Cars, the Continuing Saga

Dave and I left here on Thursday morning in the rental car, headed back to Frederick to get our now repaired 1997 Sable. The "nothing wrong" pronounced by the garage in Severna Park on Monday turned out to be an alternator and battery cable, something relatively cheap to repair. In "car speak," that translates to anything under $1000. However, we had dropped our 1999 Jeep off with a local mechanic here in Western Maryland before we ever headed east. Great week for vehicles!

We made the exchange of rental car for the Silver Sable Steed and drove on to Annapolis and a delightful evening with friends. Thursday evening Dave heard from our mechanic out here. Dave and I had both experienced a unique sound emanating  from the Jeep when we drove up steep hills on the Interstate. The mechanic could not duplicate the loud "thunking" sound in his shop. He made a suggestion about tires, but beyond that, he had no answers for us. He however, did not charge us anything because he did not find a clear problem that he could fix. Oh that the shop down east had the same policy!

Hmmmm. What to do next? On Friday Dave and I camped out with other family members as we waited together on the second floor lounge of Anne Arundel Medical Center. Thankfully, the surgery went well, and we had several hours' input from my brother and four nephews about, you guessed, it, CARS! Thanks to their input, earlier discussions Dave and I had, and the Internet, Dave had tons of information. We inched ever closer toward buying another car as my husband surfed the Web for low mileage Jeeps. Did we mention that the 1999 Jeep has 223,000 miles? Dave would find a potential vehicle, email the individual or auto salesperson, search for Car Fax, seek values given the options on each Jeep, and chat about it with me. The other five men own cars, trucks, SUVs, and motorcycles. I heard more about 4-wheel drive versus all-wheel drive than I'll ever need to know!

The good news? The Silver Bullet, AKA, the 1997 Sable, took us into the Shenandoah Mountains and home to Western Maryland  without so much as a hiccup. However, a stop in Virginia resulted in the purchase of a 2005 Jeep with only 13,000 miles on it and a boat load of amenities! Sometime early next week Dave and I will return to Virginia and drive the "new" Jeep home. About the car name? I always name cars. The Sable drops down to the Silver Slug and the Jeep inherits the title the Silver Bullet. 

Cars!

For years I have felt that heaven would not have cars. After all, they have caused me many tears, and Scripture promises no tears in heaven. However, in this world, God uses vehicles to teach patience, trust, and stewardship. Somehow, the Lord figured I needed a refresher course this week.

I pulled out of our driveway in the 1997 Mercury Sable at 8 AM on Monday, bound for the homeschooling tutorial that meets in Severna Park. I planned to teach an 11:30 class about stewardship of abilities as it relates to post-high school career plans. With a 30-minute cushion and all materials in tow, I headed east bound. About an hour into the trip, I noticed that the battery light winked at me for a few seconds. Hmmm? What did that mean? Off went the heat, the radio, the headlights. Hi O Silver, away! The Silver Bullet Sable responded; off went the light. On with the cruise control and the rest of the trip.

Later, just outside Frederick, the RPM needle suddenly points to zero, but I'm still traveling at 60 MPH. WHAT is this? A little adventure ensues as I maneuver a couple of miles driving on the shoulder of the road at 40 MPH, but then my trusty steed gallops off at 65, keeping up with the rest of the horse power on I 70. Meanwhile, Dave's making cell calls; a friend meets me at the garage where I leave the lame car, and the friend drives me to class; another friend takes me from class to her home for lunch. By 5:30, she has graciously invited me to spend the night and head back in the morning with the silver bullet, which, by the way, has been pronounced "Fine, Can't find anything wrong!" The labor cost for the "non-repair" of my car is $95.00, but the old car has a clean bill of health.

My trusty steed turns over fine at 9 this morning, and I fill her tank with gas before turning west. I fill my lungs and begin to sing everything from  praise choruses to Bach's Cantata 140 -- in German!  Alas, in Frederick (What is it with this town?) the RPM needle nosedives, and the speedometer needle follows. Coasting to the side of the Interstate, all systems stop. Instead of singing, I'm on my dying cell phone with Dave, roadside assistance, Dave, roadside assistance, Dave....you get the idea.

