'Tis a Puzzlement

This link above is for a puzzle web site that I use to just rest my brain. Jigzone.com - and you will get a timed opportunity to configure this lady bug puzzle. (I found this on some one else site and fell in love!!) It also provides you will chances to have a different cut - oh, do I like the bulbs - and in those cuts you'll fit squares, bricks, large and small. There is even a US states cut, forming the 48 continental states, one is California, one is Massachusetts - you get the picture!

Some people enjoy tv, some like sports, some video war and destruction or car driving and racing, some reach for spider solitaire, some need constant simulus from music or video - we all got our something. For me, when I want a chance to just chill, I reach for a puzzle. I have one on our dining room table as we speak, a large lion on a starry night with glow-in-the-dark patterns strewn throughout it. Its been an interesting project.

Puzzles - I love 'em. Big and small, round or tall, I haven't met a puzzle I didn't like. Cool 3-d ones - I never even want to take them apart. Or puzzle companies who reserve one piece that you have to send a picture of your 99.99999% completed project before they release the last piece through the mail (What's up with that power trip anyway?) The hardest one I ever met, so far, was 2500 round of an overflowing pile of Oreo cookies and all the pieces were exactly the same size cut. except for the middle cookie which was an OREO itself. So cool! IT TOOK FOREVER, and I loved it. I might have only been able to get three pieces connected at a time, but it was an engaging and challenging.

And no matter what kind is sitting in front of me...I do the same thing, everytime. Stinkin' everytime. The edge pieces are supreme - they have always and will always get my attention first and foremost. Defining the parameter, everything else will fall into its place. Finding the pieces that fit and moving them slowly together.

I love finding the pieces that fit in situations - the pieces that help you understand someone or something so much clearer, more intensive. If I was a superhero, I might be The Puzzler (but I would secretly want to have Mrs. Incredible's costume with those amazing thigh high boots and all!)

And a note for today - we all have days that are written in infamy for us. Days we know are coming - excited or dreading - and they will hit is with their fervor and strength. A birthday (Am I really going to be 40 this year?) Special anniversary (Have I really been married for 17 years?). Amazingly public event of effort and unity for your community and ministry. (Will it all come together with everything, with everyone?) For all of us there is a day we are looking into the future A day of infamy that is calling our name. Sure all those listed above are important to me, the spring is a big deal.

Yet for me...I just don't think I'm going to be able to wait all the way until... July 21.

It can't get here soon enough, I'm holding back the reigns as it is. The midnight release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows. After seeing the release of the book covers (which share so much of the story if you are willing to inspect and deduce) it has whetted my thirst to be able to get my hands on a copy...

...I'm dyin'.

I'm Watching you, Mom

I'm Watching You, Mom

I’m watching you, mom
Everything that you do.
You don’t feel it, but
My eyes are trained in on you.
When I make mistakes,
When I try to hide
You help my heart ache
Pain subside.

I’m watching you, mom
It might not always show, but
I watch everything,
As I silently grow.
Patterned in my heart-
Your movements, your smile,
Your reactions, your love,
Your unstoppable style.

I’m watching you, mom
It is no easy thing:
When a problem arises
Family justice you bring.
You don’t look for who to blame
Or mean punishment give
But instead…
You tell us how we should live.

Having God in my heart
Will make it clean
“In the Arms of Jesus”
Is your favorite scene.
The rooms of my heart
Need attention each day
Just like things in my bedroom,
Everything put away.
(And not hidden in the closet,
Piled, lurking behind the doors,
But carefully folded and placed
Not crammed in the drawers.)

I’m watching you, mom
Every minute.
Every day.
Do you really say what you mean,
Mean what you say?
Do you really, really mean it
That - no matter what I do,
That you love me, really love me,
Heart and soul, through and through?

I’m watching you, mom:
Everything that you do.
Do you really believe
What God says is true.
That He can sustain all our needs,
His power He shares.
That I can cast my anxiety on Him
Just because He cares.

