In the past, anything I wrote as a devotional went to http://groups.yahoo.com/groups/littlelessons but I figured I might as well put everything in one place now. So, some days silly, some days contemplative, some days spiritual. You'll never get bored at Pasture-ized.
Swallowing The Bitter Pill
I never had a dog when I was growing up. Asthmatic kids weren't allowed to have carpets, curtains, or anything with fur, although we did have cats for a very brief time. So, when we moved North, to the barren wastelands (hey, it's 15 miles to Walmart), and I saw my first coyote up close, I voted for a dog. Princess came home first. She's a collie mix, raised as a camp puppy at the petting zoo at Spruce Lake. She's the smart dog. She could make you breakfast if you left instructions for her. Then, a few years later, after lions and tigers and bears, we added dog #2. That would be Shadow. Shadow is dumber than a doornail, and that's being polite. He once ran full speed into the side of the shed. He's a rottie/lab/cocker spaniel mix, so you can see he hasn't been swimming in the greatest gene pool. I learn a lot from Shadow, he and I being of equal intelligence some days.
Today, he sits patiently wagging his tail on the back porch. He knows it's time for breakfast, and he sees that I'm actually dressed before 7 a.m., so his tail is jumping up and down. Kibbles! I'm gonna get kibbles! He also gets a couple of Doxycycline in a little square of peanut butter bread. Lyme disease, poor little guy. Those pills are nasty. If you've ever accidentally allowed a pill to dissolve on your tongue, you'll know what I mean. They apparently aren't interested in making them "doggie friendly", because making them beef flavored would most certainly raise the price. He sees me coming with that little square of bread, and then I make it as appealing as possible...."c'mere, tha's a gooboy, mommy's gotta snackie for youuuuu", and he gobbles it up. He's so trusting. He doesn't ask me why I've given him the bitter pills. He just takes them, and gives me a droopy tongued smile, and goes to have his breakfast.
I wish I swallowed the bitter pills as well as he does. I don't like anything that doesn't go down smoothly in life. I'm perfectly content to walk through my morning routine uninterrupted by the chaos of real life. Hiding in my coffee sure beats facing family struggles, bills, health problems, etc. Then, should my carefully maintained routine of life be interrupted, I want to complain. LORD, seriously? NOW? Didn't we finally overcome ________ last week, and now THIS?! I am no Job. God sits me down and gives me a good talking to on a regular basis. Those would be the days where my intelligence level is not even as high as the dog. You see, Shadow accepts that I am going to do what's best for him. He doesn't ask me why I've dragged him to the Vet, why the shot hurt, why the pills taste funny. He looks at me with adoring eyes, and simply trusts. Oh, I have so much to learn. My Master loves me waaaay more than I love that dumb dog, yet I have a hard time trusting Him when the pills taste bitter. Lord, I want to be that trusting. Thank you that you teach me daily what it means to put my trust in You.
11 For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Block Heads
Back when I lived amidst the sea of concrete and asphalt, I was the proud owner of four young children, a station wagon, and a shed full of suburban survival tools. Being a first-time-homeowner of what was affectionately known as a "town home" ( in the sense that it was IN TOWN), I quickly learned that multiple means of escaping the four walls was a necessity. Actually, it was more like escaping the two walls. I don't count the walls shared with my neighbors so it was more like living in a breezeway. (If you opened the front windows and the back door on a day when the wind was blowing then you got a breeze.) My favorite means of escaping the heat radiating off the living room floor was the little red wagon.
The red wagon is a status symbol or at least it was twenty years ago. Today, it's the jogging stroller with it's own dashboard and a thin woman in spandex running behind it. The red wagon was more than a toy. It was a way for my young boys to haul all manner of junk from the back alley into the yard. It was the wheelbarrow my husband never bought. It was...it was...better than duct tape. Seriously.
On a normal use day the red wagon was what I piled my kids in for the proverbial "walk around the block". A walk around the block in town meant roughly 1/4-1/2 mile of sidewalk, an eensy little upgrade, and a knowledge of where the uneven pavement existed. Sometimes I'd even go twice. Then, I felt very much like I'd exercised and could spend the rest of the day patting myself on the back for one, spending quality time with the kids; and two, getting a workout as well.
