Category Archives: Reflections

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, NOAH.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, NOAH.

The turkey is upside dnwn this  year                                             “
So is my world since the flood ,
Temporary quarters full of temporary things,

T  chat’s  life too. In this xx world full of turkes

Thia year I’ll be with my family virtually.I won’t have Mama Stamberg’s cranberry sauce or a Buttrabal sut Is will have a Pub 819 Dinner in virus-free wrap.  I will have a piece of  pumpkin pie. That cannot change

I won’t have my family . Their presence will be a welcome gift  when it happens, so until then, I’ll have this upside dxown world of turkeys:                                          Quite a few, this year, with cancer-scare, virus-looming, flood,Parkinson’s.

vc it’s over l’ll buy a goldfish and call him NOAH,                  
We can remember our floods and have joy.

November  2020

 

 

Home is Where the Heart is?

Home.

?If ‘home’ means ‘residence’ I’ve lived a wonderfully varied life.

750 Mainstreet is my current residence ….A lofty loft. Most recently it was 309 West Wayside Road in a beautiful neighborhood called Hobby Acres. Before that it was a sparsely appointed Westside Village two-bedroom apartment in Hopkins.

One time our address was a Post Office box and so as vagabonds we lived different places and I said ,  ”Home is where my suitcase is.” That is as close to ‘homeless’ as I got.

We lived in three different apartments in Akademgorodok, Russia; two different ones on Zolotodayska and one on Uluysa Tereshkovoy.

Strangers in a strange land.

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may              roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like                  home.

I’ve never lost a home to flood, tornado, earthquake, tsunami, or fire.
I’ve never had a home torn apart by drugs, alcohol,  or abuse.
I’ve had a place for happy memories  and tradition.
So, for me home is a refuge….a shelter in the time of storm.

I want to go there.

But now because of this worldwide threat, we’re commanded to go home. Millions of us. What if home isn’t, or isn’t a safe haven?  What if I don’t want to dwell there all the time?  Well, that’s something to think about.  Maybe I’m seeing a more  of  symbolic meaning of the word. In this perilous time, I’m being asked to see anew another view of home.

 Catherine (Kitty) O’Meara retired teacher in Wisconsin who was trying to make some sense of our current world pandemic wrote this poem;

“And the people stayed home. And read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and grew gardens full of fresh food, and learned new ways of being, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated, some prayEed, some danced.  Some met their shadows. And the people began to think differently

And the people healed. And, in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal.

And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they themselves had been healed.”

May it be so. Let’s go home.

‘and the people stayed home’.  March 2020. Catherine (Kitty) O’Meara                     https:// http://www.irishcentral.com/culture/irish-american-teachers-poem-covid19-outbreak

Mysterious Wonder

Sometimes God seems far away and tastes as dry as piece of toast made with day-old bread.  At other times , he is the radiant sunshine on a dark and stormy nigh1.

 I felt Andre suddenly shaking me awake, his voice unusually somber and fear-laden, telling me that WCCO weather had shown a graphic picture of a  tornado headed towards Hopkins. It was at that time 15 minutes away; just enough time for us to go to the basement garage immediately.

Funnel Cloud Spotted in Hopkins As Tornado Warning Ends
The storm is moving swiftly northeast.
By James Warden, Patch Staff, September 2019Just beginning to rouse from my slumber, I looked at my bedside clock thru bleary eyes which confirmed that it was indeed 10:30 PM.

 So I told Andre I needed several minutes to collect my thoughts which were a jumble of storm and packing images mixed incongruously with thoughts like “but I’m still cozy under my blanket with my cat curled at my feet.”

At that time I also heard him calling Chris with the news, telling him to get his family (that would be his peacefully sleeping wife and the  two toddlers) to their basement, pronto!

I had not seen Andre this concerned except the time the kids were lost in the Russian forest “primeval” so long ago and he called all the men to form search parties.   I knew he wasn’t joking.

