much to have.  The radio was our only communication with the outside world.  Otherwise you had to telegraph somebody.  I remember how everyone dreaded hearing that someone got a telegram because it usually meant someone had died in the war.

You couldn't afford to telephone anyone long distance--not everyone had a telephone anyway.  We had a four person party line.  Every time the phone rang, all four houses listened in.  You weren't supposed to do that, but you could hear the "click" from the other people picking up on the line to listen in.  Which made conversations rather bland.  If you said anything interesting it was all over town in no time at all.  And you had to have the operator put your call through.  You couldn't dial it.  Numbers were only three digits.  No area code back then.  

When the virus was announced in China, being a military background kind of person who has been through crisis a number of times in my past, I went to the store and bought some cornmeal.  Forget the rest of it.

I can live without anything but cornbread and beans.

The "toilet-paper-hysteria-people" didn't grow up with outhouses out back of the house.  In the 40's  there was always a Montgomery Ward catalog and a basket of corncobs in the outhouse.  I understand that is not feasible with flush toilets, but back then toilet paper was a luxury.  You know how to improvise if you were brought up during World War Two.  Toilet paper was the least of our worries.

If all else fails, there is newspaper.  And all the paper you throw in the trash.  Save a tree.  Improvise if need be.  Good grief, the only thing you don't want to run out of is cornmeal and beans.

As for Scott towels, they hadn't been invented yet--either that, or nobody I knew could afford such a luxury.  We had rags.  Every worn out piece of clothing was used.  Torn into squares.  And you washed them.  We used the rags over and over until they were threads.

I still can't throw away a good 100% cotton piece of anything.  Shirts, Levis, sheets, etc.  Cotton was king. The very thought of using a paper towel when I can use a rag seems like a waste.  I spilled something wet and sticky on the utility room floor last Saturday and used a dustpan and brush to get most of it up before I used a paper towel. And felt guilty because I didn't use a rag.

That may be penny wise and pound foolish, but I can't waste stuff.  That's the reason people from my generation save the plastic bags from the grocery store. They are such a luxury.  My generation knows how to cope.  

Carolyn called to tell me about a session she had over in Tulsa in Bible Study Fellowship.  The teacher was talking about 1Corinthians 13:13: "And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

She said that after its all over here on earth, that faith will cease to exist because it will be transformed into sight.  What we had as faith will become truth  and faith will no longer be needed.  She said that hope will cease to exist because everything we hoped for will be fulfilled.  And that the only thing that stays the same and lasts forever is love.

I referred Carolyn to a verse someone pointed out to me back in 1964 in a Bible study I attended.  1Thessalonians 1:3 talks about  "...your work of faith, and labour of love, and patience of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ.  

I had never thought about the exercising of our faith being work.  Or faith being work.  I had never though about how much patience we have to have to wait on what we hope for.  But--I had thought about how hard it is sometimes to love.  It is laborious work.  

Some people are almost impossible to even like, much less love.

But we are called on to do it.  It is a labour of love.

Ken always reminded his Sociology classes that love is not an emotion.  It is a behavior.  You are what you do; you are not what you feel.  Feelings are fleeting.  They change day to day, depending on circumstances.  But love--real love--endures.  It is acted upon day by day in our lives even though sometimes it is hard.  Love is a commitment.  You do it.  And do it.  And do it again.

Continuing what Scott had to say:  3 things happen here to explain why Paul didn’t know who was tormenting him. (on the road to Damascus)

1. The light from heaven flashed all around him… so He fell to the ground and only heard a voice. His eyes were closed (v8)
2. The men around heard the sound but could not see anyone
3. Saul was struck blind… this is the important statement…. “But, when he opened his eyes, he could see nothing”

Acts 26:26 states that what Jesus spoke and did was out in the open for everyone to hear. (Paul was raised in Jerusalem.) Acts 22:3, Acts 21:17

Saul (Paul) was trained by Gamaliel and both men would have most probably been in the Temple and heard Jesus speak. 

In the Gospel to the Jews, Matthew states (in the end of Chapter 22 and thru 23) that Jesus addressed the Pharisees. Saul being a Pharisee would have been there and heard Jesus speak.

Deuteronomy 16:16,  Luke 22:1, both tell us about the Feast of Unleavened Bread which is the Passover--which is when Jesus taught in Jerusalem.

Deuteronomy 16:16 New International Version (NIV) Three times a year all (Jewish) men must appear before the Lord your God at the place he will choose: at the Festival of Unleavened Bread, the Festival of Weeks and the Festival of Tabernacles. No one should appear before the Lord empty-handed. (So all Jewish men would have been there.)  

The point is, Paul and Jesus crossed paths, probably many times.  But Paul didn't recognize Jesus on the road to Damascus because he thought Jesus was dead, and because Paul was blinded.  But when Jesus identified himself, Paul realized that he had been killing the followers of the Promised Messiah--Jesus.  Paul was immediately convicted and ready to follow the living Christ--Jesus.  Paul never looked back.  He gave everything he was and knew to spread the Gospel.

