"Clella's Aunt Kay's Fruitcake"

This electronic age has brought about a plethora of reconnections in my life,  one of which has been with a high school friend, dating back over 50 years ago.  Clella and I took piano lessons from the same piano teacher; we shared many of our classes; the two of us were planning on being college roommates. 

As happens in life, we went our separate ways.  However, that senior year she shared an absolutely wonderful fruitcake recipe with me, one which I made for several years.  The fruitcake was replaced by decorated Christmas sugar cookies as children came into my household, but I have always remembered it.

"It's that time of year," the time when the holidays are approaching, and I thought about her recipe again the other day.  

Here's to good food, days gone by, and reconnections.  Enjoy! 

Clella's Aunt Kay's Fruitcake

3/4 lb. dates                                              1 c. chopped nuts
1 tsp. soda                                                1 jar fruit mix
1 c. boiling water                                       1/2 c. cherries
1/2 c. oil                                                     1 c. seedless raisins
1 c. sugar                                                   1/2 c. currants
1 egg                                                          1/4 c. white raisins
1 tsp. vanilla                                               1 1/2 c. flour                                   
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. lemon juice

1.  Grease and flour sides, line bottom of 10" tubed pan with waxed paper.
2.  Chop dates in coarse pieces.
3.  Add soda to boiling water, pour over dates, let stand until cool, not cold.
4.  Plump raisins and currants, drain well.
5.  Mix oil, sugar, egg, vanilla, lemon juice, salt; add date mixture (with liquid), drained fruit;
     add flour (1/3 at a time), stirring well.  Add nuts, fruit mix, cherries.
6.  Bake 1/2 hour at 350; reduce heat to 310, bake another 1 1/4-1 1/2 hours.  If cracks
     appear, reduce temperature, bake longer. 
7.  Cool 30 minutes in pan, turn out and cool.

"On Faith vs. Doubt"

Whereas faith is as a solid rock, a foundation upon which one can build, doubt is as quicksand.  It will suck you down into its depths and consume you.  

"On Eternity"

eternity:  n.  Existence without end, infinite time.

I believe in eternity, a time without end which we enter into upon leaving this earth.  Not everyone does.  I was once shown a time-line.  Imagine, if you will, a line which goes as far as the eye can see, from East to West.  Imagine also, a sliver touching that line.  That is how much time life upon this planet we call Earth shares in the whole of time.  Minuscule, in comparison, is not an adequate description.

When I was a little girl I would strain my brain, as though it was a muscle I could flex, trying with all my might to envision eternity.  How can there be time without end?  It is beyond the comprehension of our finite minds, regardless of one’s chronological age.

As I grew older, I found myself questioning the why of things—pain, suffering, heartache, circumstances beyond anyone’s control which affect an individual or a family for a lifetime.  We all have our own listings, filled to capacity, with more questions than answers and zero understanding.

When questioning my Creator about one such incident, the words Eternity is a long, long time passed through my mind.  In that one comment I understood--to a very limited degree, but I did understand.

God is a God of love.  Contrary to the publicity waged against Him, He does not have a single mean, cruel bone in His being.  His one desire is to have a relationship with us, His children and creation.  When difficult situations occur in life, we make the choice of either turning to Him, on Him, or away from Him.  He doesn’t gain pleasure when our lives become difficult; He does want to be given the chance to be part of them.

We human beings are stubborn, self-sufficient, independent, hell-bent creatures.  When we continue on in our own, merry way, doing things on our own, ignoring Him, His choices become limited.  Often He is left with “If there was any other way….”  Due to the length of eternity, He will do His best to get the attention of His children as there are no second chances once we have passed over.

In reality, He is the innovator of “Tough Love.”  All that He does comes from that base of love.  He cares and never wants any of us having to deal with the reality of waiting until it is too late. 

While returning from work today I found myself thinking about “the writing”—that is what I call this.  So much of what I lay out has a spiritual emphasis, as that is where and how I live my life, and my life is what I share.  Contemplating the gravity of the subject matter, I wondered--Should I try to lighten up the content, make it more appealing?  Once again, that thought passed through my mind:  Eternity is a long, long time.  The focus of the writing won’t change; it can’t, because it is my life.

