WHAT'S FOR DINNER (2025-22)

Last night we had soup for dinner. Two soups, to be exact. I thought I'd share both recipes, because they are a kind of "use what you have on hand" recipe and handy to know.

Soup 1: CHICKEN WONTON SOUP

1. Go to Costco to return the shorts that didn't fit Joe. While you're there spend a couple hundred dollars on other stuff, which includes one broiled Costco chicken and a bag of frozen small chicken cilantro wontons that are on sale for $2.50 off.

2. Eat however much of that broiled chicken you want for dinner. Put the rest of it, bones and skin and all, including the juices in the bottom of the bag, into a big pot and cover with water.

3. Boil for an hour or four.

4. Drain broth off and into another pot. Remove chicken from bones. Make a chicken sandwich for lunch.

5. To broth, add bullion powder and salt and pepper to taste. You seriously need to taste it to see if its tasty enough. Most people just need to add salt. Salt does not get enough credit. Neither does pepper. 

6. Clean a couple carrots, a stalk of celery, some mushrooms, green onion, cabbage... whatever  fitting veggies you might have in the crisper drawer.  You could also add water chestnuts if you have them. Anyway, cut the veggies super thin. Tonight I actually used the peeler to make my carrot slices almost translucent thin. Add these to boiling broth.

7. Add frozen wontons, bring back to boil and cook two minutes. Once again, use your own mouth...taste a wonton to make sure its not still cold. These are precooked meat so you won't need to worry about uncooked meat.

8. Serve in deep bowls and add soy sauce to taste.

I used about half this bag for roughly a gallon of broth.

Soup II: ICE CREAM SOUP

1. Scoop some nice hard ice cream, your favorite flavor, in a big ole mug. Just a scoop... or two.

2. Pour cold milk over the ice cream till it's just barely covered.

3. Use a fork or spoon to smash that ice cream into the milk.

4. Enjoy.

This is the tail end of the soup,
what's left over after you've had too much.
A little too runny for me at this point.
Soup of the Day: Toasted Almond Fudge.

When I was twelve years old and finally old enough to babysit neighbor kids, I got a quarter an hour to tend Sherry and Jackie Payne, even though Sherry was  not much younger than I was. I taught them how to make Ice Cream Soup. That was two generations ago. Sherry told me last time I saw her that she still remembers how amazed she was that one could do such wondrous things with a mug, some milk and hard ice cream.

Tonight I lift a mug to you, my old friend Sherry Payne, and your dear brother Jack.

"Now that I'm grown no one can tell me
I can't have ice cream for dinner."

BONUS FACT: See how you can get three meals from a $5 Costco broiled chicken? MmmHmmm. You can do it with a fresh whole fryer as well.

60/40 (2025-21)

I texted my friend Sonya this morning, asking how she's holding up. Sonya and her husband Matt are salt-of-the-earth good people, dripping with talent and generosity and just plain loving hearts. 

Her response:  "Like 60/40".

Sonya, Matt and their daughter Maddie have reason to feel emotionally vulnerable, less than 100%. Just after Labor Day last year, their 19-year-old son and brother, Grey died unexpectedly from his own heartache, leaving them with not only his heartache but their own to deal with. They blessedly opened their experience for the benefit of others, and in the process let their wounds heal organically from the inside out rather from the outside in, which can risk infection. 

When my mom had surgery on her duodenum, as an older woman, the doctors left the wound  on her abdomen wide open when they sent her home, knowing that my sister Libby would be dutiful in her care of our mother. "It will heal better from the inside out," they said, "But you'll need to be consistent in keeping it clean and healthy as it heals." We called it the Gram Canyon. It was a long gaping wound that revealed the layers of skin and went clear down, nearly to the organs. Libby cleaned it daily, methodically, and with a prayer each time she worked. She cleaned it and packed it, then when she was done she kissed our mother on her forehead for good measure. Bit by bit it healed. 

I suspect this is how Sonya is healing. It's not a particularly pretty or comfortable process for her, but in the end I think it allows for more complete healing.