I’m watching you, mom
Everywhere that you go.
The kitchen, the backseat
All these places, your faith shows.
I hear what you say,
There’s no guessing about it,
I see this faith of yours
You don’t have to confess or shout it.

‘Cause I’m watching you, mom,
And I see when you pray.
In your Bible, I read
The words that you say
To God when your heart
Is full – Hey, is that my name?
You prayed for me, its true
I see the date right there, plain.

I'm watching you, mom
I've learned alot, don't you know?!.
How to make panckaes, fold towels,
How and why mold will grow.
How to live. How to laugh.
How to love, even when its hard.
To apologize. Forgive.
How to let down your guard.

I’m watching you, mom
For the love that you show,
For the words that you say,
Everywhere that you go.
I study you, yes I do…
I’m not a peeker,
Or a sneaker
But a deep secret keeper.

I’m watching you, mom.
jsi

It gave me great joy to have some brothers come and tell about your faithfulness to the truth and how you continue to walk in the truth. I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth.
III John3-4

Oh no, its her

The backstage door closes slowly, dramatically with telltale screech, its sign of neglect and desperate need of attention with WD-40. The brilliant scarlets and burnt tangerines from the setting sun approaching the horizon announce the time of day - the shadow-lengthening, breathtaking lightshow of the evening sunset. Its close to time, but I have to turn and admire the melting orb as it disappears below the dark line, holding my breath, "Can I see the moment it actually all goes...now...no, now...no, this is it..." Day is done.

Between the door posts and rails and window arch, my profile is 12 feet long, caught within the perspective of distance and darkness, cast forth into the waiting contrast. The wind rustles my hair, and it shows in the shadow, "Well, hello there" I speak in my mind to this constant friend with me (Me and My Shadow don't you know?!.), "You're looking slightly stretched today, everything alright?" My mental conversation includes time for response, and without surprise, returning in my own voice, the answer hesitant but plain, "No its not."

The screeching door eliminates the outside brilliant light and I stand still, allowing my eyes a chance to adjust to the impending darkness of the auditorium. My shadow leaves, centimeters at a time with the closing of the door, as I make the mental note "See ya later" with enough time to hear, "You can count on it" in her low voice. Standing still, the quietness of the room was unusual. Stark. Intentional.

I swear, you could hear the Navajo Indian flute warble the soundtrack for "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly" with the sound of spurs with every step I took.

Doo-ee-oo-ee-ooo.

"Oh no, its her!"

The chink of the spurs is with my every footstep, and I am slightly confused as I look around..."Hey I know I left the house in pumps. I'm still wearing my uniform, I wouldn't have casually thrown on a pair of cowboy boots to finish off the outfit."
But those spur steps were mine, and continued with my procession through to my seat.

Doo-ee-oo-ee-ooo.

"I told you it was going to happen again, it's her, she's back" (I wish there was a script writer for this, I wish I could mention these are my words, my reactions. But no, they are verbatim quotes from someone offended, and I have to find a way to fix it.) The not-even-trying-to-veil-her-rude-ostentacious-and-brash comment person was directly in front of me, practically shouting to the entire wind section.

Doo-ee-oo-ee-ooo.

She has arrived early and staked her claim to the area she will sit. Her 5 minute trip to my 35 minute trip insures that her first-arrival status is safe as gold in Fort Knox. I am unaware of the reason why she is so bold and specific and intentional about my "wrongness" to whatever her "rightness" is. This High Noon meeting has caught me entirely by surprise, but it had been working in her mind for more than 10 days and it just spilled out in its attack.

My crime: 14 hours earlier I used Sweet Pea Bodywash in my shower, Secret Fresh Powder antiperspirant, and after three pumps of Eternity, I used a hair spray and mousse for my hairstyle; when I washed my uniform last week I used Tide with Febreze and Downy Mountain Spring fabric softener which smells fresh and clean to me, and since I hang them in my closet with my other uniforms, there is a clinging of Eternity from being near other Eternity outfits; my car has a cucumber melon air fresher in it. Add this all together, there was a fragrance to my presence, a gentle wafting which by this time of day has all but disappeared.