My challenge to you is the next time you are faced with a difficult situation in your life, one which brings on the onslaught of question marks and doubt, consider it in the light that “Eternity is a long, long time.”  Ask for truth, ask for understanding.  You may be surprised.  Are you going to have all the answers to everything?  A resounding “No!,” but you just might see things from a point of view, a perspective you’ve never had before.

If any one of you do this, then I have done my job, that of opening up a door, pointing the way to God.  How long is eternity?  Eternity is a long, long time.

“Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.”  Matthew 7:7

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"On Forgiveness and Healing"

You took my broken heart and made it whole.
You took my shattered life, You healed my soul.

You gave me hope,
You gave me strength, so I could carry on.

I was so all alone, no place to call my own;
I had no home.

You filled a void in me, You gave me eyes to see.
You gave me peace within.

I placed my life into Your hands,
A childish trust, not one I'd planned.

You wrapped me up into Your arms.
You held me close, free from harm.

You whispered in my ear, so soft that I could barely hear,
"Forgive, my child, and be healed."

My heart sings out to You, for all eternity;
The wounds, the hurts are but a memory.

But this I know, I know forevermore: 
 "Forgive, my child, and be healed."

"On Being in a Superball State"

To say I have been in a zen-like place, calm, tranquil, and at peace with myself and my life recently would be an utter fallacy; in fact, it would be a bald-faced lie.  A better description is that of being in a “superball state.”  You know superballs--those small, bouncy balls.  They don’t just bounce, they ricochet each and every time they make contact with a surface until they are spent and come to a stand-still.  And no one can predict where they are going to end up. 

The blackberry vines on the bank had been waiting for me for several weeks.  The task of their removal had been postponed after encountering a wasps' nest in their midst.  Fear runs deep--even though my client had eradicated the nest.  However, decent weather is coming to an end, and I had run out of reasons, or rather, excuses.  It was time to tackle them.

 

There is no shortcut, no easy way.  It means plowing through the knee-deep ivy they are entangled in and cutting back the rampant, expansive vines at their base one at a time, dragging them down the hill to a location where they can then be hauled off.  The job was a perfect one for forcing me to stop and think, to question myself.

This is not the first time I’ve been in a “superball state.”  I have a history of spiritually packing up my bags and heading off on my own when I am confronted with a reality, a truth I don’t particularly want to face or agree with.  In years past this would last for several months before running out of steam and landing back on the very thing I had tried to avoid.

I have got better over time in dealing with issues head-on, yet here it was once again, that erratic state of mind.  One of the things I have learned is there are no skipped steps, no playing leap frog.  My life is set out in order, each step is crucial and important, and there is no moving forward until I deal with whatever it is I am trying to run from.

I recognized that state, the antithesis of peace, and so I began questioning what was going on, really taking place within.  As I cut back the vines, the mental garbage began to slough off, bit by bit, a housecleaning of sorts, and I ended up at the place where I had tried to bail, ground zero as it were. 

Quietly, I was reminded that a couple of weeks earlier I had been asked to “Just have patience” in dealing with a situation in my life.  I remembered my response to that had been, “Yeah, uh huh, sure.  Got it."  That was right before I took off.  And so I had ended up in this place of being scattered rather than grounded and focused, all because it wasn't what I wanted to hear.

I am fortunate to have One who doesn’t allow me my own way; who guides me with a certain, sure hand; who is adept at clearing clutter and junk out of the way; and One who cares enough He doesn’t let me end up in situations I would regret.

What a deal!  The blackberry vines were cleared off the bank, enabling me to cross a job off my "to-do" list.  I received priceless, personal counseling, and I am once again back on track, moving forward instead of bouncing all over like a superball.  Now I only need to remove all the stickers from my fingers. 



"I am leaving you with a gift--peace of mind and heart.  And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give.  So don't be troubled or afraid."

"For as the heavens are higher than the earth so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts."

"On Love and Being Blessed"

The pressure washing job was what I call a hands-and-knees kind of job, not because I was on my hands and knees, but because it was mindless, one conducive for thought.  Standing, holding a spray gun for two hours while cleaning a driveway with a power washer falls in that category.  There is no place to go but to deal with the task at hand.  

