One of my young granddaughters has been really getting into doing her own hair, curling it, taking care of it, letting it grow so beautifully. It made me remember how a few years back when she was still pretty little, she got her hands on some scissors and cut her own hair. It was not a happy occasion. Her parents had decided to let her hair (and bangs) grow out back then, and it was getting past that awkward stage when the bangs were too long to be worn on the forehead but too short to do anything with. Her hair had started to grow long and was looking so pretty. Then one day she chopped away at it, and her mama had to try to salvage what she had done, and bangs had to be cut once again.

That brought back to me a hair memory from my youth. When I was growing up my mom had a thing about long, stringy hair. And bangs. She disliked both. If my hair grew to shoulder length and fell down in my face for an instant, she’d say “Get that hair out of your face.” My mom was a very loving person and she didn’t say it unkindly, but I grew up in the sixties, and long hair stood for something back then. And what it stood for wasn’t something my conservative parents wanted their youngest child to be associated with in any way, shape or form.

My mom also had a thing about permanents. She thought they were adorable, especially on little girls. I didn’t really agree with her, but when you’re five years old you’re still forming your own opinions and ways in which to express them, so I never said, “Mom, can we talk? I don’t really want you to give me a Toni Home Permanent Wave. I want to grow my hair long and have pigtails and braids, okay?” I probably should have taken that route. Instead of obedience and/or diplomacy, I whined and pouted, and then took matters into my own hands.

My first permanent was when I was five years old, in preparation for a big event — my kindergarten school picture. My mom’s good friend Mabel, who was also her hairdresser (we didn’t call people stylists back then), put a tight, smelly permanent in my shoulder-length hair, and my mom thought it looked pretty darn cute. I must have thought it looked pretty darn awful. We have no pictures of me with that first perm, because that very night when my mother went to work (she was a professional organist) and my oldest brother Larry was babysitting me, I quietly slunk to my room, took my little turquoise blunt-end scissors and hacked all those curls off.

The next morning when I appeared in the kitchen for my Cheerios and milk, my mother was stupefied by the sight of my mangy look and was understandably quite upset. I remember a lot of muttering on her part, a scolding from my father, a sharply wielded hair brush as Mom tried to make my hair look presentable, and my loud sniveling crying.

1962 – Kindergarten

Here’s the Kodak memorial to the rebellion against my first perm at age five.

I actually think my kindergarten hairstyle pretty much resembles the one I have now, except I don’t wear plastic barrettes anymore and I actually pay someone money to give me the moth-eaten look.

1962 was also the year I had my tonsils and adenoids out and began a years-long trend of what my parents called “talking through my nose.” Because of the complications of the surgery, I also had the added problem of liquids sometimes running out of my nose as I drank them. Yes, I was a child of many unique talents.

Anyway, back to the subject of hair. By the time I was in junior high school I put my inner foot firmly down about short hair and perms. I decided to let my hair grow fairly long and I kept it that way, or at least past my shoulders, until I was in my thirties.

When this kindergarten photo fell out of a memento folder I was going through last week, I sat down and studied it for a few minutes, and so many memories came flooding back.

Warm and golden Southern California days, a little red bicycle with training wheels, my teacher Mrs. Staton playing the piano and singing “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” playing “store” with neighborhood friends, brothers ten and fifteen years older than I, learning to swim at The Covina Plunge, our epileptic, rock-fetching dog named Dutchess, playing hopscotch almost every day, our behemoth Buick station wagon with California license plates JDT 043, my father coaching high school basketball and watching Perry Mason, my mother playing the Hammond B-3 organ and ironing shirts, my stoic grandparents Bud and Oma and our Sunday visits to their house.

Now I’m a grandparent myself and I have kindergarten photos of my own dear grandchildren in my office, bedroom and wallet. I show them to anyone who’s polite enough to act interested in seeing them. How do I say that time flies without sounding trite and clichéd? I don’t know, but I’ll try anyway. Time zooms, it rockets, and I’ve gone from being a vulnerable, trusting, slightly moth-eaten and headstrong five year-old to being a vulnerable, trusting, slightly moth-eaten and headstrong sixty-six year-old. In what seems like about seventeen days.

I guess I’m steeping myself in nostalgia lately. I sort of like the sound of that phrase – nostalgia steeping. This morning one of my friends asked me what I had planned today and I gave her the list. I should have answered her, “I’ll probably do a little paperwork, some housecleaning, some grocery shopping, and quite a bit of nostalgia steeping.”

