Christmas Baby

This day has been a lazy one: sleep in, eat, make morning tea, check email. Crazy week at the office, and I took a day off on Wed. to be at a birth in Tri-Cities. It was amazing, intense, exhilarating, made me teary-eyed (or maybe that was the effect of staying up most of the night-babies never seem to come at normal hours).
I was prepared for the intensity, the long hours, the strange facts about birth. I wasn't prepared to see my friend change so quickly from a woman laboring through a hard birth to a peaceful mother holding her child. There is something completely disarming about a baby being held by its mother. It can make baby-talking idiots of the most serious of us. It cuts us deep, somewhere that we don't understand. You can't argue with it or even explain it. But nothing else on earth can compare to it.
Perhaps that is why Christ came to earth in such a way. The Jews were living under harsh Roman rule, a conquered people descended from a powerful nation. Likely, many of them were bitter, wanting a Messiah to come and exact vengeance. God sent a baby, a tiny, helpless infant. As Dr. Leithart might say, it was subversive. It turned the presuppositions of these weary-eyed Messiah seekers upside down.

First Sunday of Advent

It's hard to believe that tomorrow will be the First Sunday of Advent. I am trying to continue one the tradition of setting up four candles and lighting one each Sunday until Christmas. We've also started our Advent calendar, which is made out of felt with small felt illustrations for each Messianic promise.
Last Saturday my neighbors and I set out on a trek to hunt down the perfect snow-covered Christmas tree. After various wrong turns, a consultation with two locals, and a near encounter with a cranky eccentric, we found a small forest of trees that we could search through. Hiking through the snowdrifts, we dusted off several trees, then each cut down our favorite. Hightailing it back to the car, we turned on the heat to full blast to counteract our wet pant legs and socks. My tree, I'm sorry to say, was ignominiously dumped in the bathtub to dry out. It is now completely decorated, and installed in front of the fireplace, from which is casts lacey shadows over the room at night. It is topped by a small but dignified yulebok (Swedish for a Christmas ornament, made of straw, in the shape of a reindeer).
I highly recommend The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, a classic that rates in the top ten for any Christmas book list.

Birds of a Feather
Jacqueline Winspear

Came across an interesting book the other day. This mystery novel tells the story of one Maisie Dobbs, a single woman in London, 1930, who has started a detective agency. Hired by a successful businessman to find his missing daughter, the inimitable Miss Dobbs discovers a link to the Great War and its lasting legacy of pain and bitterness. A thought provoking story, detailing a forgotten event in the history of WWI.

Something Cold and Wet...

The other morning, I sleepily turned off my alarm, clambered out of bed, and shuffled to the bathroom. I turned on the water in the shower, and immediately perceived something wet sliding down my back. The plumbing pipes which are positioned above the ceiling of our bathroom decided to leak, rotting the wood and soaking the ceiling tiles. For a day or two, we had a few bulging tiles which threatened to drop on us when we walked warily beneath them. Now, we have an open 2 foot by 1 foot hole, which has showed us more about the plumbing in our ancient apartment building than we ever wanted to know! All in all, though, I much prefer older rentals with character to newer, prefab ones. Much more interesting to live in. Keeps life an adventure.

Whirling Dervishes

I glanced up early yesterday morning to behold a world of swirling snow, drifting swiftly down over the rooftops of downtown Moscow. From my vantage point three stories up, my usual view across town had become an opaque dance of wind currents laden with armfuls of snowflakes. This, fortunately, was not the slow fall of snow that means to stay. This was the sort that falls quickly, dashing toward earth in a rush in order to melt on warmer pavement and roof. And so it is gone.
It's curious, but most of us love snow because is transforms the world around us. Generally speaking, nature is beautiful, but douse it with a light dusting of snow, and it transforms into a fairyland. Same with moonlight. Sunlight can reveal beauty and transform a scene, but it is limited when compared with a wintery snowfall. Perhaps in heaven light will reveal beauty in the same way that snow, covering up and hiding, can do now. We won't rave about moonlight and snow and the way it covers up the dirt and grime. We will see, really see, deeper and further in, in a light that will make all sunny days like the barest glimmer of dawn. I wonder.

