By Regal Robes

I have long been a dabbler in poetry. My love of the rhythms and rhymes of the lilting lines probably began with my mom's quoting snatches of poems she'd learned when she was in grade school - stuff of frost on pumpkins and barefoot boys with turned up pantaloons, not to mention wily spiders speaking craftily to silly, gullible flies.

I even began trying to write lines of poetry on my own. Once, when I was in third grade, I entered a short poem in a poetry contest that Blackboard Bulletin, the educational branch of the Pathway Papers, initiated.

Evidently the poetry judges winked at my poetical ignorance, including the jolt in the third stanza when the rhyme scheme in my poem went divergent, because they granted me a prize anyway. My twin sister had also submitted a winning poem and maybe they didn't want to seem partial and not allow me to choose a prize book, too - any book I wanted - from the pages of reading material for sale in the Pathway Publishers Catalog. At any rate, winning with a poem was heady stuff for an 8-year-old.

I wrote more poems. Predictable poems, mostly, the kind that had the same number of feet in each line, (and matching socks to boot), marching to the same beat throughout the entire predictable four stanzas of four lines each.

("Riding her bike, the dog chased my sister.") 

Sometimes I did more than correct the dangling modifiers in English class.

Somewhere along the way, though, I began to clue in that poetry is more a rich language than an unyielding frame in which to structure words. And I saw that much of the delight of that language lies in its unexpectedness.

It was like I had been trying to stuff words into a neat wooden box and make sure I got the top closed just so over them, but then I caught on that some words would not be crammed or lidded. They insisted on dangling a leg over the side of the box here and jabbing out an arm over there, and I became intrigued. (I was especially fascinated by the ones that popped up and said "boo".)

My poetry output dwindled after that, partly because I discovered there's wonderful poetry to be had in writing prose, and partly because I felt inadequate to compose truly wonderful poems. Great poetry seems so full of mystery and unseen connections now that I can only read it, and reread it, hoping at least to catch a glimpse of the deeper meaning.

I continue to love reading poetry - and trying to catch its deeper meanings. Some of my poet friends have, on occasion, asked me to critique one of their pieces. I would love to be able to do that for them adequately, but it feels strange to comment on the meaning of their poem when I have to ask them in the first place what much of it means.

Still, poetry intrigues me. Often, in good verse, a line or two will reach out to pique my interest, to compel further reading, to impact my thinking. Such are many of the poems I encounter on The Curator's page on Facebook. I "follow" the contributors there, which means occasionally I wander onto their site, hoping to lick up any poetic crumbs that fall from the rich scribes' pens. A particularly delightful wander on that page occurred last month.

During the Christmas season just past, I opted not to follow an Advent tradition I began several years ago. When I read through Ann Voskamp's The Greatest Gift for the first time, I knew I'd want to make the book a yearly treat in December. Each time I go through the book, meant for daily reading throughout the four weeks of Advent, I underscore and highlight lines that impact me, and I note which year we're in.

I was away from home on our Thailand Trip when Advent began this year and I didn't have my book with me. When we got home, I knew that getting back into routine (while jet-lagged) and trying to catch up and stay on track in the Advent book would put enough pressure on me that treat would soon turn to overwhelming task. I decided to take a break and pick it up again next year.

Instead, I chose to look and listen for Advent signs in my daily life, times when I knew He had come, is here, is coming again. Signs that it will be worth the wait - and worth the weight of this life.

I read some of the Advent poems posted on The Curator. One especially caught my eye, or I should say my heart. From its opening lines "Lord of Heaven, I thought I was afraid You'd come cold and commanding" to its closing lines "come slowly, come softly...O Christ, have mercy", Advent X by Conrad Martin put me in that poetry-so-far-beyond-me mindset, and yet. Something in it reached out and touched me.

It felt like royalty was going past, and I got brushed by swishing purple robes.

I wonder if my ongoing discovery of God is similar to this. He is such Deepness. He is such Mystery. He is such Unexpected Nearness.

He kept showing up during Advent. I wouldn't be thinking of Him at all, and then I would see or hear something and suddenly, there was this certain inner rush of knowing, or sudden tears, or laughter of confirmation: He IS!