Grey was an incredible soul, and a most powerful force for good in this iffy world of ours. He had a heart just about too tender for this hard place we are thrown into. Kindness was his watchword, and he was graced with talent. He was brilliant, and burdened in his brilliance, which made us so tired for him and grateful he is free of it, though we all would have preferred he stick around and heal from the inside out as well. Nonetheless, Sonya, Matt and Maddie and the rest of the innumerable people who love him are left to heal themselves.

Benjamin Grey Hansen

I also think it fitting that Grey's death came the week of Labor Day. Sonya labored to get him here nearly two decades ago, and now she is laboring to let him go.

All day I've been pondering Sonya's reply to my text: 

"Like 60/40"

What I love about Sonya's response is this:

First, she is aware of herself and her thoughts and feelings. 

Second, she's real and honest about her self awareness. 

Third, she is willing to share it when safely asked.

And fourth, its not "all or nothing."

ALL or NOTHING is very tempting. We tend to answer each other with short one word statements when asked how we are doing. "Fine", or "OK", stuff like that. I get it, I do it myself. We are not in a place to open up full conversation. But I love how Sonya offered me more info in her short response.

I understand, in the most basic of ways, the concept of 60/40 in investment; trying to create a balance between safe and risky. And I get the 60/40 in hair styles creating a bit gentler and more aesthetically pleasing part line than straight down the center of the head. All of it boils down to creating a livable balance. I'm probably 60% OK and 40% a wreck. (which is better than 50/50.)

What Sonya's 60/40 said to me was that she is functioning, and she is allowing joy into her life, but none of it will override the healing wound. 60/40 is a pretty good way of expressing that. 70/30 might mean she's having a bit of a struggle. Then maybe "Today I'm feeling 90% of the pain and hoping for the joy to visit tomorrow," would tell me it's time to send a little love-CPR her way. Or at the very least pause in purposeful prayer on her behalf, since sometimes there's not much a human can do.

Sonya, I'm going to adopt the percentages philosophy you taught me today. Thanks for that. And now every time I use that percentages format I'll think about how much I adore you.

BANNED (2025-20)

For reasons known only to the fireflies that flick their tiny lights around in my brain, I spent a bit of time researching book banning last night. I know the tainted histories of countries like Germany and Russia who, in their darkest hours, devolved into states that began banning books, removing them first from schools, then libraries, then homes,  then burning them in massive bonfires in town squares. This was before they started burning people. But I never imagined this happening in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

Nonetheless, here we are.

Titles are backwards to protect the innocent.😎

First, I started searching out currently banned books on a national level. That categorization included books that fell into the "banned in 50 or more areas" status. Then I stumbled onto Project 2025, the Right Wing Republican prospect, developed by the Heritage Foundation, and their book banning escapades.

Let me clarify here; I am not bashing the tenets of the Republican political party with which I aligned when I registered to vote. I served as a delegate this past year, and am a believer in the basic philosophy that the government should govern and not control. I do, however, agree with much of what the Democrat party supports... the idea that we should take care of each other.

With that underlying my thoughts, I'm pretty shocked at how far into the realm of control the pendulum has swung in this political party I joined. 

We have a clock in our entry hall, built in Pennsylvania well over a century ago. It has a big brass pendulum that swings steadily. The sound of its swinging is an auditory comfort to me. But the pendulum of the political party I call my own has swung right out of the clock housing and slammed into the neighbor's house! We've gone wild! It really should be a Cuckoo clock!  But I digress... back to book banning.

So I guess books have been banned in the US off and on for a long time, in various places, though not to the level we are now experiencing.

Apparently in the mid-1990's Where's Waldo was banned because on one of the pages, kids looking for that striped red hat on Waldo might come across a woman the size of a pinhead in the corner who appears to have had a wardrobe malfunction.

In 2010 the children's book, Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? was banned in the state of Texas because the author, Bill Martin Jr., was a Marxist theorist. Only the Bill Martin Jr that wrote the book was not the same Bill Martin, and no one bothered to check it out before banning it.

So many school districts have banned the Harry Potter series that it made the national banned book list. Too much fantasy, I guess. And Charlotte's Web was banned because it had talking animals, and of course in real life animals can't talk. Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, and various Shakespeare works join the ranks of banned books. Even American Heritage and Merriam-Webster Dictionaries have been banned for their inclusion of slang.

