Grace Under Fire

"Hey! Grab my ski!" Dan hollered as he and Noah were swept away on the chair lift Friday night. "Bring it up when you come."

Somehow while helping Noah board, Dan lost his ski. The attendant stopped the line. I grabbed Dan's ski, took a seat and lifted off – high over the runs below. This was my second time riding a chair lift – EVER.

My first experience last March ended on my bottom. However, I believe: Practice Makes Perfect. That's why I faced my fears.

Would the line hold? Would the chair rock and tip? Will I fall? How am I going to get off this lift – no less – with a ski in my hand?

I pushed back bad thoughts. I focused on the frosty trees, the darkening sky, the shimmering lights, my husband and son seated ahead of me. I tried to relax: carefully slipping out my camera and snapping their photo.

I laughed thinking of Noah's rebellion earlier this evening. He was riding the J-bar up the bunny hill. Midway, he saw me aiming my camera. He jumped off and darted away. Still, I captured his yellow jacket and wide-spread legs – as well as the ski lodge and the distant lake... where decades ago, my grandparents built their retirement home... the place at which we were now staying for a Winter Retreat with my extended family... and the whole reason for our family-of-five visit to this ski hill.

Now near the hilltop, I spotted the sign: KEEP YOUR SKI TIPS UP. Dan and Noah exited the chair lift. It was my turn. I thought: "I have to dump Dan's ski. Otherwise, there's no hope for a graceful exit."

My skis hit the snow-packed platform. Still seated, I lowered Dan's ski and swooshed it towards him. I was free but too slow. The chair lift WHIPPED around the corner. I screamed: "AAAH!" and raised it to "AAAAGH!" seeing my start back down the hill.

Who was more startled – me, the surrounding skiers or the lift operator? I'm not sure.

BUT, the scream got results. The line stopped. The operator came out to my aid. I removed my skis. He set them on the platform, pulled back the chair lift and allowed to me exit – still standing – although, not with the "quiet" grace... for which I'd hoped.

Back at the Lake house, Dan reconciled spending the $120-lift-ticket fee for the short outing.

"It was worth it," he said thumbing towards me, "just watching 'GRACE'!"

For the record, I rode the chair lift three more times. The 2005 shaped skis (that Dan recently bought for us all on eBay) were excellent for gracefully winding down December's snowy slopes. Just for the runs, I faced fear again.

On my first "skiing" exit off the lift ramp, I wiped out taking a snowy bunch up my back. But on the next two exits, I pulled out – breaking into a hard turn - and remained standing! Practice pays... And, a warm stove helps dry out Grace Under Fire.

Frosty Frontage

Elegant

evergreens







stretch
as
a
hedge –

along
the
sheltered
shoreline –



where

birch

bark

babble

freezes

in the

breeze

and...


the

Almighty

Artist

flocks a

Frosty

Frontage.

Blast from the Past

Celebrating

winter

at

the

Lake...






gathering

in

great

Grandma's

great

room...





playing

oldie

but

goodie

games

like

Don't Spill the Beans...







making

designs

with

the

Spirograph...








shuffling

up

a

card

game...



curling

up with a

favorite

of

Grandma's

books...




being

pulled

in

the

tobbogan...



touring

out

to

the

fish

house...


or

getting

razzed

about

the

small

fish

speared...

It's all a Blast from the Past – introduced to the next generation.

The Gift of Laughter

Due to requests from postal recipients of this letter, I make this post.

WARNING:
This is NOT an ordinary annual letter!

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Greetings from the snowy foothills of central Minnesota. This past year, we have been blessed in many ways: big, small, awesome and peculiar.

Each day we seek miracles amidst the ordinary – whether we're coaching an elementary basketball team, singing in the church choir, skiing Spirit Mountain, canoeing the river, cooling off at the beach, handling newborn kittens, planting a garden, relief-pitching a baseball game, picking berries, landing the last bass before school's start, teaching Sunday School, running a cross-country meet, snapping the football, tooting the flute, racing sleds on our hill, exercising the dog or watching the sunrise… Today we share an unlikely blessing.

*******
ALL FLUSHED

"Noah, are you gonna be an engineer or a movie star when you grow up?" Dan asked our first grader as we signed a stack of Christmas photo cards Tuesday night. Dad was still processing why – last week – his son would take a discarded razor from the wastebasket, drop it in the toilet, watch it float, push the lever and flush the water.

