Another P.S.

For those of you who faithful friends who watch out for my very blotchy posting record, I will continue to use this blog for my five months in Honduras--that is, when the time and internet connections allow.

Some choose to begin a new blog to chronicle their missionary experiences, and yet I believe that to separate this journey from the tale of my life would be to sever it from all that has led up to it and leave it dangling, cold and vulnerable, for the owls to snatch.

Exquisitely Guided and a Winged Horse

It is hard to believe that I have spent the last fifteen-and-a-half years in school, and nearly as difficult to realize that the thirty-first half will be completed as soon as I turn in one last, finished assignment this morning.

And that will be it for now, for the next five months, unless one counts a sixteen hour drive home in the snow as the final test of the semester.

A month from today I board my first commercial flight as I leave Boston, MA for Honduras, flying to a land of Spanish and guava fruit and scanty communication, and beginning my post-school life before my schooling itself is finished. Am I frightened to embark thus? Well, perhaps, but only as jittery as any one might be while on a runaway horse that has promised not to kill you and yet is racing at full speed toward a cliff. I have chosen to believe that the Horse has wings.

A Question

Does God grow us in straight line, ever onward toward one end like the sleet pelting against ones nose and backback,

or does He nurture us more in a circling pattern like the first snow flakes of the season tickling the tree branches, teaching us to revisit old thoughts in a new manner and learn anew from past experiences,

or does He gently mist His will and His purity upon us like an autumn rain, only in such amounts that we will be able to bear it,

or does there have to be one answer?

Sometimes I am as confused as the weather was today.

Out the Window

If she meets you in the bathroom

with a sad look on her face,

and a yellow shoe in each hand

dangling from a long white lace,

And she tells you that she's washed them

but the stain can still be seen

and they're really, really wet now,

and she can't remove her screen,

Then open up your window, friend,

And let the shoes hang out,

In company of the golden tree,

And the wind all whistling about.

If she takes the long thin laces white

And ties them in knot

And, coolly, on the hinges there,

she drops those shoes she bought,

And she tells you that she'll leave them there

a-drying in the sun,

until no water droplets drip,

from soles or yellow tongues,

Then open up your window, friend,

and let the shoes hang out,

in the company of the golden tree

and the wind all whistling about.

Old 100 After One Hundred Musings

The number 100 plunges into my brain and triumphantly hauls out a memory or two...

Here's blond Natalie, standing beside her project that was required to be made out of one hundred "somethings." This time, the "somethings" were eggs and she spent days blowing out the gooey innards.

And Dad used to count to one hundred so speedily when we were playing hide and seek out in the woods that I couldn't rightly hear each number, but of course I knew that he wasn't cheating.

Then there's Gramdma, standing at the front of the little Drewsville, NH stone church, her Bible spread out before her. "I will be reading Psalm a hundred," she says with a smile. And she begins: "Shout joyfully to the LORD, all the earth. Serve the LORD with gladness, come before Him with Joyful singing...

For one hundred posts I have been trying to do that, trying to serve Him through memory, through song, through creativity, through experience, through being me. And He is yet there, much more consistent than my scanty and forgetful musings. He is beyond the regularity of my studies and the enthusiams of my inspirations. And He is much, much more faithful even than the 100th hymn that I sing far too infrequently:

"Great is thy faithfulness, oh God my Father
There is no shadow of turning with thee
Thou changest not, thy compassions they fail not
As Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be.


"Summer and winter and springtime and harvest
Sun, moon, and stars in their courses above
Join with all nature in manifold witness
To Thy great faithfulness, mercy, and love.


"Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide
Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow
Blessings all mine with ten thousand beside.


"Great is thy faithfulness, great is thy faithfulness
Morning by morning new mercies I see
All I have need Thy hand has provided
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me."