Hello friends. After one of the hottest, most humid summers on record, I have been savoring the cool, dry fall weather that finally arrived. Never have I spent so much time in my air conditioned house. I rode my e-bike once, took two walks in the cemetery, and just generally reinforced my natural homebody inclinations so strongly I wondered if I’d become a true recluse.

But now the glory of autumn has lifted my spirits and made me yearn to gaze at all the colors around me. All I have to do is stand in my bedroom, and no matter which window I look through, there’s a scarlet tree blazing across the street, and there’s a neon orange tree in the neighbor’s back yard. A cathedral of glowing yellow all the way down that road. I can’t get enough. Years ago I went to New England with Michael during the fall with our dear friends Su and Danny, and I don’t remember the legendary colors being as much to write home about as humble Duluth’s are.

Lloyd and I celebrated four years of marriage earlier this month and drove up the Gunflint Trail via Grand Marais, MN to one of our favorite places, Bearskin Lodge. We stayed in a different cabin this year, deeper into the woods and more private, and the logs were massive. Here’s a picture from their website so you can see the kitchen wall logs:

And here’s the living room with the stone fireplace. Lloyd built a roaring fire each evening and we read to each other, listened to music and talked. There are no televisions at Bearskin, which is such a blessing.

We stayed three nights. We walked through the trails in the woods of the Lake Superior National Forest, saw a red fox dart by, sat by East Bearskin Lake on our cabin’s dock, drove to the end of the winding Gunflint Trail and had a picnic overlooking a shimmering lake before a storm blew in and sent us scurrying for the car. And we rested. I made a big pot of Autumn Soup beforehand and we had that for dinner each night, with sour dough bread and salad. I told Lloyd I know that some people are ocean or water people; their happy place is as close to a blue horizon of water as they can be. I love water too, especially Lake Superior, our vast inland sea. But I am a tree person. If I’m in the woods I feel most at rest, most in awe, deep in wonder. I could have lived in that cabin for the rest of my life. I would have changed the decor just a tiny bit, but the bones and setting were perfect.

After we returned home (and how in the world did four years go by since we got married, we both wondered?) I felt the gratitude of having a house I love and settled right in to unpacking and doing laundry. My walls are plaster and not log, but sitting in my own living room makes me happy as well. Here’s a little view. My mismatched ways please my sensibilities.

Here’s a tree that thrilled me at the cemetery where Michael is buried, and where I will be someday, right next to him. I think my favorite trees in autumn are always the ones in transition. Still green, but also orange and yellow.

I am in transition too, still selfish and lazy, yet also trying to bless and serve my family in ways I can, praying more than I ever have, with His help. I hope when the Lord looks upon my heart, He sees that I too want to leave the old behind and reflect His beauty and power in some way. I tell Him all the time, “Lord, thank you for not giving up on me.” If I were Him, I would have said lights out to me long ago, but His patience and kindness have never failed to humble and astound me.

Have you ever watched “The Incredible Dr. Pol,” on television? I don’t know where else it might be available, but I’m watching it on Disney+ and I love it. At night when I finish my chores/paperwork/puttering, I put on my plaid flannel nightgown and watch a couple of episodes. I also just finished the new season of “Unforgotten,” on Masterpiece Theater on PBS. I read the Mitford series by Jan Karon years ago and loved them, so about a month ago I downloaded them all on Audible and have been listening to a chapter or two each night before I sleep. The narrator is great, and the simple goodness and winsomeness of those books nourishes me. I also just finished reading Barbara Jenkins’ new book So Long As It’s Wild, and so enjoyed it. She walked across a huge portion of America with her ex-husband Peter Jenkins years ago, and is finally telling her story about it.

My daughter Sharon’s first book has a release date — September 17, 2024, which is so exciting. I haven’t read one word of what she wrote, and I can’t wait to open the cover and settle in. Maybe she will autograph it for me. She has been so busy with her podcast, teaching on Instagram (I learn more from her than I ever did from any history or civics teacher), and a recent trip to a Utah university to speak to several thousand people. I’m proud of all she does without a doubt, but I still look at her and see every stage of her life in one streaking flash, all the things she taught me, and she is my very precious daughter. The one who made me a mama.

My daughter Carolyn is busy as a wife and mother of seven children. Hannah Joy went to heaven in 2017 so we still say she’s truly the mother of eight. She and Jeremy are slowly preparing for two new vocations, which I will share about someday, and that’s very exciting for them. She has popular TikTok and Instagram accounts which document all they’ve done on their new old house. Every time I see the latest project I’m shocked at the dramatic changes they’ve brought about. She also makes me so proud of her gifts and talents, her patience, and listening and friendship skills, her quiet strength. But I still look at Carolyn and see her life from birth to toddlerhood to the teen years and beyond, and she is my very precious daughter, and always will be.