Since this tornado was about to happen 10:45 PM, I decided to talk to God about it;  after all, He’s  in charge of the events of my life.

I felt fear when I looked at the lightning and wind outside. I also remembered that being in a wheelchair would present unusual challenges, as would being on the 4th floor, so  I prayed that God would stop the Hopkins-bound tornado.  Just like that. That there would be no tornado in Hopkins.  I was lying in my Hopkins bed unable to walk and I didn’t think it was my time to go to a basement or to die.

When I calmly told Andre  that I was not going because God would take care of me, I was sure.  Andre tried to talk me out of it, but it didn’t work.

Just as I was dozing off again,I heard the WCCO weatherman tell us all that the Hopkins tornado had suddenly left the radar. Poof. Gone.

Sometimes My Father says “no” and I don’t understand. But every once in a while, he says a resounding “yes”.  Those are the times I am to be still and know that He is God.   So I am.

 

 

 

by Barbara LaTondresse  –  5 October 2019

________________________

Images courtesy  of:

https://patch.com/minnesota/stmichael/line-of-severe-storms-bearing-down-on-st-michael-albertville

https://tenor.com/view/packingstruggles-disney-mickey-https://theiowarepublican.com/wake-up-conservatives

a https://www.colourbox.com/image/candle-in-a-hand-image-3955837

https://www.google.com/search?rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS730US730&tbm=isch&q=backpack&chips=q:backpack,g_1:cartoon:7jn_s58l9Sc%3D&usg=AI4_-kTSu7SPQ4r7T3TEAxUqrNVPau-SdQ&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjX1sfmwoblAhXtQ98KHZH0AuIQ4lYITSgR&biw=1440&bih=740&dpr=1#imgrc=pskYGsfisIrIuM:

https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&source=images&cd=&ved=2ahUKEwi-yfGT4IflAhVxhq0KHcN5B2YQjRx6BAgBEAQ&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.agodman.com%2Fblog%2Fthe-god-who-called-us-is-the-great-i-am-the-god-of-our-fathers%2F&psig=AOvVaw0E_hQdvYSwlvYag5BQGVru&ust=1570455211668700

https://www.zazzle.com/cartoon+tornado+cards+stamps

Roses in the Land

‪ When I was in grade school, I had to memorize Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Paul Revere’s Ride”. I still remember it. I recited parts of it from memory at a school gathering. They must have been short on talent to have someone recite a long, old poem for everyone!

I shared this bit of trivia in a FB reply to a comment a friend made about one of my blog posts, Lost Jewels Found, where I’d used a reference to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s ‘forest primeval’ to describe the Russian forest the kids were lost in.


In the spirited FB dialogue that followed, my English teacher friend suggested I should recite it for the grands!

“They’ll think Grandma is the smartest woman on the planet!” she said.

In true FB fashion in which others read your stuff, Andre had been reading my dialogue and quipped, “Grandma IS the smartest woman in the planet. And not just this one!

Anyone who knows me will find this comment to be at least half true, for a good part of my time is spend on the far side with Parkinson’s whether I find the humor in it or not.

So, here’s a bit about my other planet.

When I wake up in the morning I face a few more challenges  in thatI require help with most  of the ADLs (activities of daily living) like bathing, dressing, eating, chores, and health-related care.

I remember the first time I walked out of Walgreens a number of years ago using a cane and feeling like I was a stranger in a strange land. I later came to realize I was just entering the land of limitations, a land full of landmines, an unfamiliar terrain. Like a while back I hadn’t even noticed that we had an elevator at church. Now it’s the way I do church.

Now I also know a bit more about getting around in this land of limitations since my wheel chair is a vital part in my daily routine. It enables me to bump over uneven thresholds; navigate heavy doors w/o getting ‘banged’ by the closing; courageously enter, exit, and ride contraptions which provide ancient or archaic examples of primitive lifts.