Then there's the Florida School Board that banned a kids book called Ban This Book, by Alan Gratz. Its a children's novel about a fourth grader who created a banned book library after her school board started banning books. MmmmHmmm.

Steve Martin, the comedian/actor/musician/writer, recently commented on his own book being banned in Florida. He posted on social media, 

"So proud to have my book Shopgirl banned in Collier County, Florida. Now, people who want to read it will have to buy a copy!"

Ulysses, Catcher in the Rye and my personal favorite, To Kill a Mockingbird were all banned books that became classics. 

Mark Gottlieb from the Trident Literary Group suggests the following:

While the intentions behind book banning may vary, the unintended consequence remains the same: it often serves to sell more banned books. The Streisand Effect, driven by human curiosity, rebellion, underground followings, media coverage, and the strengthening of author reputations, ensures that banned books attract more attention and readership than they would have if left undisturbed. In a world that values freedom of expression, it is essential to understand that suppressing books may inadvertently result in their proliferation. Rather than banning books, a more productive approach may involve open and informed discussions, encouraging critical thinking, and allowing individuals to choose what they read. After all, the paradox of book banning reminds us that prohibition can often be a powerful catalyst for the ideas it aims to suppress.

So I've been thinking, since nobody buys CD's anymore because they can listen for free on any streaming site,... I'm wondering how I can get my music banned?

WHIPLASH (2025-19)

One of the drawbacks of challenging myself to pause each day and write something of substance, during the season of Lent, is that I look at daily encounters with philosophical if not poetic eyes. It rarely translates well into what I write, because it is so unedited and doesn't have time to mull around in my head before I wrap it in words. However, the process of thought during these forty-plus days leading up to Easter has facilitated an open awareness, which keeps me alive and growing. All in all its a healthy exercise, but it is really tiring.

This year my Lenten practice has been especially taxing. My thoughts whip back and forth between profound love of my Savior and my fellow humans, gratitude for the environment in which I have been placed to live out my life, and distress at the current state of our governmental leadership. I am blursed (blessed and cursed) with a medical diagnosis of ADHD, which I celebrate for the creativity and flexibility it affords me, and which I curse for my inability to remain focused on singular topics that may not hold my full attention at any given moment. I add here, as a side note, that my inability to remain focused on something does not mean it doesn't matter to me. 

I currently live with a painful case of mental and emotional whiplash. I go from the peace and comfort my Savior represents to me, to distress over aspects of my religion that don't feel like they align with how I interpret the Savior would want us to be. Just as I am pondering and praying and trying to work that out, along comes Elon Musk, anointed by our newly elected American president to whip us into shape economically. My thoughts go to that opening scene in the movie Far and Away where the Irish land barons force the commoners who lease their lands to crisis behavior. Why would I trust someone who has acquired incalculable wealth on the backs of others to do what is in the best interest of we who work the land? Then I get more distressed that people I generally consider to be intelligent, God loving members of our community would buy into what is happening. 

My head hurts.

So does my heart.

I flip, with no time to process, between the following:

I adore my neighbor... I am sorely disappointed in my neighbor.

I am a patriot like my mother was... I am ashamed of what we are doing in America.

I'm a believer through and through... I am full of all sorts of questions.

I like who I am... I don't even know who I am.

I know who I trust... I guess I can't trust them.

We must be fiscally responsible... we must care for each other even at our own expense.

I yearn for peace... I must be willing to grow,  and that involves tension.

I am excited about a family gathering... I feel tension in family gatherings.

I am worried about the amount of garbage we are creating... I just want to be able to throw away something and not feel that it demands so much of my focus.

I love that I can access music for free... I am saddened that we will lose quality music because we don't pay for what we use.

I should send money to places where USAID used to send medication but now doesn't ... I really want that pack of Oreos.

I'm walking stiffly through this moment with a severe case of whiplash.

Is anyone else?

SABBATH SONGBIRDS (2025-18)

A group of chicks is called a “chattering.”

A group of eagles is called a “convocation.”