Within 50 minutes the sad steed sits quietly atop the Jerr-Dan, and I have miraculously managed to climb (think Everest here!) into the cab of the truck. Within a few minutes I arrive at the repair shop Dave has located and checked out on the Internet. Next an employee from a car rental place close by picks me up and takes me to my next stop. A few more calls to Dave, insurance company, Dave... Deja-vue.  I've seen this pattern earlier today.  After a few "sign here, initial here," repeats, I hold the key to a little Hyundai. "Sorry, m'am. This is the only car we have available."  Somewhere in the befuddled recesses of my mind, echos "Mountains! I live in the mountains of Western Maryland, and this little pony can really get me home?"

However, miniature horse, lean and light, did hoof it over the mountains, and I arrived home shortly after 2:30. My thanks rose as I realized the protection the Lord had given me. We will now get another lesson in trust and stewardship as we face the repair bill (alternator and battery cell) and pray for wisdom about replacing the 12-year-old Sable. I learned yet another lesson in patience from the experience, and more patience will be needed as we process the possible car-buying issue.

My husband, not wanting me to have had a completely bad day, had a surprise waiting for me when I got home. He had washed all the windows here at the cabin! Washed windows?  What a man!

The Creek Keeps Moving

Living very close to Bear Creek provides a reminder about life. The water flows hard after the rains we've experienced this weekend. Yet, even without the heavy rains, the water keeps moving. It might be a mere trickle, but the creek meanders or gushes all the time. Life mirrors the creek.
Some hard times during my life passed at flash flood speed, and I give thanks for that. Other difficulties reflected a season of drought, a time when the water inched its way along. Small rivulets formed; the water seemed to stop or simply move at a snail's pace. Small progress came, but almost imperceptibly. Lacking patience, I wanted the creek of pain to crest and then move out of my life quickly. Bring on the meandering good times and let me float on the lazy river in my inner tube. Sadly, the ability to freeze the good times does not work; even in the dead of winter, the creek's water flows under the ice. And who wants to smell a slimed-over pond in summer? Parents who try to hold a particular time in a child's life only stagnate the water.

A look at the current culture for children and teens finds two extremes to avoid: the creek that flows at a dangerously fast pace, setting up a deluge that can lead to tragedy and the creek that someone wants to dam up and stop.

The world of consumerism calls out with the siren song of the fast flowing waters. Grow up as a rushing current, gain all manner of sensual pleasures early, shop at Victoria Secret, hang out at the mall. Consider just the logo choices available on a T-shirt found at Old Navy or Wal-Mart. Hottie, Born to Shop, Slave, and similar words identify females. Disney, L.L.Bean, Abercromie and others get free advertising  by slathering their names across even a simple shirt. And what ever happened to a cotton T, one without Lycra or spandex? The world of entertainment also has a flood ready to drown youngsters. Many conscientious parents would never let their kids see an R rated movie. Good, But what's openly shown in an R flows rampantly along in a PG-13. Another torrent involves what girls and guys hear and read. Crude, rude and violent come down the creek, each carrying debris that fouls the water. People often quote Proverbs 4 but stop too soon. "Guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life," says verse 23. The following verses warn the reader to watch what they say, what they look at , and where they go. A wise parent chews on the ideas in the text and discusses the applications with the children in the family.                                     

If the torrential rains of the 21st century spell disaster, why not dam up the waters? Stagnation does not produce healthy adults any more than the swirling eddies that accompany racing waters. To remain almost immobile in a pool of pity, anger or depression benefits no one. Hanging on to good things such as childhood triumphs, beauty, or intellect develops a smelly body of water not even fit for the fish that park rangers use to stock the creek. Pampered children often develop into adults who can't function in a world where they are no longer the princess or king of the mountain. A child cut from a team, musical ensemble or  drama production can bring out both the parents who want to make sure their child's creek flows swiftly or those who do want the child to tread water right here forever. The apostle Paul addresses this scenario in I Corinthians. There he reminds us that he thought, talked, and reasoned as a child when he was a child, but put away childish ways when he became a man.