But to someone who is ferociously allergic to all things fragrant as she is, I was a deathtrap to her, a necessary situation to require her to need added medication, an air filter/purification system and spray bottle. I was unaware of her condition, but it was plain from her reaction that we needed to face this like adults. I wasn't going to be small minded, and remind her she wasn't attacking Mr. Trumpet player right next to her who was wearing Drakaar (Oh do I like Drakaar) or point out that Mr. Oboe, sitting right in front of her, smokes likes a chimney and still has the remnants from his 10 minute outside cigarette break in a cloud of fog around his head. No, even though all of these other people are in the same boat as me, I am the only one who is wrong. So by meeting her in the center of the abandoned road where the saloon doors are still turning and tumbleweeds are blowing by, we can see the whites of each other's eyes. All these other people are her friends, or friends of her husband, I am the only one she doesn't know so the very public launching is at my expense. Everyone else takes mental note and now we know - for the remainder of our time together, we need to be as fragrance free as possible. A difficult, yet not impossible task. So we do our best, work very hard at it and everything turns out okay and she is, in the end, very thankful for everyone's efforts to help make her presence in this group possible.

This happened over a month ago, but the traces of the encounter linger for those are words I keep hearing again and again.

"Oh no it's her."

I hear it at wrestling practice. In the grocery store At the library. In the school gym for PTO functions. When I pick up the phone at work. In the school parent meetings. Community church functions. At the oral surgeon. At Starbucks. At agency presentations. On the phone calling people and hearing them in the background not wanting to come to talk to me. At Scouts. Not hidden or whispered at all, but boldly delivered, to assure I know their disapproval. I hear it also from the silent motives: those who won't answer phone messages, respond to mail, withold their cooperation and input to "let you know" where they stand.

The embezzlement lawsuit regarding the previous officers has been worked very deliberately and circumspectly within the court system and will continue in its snail's pace, but it the court of public opinion has been ruled and executed against Dave and me very decisively.

Doo-ee-oo-ee-ooo

And I have to admit, I don't want to go into that street with the saloon doors swinging to face another person to speak their mind, to launch their barbed and spiteful opinion at us in vulnerable and public ways. To be their target so they can make a show of their power or inclusiveness. I just want all the tumbleweeds to blow away, aching to hear the simple proclamation,

"Hey, its her"
and know that someone saved me a seat because they knew I was coming. How long will it take before it changes? Before I am not the whispered about, gossip fodder for anyone and everyone? Only God knows, and He has to protect my heart especially when hurt and lonely and not seeing the big changes we hope and pray for. No matter how isolated it can become, I find the words of Habbakkuk 3:17 powerful tonight, from The Message translation:

Though the cherry trees don't blossom and the strawberries don't ripen, though the apples are worm-eaten and the wheat fields stunted. Though the sheep pens are sheepless and the cattle barns empty, I am singing joyful praise to GOD. I'm turning cartwheels of joy to my Savior God. Counting on God's rule to prevail, I take heart and gain strength, I run like a deer.

I know we are not alone. I just don't know how long this has to last.

But, alas, I Digress

Knit 1, purl 1, knit 4, decrease 2, cable motif; k1, p1, k4, dcr2, cb; k1...

The kids all have their jobs in the kitchen following dinner - table and sweeping, trash bag and outside to the garbage and recycling, washing and drying and putting away.

(Thematically action packed mood music from Dragnet)...da da dum dum - The kitchen sink. da da dum dum dum - the scene of the crime.

I just need the facts ma'am, just the facts. What we have here is a voluntary washcloth-i-cide.

These past two weeks have seen this series of chores take an enormous chunk out of my dishcloth stockpile.

