Once again, headed to the holiday neighborhood literati bash at which all comers are to read or recite a Christmas-themed page or two, and at which the above tale has been read before. My want to be a paperback writer work product has been meager this past year. Sadly, that itself is a recurring theme. I did just happen to happen upon some interesting Icelandic lore I’ll bring along and throw down. Little known fact: all literati – aspiring and established – are intensely competitive. But, this year’s guest list is chock-full-o-newbies. So if the hostess permits, I may just recycle the above number. As most of you reading this are not on said guest list, and to prepare any unsuspecting readers (or to remind all 9 of my followers) for a close relative’s mean gift, I re-post, for a third time (I think) A Charles’ Dickie Christmas.
A Thanksgiving Re-Tale, Retold
As the day unfolds in your own Thanksgiving time-space continuum, and as you determinedly brace yourself for too much turkey, you may already be anticipating the butterball leftovers that will stuff your lunchtime “sammiches” tomorrow. It is in the spirit of savory seasonal leftovers that I recycle an already several times told Thanksgiving re-tale.
Thanksgiving 2009 has become the fixed north star on my timeline by which I recall, and in recalling, attempt to measure, weigh, and value God’s immeasurable, infinite and priceless faithfulness to me, and those human agencies through which He so abundantly has met so many of my otherwise unmeetable needs. At the top of my list of human agents is lovely, heroic Alice, my partner in life’s pilgrimmage. The host of names below hers is vast. As I remember you, and as you remember me, know that I love you all.
I also invite you to read my friend’s — Sam Frank Smith III — excellent Thanksgiving reflections.
Blackberries, or Bushes Afire?
Six Years On
Sixth “Accidentiversary.” Not one of those much ballyhooed multiple-of-five years. While solemn, neither somber nor maudlin. Have been inspired and encouraged by valiant victors whose worlds have been rocked by trials far more severe, but who nonetheless press on and do the next thing. In their particular “captivities,” they rebuff despair, endeavor with herculean effort, and prosper, even if gradually — infusing those spaces they occupy in time with great dignity. Chapeau to that worthy group. Grateful for God’s mercy in granting a year of reprieve from medical issues, being able to continue working and to drive (thaaaaat’s right — keep to the sidewalk), seeing every day of the Tour de Frronze, and innumerable other provisions and blessings. For countless agents of mercy who, at varied moments, times and periods, in 
close and from afar, briefly and over the long haul, rehabilitatively, therapeutically, materially and relationally, have encouraged and helped me and my family. At the top of this list I place the lovely and heroic Alice Heidel, my eight children, my two sons and one daughter in law, my three grandsons, my sisters, Dianne Irving and Sue Heidel, Queen Granny Cakes, and my Uncle Sonny and Aunt Chris. All others are in a tie for first, and down stream newcomers will be next year. Life like this is still, if counter-intuitively, rich and worth living because of these trials, these provisions and blessings, and because of you all. I am and remain profoundly thankful.
Passing This Along — True Grit
The following is a wonderful tale of generations and how powerfully they can shape one another. Its author is my family’s creative writing scion, Mrs. Abbott. Set in the Sandhills of Nebraska, it reminds me not just a little of what I have learned through the years about my mom’s upbringing with her brother, Dallas (my Uncle “Sonny”), on a 500 acre northwest Missouri farm during, then out of, the Depression, then through WWII, my mom’s escape post WWII to Paris Island, SC, and then to the big cities after marrying, and Uncle Sonny’s farm living — made there the hard way. I hope you’ll enjoy True Grit. Having proof read many papers written for Mrs. Abbott’s rigorous but profitable senior high composition course, in which six of eight of my offspring enrolled (and which all 6 passed), I am honored to share it with you.
La Duchesse de la Cul de Sac Trent
“She grew up in an old house on 1 acre of decommissioned, parceled-out farmland. On her family’s lot were a vegetable garden, a swingset, and a sandbox where Mira and her brothers mapped out and modeled tiny golden domains. Playmobil figures were their pawns, plastic shovels their tools of conquest. . . . ”
I think you’ll enjoy this story, written by my daughter, about a character I call La Duchesse de la Cul de Sac Trent.
Career Mobility
Friday marked my final day as a Merrill employee. Monday, I, along with 1200+ former Merrill-ites, will join the ranks of DTI Global. Mixed emotions. The Merrill years were rich, professionally speaking, and Merrill was far beyond accommodating, following a certain nasty little bicycle accident. DTI is a proven winner, formerly a tenacious competitor, and now my mates and I look forward to a profitable cross
pollination of skills, knowledge, talent and expertise. On what should have been a day focused on tasks related to this career transition, however, my lovely and heroic wife, Alice, and I took a wee road trip.
We traveled to the Norristown, PA branch of Ride-Away, where we picked up our 2010 Braun-Chrysler hybrid Town & Country minivan. For the past six years, I’ve been able to get around in our T&C thanks to its handy ramp and a system that locks my wheel chair safely in place. I would ride shotgun, and someone else drove, usually my lovely and heroic wife, Alice. Three weeks ago, the T&C was taken away to undergo a few significant enhancements. A few cleverly placed, handy hand-controls, super easy power steering, and a six-way articulat
ing driver’s seat would allow me to climb behind the wheel and drive the T&C myself. The purpose of our trip to PA was for Ride-Away’s technicians to make precise adjustments to these and a few other mechanisms, so that the van would “fit” me like a glove. Well, maybe like a suit. Well, maybe like a barrel and suspenders. Anyway, the adjustments were made (no Spreewells). I was able, as we say in the spinal cord injury business, to “transfer” (picture heave or lurch) from my wheel chair into the T&C’s real front driver’s seat, and drive the two and a half hours home – in just three hours.
