Oh I Remember Now

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You know that feeling when something’s on the tip of your tongue? It’s right there. It is. But you just can’t identify it at the moment. The good thing is that what we’re trying to recall really is there in our memory, and if it’s not tangible at the moment – well – it’s in this pile of mind matter somewhere!

That experience actually has a name. Lethologica, not to be confused with Lothonomia which has to do with not recalling a correct name. Both are derived from Greek mythology: the river Lethe in Hades was thought to cause oblivion or forgetfulness of the past.

The past. We focus a lot on the present; maybe even the future. Who wouldn’t, the times being what they are? Yet if we neglect the past, we are certain to stumble around as if we’ve lost our balance. Because that’s exactly what we do when we forget where we came from, what we stand for, and who (and Whose) we are.

If you are a Deist, you believe God exists, but that He isn’t involved in world affairs. In the “hallowed” halls of academia, some folks teach that America’s Founding Fathers believed that. However, it’s flat out false.

Those brave men used the Holy Bible in writing the Declaration of Independence, including references to our Creator giving us unalienable rights and nature’s law, that God is the Supreme Judge and that He protects us. They relied on the work of John Locke, Two Treatises of Government. If you read it, you will discover the Bible is cited over 1500 times. 

In addition to those courageous souls who pledged their “lives, fortunes, and sacred honor”, many after them have relied on God for wisdom, direction, and protection. You’ve heard the phrase “there are no atheists in foxholes”. That’s because deep down most people know that their very breath comes from the breath of God, Himself. By the way, those soldiers in foxholes might not take kindly to the carelessness with which we now live out, or I should add give up, our freedoms.

If we investigate efforts to revise American history, such as the 1619 Project, we find an erroneous claim being pushed; a narrative that the United States was not founded on noble principles, but evil ones; anti-liberty, not pro-liberty. No, I don’t know how they explain “with liberty and justice for all” in our nation’s Pledge of Allegiance. Take heart. The 1776 Commission calls on us to fight against that false narrative and those like it, such as Critical Race Theory. Of all the ridiculous things it teaches, one is to put people in boxes according to skin color, sex, etc – in essence, teaching racism, sexism, and social statism in a repackaged system. Some people fall for it. Please don’t be one.

So while we get up out of our La-Z-Boy and rummage around the library and internet looking for real history, not rewritten history, we would do well to remember, too, the history we’re living out this minute and those who gave their lives so that we are free to do so. Oh, my friends, cherish it. And that thing on the tip of your tongue? It’s called Memorial Day. But then you knew that.

Dictionary.com; https://truthandliberty.net/ Evidence Shows The Biblical Foundations of Our Nation by Richard Harris

The Day After Mother’s Day

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A tiny voice at her bedside whispered, “I had a bad dream”. Opening her eyes, she held out her arms and helped her little one into bed with her. As he snuggled and fell fast asleep, she ran through a list of things the coming day held.

 

After waiting for her little fashionista to choose the day’s clothes, then change her mind – twice – she helped the parts of getting dressed that little hands could not quite manage. A glance at her watch told her there would be just enough time for a dawdling breakfast and another change of clothes before preschool.

She pulled her jacket closer as she watched tee-ball practice on a cold May morning. The excitable players threw balls that managed to land halfway to their destination, swing bats at a batting tee, and run as fast a short legs could carry them. She opened her large bag to doublecheck the after-game snacks she had brought. Yes, there would be just enough.

An irritated voice shouted from the bedroom. Her heart wanted to give way, but she stood her ground. Make-up at this age would pave the path for the next life step to be premature. The morning promised a sullen breakfast and silent car ride to school.

 

Tears and despair. She’d heard stories about this particular class. Leaning over, she asked, “Could you do it this way?” NO! came the hopeless answer. Why was math even a thing?

 

 

Car lights shown down the street as she watched them light the late night dark. They passed by the house. It wasn’t her. She sat down again. She was glad the Good Lord never slept and that He was up at this time of night as she prayed over her fears. Car lights flashed on the wall and the sound of a car in the driveway diminished her worry. She picked up a book and pretended to be engrossed in it as her child crossed the threshold on the dot of curfew.