So act wisely as your children pass through the creek waters. In the Egyptians' rush to kill the fleeing Israelites, Pharoah's army "sank like lead in the mighty waters." Later in Israel's history the prophet Isaiah warned, "the waters will fail from the sea, and the river will be wasted and dried up." For parents to navigate the childhood and adolescent years, Proverbs 18 offers this aphorism for meditation: "The wellspring of wisdom is a flowing brook."

Faithfulness, Flowers and Forgiveness

My dear husband of 41 years demonstrates love to me all the time. Whether he remembers to charge the battery on my scooter, brings me a fresh cup of coffee in the morning, or plants the flowers I buy or receive free from my great next door neighbor, Dave never enjoyed outdoor yard work, and Garrett County features a huge rock collection in it soil. So as he patiently planted mountain lilies, stargazer lilies and replete daffodils on Tuesday, his faithfulness came shining through again. Coming home from our trip to the Flight 93 Memorial, on Wednesday, we stopped at Baker's Nursery and the man even let me buy another mum, a huge burgundy beauty in a 9-inch pot. He did that, even while knowing I couldn't dig the hole, plant the mum, cover with soil or mulch the site afterward. He illustrates amazing love and demonstrates his faithfulness to me!  I often hear about the difficult adjustment to retirement, and perhaps a year is too short a time to make any pronouncement. But I can make an observation.

As humans we will disappoint each other, often not intentionally, but we do it just the same. Our expectations, especially in marriage, go toward perfection: a Sir Galahad as a husband, or a current Hollywood starlet as a wife. The only one faithful one hundred percent, no offense to Dr. Seuss' Horton, is God. We all live like Mayzie part of the time, doing as we please and leaving someone else maintaining our responsibilities. A retired couple lives around each other more now than at any other time in their marriage. Discovering activities to do both together and apart helps develop a new richness in each individual. The mistake lies in expecting every need to be met by the other person. In Hosea God says, "I will betroth you to me in faithfulness, and you shall know the Lord. Only God can meet all our needs. After all, Psalm 36 teaches that  only God's faithfulness that reaches to the clouds.

Eighteen Minutes from D.C.

When the volunteer ambassador told us that this Pennsylvania ridge stands only 18 minutes by air from Washington, DC, I again marveled at the devotion that cost the lives of those on Flight 93 and spared the Capitol while Congress was in session. The last 30 minutes these 40 heroes lived must have been horror-filled moments, time when no one would have blamed them for self-absorption. But some of the men devised a plan, led by Todd Beamer's now famous war cry, "Let's roll!" A lesser known story involves a flight attendant's phone call asking her mother's advice. Even if some passengers could gain entrance to the cockpit, the terrorists had knives while the crew possessed no weapons. Her attendant's mother suggested boiling water to throw on the terrorists. Americans facing death showed such valor, heroism, and selflessness. These characteristics deserve our thanks and esteem. We need to remember these civilians who fought so bravely.
The United States plans a three-phase memorial near the crash site and will buy 2200 acres for that purpose. But to embed in head and heart what happened here, we wanted to see this hallowed ground in its stark simplicity, wind whistling over our heads. Walking slowly around the area, we read the names on the benches, the sentiments written in granite as well as in pencil; we gazed at the firemen's and police officers' helmets. Mementos left here come down regularly, receiving cleaning and storage for future placement in the memorial. To date over 34,000 items have been left.

Inside the adjacent shelter, we read the transcript from the flight recorder and shuddered at the horror of the conceived plan that, thankfully, was not completed that day. New York City and DC had already sustained such tragedy. Then we lifted our eyes to the flag flying in the distance, the flag that marks the actual spot the Boeing 757 slammed 40 feet into the ground. Since survivors consider that place a cemetery, the general public does not have access to the area. Today's crowds revealed a predominance of retirees, Yet, we hope that students and families with young children will also visit here. The Parks service hopes to break ground for the memorial November 1, and complete phase one by the tenth anniversary in 2011.

Turning to leave, we know we have stood on hallowed ground today. One memorial stone summed up my thoughts as we drove away on this clear fall day, an October 21 that resembled the weather of a September day eight years ago. "For our heroes of 9-11-01: Never forget them lest we be attacked again."