Grandsons #2 &#3, love to try to dismantle the footrests and Grandson#1 still tries to sit on my lap but wheel chairs are kind of hard to get or give a hug or kiss whether a grandson or adult friend.

On this far side there are also new paths to create.This week, for example, my dear husband is wading thru our Long-Term Care policy to jump thru the hoops necessary to get and use our money which is stored there out for my care.  So far this has required two long and detailed phone calls.  It will also require a home visit to verify my eligibility, and paperwork for my Doctor to fill out, as well as paper work to verify specific claims.  They don’t make it easy or fun.

I do have some ‘happies’ in this far side land of mine. My beloved ‘duck’ that lives in my cellphone is one. He is only a nuisance when some stranger in a restaurant seated near me or fellow, harried shopper at check-out begins to ask everyone in the vicinity if they hear a duck quacking. At that point,  I will quickly find him in my purse and turn him off.

All in all, this far side planet is not one I would have chosen, but since I’m in the land of limitations and I have decided to bloom where I’m planted, I may as well take time to smell the roses.By Barbara LaTondresse
14 August 2019

 

—————-

Images courtesy of:

https://www.clipart.email/clipart/happy-birthday-grandma-clipart-93098.html

https://www.sandiegoreader.com/events/2019/sep/14/poetry-i-intro-to-poetry-writing-th/#

<a href=”https://www.clipart.email/download/1855217.html&#8221; title=”Image from clipart.email”><img src=”https://cdn.clipart.email/7f7928962787c080069d0fbda39a93d1_28-collection-of-happy-birthday-grandma-clipart-high-quality-_1600-1228.png&#8221; width=”350″ alt=”Happy Birthday Grandma Clipart” /></

Smell the roses when you visit Ecuador

https://healinginheart.com/f/im-healed-though-im-still-sick

https://shaynegallery.com/en/shayne-gallery/artists-artistes/accessories/jumping-through-hoops

Carpe Diem!


I celebrated my 70thbirthday this August.  That fact in and of itself is enough to make 2018 memorable, but this past year is significant for several other reasons.

For one thing, this past November we were blessed with the birth of grandson #3,Hugo who joins grandson #1, Walter, who turned 3 this year, and grandson #2 , Arthur, who turned 1 this year.  How fast time does fly. “I blinked my eyes and in an instant, decades had passed.” *

We spent most of the winter, spring, and summer of 2018 preparing and selling our beloved Wayside home. God guided every step and with His hand on every detail and the help of many dear friends along the way we bought and moved into a lovely loft in downtown Hopkins this fall.

When we sorted and throwed, we found Christophers’s baby teeth, Andre’s childhood yellow bear, Claire’s handmade rocking horse, and in the process we revisited past memories: precious, breathtaking, historic or not-so-historic moments captured mostly in the photographs of my mind at age seventy.

As I review them I wax nostalgic and pensive, almost incredulous at the wrinkles on my face and in denial of the steady slow aging in this frail body, keenly aware of the need to preserve these memories whether mundane or extraordinary for posterity.

The hourglass sand of my life flows quickly to the other side so I will spend the time writing my stories and praying the Lord of All to guide each day for my Good and for His Glory.

I wrote this simple poem/prayer while I was in college over fifty years ago but it continues even today to frame how I look at the coming year.  I hope it does the same for you.

What will you write on the blank pages, Lord?
Will it be happy or sad?
I know you will lead me lovingly thru.
So always in that I’ll be glad.

My Future I bring you.
I give you its Pen.
I pray that you’ll take it and write
Whatever is best for me, blest for me, now;
For you are my Author in Life.

© 1 January 2019
Barbara LaTondresse

____

*Quote from Green, J. (2018). Taste the Wild Wonder. Createspace

Images courtesy of:

https://www.shiftfrequency.com/sands-of-time-slide-through/

https://www.google.com/search?q=pen+on+paper&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS730US730&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjBhbTCg9DfAhVD4IMKHWSSAtEQ_AUIDigB&biw=1146&bih=649#imgrc=CaUy3YkUDzu8VM:

http://clipart-library.com/clipart/8cxngqK6i.htm

 

 

 

My Golden Twilight

The “golden years” of adulthood are generally defined as the span of time between retirement and the beginning of age-imposed physical, emotional, and cognitive limitations, which would roughly fall between the ages of 65 and 80+, according to the experts.