 

“Remember, stop if you get too tired. It’s a long trip.” Her son gave her a goodbye hug. She could feel his college road trip excitement and held back her tears until his car disappeared down the street.

 

 

“Mom? I just thought I’d call and wish you a Happy Mother’s Day. Sorry I’m late! Did you do anything special?”

Anything special? She pondered the question. No. Nothing special at all.

 

Images: pexels-anna-shvets-3845456-2.jpg; pexels-kelvin-octa-1096141-1-scaled.jpg; pexels-pixabay-207756-scaled.jpg; pexels-masha-raymers-3721098-scaled.jpg; pexels-tatiana-twinslol-5444918-scaled.jpg; pexels-adrianna-calvo-4615136-scaled.jpg

Living in Monet

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Claude Monet was the founder of French Impressionist painting, also known as Impressionism, in the late 1800s to early 1900s. With a grocery-store owner father and a mother who was a trained singer, I imagine he had a little bit of practicality mixed in with his artistic abilities. Although . . . and maybe this is just me . . . oh who are we kidding? Rembrandt, Vermeer, Gauguin, Van Gogh, Wagner, Sibelius, Debussy, Puccini . . . let’s stop now before we join them in their depression. Have you ever noticed that the artistic temperament in such a person usually wins out? C’est la vie. Actually, someone called Monet’s painting style “Impression” with the intention of disparaging it. Little did the critic know that name would become a badge of honor. By the 1920’s, cataracts affected his vision, but he continued to paint. They say cataracts affected how he perceived colors. Although he was no stranger to poverty, today his paintings hang in museums the world over.

Compare his artistry with that of more defined and deeply colored art by Michael Wagner or Georgia O’Keeffe. We certainly don’t have to guess what their paintings are; that is to say, the lines are more sharply delineated and colors clear. And, as I’m writing, I’m thinking of yet unknown but very talented artists such as Stacy Andrews Inglorian, who is skilled in various mediums, and maybe even Tricia Schield, who shows great promise.

I don’t know much about art, but we all know a thing or two about impressions. It used to be that when we read something, we could be fairly certain of its veracity. Except we couldn’t. We just thought we could. We were under the impression that news-bearers were truthful. Now we can read or listen to any number of information sources and at the end of the seemingly reasonable item or news still ask ourselves whether it was true. Or, at least, what parts of it were true.

For instance, when I first heard that “they” (who I guessed was the medical establishment, perhaps big pharma; and some of you will think deep state) had been keeping treatments and cures from the population, it seemed believable. Hold back the cure, and reap continual drug profits. If you have no moral standard, it makes sense. I hoped such cures would be revealed soon. Who doesn’t want a cure for diabetes, Parkinsons, or cancer? Bring on the wonder drugs! Then I started hearing more curious things about suppression of treatment. I unfollowed a podcast that talked about medbeds (not the medbeds that alert the nursing station to a patient’s need, but medbeds that can provide cell-regeneration and healing without surgery or drugs) because it seemed to me to be the stuff of sci-fi. But information continued. And one day last week, a fellow who works in the pharmaceutical industry and who I’ve found to be level-headed and trustworthy talked about them. He went on to say there are other, smaller devices, too. Imagine your doctor scanning you with a hand-held device and receiving healing then and there! Oh I know what you’re thinking. I thought it, too. But I’m going to keep watching and listening.
In the matter of the 2020 election, there is all sorts of information and impressions to form. Who won? Who really won? Why is a prominent news network so upset about an audit in Arizona? Who wouldn’t want to make certain a vote was true and sure and not finagled? Why in the world is the federal government trying to insert themselves into a state’s authority? And yet information about it is flying fast and furious. No, not that fast and furious. Well, maybe that, too.
What about the latest virus? Or masks? Or treatment? Or immunization? What about the New World Order, the Bilderbergers, the Trilateral Commission, or the Committee of 300? What about the Rapture? Or Great Tribulation? Or mark of the beast? Or thousand year reign of Christ? What are we to believe?
         