My daughter Sara graduated from nursing school last summer with honors, and is now employed as an RN in a long term care facility where people need the love she has always had for older people, for disadvantaged souls, for those most in need. She works hard and feels deeply, desiring to give the best care while guarding peoples’ dignity, and I’m so proud of her. Sara has fortitude and resilience I’ve never had, and is one of the most creative people I know. She has decorated her new apartment beautifully and knows how to bring order and beauty into any setting. But I still look at her and recall how she took my breath away when I gave birth to her at home, and all the seasons of her life surge by in my memory, and she is my very precious daughter.

As I pause and turn to look out the sliding glass door to my left in my office, I see leaves scattered over the roof of my neighbors’ little sagging garage, and the half bare, half blazing tree above it. I see the chickadees who are the frequent flyers of my area, taking their turns at the feeder that hangs from my roof. I see a gray sky that looks more like November than October. I see a squirrel climbing the wooden fence, twitching his tail on the way to wherever he has hidden his stash. And the fact that I see at all, in spite of a bothersome floater in my left eye, the beginning of cataracts, and the blurry vision that is no longer fully corrected by my powerful glasses, is a gift.

I tell the Lord, I see, Father. Thank you. Teach me your ways as I look at your creation. Help me to never take your handiwork for granted. Help me trust your faithfulness in and for each one I love. Change me Lord… as my own leaves begin to fall, help me keep reaching for you, putting roots down deep, and standing still in your glory and love.

I love and often sorely need anything that helps me regain perspective on God’s majesty, hugeness and power.

1  O LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is your name in all the earth!
You have set your glory
above the heavens.

² From the lips of children and infants
you have ordained praise
because of your enemies,
to silence the foe and the avenger.

³ When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,

⁴ what is man that you are mindful of him,
the son of man that you care for him?

⁵ You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings
and crowned him with glory and honor.

⁶ You made him ruler over the works of your hands;
you put everything under his feet:

⁷ all flocks and herds,
and the beasts of the field,

⁸ the birds of the air,
and the fish of the sea,
all that swim the paths of the seas.

⁹ O LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is your name in all the earth!

Psalm 8

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

May God give a blessing to this house.
God bless this house from roof to floor,
from wall to wall,
from end to end,
from its foundation and in its covering.
In the strong name of the triune God,
all disturbance cease,
captive spirits freed,
God’s Spirit alone
dwell within these walls.

We call upon the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit
to save, shield, and surround
this house, this home,
this day, this night,
and every night.

*        *        *        *        *        *        *         *         *         *

I read this prayer last night and something inside of me leaped up and shouted “Yes! Yes! For my home, for my family, for my neighbors, for my friends, for this city, for this country, for the world…yes!”

So today I share these simple but powerful words and pray them for my home, for the homes of those I love, for your home and for the homes of your loved ones.

In Jesus’ name, amen.

God bless your home…

In Jesus’s day, a sower first scattered the seed, then plowed it under. No matter how unpromising the landscapes of our hearts, Jesus can transform them into good soil with the living rain of God’s mercy, and a plowshare fashioned from the wood of the cross.

Let us pray for the willingness to welcome His saving work.

~~The Magnificat, July 2023

(from the archives…)

Once upon a time there was a family who lived in the woods. They were the Buehler family. Herr Buehler was a woodsman, and he worked hard from sunup until sundown cutting down trees in the thick forest and then lovingly and painstakingly fashioning the lumber into beautiful pieces of furniture for the village people to buy.

Frau Buehler liked to be at home, and she kept busy baking bread for her family and knitting wool mittens and socks to sell, to help keep broth and bread on the table. Herr Buehler was responsible for keeping meat on the table – sometimes while working in the woods he would shoot a large buck and thank God for the provision to feed his family.

The Buehlers had three sons: Wilhelm, Dietmar and Jakob. Frau Buehler taught her sons how to read, and when winter came to the forest many nights found the family sitting in front of the blazing hearth reading books aloud, including the Good Book. Wilhelm grew into a tall young man, married a village girl and they started a family of their own in a city three days’ journey from their home in the woods. Dietmar loved music and had spent many hours yodeling to the sky as he did his chores and dreamed of singing in the Munich opera. Young Jakob had a tender heart and loved to stay close to his mother’s apron as she baked and knitted and read aloud. Jakob also loved animals and happily tended the Buehlers’ two sheep, milk cow and dog, whom he considered his dearest friends. He often confided in them after his brothers had grown up and moved away.