While washing dishes, and everything that goes into that task, invariably the garbage disposal needs to be run. Poised to use the switch - no hands anywhere near the opening, no silverware or such lodged within the disposal, the countdown is issued..."5,4,3,2,1,...WHRRRR." It can be great fun, that is unless it is the end of a life, a useful, necessary life of servitude and compliance ended by a merciless appliance.

Four times in 12 days, down that animated hole, that cavern of gnashing of teeth and man-eating secrets have been one of my handknit washcloths. The machine doesn't prevent its movement when it detects a foreign object in its midst, it fulfills its lifelong mission - to emulsify, grind to a pulp anything which has the audacity to exist within its presence. And what happened to be there along with tiny slices of cooked carrot, chicken noodles and fluffy biscuit (oh man were those biscuits good that night. With cinnamon butter and a schmear of honey...oh, so sorry, I digress. Hmmm, back to the story...) Down there with the bits and pieces of minuscule remainders from the division of dinner for six were one my washcloths.

Knit 1, purl 1, cable over the next 6 in repeated motive to the last 4 stitches...

Orange. Red. Yellow. Blue. Each gave their time on this earth as a servant to the slavish task of keeping these counters clean, the dishes prepared for the next meal and the stove, range and sink free of grease and grime and the dirty facts of life.

The dishcloths who withstood washing the vans everytime they got dirty, tumbled in the washing machine and dryer only to be reached for from tumble heaven of 200 degrees and fabric softness to be plunged into scalding water and bubbles to remove the baked on remainders of teriyaki sauce and chicken thighs. (Whoa, that dinner was exceptional, with sugar snap pea pods and baby corn, spinach and broccoli served over nutted rice...oops, again, I digress.)

The strength they maintained, their shape and definition came from their handknit quality. It takes about 20 minutes to knit one of these wonders, but I have had some for three or four years before they needed to be discarded. And literally, the only reason they had been discarded was not because of any faulty design they may have maintained, any raveling or shredding they pronounced. Not these babies: they needed tossed because someone (who will remain nameless) used them to sop up an unexpected puddle of oil-based exterior door paint during a household chore and they were left stained beyond correction.

These handknit jewels have long life expectancy, I only need to make one or two a year. (That is until this year: 2007, the year that will be held within the annuls of time as the High Noon of the Rootin', Tootin', Expert Shootin', High Fallutin' Teddy Bear Rustlin' Gang and the Dishcloth Brothers. Yikes, another digression, so sorry, my imagination just got the best of me...returning the train to her track, yes.)

Though only making two a year, I do treasure making them. I love the feeling of the yarn gently gliding through my continental-style grasp (versus the european style grasp, which is most easily described as backwards...and yet again I digress =) ) and the gauge of the stitch being held temperately within my pointer and tallman fingers. (Will I ever grow up after being a mommy, will I ever call things by their "for real" names and places? Or will I always be captured by little piggies, Ringman, Easy-peasie-lemon-squeezie and mareseatoats and someone's chinney-chin chin? Ummmm...another tangent, apologies, please.)

After meeting the garbage disposal, these dishcloths cannot be repaired, with their giant holes. So as I reach for my handy dandy bag of yarn, I discern that all I have for the moment is red. Not bad. Today I will be using the pattern with cables. I do so enjoy using cables with my small containable projects, a chance to reinforce this perishable skill so that when I find the red merino wool I desire for this cardigan with cabled sleeves and slashed pockets, I will have a defined cable I can reach for in my bag of skills. Sharpened by the repeated fashion of washcloths and baby hats, these cables with turn out fine.

So I sit tonight, with yarn entwined through my fingers, and 12 rows completed of this project (how many will I need to do? If we are going through a garbage disposal accident every 36 hours which shreds a dishcloth at the rate of 18" per second, then I will require...uh...oh...um..alas, I digress...)

Good night on this warmth-filled first day of spring.

Jessie Irwin Life is Full of Joy: The Outline of Christ

The Outline of Christ

photos by

Major Steve Howard (xanga smhski) 2007

Burrswood - A Christian Hospital and Place of Healing

Groomsbridge, Kent, U.K.