Fall Gold – October 2017

I turned 70 this year so by that definition I should be in my ‘golden years’, that glorious age when one retires to realize some dreams, relax with the grandkids, travel, and live the life of leisure…no worries…no pains.

But the image of a cloudless blue sky above the stunning red, brown, yellow leaves melded into a kaleieoscope of fall glory, a radiant golden panorama all around, is not my current reality.

I see “twilight” instead.

“Twilight” is the name given to the period between dawn and sunrise, or between sunset and dusk, when light is still visible in the sky due to sunlight scattering off the atmosphere. The Online Etymology Dictionary goes on to explain that the word twilight comes two Old English words, twi meaning two, and the noun light. 

Twilight Dawn on the St. Croix. September 2015.

 It doesn’t mean two kinds of light or light occurring twice. Rather, it appears to refer to ‘half’ light. The Sanskrit word for ‘twilight’ samdhya means literally ‘a holding together, junction,’ [and] Middle High German ezwischerliecht literally ‘tweenlight.’

Both of these — the idea of holding together or of being between two things – are an ideal description for this in-between time of morning and evening when the sun isn’t in the sky but its light still brightens things enough for us to see, even if only just barely.

Another writer, Jayme Heimbuch, put it this way:  diffused light adds a purple and pink tinge to everything, making it a magical and temporal moment at the beginning and end of each day.

Kind of like being in two opposite places at once; or the tension we speak of in our faith journeys when we know something as certain in the future but right now face dismal realities that blur our vision instead. Our Pastor Christian calls it the “already, not yet” time.

It was in December of last year that I was really feeling old and useless. Maybe it was because I had not been able to get out of my house for several weeks or maybe it was because others were going for a walk in the new fallen snow and I couldn’t join them; for whatever reason, I felt like one of the grumpy old men in the movie of the same name.

When I turned 60 I threw a big party for myself. This once-in-a-lifetime gala was a Garden Dinner Party for 40 in my backyard gardens which at the time were in their prime.

I think every person should throw at least one party for themselves during their lifetime just to celebrate the WHO and the I AM of self, but that’s another topic.  Anyhow, I had my Princess Torte from  Woullets  and my Happy Lamps and my Champagne toasts.

It was grand.  You could call it  ‘golden’.

Then I got Parkinson’s and the twilight time gradually descended upon me: the in-between time of morning and evening when the sun isn’t in the sky but its light still brightens things enough for us to see, even if only just barely.

The already, but the not yet, too.

twilight -nightsky

The diffused light of this reality adds a purple and pink tinge to everything, making it a magical and very temporary moment at the beginning and end of each day.  Of each life?

I felt old and useless in December but then the purple-pink magic happened again.

God spoke to me and this is what he said:

Isaiah 46:4 New King James Version (NKJV)

Even to your old age, I am He,
And even to gray hairs I will carry you!
I have made, and I will bear;
Even I will carry, and will deliver you.

It surprised and encouraged me. My God said there will be another chapter after 70 and He assured me that it will be lofty and grand.

Barbara LaTondresse  –  11 October 2018

_________________

Some photos and thoughts and wordings taken from:

https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Isaiah+46%3A4&version=NKJV

https://www.mnn.com/earth-matters/wilderness-resources/blogs/why-is-twilight-called-twilight

https://www.etymonline.com/word/twilight

https://www.neenahlibrary.org/node/284

 

 

 

 

 

Moving Thoughts.

