In the age of automatic coffee makers and K-cup brews, I am enjoying a vintage Pyrex glass percolator for my weekend pleasure. The flavor of my favorite grind tastes more intense making it so pleasing to the palate.
Also pleasing, is watching the slow boil of water as it prepares to push itself through the center stem, splash against the lid then follow gravity through the grounds to a desired strength of brew. It is the adjustment of the burner that keeps the near boil under control in a peaceful flow producing a calm to the soul. Thinking on this process makes me realize a similar action occurs in people I know, even myself, but the result is not an appetizing one.
Our emotions simmer below the surface and when unchecked explode negativity with sudden volatility over ourselves and anyone in close proximity. Yes, I know how difficult it is to respond verses react to situations. I, too, regret the times I allowed my reactions to splatter their unpleasant taste about. Yet, over time I’ve learned the more I reflect on who my God is and what I read in His word, the easier it is to be a responder. Maybe in time I can learn to give God all control to keep by emotions at a slow boil instead of a raging outburst.
Today we hear much reporting about the women’s march on Washington. At the risk of showing my ignorance, I do not understand the agenda. According to their web site,
The Women’s March on Washington will send a bold message to our new government on their first day in office, and to the world that women’s rights are human rights.
Hmmm… I am a woman. I am a member of the human race and my rights as an American are covered by The Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights.
Hmmm… Is fear the motivation behind this “movement”; fear Planned Parenthood will face defunding and Roe v Wade could be reversed.
Hmmm… I wonder if the 2017 March for Life event scheduled next week press will receive as much press coverage as that of the protests over the last few weeks/months. Oh wait, so silly of me. I forgot. Life is considered disposable not valuable. Right? (Psalm 139:1-18)
An after-hmmm… The organization’s title, planned parenthood, is an oxymoron.
My recent reading of The First Phone Call from Heaven, by author Mitch Albom, where a character asks what is false about hope prompts this question. I don’t believe there is such a thing as false hope but instead the unreliability of the subject we place our expectations.
Tucked away somewhere in our family home is a black and white sketch that frequents my subconscious. An elderly disheveled looking man with weathered face and hands contentedly draws the bow across the violin strings. My thoughts are not taken to where he might be standing or for whom he is playing, but the look of joy on his face as the voices of cords and wood filter into the air. That expression brings to mind a quote by Sarah Young from her devotional book, Jesus Calling,
When you let others’ expectations drive you, you scatter your energy to the winds.
This aged gentleman is not concerned about others’ enjoyment of his performance, but the pure pleasure of producing a joyful sound.
I must find this sketch for my office wall as a reminder that joy is found within oneself not from outside circumstances.
Neglecting the practice of giving thanks has darkened their minds.
~ Sarah Young, Jesus Calling
This I know is true; focusing on the negative is blinding. Following the February death of our parents, I found myself in a blue funk, a gloomy place with little interest in what normally brought pleasure. Yet today, as soft fluffy clouds float across a baby blue sky, nearly naked trees stretch their arms heavenward, and the smell of Mom’s stuffing tickles the nose, I find myself excited with anticipation for the day’s traditions and the making of memories with family and friends.
Iridescent glass, sparkling china and knickknacks, a drawer full of bread ties, kerosene lanterns, stove-pipe covers on display. The soft glow of converted gas lamps, clocks with silent faces staring back at you, a welcoming field stone fireplace, the creak of a staircase where each child learned to “alleybump”. A gallery of family photos lining the walls waiting to tell the family history, the “circle” each child traveled on the first floor; all represent the unmistakable smell of stability, familiarity, and unselfish love. That is what envelopes me as I sit in the quietness of home; the house where our parents raised us and where our own children learned the essence of what it means to be family. (1 Corinthians 13:4-7, 1 Timothy 5:8, Proverbs 22:6)