Years passed, and all the sons grew up and lived their own lives away from the cottage in the woods. Herr and Frau Buehler were content, but lonesome for their children. They did see their young men and their families once or twice a year, but they both longed for the days when things had been simpler and all five of them had lived under one roof.

No longer vigorous and spry, the Buehlers spent quiet times reading by the fire, lifting their sons in prayer before the Author of the Good Book, and watching the life and beauty of the woods outside their windows. Herr Buehler spent less time in the woods and began whittling to keep Frau Buehler company as she knitted.

Frau Buehler began to see that the worries of the world were pressing down upon her beloved children, and her times of knitting were often spent talking to the Author of the Good Book, asking for His help and blessing on her sons. Sometimes she could feel the weight of the oppression on her children so deeply she would sit by the parlor window, looking out on the snowy woods, and weep for her sons. Jakob, in particular, was on Frau Buehler’s heart. Jakob had experienced deep pain and disappointment in his young life and the guardedness and suspicion Frau Buehler saw on his face deeply troubled her soul. Jakob had been a sensitive and trusting little boy, but now the big city and the snares of the enemy had changed him. He had a dark and sad look to his eyes, and he often moved and spoke as if all hope had departed from him.

Sometimes at night as Herr Buehler snored under the coverlet beside her, Frau Buehler would look out of the window from her down-filled pillow, and count the stars. She was reminded how immense the Maker of those stars must be in order to hold them in the palm of His hand, and when she would cry out to Him, her heart would be calmed.

But sometimes peace and calm wouldn’t come to Frau Buehler’s soul. She didn’t understand why this was. She would sit by the parlor window and knit.  She and Herr Buehler would look deep into each others’ eyes and know what the other was thinking.  She could almost hear her dear husband say through that gaze, “Ahh, mein Greta, look to your Maker – He will help you to know that all will be well. The One who spoke and named the stars also made our sons.”  She took comfort from her husband’s strength.

One clear morning Frau Buehler timidly asked the Maker of her sons for a sign. She wanted Him to reassure her that Herr Buehler was right, that all would someday be well with her sons Wilhelm, Dietmar, and especially Jakob. Jakob had wandered far from the path his parents had set for him. She felt foolish asking for such a thing, but after thinking a long while about what kind of a sign to ask for, Frau Buehler asked the Creator of the woods and wildlife to send a bright red cardinal to her, to let her know that He was at work in her children. In all the years the Buehlers had lived in the Black Forest, they had seen many forms of wildlife and dozens of different feathered creatures, but never had they seen a cardinal.  She humbly bowed her head and said, “Good Father in heaven, bring a cardinal to my window as I’m knitting here, to show me all will be well with my Jakob. And I will thank you for caring for us and our boys.”

Day after day Frau Buehler knitted away, tending to her home, baking their bread, mending their clothes, writing letters to her sons, happily chasing her grandbabies when they came for their occasional visits. Day after day she would look out of her parlor window at the trees outside, at the snowy ground or the soft green needle-packed floor of the forest, and she would watch.  Many birds came, as they always did, but never a cardinal. Orioles, chickadees, sparrows, came.  Wrens, juncos, and even crows. Herr Buehler enjoyed the birds himself, and would sit at the close of a day and whittle as Frau Buehler’s knitting needles clicked and the fire crackled.  Frau Buehler had told no one of her prayer to the Creator for a cardinal. Not even her good husband.

Many months after she made her request, Frau Buehler looked up one day to see her husband outside the parlor window, hanging something on one of the low-hanging branches of the huge, ancient pines outside their forest cottage.  When he stepped away from the tree, she saw it was a wooden bird-feeder he had made himself.  Her heart beat a little faster.  “Why is my Peter hanging a bird-feeder outside our parlor window?” She knew it must have been the Author of the Good Book speaking to her husband’s heart, even though he wasn’t aware of the prayer his wife had prayed. Frau Buehler’s eyes filled with tears and she whispered, “O Good Father – you are moving the hands and feet of my husband and he is not even aware. But I am, and I thank you.”

Time passed, and the Buehlers enjoyed their quiet life in the woods, and day by day their bodies grew slower and their movements more intentional. One snowy afternoon as Frau Buehler sat knitting by the window, a brilliant blue jay swooped down to the feeder. She watched delightedly as it cocked its head and jerkily ate the seed that Herr Buehler placed there each time the feeder needed replenishing. “That is a beautiful little fellow, Good Father, but he is the wrong color! I’m waiting for my red cardinal.”

