Friday, October 3, 2014

Vlog Post: Feeling Thirteen & Reading Huck Finn


Dear Friend,

In 2001 I entered a decade of childbearing with flat feet. Ever since baby number five was born nearly three years ago, my feet have given me trouble. Fallen arches led to plantar fasciitis and the protrusion of bunions. I began to experience pain and inflammation a great deal of the time.


Also, since my last little one was born, I've been physically weak overall. I've tried and tried to snap back but progress has been slow.



Out of necessity, I began to forgo my long nature walks to conserve my feet for my domestic duties.

Yet still, every night I'd drop into bed sore and exhausted.

Last spring at the silent retreat I attended, my feet were too sore to walk down the stone staircase to the river.

So I finally went to the doctor!

After the podiatrist took a look at my x-rays she entered the room to greet me and said, "Oh my! I expected a much older woman to go with these feet!"

About two weeks ago I had a bunion removal and arch lift on my left foot. I'm hoping to have the other foot done after Christmas. We'll see how things go. In the mean time I can't put any weight on my left foot for five more weeks.

Between the feet problems and the fact that my hair is graying at an alarming rate, it has occurred to me that middle age is swiftly approaching.

Where did my twenties go?

Where did my thirties go? 

Yet, as Madeline L' Engle once wrote, "I am still every age I have been."


As a matter of fact, the way I've felt lately, as I'm recovering from surgery, is about age thirteen! There have been mood swings -- from tears to laughter. I'm capable one minute, then as needy as a child the next; pining for independence, yet unable to drive a car.

So one afternoon last week -- while recovering at my aunt's beautiful home -- I propped up my foot on one of her dining room chairs and did a reading as the voice of one of my favorite thirteen year old adventurers: Huckleberry Finn.



If you've never read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, I hope this reading will inspire you to pick it up. It's one of my favorite classics!




The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out.  I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied.  But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and be respectable.  So I went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up.  Well, then, the old thing commenced again.  The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them,—that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself.  In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take no stock in dead people.
Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me.  But she wouldn't.  She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must try to not do it any more.  That is just the way with some people.  They get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it.  Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it.  And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.

Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up.  I couldn't stood it much longer.  Then for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety.  Miss Watson would say, "Don't put your feet up there, Huckleberry;" and "Don't scrunch up like that, Huckleberry—set up straight;" and pretty soon she would say, "Don't gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry—why don't you try to behave?"  Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was there. She got mad then, but I didn't mean no harm. 
All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn't particular.  She said it was wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place.  Well, I couldn't see no advantage in going where she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn't try for it.  But I never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn't do no good.
Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place.  She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever.  So I didn't think much of it. But I never said so.  I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight.  I was glad about that, because I wanted him and me to be together.


Youthfully yours,

Adriana

Friday, September 19, 2014

Vlog: Reading from The Pilgrim's Progress

Dear Friend,

I have another reading for you today. This time it's from The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan.

This is not a flawless performance. Some of  Bunyan's sentences feel like tongue twisters! Such a mouthful! But when I got home from the grocery a couple days ago, I had about 15 minutes of silence before my kids were due in from school. I thought I'd give you the best I had to offer in that time.


Since reading The Pilgrim's Progress, Bunyan's allegories for Grace have frequently come to my mind. The first passage is about housekeeping, a subject I know well. The second passage is about a fire on a wall; I think about it when lighting my candle inside my lantern. 



Maybe my great-great grandchildren will stumble upon Classical Quest someday and listen raptly to my vlog readings . . .

Or maybe this will just help a few of you briefly ponder the marvelous mystery of the Grace of God. 



Click play then scroll down to read along.