This happened during the Sunday School Christmas program at church, when a class of young girls shared a reading their artist teacher Renee, had written. It was Mary's welcome to Jesus, her coming Baby, and was accompanied by a painting of Christ in utero.

Art can do that to me; can cause a little leap of joy unbidden. One of my son Ricky's daily drawings did that recently. Coming from the prompt "Romance in bloom", he had a man's angular shoe and a lady's daintier shoe toeing together in the sketch, and I can't really explain what it connected and stirred in me at the result.

By Ricky Martin, on his drawit366 Instagram account. Used by permission.

For me, Advent signs also appeared in winter snow and sky scenes:

On Facebook, I read Keeshon Washington's description of the Christmas Home-going of Clayton Shenk, the father in the family that took Keeshon into their own: "... finally, at 4:47 am, we said goodbye to our hero. We wailed for a long time, and then closed the early morning by encouraging and being together." That word "wailed" spoke to me of people being real, and that somehow made God seem more close and real.

Another Advent sign came in the form of an illustration brought to mind. Sometimes, I question my Christianity. (Yes, you heard that right.) I say I'm a Christian, but I wonder if I truly live as one. I long to worship the real God, not just who I imagine Him to be. When I pray, I want my faith not to be in my faith, but in Him alone. One day, I got a mind picture of me turning my doubts and worries about this over and over in my hands, the constant kneading turning them into a messy ball of shreds. Suddenly, I noticed that bigger, stronger Hands were curved around mine, encompassing the turmoil and struggles.

Sometimes I listen to a Read-aloud Revival podcast, and while I enjoy the insights from the host (Sarah Mackensie), I look forward to the very last feature as much as anything in every new episode. Sarah invites children from anywhere in the world to call in and share with her their name, where they live, what their favorite read-aloud book is, and why it's their favorite. She records these calls and posts them on her podcast for her listeners to enjoy. One day, there was a little tyke - I don't know, maybe 3 or 4 years old, who talked about a book he likes. He just got me with his young, endearing voice saying, "fravorite".

Two of the books I requested and received in the book exchange our family does every Christmas are actually children's books. I've already read both Growing Toward the Sun and Full Moon, Half a Heart. How I loved them! Author Vila Gingerich has an extraordinary gift for pulling the reader into 11-year-old Celeste's (the main character) world. In the book about Celeste's adjustments in the family's move from Kansas to Wisconsin, I got tears over this part: "The bell rang then and we put our lunchboxes on the shelf and went out for recess. Just as I reached the door, Miss Koehn (teacher who was also new to the area) put her hand on my shoulder.  'Celeste', she said, 'I'm going to tell you a secret. This morning I got up and saw that old yellowish couch in the teachers' house and looked out the window at the neighbor's dairy barn, and I smelled that barn, and - you know what - I was so lonesome for home, I cried. I know how you feel.' She gave me a half-hug as we walked outside together. I looked into her blue eyes and couldn't say a word..."

Yes, lately there have been times I've felt brushed by regal robes swishing by. I know I've been touched by His Majesty.

How have you been brushed by royal robes lately?

Jetting and Lagging

We've been home from Thailand for over a week now and I am here to say that jet lag, the oxymoron of journeying, is a very real thing. It is not just in my head; it is in my trunk and limbs, too - in my whole body, really, from my bones to my breathing to my brain. Maybe especially my brain.

The jetting aspect of jet lag is the oxy- part of oxymoron, in which the jetlagee is keen and sharp, bursting with high energy propelled by the rush of exciting travel experiences. The lagging aspect of jet lag is where, sorry to say, the moron part comes in. I've had both, over the last nine days.

We hadn't been landed long when the lagging showed up. Rolin picked us up at the Toronto airport after 10:00pm one evening last week, which was at least 24 hours past the start of our journey home from Chiang Mai. During the hour-long ride from the airport to our house, I think Ken and I amazed Rolin with some of our statements/questions. Finally, laughing in probably both amusement and concern, he said, "You guys are definitely jet lagged!"

We had barely touched down on home turf again, it seemed, until we were taking off again into Christmas activities. So it was very handy to have the jetting phase available. The day after we got back I got right into unpacking the suitcases and doing a big laundry and shopping so that the next day I could concentrate on preparations for our church's Christmas Banquet. We're on the Social Committee, and some of the responsibilities we'd signed up for were decorating and setting up.