A group of hummingbirds is called a “charm.”

And a gathering of owls is a “parliament.”

A collection of penguins is known as a “huddle.”

Get a group of jays together and you’ll have a “band” or a “party.” (I think it would be fun to get everybody I know named Jay and give them matching t shirts and invite them to a Jay party. Or create a rock band called “The Jays”. But I digress….

A “watch” is a gathering of nightingales. 

Those noisy magpies looking like nuns are conveniently known as “conventicles.”

Then there are those black birds familiar in horror movies. A group of ravens is called an “unkindness.” It can also be called a “conspiracy” or “treachery.”

A group of crows, often larger than typical groups of ravens, is called a ”murder.” Yikes!

And then, in contrast, a group of larks is an “exaltation” or an “ascension.”

Finally, a collection of all types of birds is called a congregation.

When I sit in church each Sunday, and the organ starts to play as we are all sitting there lined up along the branches of our wooden pews, I yearn to hear the woods awaken in all her glory. Instead, the organ blows through us and we birds kind of whimper or remain sadly silent. Maybe everyone wants to be a rose-breasted grosbeak, or even the familiar robin or conversational house finch, or have the bubbly whistle of the meadowlark . I wonder if people are making an unspoken declaration that if God didn’t make me a sparrow I will not sing. 

Whatever the reason, I suspect the maker of all humans and birds would be more pleased if all the birdies in the woods would open their beaks and rejoice at the rising Son. It’s the variety that makes the journey through this earthbound space so glorious.

ALERT! (2025-17)

I was walking my class of guitar students through the process of switching between F and C chords when everyone's cell phones began blaring a high pitched warning, pulsing against the table where our phones rested. The warning shook us from our focus.

"Sounds like either and Amber of Silver Alert," I said, as we each reached for our phones or looked at messages scrolled across the black faces of Apple watches on their wrists. 

"You know," I continued, "this sure can disrupt what everyone is doing, can't it?"

They all agreed.

"One woke me up at 4 am the other night," I continued, "and its tough to fall back to sleep afterwards."

It could really be annoying.

But only for a second, because when I hear that blaring warning, I am reminded that I am a part of a large, caring community. This audible call to pause warms my heart and encourages me during a time when I am more and more disheartened by the way our country's leadership attempts to dehumanize us, destroy our attempts to recognize and help others, and put money over human values.  This call going out to all of us reminds me I am part of a community unified in our concern for those who are vulnerable and in danger.

I explained to my young students,"Isn't it great that we belong to a community that cares enough to call all of us to look up and protect the vulnerable?"

Next time that warning comes through your cell service, pause to give thanks that we belong to a community that is willing to pitch in and help someone who cannot help themselves, to keep an eye out for each other, and to raise our own awareness that there are those among us who live in danger.

Please, God, don't let this united force for human goodness be silenced like so many other forces in our country have been.

HINGED (2025-16)

Three little stories about hinges:

A HINGE IS A JOINT THAT HOLDS TWO PIECES OF SOMETHING TOGETHER WHILE ALLOWING ONE PIECE TO MOVE IN A SWINGING MOTION.

1. I recently watched a short film about a little white clapboard church in Keystone, Nebraska. A tiny church in a tiny village near Lake McConaughey. The town was established near the turn of the last century, when farmland was new and fertile. A cluster of teenage girls in the newly established community decided their town needed a church. The people of Keystone were not all followers of the same denominations, about half were Catholic and half were Protestant. So, the girls suggested they build a church that could house both. With the guidance of Mrs. Paxton, their youth leader, they raised several hundred dollars to get the thing started, holding bake sales, bazaars and an oyster dinner. The Paxton family, ranchers in the community, kicked in the rest. A famous architect designed it. The Pope sent a special dispensation from Rome for a Catholic church to be housed with a Protestant congregation. The little church opened in 1908 with a big dedication ceremony. The church had a pump organ and pulpits on either end, one Catholic, one Protestant. Because the building was small, Mrs. Paxton, who was well travelled, suggested they install pews that had backs on hinges, similar to the cable cars of San Francisco. Because cable cars could not turn around, they flipped the backs of the seats to face opposite directions, depending on which way the car was going. The Catholics had their service on Sunday mornings facing their altar, and then they flipped the pew on their hinges to face the Protestant altar for their neighbors’ services in the afternoon.