"The Parlour"
Then [Interpreter] took [Christian] by the hand, and led him into a very large Parlour that was full of dust, because never swept; the which after he had reviewed a little while, the Interpreter called for a man to sweep: Now when he began to sweep, the dust began so abundantly to fly about, that Christian had almost therewith been choaked: Then said the Interpreter to a Damsel that stood by, Bring hither Water, and sprinkle the Room; which when she had done, was swept and cleansed with pleasure.
Then said Christian, What means this?
The Interpreter answered; This Parlour, is the heart of a Man that was never sanctified by the sweet Grace of the Gospel: The dust, is his Original Sin, and inward Corruptions that have defiled the whole Man. He that began to sweep at first, is the Law; but She that brought water, and did sprinkle it, is the Gospel: Now, whereas thous sawest that so soon as the first began to sweep, the dust did so fly about, the the Room by him could not be cleansed, but that thou wast almost choaked therewith, this is to shew thee, that the Law, instead of cleansing the heart (by its working) from sin, doth revive, put strength into, and increase it in the soul, even as it doth discover and forbid it, for it doth not give power to subdue.
Again, as thou sawest the Damsel sprinkle the Room with Water, upon which it was cleansed with pleasure: This is to shew thee, that when the Gospel comes in the sweet and precious influences thereof to the heart, then I say, even as thou sawest the Damsel lay the dust by sprinkling the Floor with Water, so is sin vanquished and subdued, and the soul made clean, through the Faith of it; and consequently fit for the King of Glory to inhabit.

"The Fire Against the Wall" 
Then I saw in my Dream, that the Interpreter took Christian by the hand, and led him into a place, where was a Fire burning against a Wall, and one standing by it always, casting much Water upon it to quench it: Yet did the Fire burn higher and hotter.
Then said Christian, What means this?
The Interpreter answered, ‘This fire is the work of Grace that is wrought in the heart; he that casts Water upon it, to extinguish and put it out, is the Devil: but in that thou seest the fire, notwithstanding, burn higher and hotter, thou shalt also see the reason of that: So he had him about to the back side of the Wall, where he saw a Man with a Vessel of Oyl in his hand, of the which he did also continually cast, but secretly, into the fire. Then said Christian, What means this? The Interpreter answered, This is Christ, who continually with the Oyl of his Grace, maintains the work already begun in the heart; by the means of which, notwithstanding what the Devil can do, the souls of his people prove gracious still. And in that thou sawest, that the Man stood behind the Wall to maintain the fire; this is to teach thee, that it is hard for the tempted to see how this work of Grace is maintained in the soul.

I'd love to know your thoughts on these rich passages. I sincerely hope the Grace of God is something you know about from first hand experience.

I depend upon it every moment.

With Love,

Adriana

Monday, September 15, 2014

Things to Put on the Fridge Door of Life

Dear Friend,

How are you today?

I'm feeling grateful. My husband has been out of town working on a project for the last two weeks. Yesterday he returned home to five jumping kids, a beaming wife, a tail-wagging dog, a clean house, his favorite dinner, and an apple pie.

Life is good.


The kids and I watched a balloon launch at the park on Saturday.


Lately I've been thinking about a few special links I'd like to share with you. This isn't just random good stuff that I've stumbled upon around the web. These are links to content I'm proud of, content which belongs to friends who have come alongside me in my life journey and blessed me with kindness. These are things to place on life's fridge door, so to speak.

A few weeks ago I met a precious kindred spirit, Emma Teller, for coffee. We talked for four hours. I never do that! But it was amazing. The time went by in a blink, We haven't seen each other in a very long time.Thirteen years ago Emma was my piano student. Now she is an exquisite artist. (I smiled over the smudge of red paint under her forearm.) We talked about faith, the creative life, and the mercy of God. I was blown away by her humility and wisdom.
No matter what you do or who you are there are so many ways we can do this - leave the world more beautiful than we found it - and that is what I hope and try to do with my paintings and with my art.  

Emma has a blog. Though she's not there often, it's a good place to view some of her work. Go here for still lifes and here for portraits. You can also follow Emma on Facebook.