Monday Meditation

Patches of sunlight sent me looking for my camera this morning despite the 32-degree reading on the thermometer at 10 AM. It didn't take a meteorologist to describe today as "crisp and clear." What appears as fog or mist in the photo at the right is actually a flooding of sunlight into our side yard. Sometimes the truths of God's Word, His promises, and His love totally embrace me. Other times, in my rebellious soul, I turn the other way, clutching to false idols of my heart's making. When I cannot see clearly, I can learn to trust the Sonlight that shines with grace and mercy. Unfortunately, my learning curve lags lethargically.

I live a battle of the will to walk by faith and not by sight. Yesterday I had no schedule for arriving back here from Severna Park, but I still battled within myself about making a stop in Mt. Airy to Lorien Nursing Center, just minutes off Interstate 70. A friend resides there, languishing in the last stages of MS. Would I stop or not? At the last minute, and probably aided by the fact that I was in the right lane, I pulled off and went inside for a short visit. As I approached the parking lot, I immediately remembered that the handicapped parking put me at the opposite end of the facility. I would walk right, enter the building, and then walk left through a long hallway to Barbara's room.

Why the stalling? What troubled me? Didn't I appreciate all the folks who have visited me and aided in my recoveries? How different would Barbara be now? Once signed in, I navigated my way along and greeted those I met. My brief visit lifted my spirits as Barbara smiled and mouthed thank you.

Today, in retrospect, I wish my motives had clarity of purpose. The questions I posed yesterday offer a very shallow, self-centered perspective. Barbara's current status now sends me to the Lord, asking for His call home to come to my friend soon. Yet I ponder my need to trust Christ more, knowing that even when my view looks blurred, it's only because of His brilliant sunshine streaming into life's real situations.

Sage Wisdom

Since 2009 marks the 500th anniversary of John Calvin's birth, writers will reference, rediscover and reinvent (After all, we do live in the age of deconstructionism) this sage. Those writers, professors, and theologians with negative bias or misinformation will dismiss Calvin as the stern proponent of predestination. They consider him graceless, interested only in writing his Institutes, not very practical. Yet such a depiction fails to capture the real legacy Calvin left this world. One Reformed Theology website refers to Calvin as the one who “literally transformed the philosophical, political, religious, and social landscape of Europe." What backs so global a statement?

Intellectually, Calvin, a French-born Roman Catholic completed law studies by age 23, and had published a translation of a book by Seneca. University education grounded Calvin in Northern European Humanism of the early 1500s; however, Calvin soon threw in his lot with reformers who followed Zwingli’s basic idea of the literal reading of Scripture. Given the philosophical and political intelligence of Calvin¸ this scholar set out to write an orderly presentation of Scripture. Best known for The Institutes of the Christian Church and a catechism that, once memorized, would provide a sure compass for children and adults, Calvin initially frightened Genevans. Had they traded the rigidity of the Roman church for another papal system? By 1538, Geneva sent Calvin packing. He established a ministry to French refugees in Strasbourg but returned to Geneva in 1541 and lived there until his death in 1564.

Calvin wanted literacy to spread far beyond the aristocracy and professionals. After all, reading the Scriptures was a vital part of the reforms. Here, I confess an error I’ve held for years. I believed that Robert Raikes founded the modern Sunday School concept by taking the illiterate children off London’s streets on Sunday afternoons and teaching them to read using Bibles as his textbooks. Actually, Calvin, 300 years prior, held Sunday afternoon classes to teach the catechism to children. Ronald Wallace, in his biography, Calvin, Geneva, and the Reformation, says, “It is not surprising that when the citizens of Geneva accepted the Reformed faith, they also at the same time agreed to make with the education of the young.”

I appreciate Calvin’s holistic approach to faith. From New Testament texts he wrote Ecclesiastical Ordinances, setting forth attributes for teachers, pastors, elder and deacons. Church government had boundaries with disciplining occurring in line with Matthew 18. Calvin educated, taught refugees, led in church reform, wrote without stooping to vernacular (the texting of hi8s day?) always aiming to elevate the people so they could study the Scriptures for themselves. What a legacy to us today.