2. My sister Sue is lending us a centuries old bench table which sits in our family room. Its a long term lend for which I am grateful, because we use that bench constantly. Guitar students sit in it every week. Then on Sundays we pull it out from the wall and rotate the back to become a tabletop. Its an ingenious piece of furniture designed to make good use of small spaces in pioneer cabins. We easily seat eight people at the bench table. I used to have a smaller one, but Sue's is better suited for our Sunday crowds. It's one of my favorite pieces of all time. Thanks, Sue.

3. The hinge on our back gate is broken. When we bought this lot and designed our house we recognized that the developer had not created any sort of passageway between our neighborhood and Somerset Hollow neighborhood behind us. While we fenced the rest of the yard to keep our dog in, we added a gate for access to the Hollow. It has become a thoroughfare for the neighbors. The school bus even stops behind our house to gather the kids from our neighborhood. People pass through our yard so often I have developed anxiety about running over someone as I back out of my garage. Dave and I are at odds about that gate. He likes to provide access for everyone. I love people, but also appreciate having a little privacy. If I want my garage to be a messy creative space I don't necessarily want everyone to know about it. And when we decide to have a family BBQ out in the driveway of the front yard, I'm shocked by people who will pass through walking their dogs, having to weave through us as we're eating or visiting. Plus I worry about liability.

One day a rogue deer, with a hefty rack of antlers on his head, was chased by a neighbor's dog down our driveway. The gate was closed, and the deer's antlers got stuck in between the iron rungs. The poor beast ripped the gate from its hinges and began flailing in our yard with a giant black fence gate on his head. The whole episode is a story for another time. But that gate has not yet had its hinges repaired. It will swing open, but won't spring back to close it. That open gate makes it too easy for bikes and motorcycles to come whizzing down our driveway and onto the road behind us. 

When we were in Ireland last year I saw this metal sign and purchased it on the spot. It's cast iron and quite heavy. I had to hand carry it through the various airports and shuttles, but it was worth it to me. As soon as we get the hinge fixed, I'll put the sign on the gate. Meanwhile, I lock that gate at least one day every couple years to preserve our ownership of this space. I love people, and surely love my neighbors, but sometimes those missing springs on the hinges leave me unhinged.

Pondering the definition of hinge; the concept that one object is stable and the hinge keeps another object connected while it shifts position, I thought of my Savior, Jesus Christ, becoming the hinge for me. God the Father: the unmovable point. My Savior is the patient hinge. And I am the one constantly swinging back and forth. Thank you, Jesus, for keeping me connected.

FRIENDS (2025-15)

Yesterday, as Dave and I were driving somewhere, I emptied a bottle of Coke into my Stanley cup. When the last of the sweet brown foam was shaken into my metal cup I replaced the red lid on the bottle top and nonchalantly tossed the empty bottle into the back of the car. Dave giggled without even taking his eyes off the road. I can guarantee you both of us were thinking of our friend Marsha, and with the thought our love for her increased.

Years ago, when Marsha was still alive, I picked her up at her house. She crawled into the passenger seat with her purse and a fountain drink in her hand. Somewhere along the way she finished her drink, and while we were talking she just tossed that empty plastic cup in the back of my car. I looked over at her, my eyebrows lifted, and she realized what she had just done. "Gosh, sorry! I thought I was in my own car." Apparently when your own car rarely carries back seat passengers you can use that empty space to store stuff as long as you want. Now I'll be driving along in my van and, in memory of my beloved friend Marsha, toss an empty pop bottle into the back seat. It tickles my fancy every time and carries my heart right back to my beloved and dearly missed friend.

I've been thinking this morning about friendship.

You know you are comfortable with someone when you can fall asleep in their presence. Or, when someone falls asleep in your presence and its obvious they have a sleeping disorder you can tell them to get that checked. That's how you know you're a friend. And if you go so far as to find a doctor and get them there you may be related to them as well.