During the day, I had bright energy for a walk in the woods, foraging for evergreens and red twigs to use in table decorations. As well, I tackled the fun project of peeling designs into oranges to line with rows of whole cloves. And since we'd also signed up to plan a group activity for the social, I prepared a version of Christmas Outburst to play after the meal that evening.

The whole event came off splendidly, in my estimation. I stayed wakeful enough throughout the evening to taste the good food, engage in conversation at the table, applaud the quartet who tackled difficult Christmas hymns with such valiant effort, laugh at the amusing inn stable animal conversationalists in a skit, and keep score in the Outburst game.

But on the way home from the Banquet is when the lag hit. I say hit, because that is exactly what it does. The tiredness slams into me like a giant wave, and I can't stand upright against it. Ricky and Jasmine came to our place for the night, and I couldn't even be hospitable and stay up to talk with them a bit. Feeling almost sick with fatigue, I crashed into bed.

Only to wake up in the wee hours of the morning. That's how jet lag affects me. The wall of exhaustion hits me in the early evening and I can hardly keep my eyes open. I zonk out as soon as I hit the pillow, but then I wake up at 4:21am, (or at 3:21am, or 2:21am ☹) and can't sleep a wink more until time to get up or at least for several hours.

I'm wide awake and my brain is soon in high gear, planning what I need to take to FB for the girls, arranging my clove-studded oranges into Christmas centerpieces and, of all things, trying to figure out how puns work. How can two unrelated objects or ideas come together in a sentence and create such a satisfying click with their joining? And just how are those connections made at such lightning quick speed?

A considerable chunk of time passes while I lie there and picture possibilities. In one, there is a lithe little pixie named PunDit who sprints across the convoluted ridges of a brain pulling tiny strings and making connections from one side to the other. Panting, but gleeful, he announces to anyone who will listen, "I PunDit!"

I love puns. Especially fascinating are the unintended ones. Here are four puns I've heard lately:

1. Someone, who was impressed with his dining experience at a recently-renovated restaurant called Pebbles, asked: "Have you ever been to Pebbles? It rocks!"
2. One of the planners for a Christmas Banquet gave a suggestion regarding using disposable plates and cutlery, saying of her idea that she'd "just throw that out there".
3. In describing one of my musically-talented cousins, I said he was instrumental in helping someone purchase a hammered dulcimer.
4. A few young ladies were leaving their house to come to ours for a gathering planned by our daughter Kerra. It was a dark and cold evening and one of them remarked how it felt like a perfect night to go Christmas caroling, but they weren't. "Oh, but we are," contradicted her sister. "We're going Kerra-ling!"

People say that a returned traveler should expect jet lag to last awhile. Figure one day for every hour of time zone difference, they advise. Well, that is good news for us - only three more days to go!

People also say that there are measures travelers can take to combat jet lag. Get back into the current time schedule as soon as possible. Exercise. Take melatonin. Drink lots of water. I suppose I could add that it's not the best idea to go hear Messiah only three nights after you get home. But it's our annual Christmas tradition, so we bought the tickets anyway.

It was a meaningful performance again this year. I only wish I could have been with it for every note and nuance. I'm sad that I fought sleep through a number of those beautiful pieces. I willed myself to stay awake, but the weariness descended anyway and took my eyelids with it. Against the backdrop of the choir, the soloists and the orchestra sometimes swam in blurriness before me, and then exited altogether, briefly. Moments later they were back again, bright and clear. (It was almost worrisome!)

If I were a coffee drinker like Ken, I would've gotten a cup to drink at intermission, and like him, would've been kept from lagging in the second half of the Messiah program. But then, very likely that amount of caffeine would've also jetted me awake for hours in bed that night, like it did him.

In the end, this is what I think about jet lag: After a long flight, it's going to happen. Be kind to yourself while it does. After a long jet lag, it will pass. Rejoice when it does.

And someone might ask me, in view of all this jetting and lagging aftermath, if the trip to the other side of the world was really worth it.

To which I'd respond, "Absolutely!"