Tim Fall has been called the "Barnabas of the Blogosphere" because he's relentless with encouragement. My whole family has been blessed by his friendship. While fishing in the Rockies recently, my husband used Tim's method for making pan fried trout. My kids have enjoyed listening to some of his cowboy stories that I've read aloud during our evening bonfires. Over the past few years, Tim has taught me to be liberal with encouragement and to pray for opportunities to build others up.

We have a God who is the Comforter -- who comes alongside us with the comfort, so that we can then be the ones to come alongside others with the comfort God has given us.

Tim blogs at Just One Train Wreck After Another. Two of my recent favorite posts are Problems with Unbalanced Grace and I've Never Been on a Road I Haven't Taken. And while you're there I'd be delighted if you'd read my recent guest post, People's Looks and Covers of Books.

Tim was recently interviewed by talk radio host Doug Bursch on "Live From Seattle." You can listen to that interview here. (Tim's segment starts at the 12 minute mark.)


Next, I must give a shout out to my faithful friend Christine. Last week she and I had a rare opportunity to have a day out together without kids. She knew I had been wanting to visit the Harriet Beecher Stowe house with her forever. There are nine kids and two husbands between us, so the stars have to be aligned just so in order for the two of us to be able to take a day trip alone. We realized our special day was set to happen only one day previous. The problem was, our free day (a Thursday) was a day the museum was closed. Christine got on the phone and coordinated a private tour. (They typically only do tours for groups and rarely on short notice!) I can't wait to finish my research so I can tell you all about our experience. Christine no longer blogs, so I don't have a link to give you for her, but I can't talk about things to put on the fridge door of life without mentioning the remarkable gift Christine pursued for me.



And last but certainly not least, I would love to introduce you to my virtual fairy blog mother, Jeannie Prinsen. Jeannie is a deep well of wisdom and intellect, yet she is delightfully approachable. Each Monday she shares a "Monday Morsel" -- a quote which she has come upon in her reading. I always try to square away some quiet time to sip my coffee when I visit Jeannie's Little House on the Circle. It would be wonderful to live near her and savor morsels with her in person.

 Life is not about being fast.  It's about doing what we're called to do and not stressing about the outcome.
I nominated Jeannie for a "Liebster Award" on my birthday this past year. She joined in the fun with this post in response.

Love her tributes to her son: You've Got a Friend in Me and Never Mean.

And this one: Slow: Tortoise Crossing


Recently Jeannie participated Anne Bogel's "literary matchmaking" blog event at the Modern Mrs. Darcy. Jeannie told Anne the types of books she likes/dislikes and Anne made selections for her based on this profile. Readers are invited to join in with the matchmaking and the result is lots of TBR list enrichment!




What are some things you'd like to put on the fridge door of your life today?

Peace & Joy,

Adriana

Sunday, September 14, 2014

When Mr. Collins Wooed Me


Dear Friend,

Today I'm sharing part of a letter I sent to my friend Jennifer in Hungary when I was 20 years old. The original letter is ten pages long. I have substituted names of real people for names of characters from Jane Austen novels. The cassette tape referred to at the start is not the same one I wrote about in my last post. This means there was a second tape, but sadly, it's missing.

View from my old bedroom window at my parents' farm.

July 8, 1996
Dear Jeni,

A couple weeks ago I started to make a cassette tape for you in return for the one you sent me, but I couldn't get past the intro. I kept rewinding and started over.

Thank you so much for that tape. It completely kept my attention from beginning to end.

 Actually, the moment I discovered the tape in our mailbox is a good place to start my story: I was pulling out our driveway, on my way to meet up with our [college age] church group for a whitewater rafting trip to Gatlinburg. We rented a van so we could all stick together.

Everyone chatted and played games on the way down, except Mr. Collins. He brought his CD player with headphones and a stack of books -- topics ranging from Claude Monet to the Roman Empire. 