Stating my mind can be empty and filled at the same time seems impossible, but that is how it was.  I wasn’t focused on a particular issue, yet the events of recent days floated through, and I mentally reached out to examine various aspects of them:  a “thumbs-up” from a 15-year-old grandgirl after reading my last post about her homecoming invitation; a priceless communication from one who is like a second son; lunch with several former high school classmates, some who I had not seen since graduation over 50 years ago, a mini-reunion of sorts; an invitation to visit sunny Southern California ­for a weekend this winter and escape the gray fog of the Willamette Valley; old friendships, standing the test of time--new ones forming, growing, and developing.­ 

The weather was wonderful, sunny and warm, an Indian Summer kind of day in early fall.  I had sealed the fitting in the spray gun with that stretchy tape plumbers use, so the spray was directed toward the cement instead of my legs.  I found myself feeling filled and fulfilled, deep within. The thoughts wandered, going back in time—a long ways back. 

Life in my 20’s was a difficult period of time, one I describe as “a withdrawal from society.”  Depression has that effect on a person.  The depression was in part due to a search for something more in life, a resultant malcontent.  While it sounds quite grandiose and even pompous, it wasn’t—I simply wanted to know the meaning of life, why I had been born, why I was created.  My thinking was if I was putting in the time,  I wanted to make it count, have value; I wanted to know that my being, my existence mattered.  Though that may seem egocentric, narcissistic, the quest was to find purpose, and I was driven in that quest.

A friendship developed with another young woman, a friendship that exists to this day, although we are no longer young.  As we talked, I shared with her the doubt that drove me, the knowledge that God did not love me.  She was not an atheist; an atheist does not believe in the existence of God.  She knew He did not exist.  She also knew if He did exist, He would be a God of love. I knew there was a God, but could not be persuaded of His love for me. We came from two completely different camps, and neither of us could be convinced otherwise.   

For those of you who parent you know how impossible it is to prove your love to a child who doubts it.  No matter what you say or do, the efforts are futile.  And that is how it was with me.  I kept demanding of God, requiring proof that I was loved. I never received the evidence to satisfy. 

The driveway was covered with a lot of moss needing to be cleaned off, so there was plenty of time to think.  Doubt has been replaced by the surety of His love for me.  When and how did that change take place within me?  I cannot tell you; I do not know.

Love IS.  The force of it, the power, the strength, and the life of it stands.  It is not a scientific problem, a hypothesis, needing a series of experiments or tests to verify its validity. God is love.  That I now know.

The thought came from deep within, settling in the substance of my mind.  It was not like a leaf in the wind which whips by, then disappears, but rather, a statement, a fact.  When I am helping the grandgirls with homework, preparing for a test or reviewing math facts, I often tell them, “Answer me with a period not a question mark.”  That is what this was—a period:  “I am blessed.”

blessed:  having divine aid or protection or other blessing
blessing:  some kind of divine or supernatural aid

I am one who is most reticent when it comes to applying that word or any others with a spiritual connotation to myself and my life.  I spent much of my life saying words, with no substance and nothing to back them up.  “Words are cheap,” and I was the poster child bearing that out. 

However, that description has planted itself deep within me, and I find myself viewing my life through that lens, that of being blessed.  I continue to process it, but you’ll not find me, as many in the public eye do, standing on a podium making that statement.  Instead, it is permeating my being, becoming a part of me. 

My life, my existence is rich, and it is full—of life, relationship with my Father, of family and friends. 

And yes, my friend and I are now on common ground.  We are in agreement that there is a God, and He does love.  I am blessed. 

"Seek and you shall find." 

"On Homecoming and Timing"

The 15-year-old grandgirl suggested it--“Nana, you should write about it in your blog.  You talk all the time about perfect timing and how everything has a point and purpose.”  I could not believe my ears.  For those of you who frequent this blog you will note I haven’t written much about this grandgirl, because—well, because she’s 15, and she’s a girl.  The younger grandgirls delight in reading anecdotes about themselves and their daily lives; an accompanying picture makes it that much better.  This one, probably not so much and understandably so.  I double-checked to make certain she wasn’t just speaking in the passion of the moment, and I received her consent to do just that.