This Post's Quote:

"Starve your distractions; feed your focus." 

~ as seen in Clinton Weaver's Nepal Times newsletter

This Post's Childhood Memory:

At Christmas time, Mom often bought us Fanny Farmer's Flavor-ettes hard candy for a treat. I remember the round tin with the red lid, and the pictures of colorful candy around the outside of the container. There were many shapes, colors and tastes of candy inside - the bone-shaped red and white striped pieces, the berry-shaped, fruit-flavored gems, the red and green little "pillows" and most fascinating of all, the wavy ribbon pieces.

What are your favorite Christmas candy memories from your childhood?

The Hidden Gifts of Change

Happy Thanksgiving Day to all my American family and friends! I live in Canada, where we celebrate Thanksgiving at the more appropriate time of year, if we're comparing, but since I come from The USA, I celebrate the too close to Christmas closer-to-Christmas Thanksgiving holiday as well. I can't quite get it out of my system, even after calling Waterloo, Ontario my home for considerably longer than I lived in Hayward, Wisconsin.

This way, I get to celebrate Thanksgiving twice in one year. I figure one can't go wrong being grateful a little more often in life. Typically, for the US Thanksgiving celebration in our home, I will make a turkey (or ham) dinner for the family and we'll have pumpkin pie (or maybe something apple-y) for dessert. Sometimes we play games or just enjoy visiting and laughing with each other. I feel so rich.

Once in awhile we actually have American family or friends at our house over the US Thanksgiving. That seems especially celebratory. This year, as the American Thanksgiving arrives, we are neither at home nor with our family (I'm talking the Kenites, or the Tribe of Dan or the applepeople) nor with American friends that we have known for years.

That's because we are half way around the world! Literally, we are 12 hours ahead of "home time". What brought us here to Chiang Mai, Thailand for a few weeks in November is the fact that Ken was put on the IGo (Institute for Global Opportunities) Board back in January of this year and the fact that the Board members are encouraged to visit the Institute at least once in the five years of their term on the Board and the fact that Ken was asked to teach the Life of Christ class during third term of first semester at IGo this school year.

I guess the Board and the other people that decide these things thought they're not going to waste any time having Ken do his once-in-five-years visit, so they decided to bam - ask him to teach a course only 10 months after coming on the Board. Essentially, they asked him to make the visit to IGo and to hang around for three weeks while he's at it.

So, Ken consented to teach, and here we are. We've had such a good time getting to know the staff and students these three weeks. It's a small term, with only seven students enrolled, which has its own particular benefits. If the group would be large, I'm not sure that we'd as easily find out that Byron is trying to learn Spanish, or that Marcus is passionate about developing discipleship in his local church, or that Carla has a quirky habit when it comes to putting away her socks after laundry day.

Or that Lori, the dean of women, can make a mean pot of pumpkin spice latte to serve for snack after chapel on Thanksgiving Day. There have been other acknowledgements of the holiday today since we are in the company of Americans. We spent some time in morning chapel collectively focusing on gratitude.

One aspect of that was audibly thanking God for who He is, Asian prayer style. This means that everyone prayed aloud, at the same time. (It's different than we're used to, and noisy, but powerful.) We also gathered around a Thankful poster that we had been adding items to all week, and verbally thanked God for what we read on the sheet.

On Wednesdays here at IGo, most of the morning chapel session is spent in prayer. The staff and students meet in small groups to share specific prayer requests with each other and to take turns praying about those needs. I found those times of prayer to be so refreshing. This week during our prayer group gathering, Secretary Janelle mentioned something that really struck me. In thinking ahead to Thanksgiving Day, she talked about wanting to be grateful for the gifts that come with change in our lives.

So often we lament the things that change takes from us, and fail to notice the blessings that change adds. For her, living here in Thailand has meant living far away from family, struggling with the language barrier, dreading the heat and smog of dry season. But it has also expanded her knowledge of other cultures, brought growth of character, provided a wonderful group of people to learn to know and work with.