We’re moving. The upcoming reality leaves me entertaining an uneasy, unpleasant thought—we must say ‘goodbye’ to this beloved house. I wonder if there is an Anglican liturgical construct for saying goodbye to your home?  It would be easier to follow a set ritual than to invent a unique one just for 309 Wayside Road West.moving-truck

Recently Chris brought up the idea of having a ceremony of some sort.  He and I have done that. The evening before our family left the U.S.A. to live in Russia in1993 when we decided to say ’goodbye’ to our homeland; first, by making a final trip to the donut shop to enjoy our favorites and then by stopping the car to witness a gorgeous Rocky mountain sunset while singing “America the Beautiful” (all the verses) overlooking the Pike’s Peak reflected golden glory.

Just before that our family said ‘farewell ’ to our wonderful Hopkins Farmdale home and some time after that did the same to my childhood home, which had been in our family for some fifty years before I had to sell it and empty it after moving my mother out of it into assisted living setting miles away.

looking in to boxSo, here I am, twenty-some years after that, sorting boxes for another move. This move is unlike the others in that we’re opening and sorting and processing a vast LaTondresse archeological dig, which spans many years and numerous sides of both of our family trees. It takes a lot of time because we actually feel compelled to look at the stuff partly because this time around Andre and I are the gatekeepers for our two grandsons (with a third on the way, due in October!)

We have boxes labeled ‘Claire – Before Russia’ and we have boxes labeled ‘Barbara’s Writings’, and Andre’s father’s college diploma, and my mother’s love letters.  Many of these musty, dusty boxes haven’t seen the light of day for a very long time.boxes

We discovered 100s of bobbers my dad apparently bought at Wal-Mart while mom shopped for other things. Clippings of Aunt Ruth’s hair in envelopes labeled ‘Aunt Ruth Age 84.’  My mother’s high heeled red cowboy boots.  Christopher’s incredible drawings created when he was in first grade with Mrs. Johnson and Andre’s mother’s artwork. My old brass trumpet.  Andre’s first teddy bear.Pen-and-Paper-300x289

Unexpectedly I uncovered an unfinished poem, with words crossed out and arrows between thoughts, scribbled on a small note pad apparently penned during one of my moves. I do not think this one is about our move from Farmdale Road in Hopkins, because I lost that home too quickly to process it, sold before the sign went up, as we hastily threw our belongings in boxes and flew to Akademgorodok, Russia.

I rather think it is about losing my childhood Elgin home since I was alone, had a bit of time to think, with my family half a world away in Russia.  It only seems right to finish it, right now, in the middle of preparation for selling our Wayside Road Hopkins home.

The juxtaposition of this poem’s genesis in Elgin in 1995 and rediscovery in Hopkins in 2018 makes sense and echoes Andre’s heartbreaking words of conclusion in his sad FB post yesterday about destroying his father’s cabinets. He says:

“Just spent time disassembling (demolishing) two chests my dad designed and built at some point in his life. Just a couple of storage chests. May be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”   22 May 2018  cabinet door

I agree, Andre.
This move may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Leaving Home

Put the finishing touches on death.
Those initial thrusts, powerfully driven
Suggest you’ve killed before.
And you know you have.
 
Once the resolve is there
The blows must be quick or
The walls will wail and moan
And you will be repulsed,
Too squeamish to finish the job.
 
The broad brush strokes are easy.
First, pry open those musty attic doors.
Wade thru ancient cardboard boxes
     into the womb-like recesses of the tomb.
Quickly dig up dusty artifacts: time boxed photos,
     Souvenirs, love letters, genealogies, clothes, toys or books. 
     Fishing bobbers? Clippings from Aunt Ruth’s hair?
Pick up the piles of old Christmas cards, check stubs, yellowed bills.
 
No time to sort one by one so into the trash they go to be burned
Along with the memories left not uncovered in them.
 
Next the closets of clothes and sheets and towels.
Goodwill gets them all. 

Something inside me gets thrown away, too.
 
So put those finishing touches of death.
Find the courage to go on with it
Until everything is tomb quiet: still, empty. 