A few months later Frau Buehler turned from the stove after stirring the soup and her eye caught movement outside the parlor window. There was her dear husband again, this time hanging another bird-feeder in the lower branches of a massive pine next to the tree from which the first feeder still hung. Two bird-feeders now, and Frau Buehler still hadn’t told anyone of her unusual request to the Creator. When Herr Buehler came inside, stomping the snow from his boots, she asked him “Peter, why have you hung another bird-feeder outside our parlor window?” Herr Buehler shrugged and answered, “I so enjoy these little feathered creatures, Greta.” And that was that.

Once again Frau Buehler thought to herself, “Heavenly Father, I do not know if you will ever bring a cardinal to my window, but I can see that you do move in the hearts of men.  Help me to trust you with my Jakob.”

It is not certain how much time passed, but it was a good long time. Perhaps it was even years. Day after day many varieties of birds visited those two bird-feeders outside the parlor window of the Buehler cottage in the Black Forest of Bavaria. Blue, black, brown, yellow, orange, and grey birds. But so far never a red bird.

One morning when the sun was not completely up and the light from the sky was still a deep periwinkle, Frau Buehler got out of bed and went to the window, still in her nightdress. She sighed and lowered herself into her chair, and a tiny flash of red caught her eye. As she gazed out of the window with her knitting in her lap, she saw him. A bright, cheerful, red cardinal, all alone, perched on one of the bird-feeders, cocking his head this way and that. Frau Buehler didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or fall down on her knees. She kept very still, and watched the cardinal, the first cardinal ever to come to their woods, much less to their home. Mr. Cardinal lightly dropped to the ground and ate some of the fallen seed there. He bounced along, sampling the black seeds Herr Buehler had faithfully placed there for years, not knowing he was being moved upon by the Author of the Good Book and the Creator of all life to do so. The little bird then flew to the low branches of another tree, and seemed to watch Frau Buehler as she sat very still in the parlor window. He was in full view for about five minutes, and then with one look over his little bird shoulder he chirped his friendly cardinal song and flew off into the forest.

Frau Buehler sat still in her rocking chair for quite some time, hands motionless on her yarn and needles. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she thanked the Good Father for the gift of the cardinal, and pondered what a kind and compassionate God He must be to cause a little red bird to fly from unknown parts of the forest to her parlor window, just to encourage her heart and give her hope.

She thought of Jakob, and somehow knew that this gift from the Good Father didn’t necessarily mean that all of Jakob’s troubles would be over in a moment, but Frau Buehler felt calmly reassured that the Lord of Life would keep His strong, tender, reliable right hand on her son, to draw him to Himself and bring him through whatever would come in the future.

When she heard the bed creak and knew her dear husband would soon be joining her for their morning coffee at the window, she prepared her words for the story she would tell Peter about the prayer she had prayed, and the cardinal that was the answer to that prayer. She knew her tender-hearted husband would cry when he heard it, not because he too had been filled with care and tossed by worry, but because he trusted the Good Father, and was always overwhelmed and thankful when he witnessed others learning to trust Him too.

Hello everyone! How is your June going so far? We have a gorgeous spring happening here in northern Minnesota. The lilacs are in full bloom, my three crab-apple trees in the side yard of my house are singing out their pink joy, birds are at the feeders, there are “sheep” on Lake Superior as the breezes ripple its surface, and the temperatures have not yet reached Icky Hot Summer Weather status yet. I still have to turn on the furnace at night and cover up with my heavy blankets when I go to bed, which is a blessing.

Last night our family gathered at Carolyn and Jeremy’s house, to be together to celebrate the life of their little girl Hannah Joy, who was born six years ago on June 7th, and who went to heaven on that same day. She was born early at 22 weeks and weighed about a pound, but her brief life means so much to all of us. I love getting together for Hannah Day. As the years go by and other precious grandchildren have been born, I still get such joy (appropriate for her name) thinking of her. What is she like now in heaven? Does the Lord let her be aware of us? (I think so.) I don’t know why, but I’ve always thought of her as Hannah the Strong. That title might seem unlikely for a tiny baby girl whose heart beat for such a short time, but I think we’ll find out some day why she has that name.

Here is a photo of Hannah, being held by her daddy Jeremy. How thankful we are that the Lord entrusted her to us.