"I wanted to see if it would go down," Noah finally confessed, but not before Mom had spent days failing to clear "a stubborn clog." Then I began an interrogation, "Did somebody put something strange down the toilet?"

When Isaac and Aaron denied flushing a foreign object, I focused on Noah who "couldn't remember" but answered leading questions.

"If you know it wasn't a wet wipe," I pressed, "then I think you know what went down."

Noah's razor revelation spurred a chain reaction. First Dad declared: All Number Twos must go in the downstairs toilet. Next he called his dad. They decided the razor must be trapped inside the toilet. That would require disassembly and new parts. The weekend seemed the best time to gather such tools and equipment. Meanwhile, the boys asked daily: Can we poop upstairs yet?

Saturday evening, Dan took the toilet apart. As I tidied the kitchen, he came out of the bathroom with a disgusted look, "Somebody's gonna have to clean the bathroom. There's crap everywhere."

"Don't worry about that yet," I said. "Do you need help getting out the razor?"

"Yeah," Dan replied. "Maybe you could lift the toilet while I run the snake."

I walked into the bathroom to see: One throw rug rolled back; Plumbing tools and equipment on the other two; Brown splashes on the wall and floor; and a rag stuffed tight into the floor drain. One whiff revealed a sewer stench.

"Somebody must have pooped up here in the last day," he cringed. "The toilet water was clear before I started."

For more than an hour, we worked – leaning the toilet at various angles and snaking the metal coil through the porcelain pipe – in attempt to release the razor. Twice the razor eluded Dan's fingers while extended inside the slippery slot. Frustrated, he washed his hands and walked out asking, "Do we have a wire coat hanger?"

"Nope," I said trying to stretch my numb leg on which the toilet bowl laid. The fumes reminded me of working in my parents' chicken barn. When Dan returned with a heavy-gauged wire, I told him so and added, "The only difference is, back then, we wore face masks."

Dan should have worn one. He looked as serious as a surgeon, bending his tool and inserting it up into the bowels of the toilet. He dug for what seemed like eons. As I held it steady," I thought: Maybe we should just get a new toilet?

"Got it!" Dan said holding up the razor. I smiled, "Hooray!"

His face tensed, "You know! Noah should be spanked."

"A lot of good that would do," I replied. "I'm just thankful he told the truth. We knew what to look for and where to go. I don't think he'll try anything like that again."

Dan hrr-muffed. While I bleached down the bathroom, he reported the story of the razor's release to the boys. Noah repented, "I'm sorry. I not gonna do that again."

Days later, we two discussed Christmas gifts. Dad had his sons all figured out: For Isaac, a watch to time his running progress; For avid-fisherman Aaron, a fly rod to challenge his skill; As for Noah, he said,

"I think we should get him a game… maybe "Operation" – something he can test. I bet Noah's gonna be an engineer."

While our eighth and sixth graders faced off in a game of chess at the dining room table, I pulled out the stack of Christmas cards and a few pens. "Let's get this done, so I can mail these out," I pleaded. Dan picked up a pen and asked, "Noah, are you gonna be an engineer or a movie star when you grow up?

"What's an engineer?" Noah asked. Dad teased, "Someone who figures out how things work – like… whether a razor will go down the toilet."

As Noah bowed his head, Dad continued, "If you're gonna be a movie star, then autographing all these Christmas cards is good practice."

Noah spouted, "I'm gonna be an engineer movie star. And, you can sign all my autographs – with your poop hand!"

*******
Sometimes we must dig deep before we can understand how life's intricacies come full circle… Why – when we do curious things – we must take responsibility for our actions, reach out of the depths, take an offered hand, express remorse and await: mercy, forgiveness and unending love. Only, then we can find joy in our trials.

Sharing ours and wishing you and yours a Merry Christmas and a Happy 2008 amidst life's EVERYDAY blessings.

An "Uffda," I know. But...

Remember: Even Jesus used mud to make the blind man see.

Merry Christmas

"MERR-REY CHRIStmas! Come on IN!" our neighbor man said Sunday night as I stepped through his door offering a gift. He added, "We've ALL got the FLU!"

I handed him a bag and said, "OH! I just wanted to deliver a little Christmas treat. Hope you all feel better REAL soon!"

Quickly, I stepped back outside. He waved, "I'm sure we will."