 

We find ourselves in more of a Monet painting than that of O’Keeffe. While I like both artists, I’d rather have the lines I live in well-delineated and colors clear. The truth will set us free, after all. But we are not free, and we are not living in those times. We are living in Monet. And it is our responsibility to keep searching for truth regardless of disparaging critics.

https://www.claudemonetgallery.org/biography.html; https://www.biography.com/artist/claude-monet; https://www.therichest.com/poorest-list/10-famous-artists-that-died-penniless/; https://www.classical-music.com/ https://fineartamerica.com/art/bright+colors; stacylynnandrewsfineart on Instagram; pexels-harrison-macourt-6599771.jpg; https://americaoutloud.com/the-quantum-healing-technologies-of-med-beds/; pexels-photo-356056.jpeg; https://www.nationalreview.com/2016/01/fast-furious-obama-first-scandal/; AZAudit.org; DominoesFalling-medium.gif; pexels-pixabay-221164.jpg; pexels-download-a-pic-donate-a-buck-^-54379.jpg; Iron Mountain Report; Revelation 13:16-17; Revelation 20; Micah 4:1-7, 5:4-5; John 8:31-32; The painting on this blog post is not Monet, but it reminded me of him. It is by: nick-fewings-FRM8_MzE_YQ-unsplash.jpg 

Tigers’ Milk

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You haven’t been exhausted lately, have you? There’s nothing about a year of “I can’t believe this” added to “what now?” on top of “I didn’t think it could get any worse” that saps the energy right out of you, is there? Me too. Not that me too, just the run-of-the-mill me too. Last week I decided to resurrect something I used when I was birthin’ babies. It’s from a book my own mother gave me and though I, of course, (being a normal daughter who knew more than her mother) favored more current information, I depended on a recipe from the book called TIgers’ Milk. For those of you who are bothered by the placement of the apostrophe, I can’t help you. That’s how it’s written. The writer apparently believed more than one person would read her book. Add it to your 2021 list of disgust and disbelief, if you like. At any rate, if you drink this on a regular basis, it might give you renewed energy, even if it doesn’t make you a tiger mom. Mind you, I’m not making promises. I’m simply sharing an idea.

Tigers’ Milk

Beat together: 1-2 c. skim milk

1/2 c. powdered skim milk

1-4 heaping Tbsp brewers’ yeast

1-3 tsp blackstrap molasses

Add to the remainder of a quart of milk (which is 2 c.)

You will have a quart total.

Now sit down – no, don’t stand at the sink – sit down and enjoy it if you can. (Depending on how much Brewer’s Yeast you use, it could have a bit of a kick.) Don’t turn on the mainstream media anything. Ask the Good Lord above what He has for you to do today. Ready? You’ve got this! Go get ’em, Tiger!

Tigers’ milk recipe in Let’s Have Healthy Children by Adelle Davis, Harcourt, Brace and Co.: New York, 1951; Tiger mom is a phrase coined by Yale Law School professor Amy Chua in Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, 2011; image: pexels-ryutaro-tsukata-6249388.jpg

Beauty Is In The Eye of the Beholder – So Is Justice

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Dim sunlight filtered through the haze of a day that held the scent of rain. Quiet waves whispered their barely perceptible sound to the sandy shore while a chipmunk foraged in last fall’s matted leaves. It was there – in a large mass, hardened by rain, wind, and cold – that she found it.

The chipmunk dug into the leaves, pulling them apart, and tugged at it – still shiny in its plastic packet – then, finding it too heavy, yet too delightful to abandon, dragged it to a bush under which she disappeared. She traveled slowly, pushing and pulling her treasure through her burrow’s path until she reached an impressive stash of nuts and seeds, berries and mushrooms. She placed her new acquisition alongside of the rest. Chipping with satisfaction, she nudged her jellybean-sized pups, still too blind to see what the excitement was about.