My son Scott--the guy I always call when I am stuck for an answer to Biblical theology--answered my blog about Paul and Jesus this way:

Of course Paul knew Jesus.  Saul was a Pharisee.  Read Mark 11:27...Paul was a member of that group.  Anytime the New testament Gospels say that the leaders were there, you can more than assume that Saul was present.  He was a leader.  I am convinced he knew Jesus and had heard him preach.  That is why Paul’s mission and preaching is so powerful.  He had heard and understood FULLY that Jesus was the Messiah after his (own) conversion.  He put two and two together.  They were contemporaries.    People will argue that Acts Chapter 9 means he didn’t know Jesus because Saul didn’t know who was tormenting him on the road to Damascus.   This isn’t true.   He didn’t know who it was (speaking to him) because:

     1.  It was a bright light.

     2.  He didn't think of Jesus because Jesus was dead.

     3.  No one had the power to do what was happening to him but God. 

     4.  He was convinced that Jesus wasn't God.  Therefore it wouldn't have

          crossed his mind.

 In Acts 9:3  "As he neared Damascus on his journey, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him. 9:4 He fell to the ground and heard a voice say to him, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”  9:5 “Who are you, Lord?” Saul asked.  “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting,” he replied. 9:6 “Now get up and go into the city, and you will be told what you must do.” 9:7 The men traveling with Saul stood there speechless; they heard the sound but did not see anyone. 9: Saul got up from the ground, but when he opened his eyes he could see nothing.  (I'll continue what Scott had to say tomorrow.  I've run out of space.)

Do you think Paul knew Jesus personally before Paul met him on the road to Damascus?  Knew Jesus back when they were growing up?  They must have crossed paths.  They were members of the same Jewish society church and study group when they were growing up. 

There are those who like to say that Jesus didn't have to learn anything, that he knew it all because he was God.  I don't think so.  He was also human and had to grow from a baby to a toddler to a little boy.  He had to learn to read.  The Bible says he was in all ways like us.  Hebrews 2:16 "Wherefore in all things it behoved him to be made like unto his brothers..."  In all things.

You remember the story about Jesus and his parents going to the temple in Jerusalem for the passover. Jesus stayed there after everyone else had left.  
When his parents discovered he wasn't in the group that was headed home with them, they went back and found him quizzing the doctors (of the law). The scholars of those days. "..both hearing them and asking them questions..."

He told his parents that they should have known that he would be about his Father's business.  That is, learning more Scripture.  Jesus didn't have a Bible.

Then, remember, Paul studied at the feet of Gamaliel, "...a doctor of the law...with a reputation among all the people..." the leading temple scholar of that day. Paul said, "I am verily a man...brought up in this city at the feet of Gamaliel..taught according to the perfect manner of the law..."  Such studies would probably have been at the Jerusalem Temple.  I can't help but wonder if Jesus and Paul crossed paths as they studied.  They were both students of the Bible.  Jesus quoted the Old Testament repeatedly.

Just speculating.

Saturday night, I set my watch forward an hour--like you are supposed to do.  Next morning, as usual for a Sunday morning, at 9:15 I headed to church.

When I got there, church was over.  It was 10:30.  I have no idea what happened to upset the time on my watch.  I know for a fact that at 8:30 on Saturday night, I changed the time to 9:30.

All I can figure is that some GPS thing-a-ma-jig automatically reversed it?  But that doesn't seem right.

I don't like the feeling I get when my phone, Mac-Pro, watch, etc. have a mind of their own and do something strange.  It's like aliens are controlling my stuff.

I'm going to get a different watch.  This one is too complicated.  I tried to reset it and now, it won't let me do it.

So I spent all Sunday afternoon looking for the instructions to the watch.  Every drawer, basket, shelf, etc. was emptied and ruffled through.  Of course, I probably threw the instructions out.  I remember taking it over to Craig because I couldn't get it set when I bought it.

I have no patience with things like that.

I'd rather just go buy another watch.  A cheap one with the day, date, time and nothing else.  And instructions etched on the back of the watch, or inside the watchband as to how to reset it.

Someone needs to invent a watch like that for people like me.

I missed posting.  Sorry--for those of you who texted me and reminded me.  I had it written, but I had to be in Tulsa that morning, was pushed, and forgot.

I don't like the Turner Turnpike drive.  I start at marker 136 and end at 218.  Which is a zillion miles when you are driving into the sun.  And forgot your sunglasses.