Noah's bout with the bug had lasted a couple days: Thursday night to Saturday morning. Sunday morning everyone in our house was fine. But late that night, Isaac and Aaron felt wretched. Hours later, I felt the tight knot in my stomach. On Monday, the chills set in along with the other trouble.

"Bananas, Rice, Apples and Toast," I ticked off the "BRAT" diet as the boys hollered for something to soothe their hunger. Isaac took comfort in Aunt Else's tummy settler: thin slices of banana on toast. Dan alone seemed unaffected by the bug and left mid-afternoon to warm up with the choir for the 4 pm Candle Light service. I conceded: No fancy Christmas Eve dinner.

Instead I decided on a simple, yet traditional, meal of rice porridge... made from scratch but based on ingredients and methods, I'd memorized from packaged Norwegian fare.

1-1/2 cups of rice
2 cups water
5 cups of milk
1 teaspoon butter
1 teaspoon vanilla sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt

Put all ingredients in a kettle, stir and bring to a boil. Simmer 30-45 minutes, stirring occasionally, until rice in very tender. If desired, thin by adding milk. Serve in a bowl with sprinkles of cinnamon and sugar and topped with a pad of butter.

I figured these measurements would allow six servings – an extra bowl for Noah to leave out for the nisse. Ancient Norwegian tradition holds that this gnome-like creature (pictured above on the placemat) properly care takes rural homesteads for a bowl of rice porridge offered each Christmas. Should the residents forget, the nisse then plays tricks – dumping over buckets of milk, tying knots in ropes or impeding other daily duties – on them throughout the next year.

I thought: Why press our luck? With Noah's tricks, who'd knowingly risk a nisse's?

For extra fun, I boiled a small pot of water, scalded a whole almond, peeled off the husk and stirred it into the rice porridge. Next I took a bottle of black-currant concentrate and mixed up a pitcher of juice.

"What's that I smell?" Isaac asked coming up from the family room. "Rice porridge? Mmmm."

We dished up when Dan returned from the service. Isaac was about to take a bite when I said, "WAIT!"

Isaac grinned, "Did you put an almond in this?"

"Yep," I said. He wagered, "Whoever gets the almond is the footstool!"

I countered, "Actually, I had a present for the person to open."

"Aw," Isaac said. I offered, "But, we can do it your way."

(Our boys know these rule variations which I'd learned with my Norwegian host family.) Aaron interrupted, "What's the present?"

"You'll just have to see," I said. "How about we do both ways? The person who gets the almond must first be the footstool and then can open the present?"

All agreed. On the second bite, Isaac announced, "I got the almond."

"Next time, I bet you'll won't speak so quickly," I teased as Isaac crawled under the table into his footstool position.

Later when we gathered in the family room to open and use the gift – a DVD movie called "The Nativity" – Isaac replied "You're right! MER-RY CHRIStmas!"

The intonation reminded me of our neighbor man and so I recounted my visitation story ending: "Come on in! We've all got the flu."

Lille Julaften

or Little Christmas Eve – as Norwegians call December 23rd – is a traditional day for final preparations of Christ's birthday celebration.

Decades ago on this day, my host family took me into the forest to find a tree to bring home and decorate. We also wrapped gifts and made deliveries to friends and neighbors.

I held to that custom today – starting with a midnight-email delivery of well wishes to nordic friends and family. I included photos from our coffee-nook window of this electric candelabra. During Advent, Scandinavians light up the long, dark nights by shining ones like this to greet passers-by.

Later at sunrise, I mixed and kneaded a batch of sweet-bread dough. After church, I punched it down and let it rise a second time. Next I rolled out rectangles; buttered and sprinkled sugar, cinnamon and raisins over the top; rolled and formed several small tea rings. After allowing them to rise once again, I baked, frosted and packaged them for neighbors.

Noah got into the spirit volunteering to make two walking deliveries: one to his teacher's family and another to his friend's family. As he started out the door, I asked, "Aren't you going to put on mittens?"

Noah shook his head as he held out his hands under the plates, "Mmmm... They're still warm!"

After supper, I made the other deliveries –

trucking through
snow-drifted driveways,
walking up pathways,
knocking on doors,
and wishing a
"Merry Little Christmas"
to the residents
of these homes
with windows lit

in the darkness of
Lille Julaften.

In the Meadow...

we

can

build

a

snowman...







and

hang

upon

his

arms


wet gloves to dry...


