We went apple picking.

My friend and I.

I used to take my little ones to the apple orchard in the Fall.

There are pictures in the boxes down in the archives of this house.  They show three little people wearing boots and eating apples that are big and shiny and we are close to a tree that is full of fruit.  Those times in the orchard made  memories.   For me and for them as well.

Sensational is what memories often are.  They encourage remembrances of tastes, smells, sight and even sound.  When I go to the orchard,

it is a different orchard  because That orchard is now full of houses, 

the smell makes me happy.  It isn’t just because of memories.   I love Fall.  Some people call it Autumn but I like Fall.

Not sure where this time of year got it’s name but maybe it’s because leaves and apples and other fruit and nuts fall off the trees.

Fall smells good.  We live in this place where green leaves turn to orange and red and it is beauty beyond words.  I sometimes walk and just look.

So on Saturday we picked Two, half bushel bags of Cortland apples.  They are my favorite for baking and stewing and even eating fresh.

Yes, a bushel IS a lot, for a city girl who is shy on time for “putting Up” this Fall.  I couldn’t resist them and it took 10 minutes to fill those two bags.

I drove home thinking about what I would do with that many apples.  Pie, crisp, sauce and I didn’t worry about the work.

I have a friend who once, years ago was telling a story about her son and how he wanted to be excused from work and get to playing.  I doubt I will ever forget the sound of her voice when she said, “I just looked at him and said, Nick, LIFE IS WORK.  PLAY is a BONUS.”  Well I sure laughed.  Hard.  I found it funny because it was  true and  direct and  No Nonsense.

I kind of live by those words too.  At our house, years ago,  when there was work to be done it got done.   That was the House Way.   I don’t worry too much about work although I am guilty at times of procrastinating.

 I like to get the work done so I can enjoy the fun without thinking about the work that needs to be done.  

My newish friend who is the future Mrs. Staley’s mother, sent me a text a few weeks ago.  She said she wanted to read something I had sent her but was saving it until her face was washed and her teeth brushed and she was tucked into bed.

Yep!   I understand!   Get the work, the mundane, out of the way, first!

Business before pleasure!

So, I have a bushel of apples in front of me and I made a list of jobs I need to take care of over the next two days.  Hopefully by the end of those two days these bags will be empty and in their place will be jars and pie plates and cake pans, full.

Saturday, I headed home from the orchard and stopped to pick up a few things for dinner.  This time I didn’t need to wander the meat department.  I went straight for what I wanted.  I knew what was on the menu and grabbed one of those cute compact carts.  I filled it with a bag of long grain brown rice.  A bunch of fresh carrots.  One garlic bulb.  A bag of cooking onions.  a carton of vegetable stock.  a package of 6 small V8 juice cans.  a bunch of celery AND a package containing two small beef tenderloins.    I hauled my supplies, including those bags of apples, to the kitchen and got to work.

It may sound rather prideful but that was the best beef stir fry I have ever made.  When it was gone we ate our Hot from the Oven, apple crisp with vanilla ice cream.

It wasn’t  officially Fall yet, last Saturday, but you would not have known that, what with the picking of apples and then the smell of them baking.

I was on the subway today.  It was discovered recently, that One young Staley man, the fellow about to be married, had an expired passport.  Since he needs that passport to get to the place where the wedding is happening, it is important that he have a current passport.  He and his lovely gal needed a relative to stand in line and submit the completed paperwork.

Mom to the rescue.  Happy to.  I took the subway and once my work was done found myself at the home of a friend who provided sustenance in the form of a delicious grilled cheese sandwich.  Very kind.  Later, she dropped me off next to the subway which is also next to a grocery store.  As I so often do when needing inspiration for dinner prep, I wandered the meat aisle and sure enough, there I saw skinless, bone-in chicken breasts.  On sale yet!  So, I picked up a couple of packages and made my way home via the subway.

Benefit of city living!  No car necessary!

I wanted something tasty (obviously) and decided to take the chicken off the bones.  Check it out and see what I came up with.  I am calling it Breaded chicken with slightly cheesy sauce.   I hope you like it!

I visited Holland.  Just last week.  The adventure was beautiful, delightful and often I was reminded of God.

It seems not to matter where I go in this World or who I am with but that God reminds me of His presence.  He isn’t a figment of my imagination. Thankfully.  

He is not something I conjure up from inside myself.  Blessed Relief since more than often, inside myself is not a good place.

He is constant as I have told you before and Even when I am weak He is strong.

How do I know all of this?  How can I be so sure?  I will tell you clearly, it is because He lives within me.  As Alfred Ackley wrote, I serve a risen Savior He’s in the World today….You asked me how I know He lives.  He lives within my heart.