We met in the evening on the side terrace of Jeremy and Carolyn’s house, and everyone brought something. Carolyn made two delicious pasta salads and cupcakes, Chris and Sharon brought fried chicken, Jeremy’s parents Diane and Steve brought a marinated Greek salad and her delicious homemade rolls. I brought a vegetable and dip platter and some California rolls. Almost all the grands were there. We oohed and aahed over the new climbing roses they’ve planted near the front of their house, and the purple hydrangea. I saw the bee hive on the edge of the woods for the first time, and the small vineyard Jeremy has planted. Being at their house is like visiting a lovely park surrounded on all sides by woods. Both Sharon’s and Carolyn’s homes have such peaceful settings, and I’m so happy for them both. Having a home is nothing to take for granted. I walk through my own house and frequently whisper, “Thank you, Lord, for giving me this home.” I want to always remember that this is a gift and a privilege from Him (and from Michael) and I will never take it for granted (or “for granite” as a dear one used to say when she was little.)

I’m still dreaming of Ireland and hoping 2024 will be the year I visit. Right now I have my trip narrowed down to two possibilities. I will either take a cruise around Ireland and Great Britain, going on land for different tours/excursions and then returning to the ship each evening. Or I will take an Aer Lingus flight to Ireland, and take this tour.

Both options have advantages I love. I really like the thought of a cruise ship (I’ve been on four cruises and so enjoyed each one), having a balcony to relax on, one room to return to, unpacking only once. I also love what I read about the Driftwood Tour I linked above. The small group size, the comfortable small coach, going so many places in Ireland and having it all pre-planned.

I would appreciate reading any of your thoughts, especially those of you who have been to Ireland.

I’ve also been reading about the business class seats (not first class, but so much nicer than coach for long flights) Aer Lingus offers, and would consider traveling that way. Here’s a photo — the seats recline.

Have any of you watched Shiny Happy People on Prime Video? Oh my. I almost have no words. When Michael and I were raising the girls and I was home-schooling, we had some good friends who were part of the Bill Gothard movement and used the ATIA curriculum. I never did, but I was somewhat familiar with it. It’s hard to imagine all that has taken place because of it.

I may take my camp chair up to the cemetery this afternoon and read by Michael’s grave. I love being there and since I have a fairly free day, that sounds like the perfect way to end it.

I could babble on about what I’m reading, a crochet project I’m about to start, what our summer Bible study is about, and what’s going on with daughters and grandchildren, but I’ll share about that next time.

God bless your week,

(From the archives….)

In September of 1998 I began attending our local Community Bible Study, which has turned out to be one of the most momentous things to ever occur in my spiritual life. If you have never considered attending, I encourage you to click on the link above and see if there’s a class near you. I don’t believe anyone studies God’s Word in depth and ever regrets it. Whether you are Bible-literate or have never owned one, are politically liberal or conservative, young or old, enthusiastic about Bible study or quite dubious, interested in making friends or preferring to remain on the fringe, you will be welcomed, accepted, and loved at CBS. For me to convey all the things that God has done in my life through CBS would take several blog posts, and will have to be for another time. Because this blog post is about when Oprah came calling. And CBS sort of figures into the story.

I was asked to be a Core Leader that first year I attended, and after I got over the nervousness about what the position entailed, I loved it. I loved the women in my core group, I loved the daily accountability of the study (which was thirty weeks in the books of Mark and Ephesians), I loved the different ages of the women in our rather large class. I loved the amazing things I learned about Jesus. I loved it that the Bible wasn’t so difficult to understand anymore. I loved the different perspectives from women of Baptist, Lutheran, Pentecostal, Methodist, Catholic and even unchurched backgrounds. I loved seeing light-bulbs go on in women young and old. I loved the way my own faith in Christ was strengthened. I loved the fellowship, the scholarship, the comfort, the challenge, and the hope I found there.

Did I mention that I love Community Bible Study? I guess I did.

So when I was informed about our annual Sharing Day each May, I was curious and anxious to experience it. Many people who had been in CBS for decades waxed eloquent about how special Sharing Day was each year, the grand finale that was so memorable and such a blessing. I couldn’t wait to end the year by gathering with 250 women over a meal, and then listening to some of them share what a personal, powerful and loving God had done in their lives that year through the study of His Word. I was told Kleenex would be needed and I armed myself. (But Kleenex is always needed in my life. People who cry over something every single day usually own stock in Kimberly-Clark.)

You’re probably wondering where Oprah figures in to all of this. It all started when I met my husband Michael through a snail-mail letter back in 1981. I was living and working in sunny Southern California; he was a rugged outdoorsman born and raised in northern Minnesota. We wrote letters, talked on the phone a lot for three months, and were engaged before we ever met; then married each other the second time we were together. I left my home, family and friends in SoCal and moved to Minnesota, where I’ve been for almost 32 years now. I wrote a very rhyme-y poem that tells the details of our love story, and if you’re interested in it, click here.