It was here. I know it was, he mumbled to himself. He’d stolen it from an employer last fall and hidden it just to be sure he wouldn’t be blamed. Now that winter was past and his job was, too, he’d cash it in. No one could outsmart him.

And two little eyes peered out at him from underneath a bush.

Images: pexels-sam-forson-987967.jpg; pexels-michael-steinberg-321464.jpg; “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”, attributed to Margaret Hungerford in her novel Molly Bawn, 1878; “Justice, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.” Zora Neale Hurston

Teaser of My Next Book

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Here’s a peek at the first page of a project I’m working on: the sequel to Mrs. Covington’s Sunday School Dropouts. I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 1

We’d all like to see into the future, Colin. But we rarely consider whether we’d actually like what we see, which is why the hope and a future scripture in Jeremiah that everyone is so fond of might not turn out quite like we imagine.

 

“Yes?”

“Oh, hello. I don’t believe we’ve spoken since Andi’s Christmas party! Ha. Just a second . . .”

Cathy grabbed a BB gun from the broom closet, kicked the screen door open with her foot, and took the shot.

“Get him?”

Harry made whining noises and Cathy let him out.

“Heh heh. I do have some luck once in awhile. What can I do for you Police Chief Jasper?”

“Why don’t you put the gun away and sit down.”

“Wha . . . why?” Cathy peered out the window, then set the BB gun back in its rack just inside the broom closet. “Is it Andi? Oh my dear. She said she was having lunch with you sometime this week. Is she okay?!”

“Are you sitting down?”

A chair scraped across the floor as Cathy pulled it out and sat down.

The chief cleared his throat.

“We’ve discovered something in the matter of your husband, Perry’s, disappearance. When would you be available to come down to the station to go over some things?”

Cathy patted her chest. Her heart’s thumping could surely be heard through the phone lines.

“Now! I can come now!”

“Or tomorrow morning?”

“Oh. Okay?’

“Okay. Check in at the front doors, and they’ll direct you to the proper office.”

“I’ll be there first thing. Thank you . . .”

“Thank you,” Jasper replied as he hung up.

Cathy looked at the phone still in her hand, and brushed a tear away.

Image: pexels-anna-khomutova-5706336.jpg; Mrs’ Covington’s . . . (c.) 2021, Connie Pease, All Rights Reserved

Think Again

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There is a desperation in the darkness; a kind of hopeless sadness. We – many of us – have experienced that place where our breath stops temporarily without our notice and gladness is far from our grasp. Where heartache melts into emptiness. Where questions have no answers and no words can express what hurt cannot speak. Happy memories are muted. Dreams dashed.

It is, perhaps, the place the disciples found themselves on that very dark day we call Good Friday. It had been a few glorious years of soaking in more wisdom and understanding than they had thought possible in a lifetime! Witnessing the delightful unbelievable! Hoping and planning for a revisitation – no, better – of the kingdom of David, Israel’s greatest king! And they were living it!

It all fell to pieces in a weekend. And here they were – together, because they couldn’t bear it alone and because he had taught them well. They were carrying on, but they were afraid and they were hiding. Jesus was crucified. What if they were next? And then.

Mary burst through the door talking so fast, they had trouble understanding her. But Peter and John were out the door like a shot. They were out of breath as they reached the tomb, the tomb with the heavy boulder rolled from the entrance. Mary couldn’t have done that. They, themselves, weren’t strong enough to do it. They peered inside, then stepped through the opening and their breath caught at the sight of folded grave clothes. And something more: no doubt it was an angel. He is not here. He is risen as He said. They heard the angel’s voice, but . . . expectations are funny things. They can blind you, if you let them. Mary’s claims rang in their minds as they fought back with logic. It couldn’t be.

But it was. Oh it was!

The world spins on its axis. Seasons arrive on a fixed schedule as do day and night. We know that when someone is very, very ill, there is little chance of recovery. When someone dies, there is none.