We had been in the Netherlands for a few days, biking and walking and seeing.  I recommend it and if you have never been, plan to do as we did.  Bike and walk and see.  You will like it I am certain.  

We rode to Haarlem.

It was quite a jaunt from the heart of Amsterdam to the center of that town.  It was, start to finish, a 45 KM day and we were tired I can tell you 

when it was all said and done.

Someone just yesterday asked what my favorite part of that Holland trip had been.  I struggle with

favorite

food, books, people, clothes, vacation places, movies, flowers…

so many in each category and how could I settle on just one.

There were, during those 9 days, numerous opportunities to pick favorites and the thought never did cross my mind.  They were all good.  Some were

just a little MORE good.

If however, I had to choose, it would be that trip to Haarlem.  Not the hard pedaling I did or the traffic along the way, or the wind that hampered my progress.

No

it was the reminder, during the few hours spent there, of

faith in the face of fear.

The reminder that God speaks to people even when they don’t know it.  Even when they aren’t expecting Him.  I watched and listened and was surprised

By the bold storytelling about lives lived for Jesus.

There was a family  in Haarlem in the early part of the 20th century.  They loved people.    They hid Jews during the diabolical dictatorship of Hitler.  They risked their lives to save innocent people and the story of their selfless work is known around the world.

Until that day in Haarlem I thought everybody knew of the Ten Boom Family.  I was wrong.

There is a little clock shop at the edge of the town square.  It still says

Behind and above that little shop is the home where the Ten Boom Family lived.

It’s a museum now.  Well, by museum I mean that the home once lived in by the Ten Boom family is now a place where people can visit.  There are tours and they allow 20 at a time inside.  The 20 are led up the stairs to the living room.  I was one of the 20, at 2:00 p.m.

I sat on a chair in that living room.  I looked around at the other 19 sitting there.  We were crowded into the space and we listened as our storyteller, a volunteer that looked 30ish, talked about the people who had lived there those many years before.  I was surprised to hear, as she asked how many people knew of Corrie Ten Boom,

that most had not.

Most, knew nothing about the Book Corrie had written when the devastation was finished.

Years ago I had heard of The Hiding Place  but not read it.  I was 15 years old and at a camp on a small island off the coast of Vancouver Island.  It was a good and growing summer for me.  I learned a lot about people and about myself.

There was a lady, one of the directors and every day she read to us.  Yes, we could have read for ourselves and most certainly we were old enough to do so.  There is something though, about being read To.  Her gentle voice sharing Corrie’s story, drew me in and it was so real.  I listened to every word and was amazed.

A few years later, I read it myself.

I am going to dig it out and read it again.

I have been to Haarlem now and walked the streets where the soldiers walked and the Jewish people crept through the night.

They found refuge at that little home.  Frequently had to hide inside the wall on the top floor

When the bell rang, those people scrambled through a small door at the bottom of the linen closet and stood shoulder to shoulder, holding their breath until danger was gone.   Sometimes for hours.

One family saved many.

The Ten Booms shared their faith in Jesus, those years ago.  They are all gone now.  Most of them died in concentration camps.

Corrie lived to tell the story and what a story it is.  She was released the day after she watched her sister die. She met one of the guards  years later and had an opportunity to choose whether to forgive

or not.

A young doctor introduced himself on an occasion and said he was one of the children the Ten Booms had hidden, years earlier.

All of it is horrific, incredible, God redeemed.

I sat in that little room

listened and watched.

The girl in her broken english told the story of a family of

God lovers

who had been willing to give their lives for others, because God had given His life for them.

I thought about the groups of people coming to this place every day.  Not a lot at a time but a lot over the days and months and years.  I thought about the volunteers who share Jesus with people who know nothing about Him.  I thought about the people who read about the Ten Boom clock shop on the tourist brochures and decide to take the tour because it is a good way to kill some time.  What they don’t know, all of these people, is that God speaks, moves, opens eyes, even when we are not looking for Him to do so.

God is like that.

I looked and considered and yet again found myself swallowing tears on this day, in a little town where God had done great things and was continuing to do great things.  Beauty out of ashes.  Good from evil because of committed ones who were willing to be

Faithful!

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners,^[a]
2 to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
    and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
³     and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
    instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
    instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
    instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
    a planting of the Lord
    for the display of his splendor.  Isaiah 61:1-3

“For who has known the mind of the Lord, or who has been his counselor?”

We like to eat salsa.

We like to eat healthy things.

We like to make healthy things to eat.