The Outline of Christ

Outlined in my heart is You, Jesus.
Captivating.
Pure.
Holy.
The dark lines on the outside
Showing the pattern
On the inside -
The example that pleases the heart of God.

I hear the low timbre of Your voice, Jesus,
Speaking clearly -
“Love your neighbor.”
“Seek and save the lost.”
“Go and sin no more.”
“You must be spiritually born again.”
“Peace, be still.”
“I AM the way, the truth and the life.”
“Celebrate, what was once lost is found.”
I am not alone –
Your words resonate and echo
With tenderness and direction.

Outlined in my heart is You, Jesus.
Powerful.
Merciful.
Holy.
Your pattern I want to follow
Transparent outside –
Holiness in action
Is nothing more and nothing less than
Living within the outlines
Of the life of Christ.

Oh, Jesus:
I pray for
Your holy love – fill my heart.
Your holy words – fill my mouth.
Your holy thoughts – fill my mind.
Your holy touch – fill my hands.
Fill them to the brim!
Let them overflow
A growing pool on the floor!
Nothing I do today
Will be a burden,
All of it, every minute,
Is a chance to serve You -
To live within the holy
Outline in my heart
Of Christ.

jsi

If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from His love, if any fellowship with the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should not look to your own interests but also to the interests of others. Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus Philippians 2:1-5

A letter of dedication and affection

Dear Kleenex,
There is no ignoring it. Today as the sniffles have escalated, the sneezes too numerous to count, congestion mounting with the full realization I must admit – I have an early spring cold. No fever and its misery, no queasiness or upset stomach, but I feel miserable and no one has been able to help me like you. I have to say thank you from the bottom of my heart, thank you for being who you are!

Thank you for being so ready and available, sitting on my end table and bathroom counter, in squares and rectangle boxes, prepared and ready for action even though I walk past you daily without reaching for you. You don’t hold our family health against us – you don’t blame us for not having the coughing, wheezing, gasping for air from large amounts of phlegm reaction to winter. You do not accuse or withhold your presence. You, oh gentle box of tissues, are so forgiving and reliable.

How can I express my gratitude for the so many perfect things you do – your accordion style fold which allows another tissue to be ready, clean and prepared for access for the next time I sneeze or have post-nasal drip? You are always packaged with boxes of friends, I find you in groups of 3 or 6. Your box, when it is emptied of your tenderly organized treasures, is the perfect capacity to hold every single one of the used tissues taken from you. You are so amazing – help with the mess and then clean it up too!

So many products at the store try to alleviate the part of life which has pain, discomfort. Do you try to lie to us, to me, that we can have a life that has “No More Tears”?!. No, emphatically not. You embrace life, and all its reality. The fact that life has tears is why you are ready for me. Tears when I am mad, frustrated, moved, happy, joyful, lonely, blessed, laughing, anxious. Can there be anything I don't cry about? A birthday card commercial has my eyes wellin', and you are right there, just an arm's length away. There are so many different reactions to the facts of life, and frequently with me, that walks hand in hand with tears. You know me, the real me and have never run out of the folded layers of practical help.

I can find you in single ply, 2 ply and 3 ply (what I have needed from you today.) In squares, rectangles, plain boxes or decorated with Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa or Van Gogh’s Starry Night or Monet’s Water Lilies, you are there to help share my personality, an additional decorative recognition of my personality and style. Junior size or extra large, your layers of gentleness easy the problems I face.

Your oval containers are exceptional! You offer tissues in gorgeous ovals that you let me, a small consumer, design and label. I can take my photo and give you the details and you will put my wedding picture, or of my children with grandma and give me my very own Irwin box of Kleenex for $5.00. You know that although I appreciate any choice you make for me, I will be captivated by the look of joy on my children faces every time I reach for a Kleenex, knowing so deeply that it just might be one of them, and the love I feel for them, that brought tears to my eyes in the first place.