I took that as my piece of inspiration for the day. It helps me as I process some of the losses that come with our being here. Like not being home to welcome daughter Kerra when she arrives there from Faith Builders. We don't get in on any of her long Thanksgiving Break. And I really hated it that we weren't there when Kayleen and Carlin came back from their honeymoon and opened their wedding gifts. It would have been so nice to ooh and ahh with them over the items and to help them pack up the gifts in our van for hauling to The Carleen House in Guys Mills, PA.

At the same time, we have enjoyed so many blessings that come with our being here. My list of things I'm grateful for this Thanksgiving includes numerous things that wouldn't be there, had we not come to IGo.

Here are some of them:

The flowers and plants around here are incredible! I could go crazy taking pictures of all the beauty.

It was our privilege to interact with and learn from these dear people. Allen was the other guest teacher this term. He was an excellent coach for Ken who was a rather newbie teacher. Carolyn encouraged me by her example of faithfulness and prayer.

I got to sit in on most of Ken's classes, joining the studious IGo youth in learning more of The Life of Christ, and the impact that has on our own lives. We have thoroughly enjoyed discussions with these young adults, both inside and outside of class. 

I looked after this young chap, Kai, a few days for an hour or so when his mom was in Allen's class on Church Planting. Kai helped to provide my grandma fix for the day!

IGo seems to be a place to make connections! We so enjoyed chatting with Renita, a friend (and relative) from back home, over lunch one Sunday. 

The variety of tasty fruits here is phenomenal. Those small-potato-looking things on the tray are longkong fruit. They have a soft, bland-colored interior that tastes pleasantly sweet and citrus-y.

Amphan, the Thai cook here at IGo made a special dessert in which she hollowed out little pumpkins and baked a custard right inside them. When they were cooled, she cut them into wedges, and we ate them, rind and all. This is as close as we got to having pumpkin pie this Thanksgiving week.

I'm not sure what this dish is called, but it involved pork two different ways and noodles two different ways. (Those "noodle pouches" there on the right had ground pork and seasoning inside.) With the broth and choice of toppings to add to my bowl, I ended up with the best pork soup I have ever eaten.

These young ladies from Compassion Home decided among themselves to hold up heart symbols on this pose. Aww, love you right back!

This market vendor was cutting up jack fruit to sell at her streetside stand. I didn't buy any, but I have eaten jack fruit other times and enjoyed it a lot. The taste is similar to strawberries, which is surprising considering the vast differences between the two fruits.

This photo shows some typical modes of transportation here in the city. The pickup-like vehicle parked along the street is a songtheaw (Thai, for two-bencher) which is used as a large taxi. Cycles, or bikes, as they are more commonly called, are plentiful everywhere you go. This particular bike has a cart attached, which isn't quite as common to see in the mooban (village) where IGo is located. When Ken and I walk in the mooban, we often see children riding with an adult on a bike like this. No helmets or other safety features are required, it seems!

This Post's Quote:

Since we are in Thailand, we've discovered a bottled drink that is currently trending here. The drink has chunks of fruit and little squares of gelatin-y stuff in it. When the IGo students were describing it and discussing its merits (and de-merits), one fellow drawled, "I prefer not to chew my drink."

This Post's Childhood Memory:

Our family would sometimes get asked to sing a song or two for an informal audience, such as in the living room of our friends' house when we were guests in their home and were preparing to leave, or some situation like that. We'd find a song that worked, and sing that one every time. For awhile, we were stuck on the song "Thank You, Lord, For Your Blessings on Me." (I think it was mostly Mom who kept us in that rut.) The chorus went like this: "There's a roof up above me; I've a good place to sleep. There's food on my table, and shoes on my feet. You gave me Your love, Lord, and a fine fam-i-ly, And I thank You, Lord, for Your blessings on me." I'm guessing it was that "fine family" line in there that made Mom pick it every time! (Winky face)

My Weekend Wand (and other stories)

Wedding Day has come and gone, and what a lovely event it is to think back on and praise God for! Someone asked me to post lots of pictures of Kayleen & Carlin’s big day, and I do plan to fulfill that request in a future post, when I have lots of pictures to choose from. It’s a rather unique situation to be both a photographer (albeit, an amateur one) and the mother of the bride (an amateur one too, I guess) at a wedding, in the sense of resulting pictures when the day is over. I did have my camera available at the reception, but I think I took only one picture with it. I saw many beautiful opportunities for photographic shots that day. I can only hope the designated photographer captured them – and a wondrous lot besides.