After having written about Calvin, I am set to order John Calvin:A Pilgrim’s Life by Herman J. Selderhuis (IVP, 2009) and enjoy some rainy days like this one reading what Frank James III describes as “simply one of the best biographies of Calvin I have seen.”

To those who still consider Calvin cold, graceless and impractical, I’d offer this quote:

“We have given the first place to doctrine in which our religion is contained, since our salvation begins with it. But it must enter our heart and pass into our daily living and so transform us into itself that it may not be unfruitful for us.”

Friendships

William James said, "Wherever you are, it is your friends who make your world."

Yesterday this quote arrived in an email from a friend I first met in my home church in New York over 50 years ago. The quote then took flight as I GPSed my way to an 1880 farmhouse on Buffalo Run Road in Friendsville and received a free concert black skirt. Before I left, I also received two squash and a pumpkin, complete with directions for cooking/baking each. Next, a phone call came from three couples, friends from the Annapolis area who "happened" to be driving through Accident (Who drives accidentally through Accident?). They asked, "Could we have lunch together"? Any other day, yes, of course, but we already had lunch plans with friends whom we've known since our 1980s Bible study. The Drakes timed their trip home to Shreeve, Ohio such that we could enjoy a three-hour lunch together. Relaxing at home later that evening, I received a prayer chain phone call from our pastor's wife reminding me to pray for a new friend having surgery today.

In 41 years of marriage we have lived in nine different apartments/houses and moved, if memory serves me right, 14 times. I can testify to the truth of James' quote. Friends have made our world, whether they moved our furniture, babysat for our boys, helped Dave put on a roof, or took care of me after surgery. Faces, as well as stories, fill my mind when I think through the people God has sprinkled throughout our lives. Finally, I drifted off to sleep next to the one who has proven his love and friendship to me since the 1960s. I taught American literature for years and smiled about this remembered quote: "To have a good friend is one of the greatest delights of life." Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Autumn Glory

Garrett County celebrates Autumn Glory the second weekend of October. This year marked the 42nd annual festival. While craft shows, parades, state fiddle championships, quilt shows, turkey dinners and pumpkin races in the white water facilities dominate the weekend, God paints the true beauty.

I think of autumn metaphorically in terms of being wrapped up in down comforter, experiencing a delightful cocoon. Though insulated in warmth, all the senses explode! This season offers the spectacular colors of leaves and mums, chilly morning air, hot chai lattes, my favorite pumpkin cake recipe, the warmth of the gas fireplace, the distinctive crunch of a Granny Smith apple, and the Choral Society's practice of Christmas music.

I love seeing new things in my more leisurely days of retirement. So although I have seen myriads of brown oak leaves, the red ones over on Turkey Run Road got my attention. Dave stopped the car and took the photo above. I captured the more traditional mums, pumpkins, and hay along side of the last of summer's perennials. Both speak to my love of autumn and drw my heart to the Creator.

Psalm 9 says,
"I will praise you, O Lord, with all my heart;
I will tell of all your wonders.
I will be glad and rejoice in you;
I will sing praise to your name, O Most High."

Law of Flesh -- Law of Spirit

Currently, a group of women from Grace Reformed Church is studying Paul's letter to the churches in Galatia. Poised in Galatians 4 and 5, I keep thinking my way through the legalism that so easily trips me up. The Pharisees tried diligently to keep the law in the strictest ways. Yet, when they gave 39 lashes instead of the 40 legally prescribed, they actually acknowledged their inability to keep the law flawlessly. Whenever I consider the law of the flesh, I look at things that aren't hard for me to do. Then I mentally chastise others who can't keep my self-made laws while excusing myself from areas of my failure. No wonder I find no rest in trying to be legalistic. One minute I can soar on clouds of arrogant superiority and then quickly crash in the ashes of inferiority! What a mess I am when huddled in the mire of trying to keep laws. By that I don't just mean the Ten Commandments. People who do not prescribe to that biblical code do verbally or tacitly choose some self-imposed standard; any shred of honesty will quickly testify to the fact that we can't keep our own standards.
If we step aside and look at the law of the spirit we find two facts: it's even harder to keep than jot and tittle record keeping, and it's been accomplished for us with perfection.
The spirit of law literally goes to the heart of the matter. Now, not only do my acts condemn me; but my attitudes and thoughts also confirm my guilt. Don't commit adultery really means don't even look at a woman with lust in the mind and heart. Who could ever keep such a standard? Martin Luther tried physical pain as he crawled step by step on his knees while he prayed. No relief or eased conscience followed these acts of contrition and penance. However, the perfect law keeper entered this world and, in my place, met the requirements of the law. Unbelievably, He chose to impute His perfection to me. No wonder Issac Watts wrote about amazing grace! Consider Paul's words from Galatians 4:4-6. "God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under law, to redeem those under law, that we might receive the full rights of sons. Because you are sons, God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out, “Abba, Father.'" I'll keep processing the truths of grace as Paul lays them out in Galatians, for I have much to learn before I sleep, much to learn before I sleep.