We stayed at a very nice hotel. Upon arrival, we checked in and everyone met downstairs in the lobby. There were lots of round tables, couches, a fireplace and a glass wall with a view of a pool. The atmosphere was light and jovial except, in one corner, Mr. Collins had begun a very solemn Bible study.

Please don't misinterpret me: You know I love the Bible. It's just that for the rest of the trip, if Mr. Collins wasn't preaching to us, he was having a Bible study. I sensed it was a bit showy.

It rained most of the time we were there, but that didn't spoil our fun. We all bought plastic rain ponchos with little bears on them and splashed about like a flock of ducks. Not Mr. Collins. He wore a parka and carried a large umbrella. He walked with slow deliberate steps and perfect posture.

I tried to be nice, but I felt annoyed.

The rapids were not at all wild, though still a lot of fun. (Mr. Collins was NOT on my raft!) They went something like this: bumpy, bumpy, bumpy, smooooth (paddle-paddle), bumpy, bumpy, bumpy, smooooth (paddle-paddle), etc. That was the pattern with a few minor variations. We got to know our rafting instructor pretty well. His name was Robert Martin, he grew up on Abbey-Mill Road, not far from where Harriet Smith lives. Harriet was melancholy for the rest of the evening after rafting. It was as if she had found the love of her life and lost him all in the same day . . .

 . . . On the way home, Mr. Collins turned around and handed me a paper entitled "What Does It Mean to Be a Writer?" I sensed it was meant to impress me, but it did just the opposite. For him, the writing process begins as he "takes up his quill." I can't quote the rest exactly, but part of it went something like, "In the middle of the night I am awakened by a longing to pour out my soul to another who can speak my own sweet language." By the time I reached the conclusion, I felt certain he is in love with himself and the way he writes. He had been very eager for me to read his composition. I got the feeling he had jumped to the assumption that I love to write for the same reason as he. This could not be any further from the truth. I am not a good writer yet. Though, with maturity and much practice, I hope to become one someday. I believe writing is good only when it communicates real meaning in a clear way -- just as a Christian should be a person you can look at and see Christ. With good writing, the reader is not  distracted by fancy words, I don't want to write in such a way that my meaning can only be discerned by a select few.

So next, he started saying something about "kindred spirits." Then  he paused and looked straight at me.

"Do you know where I got that from?" he asked.

I nodded.

"I watched the entire thing over Easter vacation," he said.

"Do you know what my favorite part was?"

I was afraid to ask.

"It was the very end where Anne and Gilbert came together on the bridge."

"Oh yes, " I said dryly, "the resolution."

"She finally came to her senses!" he said, then swiftly turned his back to me and began talking to someone else.


So that was my trip to Gatlinburg. My tummy is rumbling now. I believe I'll stop and make some lunch. When I return, I'll have a new subject for you!

* * * * *



Also, you might enjoy How NOT to Propose, which is another Mr. Collins-themed post.

I will say -- it's been interesting for me to re-read my old letters and consider how some of my perceptions have changed in the last 20 years. I was a bit more haughty and self-assured then, I believe. 

Now that I am a wife and mother, I kind of feel sorry for Mr. Collins. He probably had a back story, though I'll never know it since I wouldn't let him near me. You can't always judge a man's character by the way he wooes a woman. We all take our turn being ridiculous. That's part of being human.

"There's nowt so queer as folk." :-)

Thanks for reading! 