My daughter Sarah once said "I hope Libby doesn't think she actually looks like that." This was in reference to a photo. If you're not particularly photogenic a real friend will tell you that you look better in real life. It's a relief, really.

A safe friend will hold your secret for you so you don't have to carry it alone. Every once in a while you may ask her if she remembers, and a nod is enough. She is willing to keep that secret secret.

If she loves you and has hurt you, a friend will acknowledge with tenderness that you have been wounded, she has been part of it, and she is sorry. She will understand if you are unable to forgive just yet. But being willing to apologize without having to give big long explanations or reasons means she loves you and she loves herself.

You can be true friends and not have funny bones in the same spot. However, the people who laugh at the same warped humor that tickles your fancy are pretty special.

I am partial to the friends who will offer to go hit someone who has hurt me. These are the friends who we know will not generally go do that. But the offer is always appreciated.

I've always loved the story from the Holy Bible, where Moses tells Joshua to be brave and take his men to fight Amalek and his army. Moses, Aaron and Hur went up the hillside overlooking the battle. As long as Moses held his staff over his head, Joshua's army prevailed. But soon his arms grew weary. Aaron and Hur brought a stone to him, upon which he could sit. Then they were able to hold the arms of Moses so he could hold the staff. They didn't insist on taking the staff from him and holding it themselves. They knew he had to hold it himself. But they did use their ingenuity to figure out how to help him carry it himself. True friends do not remove our struggles from us. But they offer to help us hold them. They also understand if we don't want help.

You don't have to be in each other's space constantly to be a real friend. This is a mistake many young people make, thinking it's all or nothing. My friend Gailyn visited a few days before my Christmas concert last year. We hadn't seen her in many years. And yet it was as comfortable as ever to hand her a pair of scissors and ask her to cut ribbon. I've noticed, for me, a good friend isn't constantly asking how she can help. She has a sense that I will tell her when I need her.

I just texted my friend Erin to ask how I can help with her son's mission farewell. She said they are already set. I objected, as friends will do. But when she said, again, that they are set, I let it be. Some people will say a true friend will show up with something anyway. But sometimes a friend is just as true when they understand you really are ok without their help. Love, and the offer, are enough.

A friend will let you evolve. They will not insist that nothing should change. And when things do shift and morph, and maybe it becomes a little less comfortable, a friend will still love and pray for you even if you don't know it or even want to know it. Eternal friends have a long time to make up... like maybe even a thousand years from now. Bridges of friendship are built of stone, not wood, and they may become impassable for a while, but they do not burn.

There are countless examples of friendship, and the same number of ways to be friends on all sorts of levels. At whatever measure, we are placed here on this planet to weave ourselves into each other. We are not designed to live solitary lives. We take turns being the warp and the weft.

The fabric of friendship.

ON THE WINGS OF TIME: THE CONNORS BOYS (2025-14)

Parker Maxwell Connors

"You'd better get a picture of that", I said as we walked out John and Ash's front door tonight. Next to the door mat, splashed with dried mud and sandbox sand, one of them laying in it's side, were two little size 5 Van tenny runners. They are almost too small for him now. "Better grab that before it's gone", I thought, because tomorrow morning those will be size 9 baseball cleats with red dirt stuck between the spikes and your boy will be somewhere else more than he is home. Then tomorrow afternoon the shoes will be gone for good and you'll have to drive down the road, maybe even a far away drive down the road, just to get to a place where his shoes might have been. Not that this is bad. It's sweet in the end, to have the circle grow thicker around you, though the process can be painful. Big shoes lead to little shoes, which lead to bigger shoes, which lead to the heartbreaks which lead to the heart swells. Like the merry go round ride on the playground. It's fun as long as it doesn't go too fast.

I wrote this in my earliest Lent Writing, on April 1^st 2008. 

Alas, it went too fast.

That sweet, tender, talented boy grew into a thoughtful, strong, love-filled young man whose well-worn shoes have indeed been covered with red dirt, and bike trail dust. They lift and fall to the beat of his drum set, have plodded across the desert in Africa and Mexico, where his hands did the work of compassion. He plants his feet in the hallways of the University of Utah now. Next year they will cross the ocean and study in the old halls of institutions of learning in London. He is full of hope and vision and curiosity. He is glorious.