Mid August is tomato time here in Southern Ontario.  Real Tomatoes.  The kind that are allowed to ripen on the vine because they are not traveling thousands of miles on a truck before being eaten.

A few days ago I checked my calendar and realized the window for salsa making was becoming increasingly narrower.  So, I took myself to the farm market and picked up a bushel and a half of tomatoes and the rest of the fixins for making salsa.

It’s a lot of work but the rewards are great, not to mention delicious.  Gather a few loved ones and/or friends and get set up.  More people working together make the work being done a whole lot of fun.  A couple of years ago I invited 6 friends to come to my house after church on Sunday afternoon and bring with them, 6 jars each.  I provided the tomatoes and “innards” of the salsa and we had a salsa making party.

When I was a young lass, my mama, Nano, canned and froze and “put up” all kinds and sorts of preserves.  Back in the 60’s and 70’s we could only get fruit when it was actually in season.  That season was relatively short.  Because of Nano’s hard work and love of cooking and preserving, we had fruit the year round.  Peaches, plums, cherries, apricots, strawberry jam, strawberry rhubarb jam, raspberry jam, saskatoon jam, relish, apple pies…well I could go on and on.

I remember the smells of vinegar and onions and the sounds of snapping sealing lids.  It wasn’t exactly special for me at the time.  It just was.  These were the sights and sounds of home.  The smell and sound of love.  Of care.  Of family.  Of community.  I cannot remember my mother ever, (I know that is quite a commitment to say EVER or NEVER.  But I say it without an ounce of hyperbole) sighing or moaning or whining or wishing out loud that it wasn’t canning season.  No!  She loved to do it as much as we loved having a choice, selection, variety in the middle of a cold February.  I wish, I really do wish I could share with you the love of preparing food for family.  It seems we, here in our society, are losing the love of providing, other than a house to live in and a meal on the table.

The blessing of sharing the fruit of our labour around the table is becoming a thing of the past.  We are all so busy.  For many, busy is necessity and not desire.

Is there any way we can change that?  Can we go back to some of the goodness of the past?

Hard work and sharing together is such a good thing.  I know there are different ways to care.  Your way may well be different from mine.

By now you know my love language is hospitality.

Come On Over.

One day when my children were very little, my mother came to visit us.

Widowhood had struck early and heartache was to be her constant companion from that time onward.  It seemed that Fall was the best season for her to leave the west and travel east.  Fall in Ontario is a spectacular time of year.  My firstborn proclaims each time it rolls around that it is his favorite.

My mother, wearing sorrow as joyfully as was possible given her grief at the loss of her beloved, came each September for many years and it was perfect timing as far as I was concerned.  She enjoyed the season and helped me to cook and preserve the bounty we found at the many markets nearby.

The memories of childhood became reality once again as we canned and cooked.  Her love of turning fresh into future deliciousness, was contagious.  This is one of the reasons I love to spend hours in the kitchen.

I watched her love it.

Beware the things you love.  you will pass that love of those things to those who watch.

And So, I cook and share, here with you and here in this house with those who come to visit.

Tomorrow I will finish my batch of Nano Relish.  Once you taste Nano relish, the green stuff you get in the jars at the grocery store just will not work anymore.  I often make a batch every other year.  Sure it takes a few hours but I figure those hours are worth spending.

I made a salad the other day!

It was to share with a few friends.

It was pretty tasty.

Nothing fancy

A few homemade croutons and some bacon cooked in the oven add flavour!  Give them a try!

I’m sittin on the deck near the dock of the bay but there’s no tide to watch roll in!

There is however, a breeze in the trees and a bit of lapping on the shore.  I’ve missed you, friends.  It seems in the past two weeks I have tucked

words, experiences, learning

away,

wanting to share them with you and yet, not certain.   Wanting to write and talk and encourage,

But what can I offer that is Meaningful enough to give you pause, worth your while to read and then ponder?

There was a preacher a week ago in a chapel on a different lake and grown children several times, here to enjoy this bay.

There was my husband,

working and

working more and far away and then here for a few hours and then off again, another plane, another hotel and he has people calling him, wanting his brain, his expertise and where in the world, I wonder, will he ever find the time to answer their calls and help with their crisis?  When will he sleep?  I suppose it’s good that sleep isn’t as high on his list of priorities as it is on mine.  He tells me sometimes, the basics, the gist of what he has going on.  I try, I really do, to listen and respond and digest what comes so clearly to him and

isn’t it remarkable how God wires us all  differently.

My husband and I are polar opposites and I have learned lots from him.  I want to be intentional in listening and hearing.

We, he and I, have been on a 32 year adventure.  This journey has had bumps of huge proportion.  Yesterday I thought about bumps after I had my turn behind a big boat with an even bigger wake.