When I accidentally leave one of your tissues in my pocket and it happens to travel through the washing machine and dryer with the laundry, you are so kind and considerate: you do not shred and attach yourself to every single item in the load. You, through your amazing design and ingenuity, you clump together, attaching yourself only to yourself. You don’t make me pay for my mistakes, my negligence. You don’t take a job I need to accomplish and make it harder the way other tissue manufacturers do! No, you are Kleenex; you are compassion in a box!

I can find you with Menthol (what a comfort when I can’t breath), Ultra soft (for the sore, tender red nose from wiping and blowing) in any color I choose. I carry you in your Pocket Tissue form (24 per package – a perfect fit in my Bible) and you in this package are the perfect complement to any gift I distribute at the Nursing Homes and hospitals for 1300 people. No one ever says no to a pack of Kleenex, you will always be needed.

You’ve helped me pull out baby teeth that are hanging on by a thread, and you were strong and reliable. You didn’t fall apart in the face of hard work, you kept it all together. You are on hand when someone’s tears are just spilling over from the harsh words a friend said or the unfairness of sharing a bedroom with a brother or the boo-boo from a fall that is just too much to handle without a good cry.

I know you were created to help take off cold cream, a makeup removal, but for me, you are a trusted and established friend in a time of congested need. Thank you for always being ready to help when help is needed most and not shying away from the parts of life which are not neat and tidy, but instead are moist and messy.

With affection and devotion,
Sneezy on Lake Erie

Photo Autumn Cross at Camp Allegheny
Annie Buckles (xanga anniebuck)

The Cross at a Distance

When I see His Cross,
The Cross of Christ
At a distance,
Removed:
It appears that my ideas,
My dreams,
My accomplishments,
Plans and suggestions
Yes – whew –
They are all safe here in my arms.

In the shadow of
The Cross of Christ.
At a distance,
Removed:
I examine this armful I have.
These things I can do -
Trophies , ribbons, diplomas.
My instruments, checkmarks and knowledge
Titles, ranks, opinions –
“Why are these opinions so important to me?”

I look in my arms
And
I look to the distance
The Cross of Christ,
Removed;
It seems so far away.
“Remind me,” I whisper to myself,
“This armful, why was it valuable?
Why, oh why did I ever collect them?
Hold onto them? Cherish and value them?”

When I see His Cross,
At a distance
I know…
I must run to it.
I cannot run with my arms this full.
These things are worthless…
I must discard them!
To embrace this Cross of Christ.
I cannot embrace when
My arms are so full of myself.
I must release these things.

There will be no room in my heart
For Christ
If I am full
Of myself.

I bow before
The Cross of Christ,
Near, up close:
Bending lower,
Can I bend lower still?
He emptied Himself of all but love:
I am willing to empty my arms, my heart,
To make room for Him.
Nothing in my arms –
Those things,
That lifelong collection –
They were never sinful.
But I repent that they,
Their mere presence,
Had the chance
To create any distance
From this Cross of Christ.

jsi

A huge cloud of witnesses is all around us. So let us throw off everything that stands in our way. Let us throw off off any sin, anything that makes a distance between us and God, it holds us so tightly. Let us keep running that race marked out for us. Let us keep looking to Jesus. He is the author of our faith. He also makes it perfect. He paid no attention to the shame of the cross. He embraced it, suffered there because of the joy He was looking forward to. Hebrews 12:1-2 (NIRV)

Humility

photo Annie Buckles 2006
(xanga anniebuck)
India
Humility in service, with heart to God and a hand to man.

Humility

To be united with Christ,
Trusting in Him
Is the deep felt prayer of my soul.
To be created brand new,
Living for Him
With a holy love, full, pure and whole.

Accomplishments can bring,
Like bright gems on a string,
A self-confidence – “Look, look at me!”
“If I can do more,
Show you how I can soar
Then I’ll have greater value, wait and see.”