He'll say:

Are you crazy?

We'll say:

No man!

The air

is warm

enough

to draw a smile!



Kicking off Christmas Break in Warmth – Along Life's Road.

Breath of Heaven...

Hold me together;
Be forever near me –
Breath of heaven.

Breath of heaven –
Lighten my darkness;
Pour over me your holiness;
For you are holy –
Breath of heaven.

That refrain from the 1992 Christmas song by Amy Grant echoed in my mind this morning as the December's sun rose behind the cloud cover and revealed itself momentarily. It's perfect sphere shape made me think of a Breath of Heaven.

(Click on this photo for a closer view.)

Trackin' Turkeys

As I walked Moose back to his kennel, he shot off the snowy track, over to the wooded trail, circled a tree and looked up. My eyes followed suit.

The large bird in the tree explained the loud guttural noises I'd heard earlier as I walked up the lane to the mailbox while Moose exercised in the woods.







Dan's hunting dog

had rustled up

a flock of wild turkeys.

I counted four treed birds.






One
by
one,

these

giants

took

flight.


Moose followed them
back into the forest hills.

As I waited for his return, I wandered over to Noah's sunflower – still weathering the elements and clutching a few seeds in its head.

A critter trail passed nearby. Its prints were difficult to identify in the crunched snow.



Maybe

these

seeds

attracted

the

critter...

I followed the trail into the yard – where the tracks became obvious.


Like

Moose,

I also

was

Trackin'

Turkeys.

Road to Bethlehem

Prophets

foretold

it...













Angels

announced

it...






Shepherds

and

kings

brought forth

simple

and

precious

gifts...



to honor God's
most precious gift –


His Son, Jesus,

who came to us as –

a baby

born in a stable,
swaddled in cloth
and laid in a manager...



on a journey
that began

along the

Road

to

Bethlehem.

Joy to the World and Peace on Earth. Merry Christmas!

Winter Wonderland

The cold stings.

Are you listenin'?

In the lane,

Snow is glistenin'.






I'm

grateful

tonight,

for this

morning's

sight...


While walkin' in a Winter Wonderland!

Transforming Hearts

When will I learn?

To find Christmas,
one must first
set the tone.
For me, that means:

trimming the tree,
spreading out linens,
hanging window ornaments,
lighting candles,
setting the Nativity
under the tree,
and stepping back
to take in the view.

The process took hours. Yet, what once seemed a heavy burden, now feels a light load. Today I understand why:

our truck battery went dead Saturday so that I would leave it running Monday, take the key pad with me and lock the doors while I ran into church to look for white fabric to sew one more angel costume for this Sunday's church Christmas program;

why Ford's glitch caused me to be locked out and need a towing company to open my vehicle that had idled 45 minutes;

why, when I finally got into the driver's seat, my right-hand pointer-finger nail ripped into my finger tip causing me such pain that I could neither paint gift figures that I should have sent last week to Norway, type my Christmas letter to go with our photo cards or cut out and sew the costume;

why I finally cried out: What is it Lord, YOU want me to do today? I know it's not sewing, writing or painting – anything I'd planned;

and why – in reply – He put it on my heart to bandage my finger and meditate about the three most important preparations I needed to make this Christmas – the top one being to satisfy my youngest son's Christmas decoration desire... a task of my hands... to clean the center of our home (leaving the rest for another day),

open the

Christmas

Chest

and

make way

for His Son.


When Noah came home from school, he said, "Oh Mom! You put up the tree. Now it's Christmas. Thank you!"

I too offered my thanks – heavenward – for Transforming Hearts.

Winter Solstice

On this frigid,

clear-skied

afternoon,

December's

sun stretches

its rays

over the trees...






across

the

drifting

snow

banks...






and

onto

the

snow-

coated

hay bales


as a reminder of the year's pending Winter Solstice.

The Confessional

Clearing away yesterday's snow also cleared my conscience.

For two hours, I pushed back large ridges of snow left behind by our snowplow guy. With each heave, I mulled over problems.

First blaming others for my trouble; Second recognizing my own short comings; Third taking responsibility for my actions; Fourth accepting the challenge to act above the call of duty; Finally giving thanks for each drop of sweat - the penance for my trouble and stress release.

This time at work, I compared to that – spent in The Confessional.

You say Potato...

I say Pa-tah-toe...