A "walk around the block" is very different here in our new home in the pasture. No one wears spandex on the dirt road because it simply makes you look like a vending machine snack for the coyotes. Not to mention, it only takes one person seeing you in that and you're branded for life as that "flatlander from Jersey". I'm not from Jersey, but here if you seem a little odd you're from New Jersey, even if you lived fifty years in Vermont. Sorry, Jersey folks.
Outfitting yourself for a walk around the block here means you pick the brightest shirt you own, preferably blaze orange. That way nobody runs you over, and nobody shoots at you during deer season. You throw away your hundred dollar walking sneakers for a pair of sturdy, all-terrain, hiking boots (and that's just for walking on the road, people). Plus, you take a dog, a canister of pepper spray, maybe a big stick, and your cell phone. Nobody here likes to be eaten while exercising, it ruins your whole day.
So, that is where I'm headed from the pasture this foggy morning, in my neon pink shirt, pepper spray in hand. I will walk the 1/4 mile down the road to meet up with my "next door neighbor", observing the damage the deer have done to the corn crop along the way. Then, maybe I'll pick a flower or two, comment to myself on the amount of ragweed out there this year, and peek cautiously around the bend looking for bears. If I return unscathed, I'll be back tomorrow with another little glimpse into life in the pasture. See you then.
The red wagon is a status symbol or at least it was twenty years ago. Today, it's the jogging stroller with it's own dashboard and a thin woman in spandex running behind it. The red wagon was more than a toy. It was a way for my young boys to haul all manner of junk from the back alley into the yard. It was the wheelbarrow my husband never bought. It was...it was...better than duct tape. Seriously.
On a normal use day the red wagon was what I piled my kids in for the proverbial "walk around the block". A walk around the block in town meant roughly 1/4-1/2 mile of sidewalk, an eensy little upgrade, and a knowledge of where the uneven pavement existed. Sometimes I'd even go twice. Then, I felt very much like I'd exercised and could spend the rest of the day patting myself on the back for one, spending quality time with the kids; and two, getting a workout as well.
A "walk around the block" is very different here in our new home in the pasture. No one wears spandex on the dirt road because it simply makes you look like a vending machine snack for the coyotes. Not to mention, it only takes one person seeing you in that and you're branded for life as that "flatlander from Jersey". I'm not from Jersey, but here if you seem a little odd you're from New Jersey, even if you lived fifty years in Vermont. Sorry, Jersey folks.
Outfitting yourself for a walk around the block here means you pick the brightest shirt you own, preferably blaze orange. That way nobody runs you over, and nobody shoots at you during deer season. You throw away your hundred dollar walking sneakers for a pair of sturdy, all-terrain, hiking boots (and that's just for walking on the road, people). Plus, you take a dog, a canister of pepper spray, maybe a big stick, and your cell phone. Nobody here likes to be eaten while exercising, it ruins your whole day.
So, that is where I'm headed from the pasture this foggy morning, in my neon pink shirt, pepper spray in hand. I will walk the 1/4 mile down the road to meet up with my "next door neighbor", observing the damage the deer have done to the corn crop along the way. Then, maybe I'll pick a flower or two, comment to myself on the amount of ragweed out there this year, and peek cautiously around the bend looking for bears. If I return unscathed, I'll be back tomorrow with another little glimpse into life in the pasture. See you then.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Welcome to Pasture-ized
Pasture-ize: (verb) to transplant, remove, relocate, or drag kicking and screaming, a person from the suburbs (a.k.a. 'the real world') and deposit them in rural America.
Rural: opposite of "the city", also at times referred to as "rustic", "relaxing", and "where the grass is greener" prior to the pasture-ization process. After pasture-ization, it is often referred to as "get me out of here".
Please join me in the daily adventure of life in the pasture.
Rural: opposite of "the city", also at times referred to as "rustic", "relaxing", and "where the grass is greener" prior to the pasture-ization process. After pasture-ization, it is often referred to as "get me out of here".
Please join me in the daily adventure of life in the pasture.
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