Children's stories

I came across these two stories recently, and thought all of you would enjoy them:

1) Sunday School teacher (looking with some confusion of a pictures of stick figures in a modern airplane): Billy, can you explain your drawing to me?
Billy: Oh, this is Joseph and Mary and the baby Jesus on their flight to Egypt.
Teacher: But who is the fourth person on the plane?
Billy: That's Pontius the Pilate!

2) A six-year-old girl has recently given her younger sister a terrible haircut with scissors, and is not allowed to play with scissors. Being creative, she comes up with a plan to win her privileges back. She dresses up in a long 'dress-up' dress, puts on high heels, and walks downstairs to her mother's study. Leaning over the desk in a coquettish manner, she announces: 'I'm sure you don't know me, but I'm sixteen, and my mother lets me play with scissors.' The mom, I'm sure had a hard time keeping a straight face, but the rule remained.

Hour of Gold, Hour of Lead

Locked Rooms and Open Doors

by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

I've recently started reading Anne Morrow Lindbergh again. I read the first title a few months ago, and was hooked by her way with words, her ability to describe an experience, a party, etc. in a way that made me say, "Yes, that's it exactly!" Her marriage to Charles Lindbergh and her undergraduate training in writing led to the publication of a series of travelogues about their duo flights around much of the world. (See North to the Orient for the first one). Lindbergh spent the early years of their married life charting flight paths for the newly formed airline companies, and she traveled with him as the radio operator, communicating with headquarters or a partnering ship and collecting valuable data in the field of ground to air communication.
Despite this daring life, she cherished the times home with her family, the long weeks of taking the baby for a walk, laughing over his antics, and writing long letters to her mother and sisters of his first steps. Hour of Lead covers the tense time after their firstborn Charlie was kidnapped, and the eventual end to that tragic affair. She continues to grieve throughout Locked Rooms, and I was able to see the closeness of her family as they helped the young couple through this time. One of my favorite letters is the one she wrote to her sister who had sent her roses on the first annivesary after little Charlie's death.
I feel a kinship with this writer that is hard to explain. She is, after all, a self-proclaimed feminist who delights in the changing attitude toward the proper place of women. She seeks to rest her self-meaning on her work as a writer, a fellow aviator. But perhaps it is because underneath it all, I see the true Anne Morrow Lindbergh. The one whose heart thrills at the knowledge that she will soon be home with her child. The shy, self-effacing woman who often felt overwhelmed by press crowds and demands for social appearances. The writer who sought to express and understand her own journey through depression and grief, who was too candid to hide the fact that life occasionally made little sense, and who never lost sight of the more important things in her life: her beautiful children and her home. Someone has said that an author always writes more than he intends, and thereby creates a work of art that is more true. I think this sums it up beautifully.
Happy reading.

Innside Nantucket, by Frank Gilbreth

My neighbor helpfully informed me the other day that Frank Gilbreth (the co-author of Cheaper by the Dozen) wrote several other books as well. I trekked to our local library, and discovered one of the best books I have read in a long time. This hilarious and down-to-earth book tells the story of a young couple (and a baby) who decide to risk all and fulfill their dream of running an inn on Nantucket Island. The book is told from the story of the wife, who recounts honestly the shock of marrying into the Gilbreth Family (can you imagine being married to the youngest of 12 kids, all of whom believe that advice should be given always regardless of circumstance?), spending a honeymoon on Nantucket (her idea of a vacation was a comfy B&B on the mainland), and the trials of the sometimes downright odd guests who came to stay during the first season of the Anchor Inn. My favorite was the story of the older lady who wanted her morning egg boiled for exactly 3 minutes, and who banged on the floor whenever the baby whimpered. The Gilbreth's solution was to borrow a large, smelly, utterly disreputable dog (owned by Gilbreth in-laws, of course:). Read this book and laugh hysterically, as I did.

Bridehead Revisited

Warning: In the interests of literary discussion, I plan to give away the plot and ending to this novel.