And yet. And yet, the God who set planets, moons, and stars in the heavens is the same God who is present with us. You think miracles are for children’s stories? Think again.

Image: zac-durant-_6HzPU9Hyfg-unsplash.jpg

 

Of All the Times for This to Happen

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Of all the times for this to happen. Passover is my favorite holiday: a week of recalling God’s mercy on His enslaved people, envisioning the death angel examining the doorposts for lamb’s blood and passing over those who had it as their protection. And, of course, since it was close to that time, we remember about them escaping through a sea that God actually parted. A sea! Split! You might as well expect a boulder to break apart or a dead man to live again. It just doesn’t happen. And to top it off, the army chasing them got stuck. Run aground in the sea. It’s as hard to envision as – say – an evergreen growing in the desert. It can happen, sure; but it’s hardly likely. The Red Sea event can give you goosebumps if you close your eyes and imagine it.

We are painfully acquainted with the Roman method of torture and execution. Sometimes we see crosses planted along the road with criminals in various stages of dying hanging from them. It’s a form of torture for us, too, in a way. A reminder of who’s in charge and what could happen if you say or do the wrong thing. Pax Romana is peace at the point of a spear. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t say that in public. But I’m not the only one who thinks it.

Jesus was – well – he was perfect. He was funny and creative and compassionate and strong and smart and a deep-thinker. Perfect. He had a way of teaching us that made us feel like God was right there with us. He said that, you know. That he was God’s son. And some of us actually believed such an unbelievable claim. I would’ve followed that man to the ends of the earth.

And as his following was increasing exponentially, they pounced. Those Pharisees. Those law teachers. They paid one of the guys who were with him all of the time to turn him in. And that scum of the earth did it. For money. For MONEY. Jesus didn’t care about money. He cared about a larger than life mission. He wouldn’t have done something just for money. For love, maybe, but not money.

And now? He’s dead. They took him and gave him a bogus trial and whipped him and hanged him! On a cross! It was brutal. I won’t describe it. Some things are better unspoken. But I’ll see it for the rest of my days. I’ll dream it for the rest of my nights.

Passover: A lesson in obedience despite fear. A tutorial in trust. God’s amazing rescue plan. But now? Like I said. Of all the times for this to happen.

Images: fanpop.jpg; Pixabay-cc-cross-78000_640.jpg

If Jesus . . .

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https://animoto.com/play/4OSejdHrzg12254jdbBwaA

Sometimes (cont.)

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Sometimes light increases so gradually you didn’t notice it grew. It holds things you’re not sure exist and, if they do, it seems beyond your fortune to encounter. You squint, then once more to secure vision that will not come. It is a light far brighter than you realized as you lived your life unconsciously, uncaringly, unknowingly. Truth is a terrible word because it promises revelation of all that is good and bad. For all. You are startled at the probability it will touch you, too. But this is the time, dear friends, right here and now, that we must be brave. We must stand firm. We cannot wait for someone to do for us what we must do for ourselves and for each other. Now is not the time for sleep. It is not the time for distraction or dreaming. It is the time to stand in whatever way you find to do so. And, after having done all, stand.

Sometimes light increases so gradually,

You didn’t notice it grew;

Until you find you must squint to see

In a light more bright than you knew.

Startled, you frown as you look around

Trying to see in the blaze

And wonder just what was once hidden, unknown,

Will be open to everyone’s gaze.

We wander, my friend, to an uncertain end

With unsteady step as we go;

When hope is desire and desire is claimed

By forces unseen and unknown.

But onward we press. We must – with brave hearts –

Because if we don’t, who will?

One thing we know as we travel below:

Duty, honor, country must prevail.

Scripture: Ephesians 6:13; Images: zac-durant-_6HzPU9Hyfg-unsplash.jpg; Pexels-Videos-1433307-butterfly.mp4; pexels-tinthia-clemant-1557208-butterfly-2.jpg; Let-us-run-with-endurance.jpg; http-pixabay.com-en-eagle-america-flag-bird-symbol-219679.jpg;