The rooms are silent, deep and dark–
Awkwardly mysterious yet coldly familiar.
So I will leave them that way.
Nothing’s left to soften the echo
      as I shut the front door for the last time.
 
Everything’s gone.
 
by Barbara LaTondresse
23 May 2018


Images courtesy of:

https://www.moveline.com/blog/where-to-get-the-right-boxes-for-a-move

http://search.coolclips.com/m/vector/cart2126/cartoon-businessman/looking-into-box/#

http://smilesofaustin.net/forms/pen-and-paper

https://www.wikihow.com/Replace-Cabinet-Hinges

“What is real? “ asked the Rabbit one day.

What is real?

It’s the broken leg and the cast.
It’s the wound and the band-aid.
It’s the rose and the thorns.
It’s the dead hog and the Thielen bacon.

It’s the wailing over the baby boys lost in Herod’s massacre
and it’s the wonder of the birth of the Holy infant Jesus.

It’s Christmas and Lent and Easter.

Night and Day.
Death and Life.
Grave and Glory.

We had a hard night.

It’s my new normal to wake at around 2AM, and rouse my dear André to help me do the bathroom routine which includes getting out of bed, shuffling slowly and painfully to the bathroom, doing chores, taking pills, laboriously limping back to the bed, getting in bed, the process which looks a lot like picking up the dead weight of a heavy sack of flour and heaving it four feet up and sideways where it thuds into a position allowing sleep.

But when you add moving positions twice, one more bathroom trip and adjusting pillows and covers for the tenth time, it is only a tiring, tedious, agonizing interruption too a good night’s sleep.

I was diagnosed with PK on Christmas Eve 2013. My life is now a whirl of pills, PT, falls, adjustments, compromises, broken promises and shattered dreams. It includes canes, walkers, and a wheelchair on occasion. It means great difficulty walking, doing stairs, and sitting down in a chair. It can mean not thinking or talking clearly.

It also means doing Valentine’s dinner at a Wayzata restaurant at 4 PM to
assure a peaceful, crowd-less time with my love who still buy me roses and gives me a card that reads: “for my beautiful wife…”

What is Real? Like The Skin Horse says to the Velveteen Rabbit, It doesn’t happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. It can hurt. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.”

I remember the day light years past when I was experiencing the new pains of PK and in denial and anger over the train wreck of life changes I could foresee coming and a friend asked me, “Are you alright?” I answered rather cynically, “That depends on which part of me you’re talking about.” In my fractured world the broken leg wasn’t even in a cast yet. It was total pain with no hope of healing.

Much is still the same now but more is different. Kind of like playing an old recital piece you’ve gone over time and again until the current version is much better due to time spent practicing but with still hints of the former propensities.

What is real now is an uncanny metamorphosis. Like the blind man at Bethsaida who came to Jesus for healing and at first was made only half-well (Mark 8:22-25)—

Sometimes I see men as trees walking.
Sometimes I see only the trees.
But always though the fog and mist
I see a Sunrise coming
That will not be denied.
I feel hope not despair, joy not sorrow, peace not pain.
Right now, today, my reality includes a warm cup of tea, toast,
Sunshine in my window, roses on my table.

Though my opposite realities collide
They also coexist and create astute beauty

Including this real piece of writing from my PK heart.

“My chains are gone, I’ve been set free
My God, my Savior has ransomed me
And like a flood His mercy rains
Unending love, amazing grace.”