Bumps are tough to maneuver.

There I was, skimming, flying, holding on for dear life and wanting so desperately to succeed and conquer and all the while

enjoy the journey.

Mine was a wild ride for sure and last night

that biggest little one of mine and I had some strong words for each other and worked through something that wasn’t so hard, but once we started we needed to finish it and he and I are good at that.

We talk and sometimes our voices are raised and we talk some more and then we agree that it’s ok and we will move on and we smile

And

I cannot count the times over these 30 years of his life that after we have gone our separate ways and I have begun to turn the covers back, there has been a

light, gentle knock on the door

and last night I knew it was coming.

This boy who is so much like me

highs and lows and strong and joy filled and then sad and joy again

and Closure is big.

Sleep does not come easily when there might be something in the air.  Something not so good.  Not so pleasant.  God tells us about that in Ephesians 4

We love deeply and this is a blessing and it makes life bumpy.

This girl who will, in just a few weeks become his wife, had stood there in the kitchen with us, earlier and listened and contributed and listened more and added her own wisdom.  She is young and I am often amazed at her understanding of life.  Then I remember she is not her own.  She has been bought with a price and she is mindful of that price.  She understands the sacrifice that was made on her behalf and is humbled before the one who made her and loves her more than…

I was thankful again last night, as I have been many times in the past two years, that God chose her for our firstborn.  Chose her for us.

Last night the knock came and he walked in with maybe a bit of a glistening eye, a shaking voice.  Came and gave me a bear hug and apologized for the part he had played in the conversation.  Forgiveness requested and Forgiveness freely, lovingly given.

He is quick to Ask forgiveness, always has been

and he is quick to Offer forgiveness.  This boy models grace, well.  We talked for a few more minutes, the two of us and then we went our separate ways again

peace.

When I woke up today they were gone.  Headed back to the city and work and regular life and all the excitement of new days full of promise.  I looked at my phone and there was another comment from him on last night’s events and I said we had dealt with it and it was gone.  Today was a new day.

I smiled and clicked the button to send one to him.  Then told him we had jumped a bump something like the ones I had managed yesterday.  We sent a LOL and he continued with his day and I with mine.  I prepared a note for the sweet girl, telling her how thankful I am that she is part of us now and I love her.

Have you noticed how

different words come and go?  I tend to have strong feelings about words.  May be odd, peculiar, but some I like and others get overused and somehow lose their strength.  Still others are not only unnecessary, but dishonoring.  God has quite a lot to say about words in His Word.  My dad gave me a book once.  It was called The Tongue A Creative Force.  The giving of that book was not a coincidence.  I needed it.  Still need to refer to it, often.  When my three little ones were old enough to memorize, we embarked on a project one summer to do some memorizing of God’s Word.  One of the verses was Psalm 19:14.  Not sure if they remember it but I sure do.

Intentional

It’s a good word but what does it mean?

Merriam Webster says it’s an adjective and means something is done in a way that is planned, or intended.

Now

I can wrap my head around that.

I can tell you that my ride on the water yesterday was not planned, yet when I got up and out there I was very much intentional about staying Up and On the skis.  Intentional can happen quite unexpectedly and yet once you get there, somehow the decision to be intent upon the task seems obvious .  The conversation with my boy was certainly not planned but we were intentional about the depth of the content and then very intentional about resolving and settling.

The preacher I mentioned way back at the beginning of this post, talked about Abraham and how God called him but he needed to put feet to his faith.  Action to his willingness.  This same preacher also said we need to decide to spend time with other like minded people.  It isn’t good for us to try to do the Faith walk alone.

I contemplated calling this post HOGWASH in response to the thinking some people have that they don’t need other people.  That they can make a decision to be intentional about following God and then do it by themselves.  But I decided it wasn’t very nice to start a chat with that kind of a word.

When last week’s preacher started to talk I knew I wanted to be intentional about listening and remembering so I looked for a piece of paper and a pen

Found both and began to listen and write.  Then I looked down at my Bible and the selection of paper, various sizes and shapes, covered with writing, that were nestled amongst the pages.  This particular Bible is the one I keep here at this little place by the lake and I take it with me when I go to that chapel down the road a ways.  Over the years I have listened, often deciding to record what was being said.  By the time the last song has been sung  I have usually scribbled on the front and back, right side up and up side down, of whatever I can get my hands on.  Sometimes that something is an offering envelope.

Yep, intentional can pop up where it isn’t expected.  Then I get to decide if the subject at hand is important

to me and OR to God.

Thats a thought big enough to create some intentionality in me.