What I do have to share before the photos, though, are some little stories including impressions and experiences from the days surrounding wedding time:

My Weekend Wand

When my twin sister Annette, along with her husband Nolan and their oldest daughter/my oldest niece Nolita made their plans to attend the wedding, they decided to come a few days early and stay a bit later so they’d be available to help us with preparations and the aftermath. That’s just the kind of people they are.

They stayed right at our house. Those who might question why we’d host guests over the time a daughter is getting married likely don’t realize the scope of ambition and intuition that came with this particular guest package.

They’d ask what they could do to help, and I say, “Wipe down the kitchen counters and clean the backsplash” or “Fry up this hamburger for sloppy joes at the Set Up Day lunch” or “Make a pan of Mississippi Mud dessert”. It seemed only a short time later, I’d turn around and there was the food sitting on the shining counter.

Honestly, it was like I was Fairy Princess or something, waving my wand and saying “Do this, and that and this” to my subjects. Magically, the work got done, and in short order.

From scooping ice cream into 250 individual clear plastic containers for the dessert buffet at the wedding, to patiently ironing yards of table cloth and stringing yards of lights at Set Up, to ordering in pizza for the Tribe of Dan members who gathered at our house after the wedding, to using their rented car for hauling home pans and roasters of leftover chicken and rice from the wedding, to smoothing out and boxing 250 handmade cloth napkins that had been washed and dried after the wedding, the Nolan crew was simply (or maybe I should say complexly) amazing.

And let me say that the preparation and clean-up magic of the weekend had little to do with my wand or the waving thereof and much to do with my subjects!

A Wedding Nightmare

I have my niece Holly to blame for the wedding disaster dream. When she came to our house one evening to help Kayleen the week of the wedding, Holly asked me how preparations were coming along, and if I’d had any wedding nightmares yet. I answered that I thought I was keeping apace quite well in the wedding prep schedule, and that no, I hadn’t had any scary dreams.

Well, of course I had a troubling dream that very night. In it, Kayleen and I were travelling somewhere and our vehicle needed gas. For some reason when I filled up, I had to put the gas in a jerry can. And I had to fill said can inside the car. There was some thick mayonnaise-y stuff coating the opening of the jerry can, so it was quite tricky to get this gas poured into the container.

Kayleen had her wedding dress in the car, draped over the seat and under no protective covering and wouldn’t you know, I spilled some of this gunky, gassy mess onto her dress. She and I were just devastated! Until I discovered that the dress was actually my own wedding dress from 31 years ago. Then both of us were like, no big deal. And I woke up, relieved to discover that none of the disaster was reality.

In Sunday School at church the day after the wedding, the lesson text was the story of Jacob at Bethel. Naturally the topic of dreams came up in the discussion and our teacher asked us if our dreams today have significance. When I mentioned probably not nightmares before a wedding, the teacher wanted to know more details.

After briefly describing my dream about spilling the gas, the teacher asked if my dream was stress-fueled. Stress-fueled. Annette was sitting beside me in class and we both recognized the unintended pun about the same time. It was fun to share a giggle with her, and then with the teacher and the rest of the class as they caught on.

An Unwanted Crop

If you’d have asked me before the wedding how I’m coping with the stress of preparations, I would’ve told you that I think I’m doing fine, over all. Kayleen was exceptionally well-organized in her planning, and I tried to be at least decent in mine. I was able to sleep most hours that I was in bed at night, I didn’t come down with a sore throat or even the sniffles, and I felt like I was able to handle any frustrations that came up by talking them out with Ken, thereby releasing them from intense and undue focus on my part. (Tears were also a coping tool in this process.)

BUT. Somewhere down deep, in the dark and damp, the stress spores were gathering and budding and strategizing about how and when to bloom. Apparently, the Monday after the wedding was the target date.

That morning I woke up with my upper lip mushroomed out in cold sores. There were several spots that kind of blended into one whopper sore heading toward my left nostril and I had a couple on my lower lip, too. All told, there were SEVEN cold sores. That’s a lot of stress, if you ask me. And a lot of soreness, not to mention nastiness in the looks department.