From the sunny suburb
an streets of Norristown, over the rolling hills of southeastern PA and northeastern MD, down I-95 from Perryville to Baltimore, through the 895 Charm City Harbor Tunnel Throughway, and down the 295 Balt.-Wash. Parkway to Laurel (or “La-Rule”, as my GPS lady likes to say), like one little fishy in a vast school, we navigated fast and heavy traffic back home.
Lots of change. New employer. New mobility. Both presenting a strange blend of uncertainty and opportunity. Excitement and anxiousness. I am prone to worry. It’s no small comfort that God provides peace that passes understanding, wisely, and powerfully governing and preserving us as we trade familiar and comfortable circumstances for new ones. Onward.
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Tomorrow, It Is True of Me
My friend, former cyclist, and now quadriplegic, Kip writes succinctly but insightfully and hopefully about his (and our) struggles, God’s purposes and our responsibility in “Tomorrow, It Is True of Me.” Follow him at “Hope for Kip.”
Unsettled? Overwhelmed? Feeling Alone?
My friend, former cyclist, and now quadriplegic, Kip writes succinctly but insightfully an hopefully in “Unsettled? Overwhelmed? Feeling Alone?.” Follow him at “Hope for Kip.”
http://hopeforkip.com/2015/04/18/unsettled-overwhelmed-feeling-alone/
Just Might Go Vegan
An enterprising young man stopped by yesterday evening and rang the doorbell. Standing at our storm door, he carried two obviously heavy boxes labeled “Prime USDA Select Cuts.” I was on a business call, so my wife spoke with him at the door, partly open. I could hear his well-rehearsed extended soliloquy. As he soliloquized, she politely declined his several, ever intensifying, invitations to fill the freezer at “one-time-only prices.” I turned to get a look at him, still on my call, just as he walked into the foyer, backing m
y wife out of the way as if he was behind a moving force field. As he continued to blaboquize, he presumptuously suggested he might set the boxes down for just a minute. I begged off my call momentarily, and asked what he was doing. My wife explained that he was selling steak.
The salesman and I gazed at each other momentarily. I thanked him for his interest, but told him we were not interested in buying steak. He looked shocked and said, “But, I’m selling them at next to nothing.” I said, “Then I’m confident in your ability to make a sale to one of my neighbors.” He remained standing in my foyer, incredulous, as I further and repetitively explained “I don’t want to buy steak . . . I do not want to buy steak . . . I will not be buying steak from you.” Suddenly he indicated comprehension and with downcast expression thanked me for my consideration. I thanked him for his. He left. I rejoined my call.
I plan to post a sign at my front door that reads:
“If you 1) are not a longtime friend, 2) are not my neighborhood’s cookie-selling Girl Scout or the U.S. Postal Carrier, or 3) are not FedEx or Mr. Brown delivering something I did order and do want, simply put your collateral beside or in the mail box and move along to the house on the left. Know that I’ll contact your company if I’m interested. Anyone else ringing my doorbell or knocking on my door will be ignored and should despair of making a sale.”
It’s almost enough to make me go vegan.
The Big Reveal
Joseph said to his brothers, “I am Joseph! Is my father still living?” But his brothers were not able to answer him, because they were terrified at his presence. Then Joseph said to his brothers, “
Come close to me.” When they had done so, he said, “I am your brother Joseph, the one you sold into Egypt! And now, do not be distressed and do not be angry with yourselves for selling me here, because it was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you. For two years now there has been famine in the land, and for the next five years there will be no plowing and reaping. But God sent me ahead of you to preserve for you a remnant on earth and to save your lives by a great deliverance. So then, it was not you who sent me here, but God. . . . ” Genesis 45:3-7
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.
Wow. How terrified Joseph’s brothers must have been. How furious Joseph could have been. So many years of secreted guilt borne by Joseph’s brothers. So many years of loneliness, alienation, and confusion punctuated by false accusation of a worst kind and unjust incarceration. How godlessly Joseph’s brothers acted. How God-less Joseph must have felt.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sovereign will.
Aren’t there seasons when we feel as though God has left and won’t return? As though He changed His mind and abandoned us? And yet doesn’t God promise never to forsake His own. Doesn’t He demonstrate time and time again His merciful, patient power toward even the most treacherous in league against the defenseless, tearing down the high walls of their pride, muffling their seething rage, confounding their treasonous plots, quashing their venomous stratagems, renewing their minds. Then, softening their hearts, transforming their wills, showing them their fatal sinfulness and need for saving rescue?
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take! Didn’t He do that to Joseph’s brothers? Didn’t He do that for Joseph? Yes He did. Hasn’t He done that to, in and for you? Yes, He has. Won’t He continue? Yes, He will. Faithful is He who began a good work in you,to bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ. Philippians 1:6
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
William Cowper
WheeledWords 