But this empty existence,
Is a full front resistance
To the life Jesus lived, everyday;
Humility is key,
Not accomplishments, “look at me”
Jesus said, “You see God when You see Me. I’m the Way”


Humility brings,
Humility sings
A nurtured confidence of the soul.
One that looks at a cross,
Not focusing on loss
But embraces surrendered control.

My confidence resides
In the Person that provides
Salvation and holiness with grace.
My attitude should be
Showing Christ alive in me –
When He embraced the cross, He took my place.

Humility in my walking,
Humility in my talking,
Humility in my serving,
Humility, undeserving
Of God’s indescribable gift –
Christ in me.

jsi

If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from His love, if any fellowship with the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose. Do nothing out of vain conceit but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interest, but also to the interests of others. Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:
Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness, and being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to death – even death on the cross. Philippians 2:1-8

By the Numbers

The book listed in the CURRENTLY READING highlight of this post has captivated me since December 25, as my oldest unwrapped the silver Santa Claus paper from the outside of the gift he received from his favorite uncle. Momentarily caught off guard, he realized this was not the Wayne Gretzky biography he had specifically asked for - this was different all together. Reading the inside inscription on the first page, he moved on to the introduction, as was hooked immediately. A gift for him, but I pick it up as often as I can, an insatiable reading experience it has been to leaf through the pages of time and see if when I test myself, did I know this star, this sport, this era?

00-99 in several varieties of professional team sports, men and women - who wore which number with distinction? Each number has a #1, all time, ya-gotta-give-it-to-them-'cause-they-were-the-greatest selection and then, (and I feel this is what makes this book exceptional) it covers several other individuals who though may not have been chosen as the stand out- hands down winner, still wore their number with pride and performed with excellence.

For example...

What does #3 say to you? Who would fill those shoes, of all the sports, of all the stars, from all the ages - who was the best #3, as chosen by this specific panel of sports experts, officiandos and statisticians? It immediately turns into a sports agenda - which is your favorite sport? If its baseball, you are looking at none other than Mr. Babe Ruth of the New York Yankees, the Sultan of Swat. (This book chooses the Babe - how could you not?) But if a diamond and four bases in a square in a mixture of dirt and grass is not your dream of heaven, your #3 superstar could be Dale Earnhardt. Or Allen Iverson. Or Daryle LaMonica. Or Stephon Marbury.

Coolness!

Who comes to your mind as the most exceptional athlete to wear :

:#10 #13 :#23 :#44 :#31 : #17 #32 #5 #9

Some athletes got their number because it the next one available in the wardrobe closet their size, not retired. Some have been able to have their number since elementary school. Some professional contracts have reached an unnegotiable state of affairs about nothing more and nothing less than the availability of a specific number. Sometimes they are a birthday, a father's number, a tribute to a mentor or role model. The book is chock full of stories, not just about the sport prowess, but the method about the number selection.
Such as Michael Jordan has not exclusively worn #23 (and this is not including the dispute concerning the team retirement of that number - no this was an incident prior to that). Do you recall what happened - what happened to #23? Did Michael Jordan lose his magic superhero power over all other basketball players when the digits on his jersey were not the identical ones to the previous game?

In the book are all the details to remind a public of what they knew that they knew..."that's right!"

T. took this book to his hockey practice and the pee wees poured over it as it was a conveyor of universal, pertinent, fundamental stuff.

For these young men, numbers make the world go round!

I try to be involved in their conversations, I really really do. I ask them questions, listen to their answers, follow their patterns of thought and then just when I believe I have crossed the threshold into being accepted into their world, I run into the invisible mom-barrior - sport statistics.

I am lost when trying to carry on an intelligent side of the conversation when speaking ratio-shots-on-goal, percentage of hat tricks verses assists, foul shot percentage weighing in the amount of fouls provided in the final 3 minutes of the third quarter, the formula of RBI-homerun-on base average in specific months against specific pitchers. The men-in-training talking circles around me, and these sentences of numbers, numbers. numbers literally numb my brain.