Now the front porch where Parker’s little size 5 sneakers laid holds the basketball shoes of his little brother, Walter.

Walter David Connors

Yesterday Walt turned eleven years old. He’s still thrilled with mini figures and Legos, but this year his wish list included vinyl LPs. We can feel the winds shifting. We brace ourselves for the change, confident that his heart, nurtured in the warmth of a good family, will lead him safely in the journey. He is delightfully filled with dreams and hope for our world.

Walt with his basketball buddies.

Walter sees the good in himself and others. He is well loved. I worry about the reality of this pistol-whipped world breaking his spirit. But I am comforted by his genetic pre-disposition for goodness and the nest his parents create for him. Add to that the beautiful fact that he has that same vintage tender-heartedness of the boy-turned-man whose shoes he tries to fill.

Walter and Parker Connors

My own boy, John Connors, 
(just the day before yesterday)

SMALL GLASS STONES (2025-13)

 I took my laptop computer to the shop for repairs. They need to keep it for a few days while they fix it. My mighty little MacBook Pro is a powerful machine which I use pretty much every day. I feel a serious amount of distress without it. Like most people/places/and things, we often don’t know how much something matters to us until it's gone. 

I’ve resorted to using my teeny tiny handheld computer, which also serves as a phone, to do my daily Lenten writing. My chubby little fingers and stubby little thumb are proving to be a hindrance. 

I am thinking, however, past this little frustration, how amazing it is that I can hold this little piece of glass, have it interpret my misspellings, preserve what I write and share it with people across the world. 

old computer punch cards

When I was small our sister Sue had a job as a computer something-or-other… meaning I’m not sure what they called the people who punched info into the massive machines back in the olden days. She used to bring home stacks of punch cards; cardstock weight pieces of Manila paper, about 4” x 8”, into which were punched rectangular holes that looked like what we now call pixels. Each card was different. Ann Marie, Libby and I got a large cardboard box somewhere, like a refrigerator box, cut it and colored it, used a separated kitchen knife to cut slits in it and turned it into what we thought a computer would look like. One of us stood inside the box and another outside, feeding those little cards full of information into our make believe computer. When I stood inside I disguised my voice to sound like the robot from the TV show Lost in Space and whined through one of the holes in the box:

“That does not compute.”

The massive multi story prototype computer, on which my big sister worked, stored far less information than I hold in my hand right now. We could never have imagined how quickly technology would evolve.

I remember as a teenager, pondering the restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ through the hands of the prophet Joseph Smith in the 1800's. It’s part of our history as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Joseph had been led, through divine sources, to an ancient book that had been buried in North America. That book, its language pressed into metal plates, now known as the Book of Mormon, was written in a language Joseph did not understand. In fact no one spoke that ancient Egyptian language anymore. It’s a long and involved story, and if I did not have the feeling in my heart that confirms its validity, I would think it was pretty far-fetched. 

Anyway, Joseph was instructed to translate that writing. Along with the book that had been written on plates of gold came tools to help in the translation. One of those tools was a seer stone, a sort of glass stone that could be held in the hand. As a child, I couldn’t imagine how something like that would be able to translate. And yet I sit here in my easy chair with a piece of glass in my hand and it is interpreting what I speak into it because my fingers can’t move fast enough.

I'm not saying the iPhone is a seer stone. It was the the item itself that did the work, it was the users. All I'm saying is that some things we think are crazy end up not being as improbable as we once thought.

That translated book, a spiritual and historical record of the inhabitants of the American continents, is a beloved source of guidance and comfort as a scriptural companion to the Old and New Testament in the Holy Bible.

companions

I’m reminded that divinely appointed things that seem ridiculous and impossible, given further light and knowledge, become possible. I remind myself I only use a fraction of the capacity of my brain, and that represents to me that we have only a fraction of understanding of things eternal. For that reason, I trust my heart as much as I trust that 10% of my brain that has full use.

I hope to guard and nurture my heart source as much as my brain source. And I am mindful of how mysterious and beautiful the ways of God may seem.