Written in the Sky

Psalm 19 breathes with wonders that my camera cannot begin to capture. The sheer enormity of the skies boggles my finite mind.

Needless to say, terms like sovereignty and providence bounce around in my head, so I relish the Scriptures and other writers who have grappled with these big ideas. Jerry Bridges writes "I define God's providence as 'His constant care for and absolute rule over all His creation for His own glory and the good of His people.'" So I breathe these ideas into a prayer for a family who said an earthly goodbye today to Faye Parkinson. This afternoon they believe, in the midst of their grief, another Bridges' thought: "God, in His love, always wills what is best for us. In His wisdom He always knows what is best, and in His sovereignty, He has the power to bring it about." The Psalmist proclaims.

The heavens declare the glory of God;

the skies proclaim the work of His hands.

Day after day they pour forth speech;

night after night they display knowledge.

There is no speech or language

where their voice is not heard.

When death comes to a loved one, Paul writes "but we do not grieve as those who have no hope." How do we finite creatures gain a bit of heavenly perspective as we grieve? Always practical, Bridges says this: "We must see our circumstances through God's love instead of, as we are prone to do, seeing God's love through our circumstances. I rejoice in Faye's safe arrival home and in her family's eternal perspective.

Springs Folk Festival

Dave and I faithfully attend the Springs Folks Festival in Springs, PA each year.
Always the first full weekend in October, this celebration boasts excellent crafts, demonstrations and food. Patiently pushing my wheelchair, my dear husband takes us to Bread from the Hearth where the fresh-baked bread comes slathered generously with butter and/or apple butter. The crusty outside crunches just prior to the squishy warmth exploding on the taste buds. OK, so that's breakfast. Amazing isn't it? Just producing, preserving and cooking food occupied so many hours for a family. Sausage went into the smoke house; tapped maple trees yielded syrup that had to boil for hours.The entire family pitched in to insure enough food occupied the larder to get them through the winter.

After scanning the food exhibits, we headed to the trail, definitely not terrain for a wheelchair. At times, Dave turned me backwards and tipped my heels to the sky so we could make progress. We watched men guide shingles through a saw one at a time, while another man wielded an axe to create split rail fences, a few inches at a time. Native Americans stood at a smoke-filled wigwam, reminding me of the primitive homes people lived in during the harsh winters and humid summers. That led my thoughts to clothing. We buy off racks; settlers started with flax, made linen and then stitched quilts and clothes by hand. Quilts took months but when winter came, people appreciated the layers of quilts
















When time allowed for fun, out came
the fiddles, banjos and guitars. Soon Appalachian Clogging kept up with the beat of the music. Add to that the haunting sounds of the hammer dulcimer, and you can hear the pulse of the woods that calms the heart and draws it toward the Maker of all. This weekend you can find us at the Maryland State Fiddle Championship, just soaking in the culture the surrounds our ridge.