Barbara LaTondresse
15 February 2018

Amazing Grace,My chains are gone
lyrics Michael W Smith


*Note: from the Merriam-Webster Dictionary — The Difference Between ASTUTE, SHREWD, and SAGACIOUS Astute is similar in meaning to shrewd and sagacious, but there are subtle differences in connotation among them. All three suggest sharp thinking and sound judgment, but shrewd stresses practical, hardheaded cleverness and judgment (“a shrewd judge of character”), whereas sagacious implies wisdom and foresight combined with good judgment (“sagacious investors”). Astute, which derives from the Latin noun astus, meaning “craft,” suggests cleverness, mental sharpness, and diplomatic skill (“an astute player of party politics”). https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/astute

**words from “Amazing Grace (My Chains Are Gone 2007)” from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/See_the_Morning#Amazing_Grace_(My_Chains_Are_Gone) by John Newton (stanzas), “Chris” Tomlin and Louie Giglio (refrain)

*** Williams, Margery. The Velveteen Rabbit. Doubleday & Company, Inc.,1922.

pictures courtesy of:

https://riversidedt.showare.com/eventperformances.asp?evt=10

https://coffinberry.deviantart.com/art/The-Velveteen-Rabbit-48697162

http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/williams/rabbit/rabbit.html

https://www.google.com/search?q=velveteen+rabbit&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS730US730&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjSosG4lqnZAhVJ7IMKHUdiBQoQ_AUICigB&biw=1063&bih=680#imgrc=rD8OyJzC02jsXM:

Never, Never, Never, Never, Never Give Up!

It’s third-and-10 at the Minnesota 39-yard line with 10 seconds on the clock and the Vikings down 24-23.

All the Vikings really need to do is get the ball down the field far enough for a reasonable field-goal attempt, say inside the Saints 35-yard line, for a long one. That means get it to a receiver, get out of bounds to stop the clock, and send out Kai Forbath and the kicking team.

Sounds like a slam-dunk but not so with our Viking boys.

The Vikings have a sad history with game-winning field-goal attempts. My heart sank to familiar lows earlier in this game when Forbath missed an essential, easy one and left my mind to ponder the foreshadowing of yet another significant Vikings “snatch defeat out of victory” loss. It was almost enough to make me stop watching, but I didn’t. Resolute fan to the bitter end, I chomp my popcorn and sit on my hands in nervous frustration.

Winston Churchill would have been proud.

The clouds gather in the back of my mind as I also replay the recent back and forth of the lead. We seemed so good in the first half and then came the inevitable let down early in the second half as the Saints came alive and went ahead 24-23.

Oh my. Can’t we win a big one just once?   I find myself talking mostly to the cat, but I must admit I sent up a few prayers to Father.

So on third-and-10 Keenum launches a missile of a pass and I hold my breath as Diggs hauls it in, hesitates, unbelievably regains his
balance, and takes off for the end zone. 

In that split second Diggs and I both raise our hands and cross the goal line. We stand there stunned; beyond jubilant. Touchdown!

The suddenly, pleasantly surprised, victorious hometown fans see sorrow turned to joy and go wild. Instantly and dizzily awake from a mournful stupor, some laugh, cry, fall up, fall down, kiss, hug, and run in circles: no restraint in this celebration. It dries all tears; the former things are past away. Weeping endures for the night but shouts of joy come in the morning.

I don’t suppose that Stefon Diggs first after-thought was of how this most magnificent Minnesota miracle illustrates a profound spiritual reality, but I take delight in seeing TV repeats of that moment over and over, not just because it encourages us weary, forlorn Vikings fans, but, also, because it oddly enough encourages me in my faith walk.

My first after-thought was that the Minnesota Miracle is a grand reminder to me to review and thank my Almighty Father for the miracles He’s done in my life, and that this glorious Viking moment was meant to showcase three aspects of the way in which God interacts with each of His children including me (“ the birth of a vision, death of a vision, fulfillment of a vision”***).

Is it any wonder that the name of this play is ‘seventh heaven’?

Barbara LaTondresse

19 January 2018

 


Images courtesy of

https://thetomatos.com/free-clipart-37959/

https://www.smh.com.au/sport/nfl-playoffs-minnesota-vikings-snatch-jawdropping-win-over-new-orlean-saints-20180115-h0ie8x.html

Psalms 30:5 and Revelations 21:4 from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. ESV® Text Edition: 2016. Copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles.