Back in the day, I used to occasionally watch Oprah, and then I sort of lost interest. Years ago I would look at her website now and then to see what kinds of stories her producers were asking for. One day I saw that they were asking for people who had “unusual love stories” to write in and share the details. They gave you about enough space to write one concise paragraph about your unusual love story, and since I thought Michael’s and my story qualified as “unusual,” I wrote. I clicked “send” and didn’t really think much more about it, knowing I was one in probably thousands who were doing the same thing.

The next day, Oprah came calling. Or at least her producer did. These were the days before caller ID, so when a professional-sounding female voice identifying herself as Maren from The Oprah Winfrey Show asked for me, I was stunned. “I’m Julie,” I said hesitantly.

“Hello, Julie! We read your story about your unusual love story and I wondered if you would be willing to tell me a little more about it.”

I didn’t mind, and after Maren heard more of our story and apparently had discerned that I was not an imbecile and could be trusted to be a guest on the show, she said magnanimously, “Well, Julie, we would like to have you and Michael on the show. We will send you first-class round trip tickets and pay for your stay in the all-suite Omni Hotel in the heart of Chicago!”

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed. “Thank you! Thank you so much. When will we have to come?” Maren told me the date in May that the “unusual love story” taping would be, and I quickly went to my calendar to mark it down (thinking who on earth gets to write “Be on the Oprah show” on their calendars?) but I stopped short when I saw something already written there on that date. “Sharing Day – CBS.”

I know not everyone will understand this, and my three daughters certainly didn’t, but it wasn’t hard for me to decide which I would choose. Of course I wanted to be on the Oprah Show and fly first-class and stay at the all-suite Omni Hotel on the Miracle Mile in the heart of Chicago. I wanted to meet Oprah and have a video tape of the show we would be part of (even though I knew we would be 60 seconds of it) so we could show our grandchildren someday. I wanted Michael and myself to experience all of that, and to tell our story, which we believe is such a God-thing.

But I also wanted to attend my first Sharing Day at Community Bible Study. I knew it would be a great blessing, and I also wanted to be there at our special table with the fourteen other women I’d bonded with during our year of study. I wanted to hear what things the Lord had done in ordinary women’s lives through His extraordinary Word.

I told Maren no. “Uh, I’m so sorry – I’m really thankful you called and wish we could be there, but um, we already have something planned on that day.”

Pause. “What do you have planned?” Maren asked.

“Sharing Day at Community Bible Study,” I answered quietly.

“Sharing Day? At Community Bible Study?” she asked, a little less friendly. I could almost hear the unspoken words in her head, Lady, do you know who you’re talking to? Do you know how many people try to get on this show and now you’re turning it down for Sharing Day at Community Bible Study?

“Are you sure you can’t reschedule or get someone else to take your place?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure. I don’t think I should miss it. I’m sorry to have to decline – thank you so much for considering us and offering this chance to us.” I didn’t try to explain to Maren. I just knew I wanted to be at Sharing Day with my core group.

And I did go to my first Sharing Day at CBS that May of 1999, and was not disappointed with my choice. I probably used more Kleenex than anyone there. We sat and bathed in the love and unity that had been built over the year’s study, rejoicing over the changes that had happened in women’s lives. We listened with tears streaming, cheeks aching from the huge smiles, and hearts swelling with hope as we saw and heard firsthand how active God is in His children’s lives. We just need a little help seeing it sometimes. Sharing Day is one of those things that always helps me see.

So there’s the story about how Oprah came calling. Sometimes friends mention it to others, so I’ve been asked to share it many times, and always feel a little funny telling it. I’m not sure why.

How does the arrival of a helpless baby carry such power? How can a little girl who can’t lift her head or utter a word captivate a family so quickly they can’t imagine life without her? Even when she’s only been here a few days? I don’t know, but it speaks to the preciousness and beauty of life to me, and I’m so grateful.

My daughter Carolyn and her husband Jeremy have welcomed their eighth child (Hannah is in heaven), and her name, as you’ve already seen above, is:

Evangeline Virginia

She weighed 8 pounds, 3 ounces and is 20 inches long, which are exactly what Carolyn’s details were when she was born in Germany just a few years ago. I was so touched that they chose Virginia for her middle name, after my mother, whom my children, especially Carolyn, spent a lot of time with before she died in 1993. My mom loved babies like she was the champion baby lover of the world, so we’re commenting a lot about how much Grandma Sooter would have loved Evangeline. And all the grandchildren.

Jeremy and Carolyn aren’t sure yet if Evangeline will have a nickname. I have been calling her Evie to myself, pronounced Evvie; Carolyn mentioned the possibility of pronouncing it Eevie (like her initials spoken aloud), but right now Evangeline is preferred and we’ll see how things evolve. And the last part of her name is like leen rather than line.