This is the one who made me a grandmother.  I lived with her family for a year and a half from the time she was 6 months old.  We were roommates, the two of us sharing a very small bedroom.  I was present for a long list of firsts—first baby immunizations, first steps, a first Christmas morning, a first birthday, a first trip to Disneyland.  She and I were both very early risers, so the early morning hours belonged to us.  It would not be stretching the truth to say we were part of a “mutual admiration society.”  

The day had included a lunch with several high school classmates in a small town north of where I live.  I knew I would have time to get some work done afterward so stuck my work clothes in the truck, planning on stopping by my daughter’s house on the way back home to change.  It was then just a short jaunt to the task of cutting back ivy.

It was the middle of the week, so I didn’t anticipate seeing my grandgirl, assuming she’d be in school.   I was informed, however, that she was upstairs.  “Helloooo,” I yelled up the staircase, “why aren’t you in school?”  The answer came down the stairs that it was a half-day.

“You’re here just in time,” my daughter said.  Inviting a girl to attend homecoming has gone to a whole other level.  A great deal of creativity and thought goes into extending the invitation, making it fun, personal, and unique.  A young man had called asking if he could come out; the rumor had been going around school that he was going to be the lucky guy to have my grandgirl as a date.  And I had arrived on site at the exact  time he was supposed to show up.

Her eyes are the first thing you notice when you see her, and then you see the smile.  You get the whole package all at once--a pop, a flash of  life.  These two have been good friends for quite a while, and I have no doubt he has been mesmerized.

She came down the stairs, having received a phone call and the request that she meet him out front.  I will always remember the excited look on her face, the anticipation she emanated as she walked out the door.  He had gone to a great deal of thought and trouble for this—a large poster board on which a message had been written, along with the request that she be his homecoming date.  A variety of candies had been incorporated, filling in the blanks.   

I was impressed.  I was also thrilled to be part of this time in my grandgirl’s life. 

After he left, we talked—about how perfect the timing was that I was able to be there.  That was when she said I needed to write about it.  I hugged her--more than once, telling her I didn’t know if I was happier for her having been invited by such a nice young man, or that I was able to witness it.  I think it is a toss-up.

I write often about the element of timing, probably because it is so much a part of my life.  "Not a moment too soon; not a moment too late."  My Heavenly Father gave me a gift today, a surprise.  Our experiences, our memories are exactly that--gifts.  And it is all about the timing.  I am a wealthy woman.

  

"On Things That Make Me Go 'Hmmm...'"

There is nothing earth-shattering, generally speaking, about things that make me go "Hmmm."  There are no fireworks, no fanfare or public announcement over speakers, no reason to share on Facebook or Twitter.  Instead, they are incidents which unexpectedly come out of nowhere, causing me to consider, think, and reflect. 

What kind of experience falls in this category, one that doesn’t necessarily provide answers or conclusions, a “lightbulb” moment of epiphany?  Rather, they leave me with a sense of wonderment and an awareness of design, synchronization, timing, and order which is completely separate from me and my schedule of events.  

We all have them; I know we do.  At times they impact us, other times they fade quickly, filed away with the many daily happenings of our lives. 

A friend is in the hospital, and I had picked up a card to send to her.  Recovery is going to take a while, so I wanted to get it in the mail, offering support.  The idea was to put it in the mailbox before I left for work.  Remembering I had left it in my truck, I went to retrieve it, but it was nowhere to be found.  Having only recently cleaned out the inside of my vehicle, I knew I had left it on the seat.  Searching high and low, it had virtually disappeared.

A stop by the store was in order to purchase a replacement card, and the original goal would be accomplished. 

A gentleman was walking towards me as I headed to the card section.  There was something familiar about him, and as I walked past a name passed through my mind.  After choosing another card, I headed towards the checkout counter.  Glancing down an adjacent aisle, I saw him once again and made the decision to approach.  “Excuse me, I think I know you,” as I spoke his name and revealed mine.  “Yes."  The name and the face were a match.