Peace & Joy,

Adriana

Friday, September 12, 2014

A Recording My Friend Made For Me Twenty Years Ago Today

Dear Friend,

I was lying awake in bed at 4 o'clock this morning when I heard my phone buzz. It was a Facebook notification. My close friend Jennifer had just updated her status from Europe.
I am thankful for being able to communicate with my family easily. When we were in the Philippines, we mailed letters or made cassette tapes for the family. That was how Grandma and the others could hear what we sounded like. These were filled with one-sided conversations, songs, funny stories, or even awkward pauses when we ran out of things to say before we hit the stop button. I remember Mom and Dad trying to hurry to do anything to fill the tape since we did not want to waste the precious minutes on the tape. I always felt sorry for the people who actually listened to the WHOLE tape, front and back. I feel spoiled by how easy communication is now.
Jennifer is the daughter of missionaries who lived in the Philippines during her childhood. We met in middle school when her family was on furlough in the States. In high school they moved to Hungary, where she still lives today. Now she is a teacher in Budapest. She normally posts updates during her lunch break. I left a comment under her status.
Me:  I'm thankful to be the owner of a Jennifer tape from when you lived in Hungary in the early nineties. 


Me: Listening now.
Jennifer: Poor you. :-)
Me: It's wonderful. I keep tearing up over it! I just paused it about half way through side B. You said, "Good morning, Adriana. It's Sept. 12!" You were making this tape 20 yrs ago today!
Me: You just talked about your mom's birthday. And your [little sister] is brilliant. You describe her playing with her Hungarian friends in spite of the language barrier. Sulysap doesn't have phone service, but your dad has agreed to take you to a phone so you can call me. That would be my Christmas present. Your mom has made you some nice dresses by hand. There's a scene where you rescue Esther's shoe from the other side of a muddy lake. You're talking about what you and I will do next summer when I come to visit. I can visualize most of the places you're describing. You're going to miss your beautiful room with the "pure white walls" when you go to the Bible Institute. The curtains in the girls' room there are so drab . . . This is priceless.
Jennifer: Maybe I don't feel sorry for you. We'll see how you hold up at the end.
Me: I feel richly blessed this morning.
Jennifer: Funny, I completely forgot that I even made a tape for you.
Me: I knew it was in my letter box, but I haven't listened to it since you sent it to me. It's value has increased with time.

Jennifer in Toalmas at the Word of Life Bible College in 1994.



I visited Jennifer in the summer of 1995, a year after her recording was made. On the tape she talks about our plans for my visit.  We will work at a Bible camp, we'll travel throughout the countryside, and take day trips into the city. Her voice is the same --mellow and precise -- though of course she sounds younger. In part of the tape I can hear her alarm clock ticking as she recorded herself while still in bed one morning when she had a cold. There is a dog barking in the distance. A quiet day in a small village without telephones. 

I guess I'll go now. I love you very much. I think about you all the time. I can't wait until next summer. We're going to have so much fun. Even if you can only stay for a month, we'll still have a lot of fun. I know Budapest pretty well now. I don't get lost when I go there. I can even find places I've never been to before without too much of a problem. I think one of the best places you'll like is Buda. It's not polluted like Pest is. There's beautiful hills all over. That's also where the Castle District is. And you can walk for days in the Castle District just looking at stuff. So gorgeous.
Together at last in 1995.





So Jennifer, if you're reading this I want you to know that I listened to the WHOLE tape, front and back and there is no need to feel sorry for me. You apologized more than once on the tape because you were concerned I would find it boring. Well, it wasn't boring. Not one bit. It was a beautiful gift which I savored (and cried over) two times, twenty years apart. Thank you so much for your faithful friendship. I am richly blessed.

With Love,
Adriana

P.S. I can't wait to visit Hungary again!

Other posts in this series: Invisible Friendship, Air mail: Letters I Wrote at Age 17



Saturday, September 6, 2014

Walking the Underground Railroad with a Friend

Dear Friend,

Here's a picture of my friend Jai'yah. She and her family spent a weekend with us last summer.

One night I was up late washing dishes after everyone else went to bed. I turned to see Jai'yah standing in my kitchen doorway.

"Can't sleep?" I asked her.

"Nope."

"Do you want to talk for a while?"

Her face lit up.

We went to the living room and sat on the couch. We talked about school.

"I love history, " she said.

"Me too! Do you know we live near the Ohio River? This area was once part of the Underground Railroad."