Men in training, they are. Using their men-in-training skills on the nearest unsuspecting female, a.k.a. mom, they are.

And the other dads around, they are so comfortable in this numbers conversation. These men who refuse to remember to grab a necessary gallon of milk on the way home can rattle of the entire lineup, stats and all, of the World Series Championship team of 1982 as well as the coaching staff, relief pitcher who was injured and number of strike outs the pitcher had in game 4.

One of T.s all time favorite movie is Field of Dreams. When the corn-field/baseball field has all the players on it, T. knows which character is who in basbeall history, because of their numbers. He literally can't believe I didn't notice that all-important detail.."Of course he's Shoeless Joe, mom, its plain to see." "Look, that's his dad, and see what number he wears, its so important." Invisible to my eyesight and understanding, it adds a layer of relevancy and authenticity for my T-man. I can dissect the important characters, themes, plot development and symbolism for eternity and life and evil verses good of Herman Melville's Moby Dick, write a 5 page thesis paper on the first three words, 'Call me Ishmael.", yet these basbeall number details elude me.

They are a screaming billboard to my buddy.

Yougottabekiddingme!

Men in training, pouring over this book, 11 and 12 years old...they are looking up their number. Who wears my number? T. had 99 last year (Wayne Gretzky) but needed to sacrifice it this year because there was another 99 on the team. (Actually, I still have hard feelings about it, but you know what, I don't lace up my skates and practice on the ice, my vote in mute. T.s happy, so...I...am..well...maybe..okay...I'm happy.) So instead, he wanted 66, Mario LeMieux, who inverted 99 in honor of the Great One and carved out a slice of ice in history for himself. Even with next year having the potential of getting 99 back, T.s sticking with 66 (man I am so proud of that boy of mine. He is so together about things which really tick off other people.)

Did you wear a certain number, or do you always select a specific number when allowed an opportunity? My hubby always wants his certain number...what's yours?

From the tops...#10 - Pele; #13- Wilt Chamberlain; #23- Michael Jordan; #44 - Hank Aaron; #31 - Greg Maddux, :#17 John Havlicek #32 Jim Brown; #5 Joe DiMaggio; #9 Gordie Howe/Bobby Hull/Rocket Richard

I am signing up all four kids in baseball and softball this week...and you got it...along with trying on their cleats, massaging their gloves with mink oil, finding their baserunning pants which fit they are choosing...
...their numbers.

At His Cross

photo by Annie Buckles (xanga anniebuck)
Camp Allegheny 2003, summer sunset at the Cross

At His Cross

No laws, or their keeping,
No running or leaping,
No scrubbing the stains of our heart
Can take hidden sin
That is buried within –
Our attempts crumble, fall apart.

We can’t make hearts right,
An ensnaring, cold blight,
And God never asked us to do it:
For the needed technique
Is enshrouded, mystique,
Only Christ and the Cross will renew it.

There is one sacred place
We see sanctified grace –
It is holy, unmeasured and free:
Kneeling at the Cross, low,
Before Christ we can know
His righteous love has a guarantee.

Through obedient faith,
A whole heart, not an eighth,
Or a quarter or half or a third -
A whole heart, humble, raw
Not forgiven by the Law
But the surgery of grace that occurred.

In anguish, prone, at the Cross
Seeing Christ – I’m at a loss
Simply hearing that He loves even me;
I want to be found in Christ, alone
Gaining Christ, making Him known,
To be sanctified, holy and free.

At His Cross, where faith is the admission fee.
At His Cross where forgiveness is His guarantee.
At His Cross where I’ve crucified my accomplishment and pride,
At His Cross where the Surgeon of the Soul will provide
The cut of precision,
The cut of decision,
Then give His sanctified holiness

at
His
Cross.

jsi

Whatever was to my profit I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord., for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish that I may gain Christ and be found in Him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law but that which is through faith in Christ – the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith. I want to know Christ and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in His suffering. Philippians 3:7-10