Delving for the first time into the work of Evelyn Waugh, I found Brideshead Revisited (1945) to be witty, subtle, and surprisingly Christian. Waugh paints a just and sometimes brutal picture of the sweeping changes that two world wars brought to the cultured and aristocratic families of England. His main character, Captian Charles Ryder, tells the story of his coming to Oxford College, his meeting with Sebastian Flyte, with whom he formed a close friendship, and his subsequent introduction to the Flyte family and their ancestral residence, Brideshead. Ryder eventually falls in love for the first time, and has an affair with Sebastian's married sister, Julia. Their love is doomed, however, and Julia ends the matter when she realizes that she can no longer live in sin with Ryder. The story ends as Ryder returns to Brideshead as a Captain during WWII, billetted at the home with his company of soldiers.
I found the influence of Catholicism in this novel intriguing. I suspect it to be somewhat autobiographical of Waugh's own life. Near the beginning of the novel, Waugh states the belief that God may let a sinner roam to the ends of the earth, but will call him back with 'a twitch upon the thread' (a quote from the inimitable G. K. Chesterton. Furthermore, I find that Waugh intended the book to be about the'operation of divine grace on a group of diverse but closely connected characters.' The entire Flyte family is Catholic in name, but the novel focuses on the Catholicism of three characters: Sebastian, Julia, and Ryder. Sebastian is led into a life of alcoholism by insurmountable family intrigues, and drifts through many empty years until he is taken in by a monastery in North Africa. He becomes a low-level apprentice, avidly fulfilling his duties but never quite mastering his alcoholism. One is reminded of the sinner in the temple who beats his breast and cries for mercy. Julia, on the other hand, is believed to be an agnostic. She marries young into a loveless marriage, then finally finds love later in life with Ryder. When her father (an avowed athiest) comes home to Brideshead to die, Julia finds herself urging her father to allow the ceremony of Extreme Unction. Just before his death, her father signals his repentance, and dies under the protection of the Catholic church. Because of these events, Julia realizes that she does believe after all, which ends the relationship with Ryder.
Ryder remained a mystery to me until the end of the book. He is talented, famous, wealthy, and has found meaning only in his love for the lovely Julia. When she is lost, I expected the book to end in despair and cynicism. It doesn't. When Ryder finds himself at Brideshead once again, his reaction is one of gentle humor at the incongruous situation. Ryder saw the culture of British aristocracy fall apart in the years before the war. Just before WWII breaks out, he loses the only woman he has ever truly loved. And it seems as if he knows that he had to be brought to this point in order to know God. He is a man who has lost everything, but has gained the knowledge of God, and found this better than all else. He can chuckle at the fact that he ended up at Brideshead in the end. He knows now why he met the family. All the strange turnings of fate, the trials, etc. have ended in him finally seeing the One behind it all. And he is content.
Have I read this book wrong? Perhaps. I hope not. I would welcome comments. I look forward to reading more of this author's work.

On a funnier note...

This incident made me realize just how much the world has changed with the invention of the computer. I recently bought an exercise bike at the local thrift store. When I asked for a piece of rope with which to tie the trunk shut, I was handed a mouse cord, with mouse attached.

New Job!

This past week I interviewed and was offered a new job as a dental assistant. I will be working for a new dentist downtown, a fellow Christain. I'm looking forward to getting back to dental assisting, which I have frankly missed, and also to being able to walk to work. No more adventurous snow driving! And, best of both worlds, I can move my tutoring job to Fridays. I would miss my two students otherwise...
It's rather strange having a husband back in school. I find myself checking out lots of books to read in the evenings, because I know he will likely be reading or writing a paper. NSA has added some great books to their courses, so I am also trying to catch up on the reading myself. I have a feeling this blog will soon turn into a running book review.

Missionary Talk

Last night I went to a talk given by an NSA graduate who has spent the last year working in Eastern Europe and South Africa. Nicole de Martimprey shared many amazing stories about her work with children in an orphanage near Pretoria, South Africa. Check out her blog here