"Are you serious?" Her eyes widened.

"Oh yes. The farmhouse behind our property was built in the 1800s. I've been told it has a secret room. It's not listed on a historic registry, but I sometimes wonder if runaways once hid there."

She was entranced. I told her about my road trip to Ripley, Ohio. I pulled out my laptop and showed her pictures from my blog posts. She wasn't familiar with the story of Reverend and Mrs. Rankin who conducted thousands of passengers on the Underground Railroad to freedom.

She turned, knelt on the couch, and pulled apart the curtians to peer outside.


"It's so dark in the country," she said. "And quiet . . . creepy!"

"Sometimes I imagine people rushing, barefoot through the night, " I said. Because I knew she was thinking of this too.

"Do you want to walk down to the road with me?" I asked.

"Oh yes! I'm kind of scared to. But, yes!"

I gently shut the front door behind us as we stole into the darkness. Once at the road she said, "It's like we're on the Underground Railroad!"

I felt chills on the back of my neck. "I'll be your mother," I said.

She grabbed my hand and pulled my arm hard. "Come on, Mama!" she whispered. "We've got to run!"

We bolted down the road hand in hand. When we reached a clearing I pointed to the starry sky. "There's the Drinking Gourd," I told her. "That will lead us north."

We traveled on a little way and suddenly we saw headlights coming toward us from far in the distance.

"Hide!" She yanked my arm. We dove under some shrubery on the side of the road and lay on our stomachs until the car drove past.

"They didn't see us," she said with a sigh.

We continued on, backtracking this time along the same direction we had come. When my house came into view she said, "Look, Mama! It's the Rankin House!"

And this made me cry.

To think she equated my home to such a place -- a  place of safety and freedom and love.

We ran up the driveway to the back of the house and quickly pushed the back door open. Then, smiling, we jumped up and down and hugged each other tightly.

"We made it!"

"We're safe!"

"Yes! Safe!"

"I hope Mrs. Rankin will give us sometime to eat," I said. "I'm starving!"

She giggled.

"I wonder if the kids ate all the pie? If not we'll have some cookies and milk," I said.

"Adriana, Thank you."

"Thank you, Jai'yah. I love you, dear."


* * * * *

I realize our adventure was in no way harrowing like the real experience of those who once traveled from the slave-holding states in the south to freedom in north. Still, the imagination of my young friend stretched my mind and my heart. It made me think, really think, about what such a journey would have entailed and how desperate a mother would have been to protect her loved ones.

Hope this post finds all my blog-friends well.

Peace & Joy,

Adriana


P.S. Jai'yah, if you're reading this -- I know you will make a splendid history teacher or even a professor someday, if that is what you want to be. :-)

Friday, August 22, 2014

What Do You Do When You Feel So Mad You Could Bite?

Dear Friend,

This morning I read Montaigne's essay "How the soul discharges its emotions against false objects when lacking real ones."
A local gentleman of ours who is marvelously subject to gout would answer his doctors quite amusingly when asked to give up salted meats entirely. He would say that he liked to have something to blame when tortured by the onslaughts of that illness: the more he yelled out curses against the saveloy or the tongue or the ham, the more relief he felt. Seriously though, when our arm is raised to strike it pains us if the blow lands nowhere and merely beats the air . . .
 . . . it seems that the soul . . . loses itself when shaken and disturbed unless it is given something to grasp on to; and so we must always provide it with an object to butt up against and to act upon.
This passage made me think of Mr. Rogers. I remember watching him as a child and feeling relieved because, in his gentle way, he explained to me that I wasn't bad for feeling angry sometimes. He also gave me some great suggestions for how to handle those angry feelings. (For one thing, I could hit a pillow! Hitting a pillow is totally OK!) I believe this song was part of the episode where he gave the anger talk. It seems like the whole world could use this now --



So, what do you do when you feel so mad you could bite?

Love,
A