Anyway.  Today is a new day.  I went with the senior choir expedition yesterday and played my marimba for the crowd.  I do this at least once a month.  They seem to like it.  I've told this story, but I'll tell it again in case you missed it:

When I was in the 9th grade, I went to the high school to try out for twirler.  Didn't know you had to twirl.  Thought you had to be cute and that was it.  The director said I couldn't try out for twirling next year either, unless I had been a member of the band for a year.  And he didn't need anyone in the band except someone who could play timpani drums, bell lyre and marimba.  I said I would learn how.

I took lessons; he let me in the band and I played for the next year.  People in civic groups heard how I could play, had me come entertain them--so for the next few years, I was the entertainment for the Chamber of Commerce, Methodist Mens group, Rotary Anns, etc, etc,.  And the choir director at the Baptist church had me playing the offertories.  I got pretty good at it.

I never learned to twirl.  But here I am--an old woman--still entertaining people by playing the marimba.

God had a plan.  It wasn't twirling.

People don't usually come to church, to a study group or another such thing because they are trying to find out who God is, who Jesus is, or where their eternal destination it going to be.  They come because you ask them.  They solidify friendships, and learn about God in the process.

I said that God doesn't have a plan B.  That's the hard truth about how the gospel is spread.  You're it.  You spread the truth or it doesn't get done.

It's on the TV.  There are thousands upon thousands of churches.  But people come to a Bible study or church and hear the message because of you.  You are out there making friends, joining civic groups, book clubs, etc.  Meeting people, and making friends.

We are social beings.  And aside from a bar--which I don't recommend--where is there a place that people just talk to each other?  (Sporting events are arenas for yelling).  In connection groups, Bible studies, etc., we meet, eat, and talk.

If you aren't involved in something, somewhere, that is a group gathering of Christian people, it's hard to invite someone to join you.

I worked with Jr. high and High school teens for many years.  Every Friday night our house was full of them.  Playing games, watching TV.  Many of them escaping chaos at home.   I discovered that they come to play if you hold an event: volley-ball, basket-ball, etc., and they learn about Christ in the process. 

You have to have an open door, and something for teen-agers to do to get them to come if they haven't been raised that way.  Benefits for them are eternal.

You can't hit people over the head with a Bible.  You are the message that they read.  You.

I have always believed that God puts people in your path.  You meet people that I never will.  I'm responsible for those I intersect and you are responsible for the ones you intersect.  God doesn't have a plan B for reaching people.  We are it.


And sometimes, God puts people in your path that you will never know and never meet.  I met one inside a book yesterday.  

A librarian I know well, mails me books to read. And this week as I was reading, I came across something in one of the books that was disturbing--so I called this librarian and said, "I've come across something so unusual, that I believe God intended for me to read this book right after the last person who read it--since I am someone who will act on what I found.  Whoever it was that read it before I did, underlined some of the words in the book and wrote, 'This is me,' in the margin.  Can I relay this to you, send the book back and you can check it out anonymously, and maybe God will someday give you a chance to help anonymously?  You  know who checked it out last.  I don't."  

The words that were underlined were scattered over fifteen pages, but I will group them. "I was a daydreamer. Quiet. Unseen. Stages scared me.  Shadows did not. I watched the world out of the corners of my eyes. The library was magical, because every time I walked through the door, there were thousands of voices ready and willing to have a conversation with me.  None of them rejected me.

And then whoever it was who marked the pages underlined, "What if I'm of value?  What if I matter?"  It's like a message in a bottle. Or a cry for help underlined in a book waiting for someone to notice the underlined passages.   

All of that may not seem to be a cry for help for you, but to me it did.  If I'm wrong, no problem.  If I'm right, I heard a voice I'll never meet.

It's a new week.  February 29 has come and gone, and a bunch of babies will have to wait four more years for their first birthday.

March.  The month I get to plant things.  Things that usually freeze before April arrives--and I have to plant it all again.  Hope springs eternal in the human breast.

This year, I will have to have help.  I tried to pull up the old dead okra stalks, and almost got it done--but a few were stubborn.  I made no headway on pulling up dead tomato vines at all.  I send instructions to my arms and hands, and in their defense, they try.  But nothing happens.  They have quit doing the things I expect them to do. 

There is a girl inside this body that can do anything she sets her mind to do.  I just can't get her out anymore.  She's trapped by an exterior that defies her.

Aging has been an interesting process.  New stages overtake you before you even know they are coming.  Some of them I can live with.  Others just make me mad.  I don't mind the number on the year--just the slow destruction process.  I walked around the block twice last week and celebrated the accomplishment.  Squig was delighted.  He said to me, "Where have you been for the last six months."  I'm up to ten minutes on my stationary bike as well.

One of the hardest stages is when the world stops noticing you.  Their eyes glaze over as if you aren't even there.  They stop listening to what you have to say--In their defense, we repeat ourselves.

Every new generation comes from the womb thinking they know everything already.  It takes ten to twenty years of adulthood before you start to realize you aren't really brilliant.  I have two grandsons who think I'm brilliant.  It's enough.