Madeleine L'Engle

Years ago my grandma gave me a copy of The Wind in the Door, which I still have but have never read. Books, like friends, seem to have their own time, and I've learned to wait until a book calls me. Recently, I decided to read up on this author, who is often quoted or mentioned in other books I dip into. I read A Circle of Quiet, which is an open journal of the summer happenings at Crosswicks, the summer home of her family. Crosswicks is described as a farmhouse of 'charming confusion', and I found that I had to agree. Imagine an older couple, with years of memories and friends from the theater world (the husband is Hugh Franklin), add three children with assorted grandchildren, pets, neighbors who drop in, and you get a sense of the glorious chaos this book chronicles. Its seems that the family tradition is to name at least one daughter Madeleine, and so L'Engle is called Grandmadeleine by her grandchildren. This breaks down a bit when L'Engle's mother comes to live with them, and the two year old finally christens her Gracchi, which seems to stick.
Why do I like this author? She is a writer in the sense that she wrestles with the 'isness' of things: time, the stars, why older memories are stronger than more recent ones, etc. She truly wants to know, and she narrates her quest for understanding. The book reads like a simply account of a summer, but in reality is a journal of her throught processes, her gradual understanding of new ideas. She intersperses all of this with short sketches, reminisces of previous years, family stories, etc. It gives me a glimpse into a life that I don't think I could ever get by simply talking to her. Is this voyeurism? I hope not. And anyway, its not the typical 'scenes' that term usually applies to. This is simply a curiousity to know about the experiences of others, to know if they felt the same way that I have. What it feels like to give birth, for instance, or how to handle a son who may have cancer. How she felt when her actor/husband was on tour for several months at a time, or what it was like to graduate from college and start her own life.
A Circle of Quiet intrigued me, and I requested more books. The Summer of the Great-Grandmother tells the story of her mother living with them, and her gradual decline and death. It reminisces of the early years of her parent's marriage, when they were fearless world travelers, chased by bandits down the Yangtze River ( really!). It is a courageous sharing of the joys and pain of watching parents grow old.
Two-Part Invention is the story of how she and her husband met, their courtship, and the many years of their marriage. As her husband is dying of cancer, L'Engle tells of the birth of their children, the story of how they came to adopt their second daughter, and the adventures of running a small grocery store in a tiny town in Connecticut. She writes with honesty about the wrench of the first year or two of marriage, as they both discovered that the person they had married was different than they thought (how true that is!:), of their joys and misunderstandings, gradually learning to understand each other more. Knowing that Bach is one of L'Engle's favorite composers, I thought this book was brilliantly named.
Having discovered so much of her life, I found reading L'Engle's fiction (Certain Women, A Live Coal in the Sea) rather odd. I knew exactly who a certain character was based on, or why she put in a certain passage. Perhaps other writers base their stories so much on their own experiences. But in some ways it was like reading a different version of her own life. I also discovered, sadly, that she is a universalist and has succumbed to the 'modern' view of God: Interpreting the OT in terms of God rising from a tribal deity to the god of a large nation (and only because of this becoming the most important god), etc. And since she believes that no one is ever sent to hell, at least eternally, her villians ceased to be villians. The tension leaves the story in a way that most disappointing. She reduces God to a deity that she can understand, and He becomes impotent, damp, and uninteresting. Instead of majesty and glory, it conjures up a picture of seemingly random events in a book and an author standing beside them, wringing her hands and muttering that surely God couldn't do that! We must change the story.
While I can recommend the Crosswicks Journals Series ( A Two-Part Invention, Summer of the Great-Grandmother, and A Circle of Quiet), I can't recommend her fiction ( at least not yet). Perhaps I'll go back to The Wind in the Door, and find that it's time has come.

Syriana

Andrew and I watched Syriana recently, and had an interesting time afterwards talking through the symbolism of the movie (esp. the black/white dichotomy. Here's the verdict:

The black, white, and gray used throughout the movie emphasize the lack of simple answers or right/wrong situations. There aren't any real answers. This is not a nihilistic view of life, rather, a request to the viewer to look deeper at the real issues and see how complex and tangled the world is. You always reap what you sow.
Notice that the suicide bomber who hits the tanker is followed by a completely white screen, while the bombing of the wise and progressive emir is a dark (black) explosion. Wrong seems right and vice versa, beware of desert mirages that are not what they seem.
The only black man in the movie is referred to as a wolf among sheep. He seems to be good, but we see in the end that he is the worst of them all. He goes home to a broken family, and alcoholic father. The young father (whose son dies in the pool) is the only one who truly sees where the Quest for Oil is going. He is caught up in truth and idealism. He advises the emir on how to plan for the future. He becomes caught up in the quest for money and power to change the world for good, and nearly loses his family in the process. When the emir is assassinated, the young father awakes to the futility and underlying evil of a secular system, and goes home to rebuild his marriage.
This is a dark movie. The expected heroes turn out to be villians. The CIA kills one of its own becuase it is too lazy (or greedy) to risk defaulting on the killing of the emir. The benevolent U.S. kills the progressive emir, and his dreams of bettering his country, because they want control of the oil. In the end, the U.S. really doesn't care whether countries in the Middle East are better off, or whether they can build a versatile economy. They just want the money and the power. The Judical Department is interested in looking good and only needs to be tossed a bone to back off. The good guys die and the bad triumph.
Those who present themeselves as pure are the most evil, and those who try to change things are blown away. There is no end and no triumphant hero because in a fallen worldview no one good is triumphant for long before they are pulled down by or corrrupted from within by the wolves. In a world without Christ Syriana is the reality.