We had been neighbors up a little country road outside a small coastal town 30 years ago, and it had been that long since I had seen him.  Standing in the shampoo aisle of the store, we visited for quite a while.  We spoke of that period of time in life, events of happiness and sadness since then, and present circumstances.  He is once again my neighbor, living just a few miles away.

I paid for the card and headed for the truck.  As soon as I opened the door my eyes spotted the card which I was certain had vaporized and disappeared and no, it wasn’t even hiding from view.  I had overlooked it repeatedly in my search.

An unplanned trip to the store, a “chance” encounter--I don’t try to figure out or understand these types of experiences, the "Why?" of them.  The intricacy of detail, the way circumstances are lined up and fall into place, the choreography in order to place two people at the same place at the same time never ceases to fascinate and intrigue me.  

At the base of these is the fact that my life is not my own, that One greater than I is in charge.  These are the things that make me go, “Hmmm…”  These are also the things that give me hope and an anchor in the midst of this crazy, insane world that is exploding all around.   

"Stop! Stay! Come!"

It was a wonderful idea, a grand plan.  My daughter was working in Las Vegas for a week, and she suggested I fly down with the two grandgirls for the weekend.  She had a list of places to go to, things to see, and activities that were kid friendly.  The dates were set, plane reservations made, and it was set in motion.

The girls were excited and thrilled, for the most part.  The one exception was that the one I call the sparkly girl had a grave fear of airplane travel.  However, not wanting to stay behind and miss out on the possibility of a fun-filled weekend, she mustered up all the courage she had and consented, the prospect of seeing Mom at the end of the flight adding to her resolve.

Dad had allowed the girls to pack their own backpacks with the instructions that, since they would be carrying them, they needed to be a weight they could handle.  What wasn’t factored in on the test run--or walk--was the fact that carrying a backpack while walking around the living room is not the same as carrying it a distance through an airport, especially when you’re 5 years old.

Neither of the two adults in this situation did our own TSA check prior to leaving for the airport.  Had we done so, we would have discovered the little one had filled hers with books, a video game, and as much of her bedroom as possible.  I’m not sure she had packed a change of underwear or clothes, but she made certain she was going to be entertained.

I have parented four of my own children, but having the responsibility of my grandchildren on such a trek was something completely different.  I haven’t figured out what the difference is, but it weighed heavily on me from the beginning, delivering this precious cargo to their mother.

We had just got through the doors, heading into the airport terminal when I knew I was in trouble.  I was just hoping I wasn’t in over my head.  This wasn’t even a large group, just two little girls! The older one was a sprinter, striding ahead towards God-knows-where and-what; the younger one a lagger, sight-seeing along the way as though she had all the time in the world. 

I explained the importance of staying together, and I’m sure they heard me.  At least they seemed to be listening.  Life in action is a whole other story, though, isn’t it?

The flying experience of this grandmother and her two grandgirls very quickly reached the point of monosyllabic communication, that of “Stop!  Stay!  Come!”--the first two directives spoken rather loudly at the one who was heading out, the latter at the one who was trailing.  When we had once again become a group of three, we would continue on. 

At some point the little one trailing behind expressed how heavy her backpack was.  When I offered to carry it for her I realized the truth of what she said.  The weight of all those books made it a load, even for me.

This scene played out over and over as we made our way towards the plane.  Laughter soon took over as they knew what was coming, what to expect as our group of three spread out.  At one point the sparkly one asked, “Grandma, is 'Stop!  Stay!  Come!' the only thing you know how to say?”  I explained to her that it was the only way I could get their attention, that talking to them was ineffective.  She giggled.

I am this same way with God at times. Sprinting out with my own plans, my own way, He can try communicating with me, but when dealing with headstrong determination it is futile. And so He says, “Stop!  Stay.”  With no place for me to go, no other options I concede and wait.  Other times I drag my feet, resisting a path or a direction He has laid out. Once I have reconciled and understood that His way is the better way, then He says, “Come!,” and the two of us head off once again.  As with my grandgirls, the base is love.

Sometimes I find myself wondering how I am going to be remembered when life in this form has come to an end.  I have no doubt that for two of my grandgirls that memory will be condensed into three words—“Stop!  Stay!  Come!”