That little ditty from the "Shall We Dance" movie song "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off" came to mind as my hubby and I bantered about Christmas goodies called "Haystacks."

About a month ago, Dan volunteered to put together treat bags for children attending the church Sunday School Christmas Program. As a new church council member, Dan wanted to provide today's children with a taste of "the good old days" when he was a kid attending his grandparents' rural church in Leaf Mountain.

Dan was determined each bag should include unshelled peanuts, candy canes, ribbon candy, other Brach's goodies, and haystacks.

"Haystacks?" I asked. "Who's going to make those?"

"You can buy them," he said. I countered, "I've never seen them in stores. My grandma used to make them with butterscotch chips, chow mein noodles and peanuts."

"Haystacks are chocolate pyramid-shapes with a white center," Dan explained.

"What's in them?" I asked. "Marshmallow? Coconut?"

"I don't know," he said. "Something – creamy, sweet. But... we've gotta have chocolate haystacks like the ones in Leaf Mountain."

A couple weeks later, I began scanning store aisles to fill his old-fashion candy requests. My mom tipped me off on the ribbon candy available through my sisters' grocery employer. As I picked up four bags of mini-ribbon candy, I noticed clear boxes of chocolate pyramid-shaped candy with filled centers. The label said "Sponge Candy" but I had a hunch this might be my hubby's "Haystacks."

"Sponge Candy!" Dan said looking at the three boxes I'd brought home. "Those aren't Haystacks and I doubt the kids will eat sponge candy – the ones I've tried taste like burnt meringue."

"Whatever..." I said and set to work with the ingredients for my Grandma's Butterscotch Haystacks.

1 12-ounce package of butterscotch chips
1 cup of chow mein noodles
3/4 cup of peanuts

I melted the butterscotch chips in a pot and stirred in the other two ingredients. On a piece of wax paper, I dropped heaping-teaspoon-sized scoops of the mixture into mounds, let them set up for a half-hour, popped them off and offered them to my family saying: "These are what we called "Haystacks" when I was a kid."

Nodding to Dan, I added, "They're distinctively different than the Haystacks you've described."

Dan took a bite.

"Yes," he agreed. "They've got a distinct taste! Soy..."

I shook my head, "Hey! They're not my favorite. I don't like butterscotch."

Before our boys gobbled up the Butterscotch Haystacks, Dan grabbed a few more.

Tuesday I walked into our local farm store on a separate errand. As I passed by the Christmas candy aisle, an older woman worker was taking inventory. I asked, "Would you happen to carry something called 'Haystacks.' They're chocolate with a white center."

She walked over to a stand of clear boxes marked "Chocolate Drops," handed me a package and said: "I've heard people call these "Haystacks." They've got a white center."

"Creamy white?" I asked and she nodded.

"Thanks," I said reaching for three more boxes. "My husband should be thrilled."

Before checking out, I saw my in-laws in the store. Dan's dad confirmed the find.

"They're a little smaller than the ones we had at Leaf Mountain," he said. After the purchase, I cracked one box for him to taste test. "Yeah!" he said. "These are Haystacks."

On the drive home, I ate a few. From the sugar rush, I understood why Dan's mom refused the offer. She said, "If I'm gonna eat something that sweet, I like a nut in it."

At home, I placed a Chocolate Drop in Dan's hand and said, "Your Haystack!"

As he took a bite, I grimaced,

"And you like that all that icky, sweet stuff?

He smirked, "I didn't say I liked it. I said: It's – Tradition!"

Perhaps a showing of "Fiddler on the Roof" is in order this Christmas. Maybe then, the good-old-days candy bags will truly become a thing of the past and we'll know why to Call the Whole Thing Off.

You say Potato...

Slow...

Children

at

Play,

said the sign on our road early today.

I took that advice during my morning's chores as I pulled the trash can out to the lane's end for pickup and cared for Moose in his kennel.


Along the way, I noticed:


how the

past two snowfalls

hung on

the spruce branches

in our tree line...






how the sun

cast long shadows

through

the barren trees

and onto

the white blanket

in our yard...





how the deep path

that Isaac shoveled

to the dog kennel

swayed –

to and fro –

up to the house...





and

how the wind

deposited

layers of fluff

between the slats

in Moose's

dining porch...


The snowy crevice in the weathered board formed what looked like a smile that also seemed to say: Slow... Children at Play.