We're Home!

We just arrived back home from a week-long tour of Michigan, complete with thunderstorms. lots of mosquitos, and many great memories. We spent a few days checking up on Andrew's hometown, Roscommon, which is located in the center of the lower peninsula. I have since discovered that this makes him a 'troll', because he lives under (south) of the Mackinac Bridge. A canoe ride down the Au Sable River turned out beautiful. We even spotted an oriole (brilliant reddish-orange, and not found on the West Coast). We even escaped the numerous thunderstorms that growled convincingly on the horizon.
Then off to the famed Mackinac Island by ferry, on a clear morning which gave us a view of Lakes Huron and Michigan for miles. The island is perched just east of the Bridge, and is one of the few places where cars are banned. We even spotted a UPS horse cart delivering packages. Needless to say, we got a lot of exervcise while visiting! After touring Fort Mackinac, we hiked up to the Grand Hotel, built around 1900 and commanding a stunning view of Lake Huron. The Neo-Classical style gives is a broad balcony on which visitors can stroll.
Then back to downtown, dipping into shops to watch the fudge making process. Chocolate-Walnut was my favorite. We celebrated Andrew's birthday with a dinner at an Irish pub.
Highlight of Mackinaw Island: The myriads of unique cottages, each with its own flair. Curious windows, ingenious designs on fences and doors. We especially loved the old churches. The thick walls and tinted light give a sense of distance, not only from noise but even from the present. Churches have a timeless savor to them, as if they held the memories of past services and events ever-present, always waiting in the shadows.
My apartment is alternately flashing with silver light and reverberating with thunder. The storms have followed us home.
Pictures to follow!

Demise of the furry friend...

It seems our landlord has taken care of the mouse problem, as there are no more surreptitious scratchings and munchings overhead. And I was wrong about the mouse, it was a squirrel! Very strange....

My Furry Friend

I woke up the other morning at 6:30 to the sound of an energetic little mouse running suicides over the ceiling of our bedroom. He seems to be a morning person, and is doing his best to make us early risers as well. And yes, it is a he, because the thought of possible mouslings is too much to consider! I am waking up with dark thoughts these days, thoughts of mousetraps and tempting cheese and a little mouse deciding that the nesting is better at the neighbor's house. Correcting papers is quite the adventure, as the Bright Young Thing has picked the ceiling just above my window nook to make his nest in. It sounds as if he is hollowing out a nice cave inside the boards, and I have learned to distinguish scrabbbling, scritching, munching, and shredding.
Perhaps I could drop a hint to the renters above us that their apartment floor is the home of a mouse. But, then again, its not the sort of thing one can casually mention as you meet in the stairwell! I'll keep you posted...

Music-at last!

I got a call from our choir director last week, and it looks like I will be performing in a concert tomorrow night with the NSA and adult choirs. It was wonderful playing again, I hadn't realized how much I had missed it! I'm rusty though, hopefully I can sneak in a practice session or two before tomorrow night. We are performing a Bach piece, written for two choirs, with added flute, violin, and cello accompaniment. Looking forward to it!

Confessions of a Book Piler

My pile of books had grown to unmanageable proportions, and nearly toppled over on me this morning. I decided to take drastic measures, and shelve some books. And, of course, I found some books that I had forgotten to read:)
Remember I reported reading A Circle of Quiet, by Madeleine L'Engle? I've moved on to The Summer of the Great-Grandmother. A painfully realistic and beautiful exploration of the lessons learned from a death-bed. I'm looking forward to the next book, The Irrational Season.
The Jungle Book. I know, I know, I'm not a kid! But a good author can be read at any stage of life, and Rudyard Kipling fits this perfectly. Read it and discover how well you know the true story line!
The Greatest Stories Never Told, Rick C. Beyer. Amazing quirks of history that somehow don't make it into textbooks. Did you know the fax machine was invented during the Napoleonic Era? That coffee became popular in Europe only because of a papal decree stating that the devil shouldn't have all the good things in life? It's a strange world....

Buried in Books...