Cold sores are strange creatures. I have, according to info I read on some medical websites, a dormant cold sore virus living permanently in my body. I am not alone in this. About 80% of the people in North America have it, too, and if you are one of those people, you have my empathy.

Normally, my immune system is able to keep the virus in dormant mode, but a trigger such as stress can allow the virus to multiply rapidly, spread down my nerve cells and pop out onto my lips.

I used to get cold sores way more often than I have in the last ten years or so. Hence, this latest crop was rather a surprise. I really dislike cold sores, every stage included, from the tingling onset when I’m scared it’s a sign of terrible things to come but still hoping like crazy that it will pass without developing into anything major, to the ugly, painful, oozy period where it hurts to eat or talk or sometimes just be, to the ugly, brown crusted-over patches of lip skin phase in which uninhibited youngsters will ask me the question that everyone else I meet is probably dying to ask: “What’s wrong with your mouth?”

As par for the cold sores course, my lips are healing nicely since the 7-10 days after breakout are up. Hallelujah! I can still tell where the sores were, but the scabless spots are pink now instead of crusty brown.

This post-wedding batch of cold sores has had a way of humbling me, of reminding me to be realistic about my inability to handle stress loads well on my own and about my need for graciously accepting the help of others.

It has also helped me to be grateful. I don’t know how many times I have thanked God that I didn’t get these cold sores two days before the wedding instead of two days after!

That Puzzling Pair

As twins, we don’t try to trick people into thinking that I’m Annette or that she’s Danette, but it happens sometimes. Because we have tended to look less like each other rather than more similar over the years, it can be surprising – and amusing – when it does happen.

At the wedding reception, Annette and Nolan served apple cider to the guests. This involved standing at the punch table and keeping the drink dispensers filled so that the guests could help themselves to cider any time they wanted. The cider jugs were kept in a fridge in the kitchen off the reception hall.

One time when Annette went to the kitchen to get some fresh jugs, one of the cooks who knows me quite well saw her and exclaimed, “Danette!” and proceeded part way into a scolding of the bride’s mother for being in the kitchen during the wedding. Annette hastily informed her that she’s not Danette, and about the same time my friend remembered that I have a twin sister.

Both ladies had fun relating their version of the story to me later at different times, and I got to laugh twice at the mix-up.

On Sunday after the wedding, we hosted some of Kayleen’s relatives and some of Carlin’s relatives in our home for lunch and the afternoon. The meal was served buffet-style in the kitchen on the main level of our house, and guests took their plates of food to tables and chairs (or just chairs) to eat in a room either upstairs or downstairs because we couldn’t accommodate the whole crowd solely in our dining room.

Annette and I were upstairs and down throughout the day enough that we managed to confuse my nephew, going by what he said to his family after they left our place later on that afternoon. His mom, Ken’s sister Colleen, sent me a message with the humorous account of her children chattering about their day. My niece said that it suddenly dawned on her that Danette’s twin was there when she kept seeing a person who looked so much like Danette but she was wearing a covering (instead of a veiling like I do). Then the light went on for my nephew and he exclaimed, “Ohhh, her twin was there! I just thought Danette was everywhere!”

Photo Cred: Nolita Bechtel

This Post’s Quote:

My dad preached the message at Kayleen & Carlin’s wedding. In his opening comments, he told the audience that the couple always hopes their wedding day turns out perfectly; that everything goes off without a hitch. Then he paused, realizing he had unintentionally used a pun, and continued with, “I mean, they do want to get hitched!”

This Post’s Childhood Memory:

I remember my mom telling us children some fascinating details of her birth story, such as her being another “blue baby” (after the two siblings before her had both died from the same condition), the doctor writing out her death certificate before he wrote her birth certificate, and the tiny pink spot on her forehead growing larger and spreading over her entire body, bringing promise of life and health.

I don’t remember hearing this particular part of the story, though, as told by my aunt Nita recently: “The doctor wanted to buy Eva. He said, ‘My wife and I can’t have children, but you (Mom’s parents) can still have some more children. I’ll give you $10,000 and a brand-new car if you will let me have Eva.’ We always told her she was worth more than the rest of us!”