Her name means good news, and while it certainly means the good news of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, I like to think her existence itself is just plain good news, and I can’t wait to get to know her better.

Carolyn and Jeremy’s other children are pretty smitten with their new little sister of course, and seven year old Miriam likes to hold Evangeline the most.

These next photos are right after she was born… my eyes fill with tears of love, looking at my lovely daughter.

And four year-old Levi (who looks so much like his mama) is learning how to not be the youngest anymore. He will show Evangeline the ropes once she gets on her feet, and they will be best buddies someday.

So much to hope for. To pray about. To say thank you for.

I hope your weekend is a peaceful one,

March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. In northeastern Minnesota, March indeed came in like a lion but is still roaring and terrorizing as it goes out and April arrives. Snowstorm after snowstorm has blanketed the ground with multiple feet of snow, causing people to shovel their roofs and making me feel like I live in Narnia.

I have stayed home a lot this winter, reading and slowly putting together a guest room. It’s still in process, but here is where it’s at today:

I’m still deciding on the art to hang above the queen-sized bed, but this space calls my name and I am drawn to the peace I feel in this room. Two adult grandchildren have already slept here, as well as one ten year-old granddaughter, and I’ve issued an invitation to friends afar to come and visit.

Here is the fairly blank slate I started with:

I couldn’t find the exact curtains I was looking for, so I bought flannel sheets from Pottery Barn and Lloyd hung them for me. I have three little green transferware plates in mind to hang on the wall between the new curtain rod and window, a large print of sheep and Scottish hills for over the bed, and there’s a mirror hung on a wall that these photos don’t show.

“Nowhere beats the heart so kindly as beneath the tartan plaid!” said an old Scottish poet, and I guess in my old age I have to agree.

I enjoy books and movies that cause me to think about things deeply, or show that a person can truly change. I watched Tom Hanks in A Man Called Otto a couple of days ago and loved it because of how the main character experienced transformation. I read the book years ago (A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman) and knew the story, but it was such a treat to see a person late in life, deeply entrenched in his rule-enforcing curmudgeonliness, be transformed by the love of a friend. The friend didn’t give up, Otto gradually opened up his heart even though he may not have known he was doing that, and many lives changed. That’s the best kind of story, and one that gives me hope for my own change.

I’ve been told by someone who should know me pretty well that I am incapable of change. What a blow that was, since my heart’s desire is to grow and change in the right direction until my time here is done. I may not be growing as noticeably as I would have when I was young, but I don’t want to stagnate or be stubborn. I want to learn, be transformed more and more into someone who better resembles my Savior, and be pliable inside, even as my body and joints stiffen. “That’s just the way I am” is something I hope to never say, and if ever I do, those of you within an arm’s length can pop me.

My oldest daughter Sharon and her husband Chris went to Dallas recently because the George W. Bush Presidential Center invited her to discuss democracy on a small panel. That was fun to watch.

My middle daughter (“diddle maughter”, as a friend recently introduced hers, so I’m claiming it too) Carolyn is due any day to give birth to her eighth child. She and Jeremy lost Hannah Joy in 2017, so this will be their seventh child still here on earth. I can’t wait to meet my little granddaughter, and wish they would let me in on the name. You’d think they’d have pity on me after all these years and give me the inside scoop, but I have to wait until she’s born along with everyone else. If I could have my druthers she would be Evelyn, but I’ve loved every name they’ve chosen so I know she’ll have a lovely, old-fashioned name.

My youngest daughter Sara has been working hard in nursing school and will graduate as an RN in a couple of months. I’m so proud of her — she has been on the Dean’s List each semester and will be a wonderful nurse. She plans on applying at one of our local hospitals and has already secured a nice apartment of her own nearby.

My daughter Carolyn sent me photos from her new phone yesterday and I couldn’t stop looking at them.

This is the eye of Vivienne:

And Audrey’s eye:

And Miriam’s:

Speaking of “grands”, Lloyd and I will be taking our first trip to Arizona soon. Neither of us has ever seen the Grand Canyon, so we’ll stay in Flagstaff and drive over to Williams to take The Grand Canyon Railroad for one day. We’re hoping the snow in northern Arizona melts before we get there.

There always seems to be so much to share, yet when I finally sit down to type it all out, the rocks in the stream pile up and form a bottleneck. That may be an apt metaphor for my life right now too — I’m trying to remove some rocks to pile on the shore as an Ebenezer of sorts, so the water can flow again.

I hope there are signs of spring where you are,