Lungs, Technique and Lyrics

Singing has always energized me. As I remember, Martha Kump, a Sunday School teacher, had a group of elementary school children in her living room back in the 50s. There she joyously threw open her arms and encouraged us to bounce the tones off the back of the room. She smiled as she sang, and her pleasure became mine. As a 12-year-old, I joined the junior choir at my home church in New York. Before you think NYC, let me assure you that the tiny hamlet of Otisville sits nestled at the foothills of the Catskill Mountains in a most unassuming way. Nevertheless, a new pastor's wife arrived in town and decided to start a junior choir; immediately, I wanted to sing. Lois taught us to project our little voices and to sing harmony. When the rehearsals ended late Friday afternoon, she drove each of us home, no small task since the rural area encompassed miles! Somehow, between 12 and 18, while Lois patiently led the junior choir, I filled my heart as well as lungs with song. Worship, using words that honored the Lord and melodies that sang themselves into my soul, gave me great joy. The sheer wonder of creating music infused me with strength.
As a college student, I sang with the oratorio society, a group comprised of students, faculty, staff and townspeople. Because the organ majors practiced in the chapel until late, the oratorio rehearsed from 9-11 PM. Yet when I finished singing, I often returned to my dorm and energetically tackled three hours of studying. After college I sang with church choirs and experienced the same burst of energy and fullness of joy at the end of rehearsals and concerts. When the Washington Chamber Players and Singers performed Bach's St. Matthew's Passion, with Jerome Hines singing the part of Jesus, I sang through tears at each performance. Why? One of the centurions on crucifixion duty at the cross looks up toward the dying Christ and sings, "Truly this was the Son of God, the Son of God." Powerful words, plaintive melody, and such anguished understanding.
Currently I sing with the Garrett County Choral Society. Previously I sang with the Arundel Vocal Arts Society, but I have not done any serious singing in about three years. Thankfully, Cindy Bauchspies trained me well. Nevertheless, I find myself practicing daily to regain the soprano range I once had, and to learn the German for Bach's Cantata 140. Rehearsals take place in Oakland, a 40-minute drive from the cabin, and last from 6:30-9:00 PM each Sunday. I still feel the same joy and energy, but last night, on the way to rehearsal, I talked on the cell phone to my two-year-old granddaughter and her Daddy. Brent tells me that Austyn Grace has a new fascination. When she hears the choir at church, she stops in her tracks, determined to hear and watch them. That reminded me of the serendipitious photo I took in August. Hmmmm, her Papa Davenport and Grandma Wolfe may have the makings of a trio!

Good Neighbors

Married in 1968, we lived in six different places during the first 12 years of our marriage. When we moved into our first single-family house in 1980, we landed among some great neighbors. They put up with many College and Career, as well as youth group pool parties, our sons and their friends, summer band rehearsals, and our dogs. Students came by to watch Hamlet or Death of a Salesman; we almost had a revolving door on the place!

And who were these tolerant folks? We had good neighbors all around, but our neighbors right next door watched our house as it they owned it. If anyone strange drove into the driveway, Joe or Geniene strode out and asked some questions. They even stopped my brother and sister-in-law once when Dave and I were away for the weekend. "How do you know the Wolfes?" asked Joe. After explaining the situation, Joe left them alone, but when Dave and I returned on Sunday night, Geniene came over and asked what my brother looked like.

After almost 30 years of suburban living in Arnold, we relocated to our log cabin on Winding Ridge. The mailboxes for the homes here sit in a row at the end of Bearfoot Road. Getting the mail involves a .4 mile walk each way in all kinds of weather, as Dave discovered last winter. But we have again found outstanding neighbors, folks who tell us about the activities going on in the county, take in our mail when we're gone, and keep an eye on our house. Beyond that, they share extra flowering bulbs, dig up spreading perennials and give them to us, and offer us fresh flowers and veggies from their gardens. The local UPS man gave his cell number to Dave the first week we lived here. Randy thoughtfully leaves packages where they'll be dry and safe from our local critters if we're not home. Then we get a call saying that he's delivered a package.


An NIV concordance uses the word neighbor 78 times; I find some worthy reminders there about being a good neighbor:

Do not say to your neighbor, “Come back later; I’ll give it tomorrow”— when you now have it with you. Do not plot harm against your neighbor, who lives trustfully near you. Prov. 3:28-29

Each of us should please his neighbor for his good, to build him up. Romans 15:2

Love does no harm to its neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfillment of the law. Romans 13:10

Yet, perhaps Jesus' command to "Love your neighbor as yourself," gives us the clearest reminder.