I have a feeling that this blog will turn into a book review list. I'm currently working my way down a tall stack, wondering why on earth I placed so many holds at the library, and reading as quickly as possible before due dates loom on the calendar. Then, of course, there is the surreptitous stealing of the husband's books while he is at work. He keeps threatening to steal my own books, so the war continues...
I just finished The Lost Princess, by George MacDonald. Loved it! Better to read as an adult, which is the mark of the best children's books. I hear that Michael Phillips has written a wonderful biography of MacDonald, has anyone read it?
I just started the Crosswick's Journal series by Madeleine L'Engle. The first book is called A Circle of Quiet, and is the published form of her journal that she kept of living with four generations in a Connecticut farmhouse for several summers running. Snippets of daily life interspersed with wonderful passages that make me stop and ponder each new idea. These are books to read slowly, savoring each page. I look forward to The Summer of the Great-Grandmother.

Relaxing

A kind friend (Carrie of Anne of Green Gables) has flown me out to Corvallis, OR to visit her for the week, and we have enjoyed the chance to catch up on each other's lives, eat chocolate, and watch chick flicks. Ahh, the joys of vacation! It's been wonderful to have a break in the daily routine of life, to step away from the constant busyness and spend time journaling and pondering . Aristotle once said (and I paraphrase) that a life lived without reflection was not worth living. I might say that a life lived with reflection and purpose, driven toward the ultimate goal, is the true Christian life.
Being away from Andrew for the first time since we were married has shown me how much closer we have grown over the past year and a half. Single life seems like a distant reality (I hear this is normal). And so, I thought I would offer a short tribute to marriage, that joyous, challenging, and at times hilarious state of being:

Marriage is:

The process of another person finding out all your quirks and oddities, to your great dismay. Said person will often consider all quirks as fair game for teasing.

Making a strange or odd face while reading a new book, and looking up to discover he caught you at it.

Having tea together in the morning while curled up together on the loveseat, discussing such erudite topics as the proper way to make English tea (I am, after all, married to a Stafford)

Washing dishes and hearing him steal up to you, put his arms around you, and kiss the nape of your neck. And, for good measure, tickle you while your hands are still soapy and wet:)

I love you, Dearest.

Flaky Cinnamon Rolls

I tried this recipe when a good friend came to tea, and loved it. It is originally from my dear mom, with some minor changes.

2 cups flour
4 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. cream of tartar
1/2 cup butter (may use margarine)
2/3 cup milk

Combine dry ingredients, cut in butter with pastry knife. Add milk, mix with fork. Roll out to large rectangle.

Filling:
2-4 T. butter, melted
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 T. ground cinnamon ( I double this sometimes)
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
2 tsp. orange peel (opt.)

Spread evenly onto dough, leaving 1-2' space at bottom of rectangle. Roll up, tucking corners in. Slice into 16 sections. Place in pan or greased muffin tins. Bake at 425 degrees for 15 min.

Frosting:
1 cup powdered sugar
2 T. cream cheese, softened
1 T. butter, softened
dash vanilla (the real stuff if possible)
1-2 tablespoons milk

I have borrowed the cream cheese frosting recipe from the blog of my lovely sister-in-law, Amy of the Secret Garden. She also has a wonderful recipe for yeast cinnamon rolls, if you so prefer.

Enjoy!

Quote of the Day:

"Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get-only what you are expecting to give-which is everything." ~Katherine Hepburn

The Window Nook

A short explanation:

In a corner of our apartment, I have a comfy, overstuffed chair, a silver lamp, and a stack of often precariously balanced books. This stack usually includes my Bible, journal, Book of Common Prayer, quote book, and the several books I am reading for fun or for my book group. At the moment I have just finished At the End of the Spear, which I highly recommend.
This reading corner is where I start each day, with my English Breakfast tea cradled in my warming hands. Over the months, I have often retreated to this nook to finish an engrossing book, to journal and categorize my thoughts, or simply to bask in the late afternoon light. This nook is my place of inspiration, my quiet place to prepare lessons for my students or ponder a perplexing issue. Similarly, a blog can be a journal of daily occurrences, a celebration of the small joys and the great adventures. Just as I watch the changing of the afternoon light from my reading nook, and enjoy this simple beauty, I want this blog to be a record of the small blessings that God often showers upon us. To often we do not appreciate them because we do not recognize them.