*For a detailed explanation of this famous Winston Churchill quote go to -http://www.preachingtoday.com/illustrations/2003/january/14163.html

**For a detailed explanation of the Biblical principle of birth, death, and fullment of a vision go to – https/::iblp.org:questions:how-does-god-work-through-birth-death-and-fulfillment-vision

*** For a detailed explanation of this Viking moment go to —–https://www.sbnation.com/2018/1/16/16892910/vikings-saints-minnesota-miracle-how-stefon-diggs-casekeenum

John Milton Speaks

Labor.

At the ripe old age of sixty-nine I am an experienced veteran.

In college I worked long hours at our local seasonal sweet corn canning factory.

My bruised and bloodied fingers bore witness to the grueling nature of my task within that process which was to transfer by hand the freshly shiny canned corn cans by twos out of huge iron baskets into cardboard boxes containing 24 cans each, over and over again, until the whistle signaling the end of the 18 hour shift blew and I made my way home to collapse exhausted in my bed until the morning whistle blew six hours later jarring me awake and signaling the time to start the work day all over again.

In another arena, I have known the painful yet beautiful anguish of childbirth. Those of us who have birthed and delivered babies could, but maybe shouldn’t, write volumes about the ins and outs, the upside down sides of that messy, miraculous process of birth.

And I have been a foreign missionary on the front lines, engaged in all-consuming spiritual labor, birthing, and nurturing a Siberian church in Akademgorodok, Russia.

Each of these instances show the work to be worth the effort and ‘well done’ whether from fellow humans or God will be the judgment; as a result it becomes easy to measure one’s worth by what one is or is not able to perform well along life’s way. Labor toward perfection seems to lead to success in life.

If I get an A+ on a school project, win the state tournament, get named the “most likely to succeed”, perform the interview well enough to be hired for the coveted teaching job, or have that beautiful baby, then all’s well. Worthy. Perfect. Success.

But if I fail the test, lose the job, can’t have that baby, see little fruit on the mission’s trees, or find myself burdened with a debilitating disease unable to perform any of life’s daily tasks without help, then what?

Do I have a meaningful place in God’s world despite my disability?

Does God use the same scale to measure the weight of my service before and after seasons of suffering and misfortune?

Recently I discovered that John Milton (1608-1674) and I have something in common besides being fellow pilgrims on faith’s journey. Milton at mid-life also had an unexpected life-changing blow; he experienced the shock of suddenly becoming blind.

He wrote the sonnet On His Blindness in February of 1652 as he wrestled then, as I do now 2017, with the weighty questions of worth and purpose amid the perception of wobbly performance in life.  

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Milton, John. On His Blindness.1652. Copy of the poem found in http://www.bartleby.com/101/318.html Accessed 21 September 2017.

“The Watcher” 
September 16, 2008
Cropped from original photograph by Flickr.com user Steve Sawyer. Creative Commons License.

https://i0.wp.com/www.excellence-in-literature.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/FrTheWatcher-e1388779544627.jpg?ssl=

http://one-to-what.tumblr.com/

https://i.pinimg.com/originals/26/29/76/2629761638149aba902e7386f353055f.png/

https://www.google.com/search?rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS730US730&biw=1174&bih=636&tbm=isch&sa=1&q=an+orthodox+church+graphic&oq=an+orthodox+church+graphic&gs_l=psy-ab.3…43688.46949.0.47544.8.8.0.0.0.0.124.738.7j1.8.0&#8230;.0…1.1.64.psy-ab..0.0.0….0.aJ3vDYg2Rzk#imgrc=sb1BpZSstzrSjM:

Art created by Linda Hamer and shared courtesy of Church of the Cross, Hopkins, MN, in the following Crossings blog post: LaTondresse, Barbara. “Light a Candle for Hope.” Webpost. http://www.ofthecross.org/light-a-candle-for-hope/. Church of the Cross. 4 Dec. 2014. Web. 19 Feb. 2016. Copyright © 2016. Church of the Cross.