Clouds, Grease, and Bits of Orange — Lynda Schultz

This is not my story, but arises out of the conversation between two friends of mine. She really does need a dishwasher.


“I’d really like a dishwasher.”

We were discussing the move into our new apartment. When we’d done the walk through with the real estate agent I noticed that there was a space under one of the kitchen counters that seemed like it was just made for a dishwasher.

I planted the idea with my husband, though I should have known better. His response was predictable.

“No, no. We don’t need a dishwasher. I always thought it was foolish to have a dishwasher. Every person I know who has one ends up washing their dishes before they put them in the thing. Seems silly to me to wash them twice. All you have to do is take a little extra care to make sure that you clean them right the first time.”

I sighed. It seemed as though we had had this conversation before. I always lost, or gave up; overwhelmed by the tidal wave of verbiage he is so gifted with.

“Besides, there’s the electricity it uses.”

Then it was back to the double washing.

“And you know what happens if you don’t get all the junk off before you put the dishes in the thing. Those traps are really small, and they get easily clogged. The next thing you know the water can’t escape. You open the door and out comes all the water all over the floor.”

I nodded my head. Okay, I get the message.

“Then there’s the bill to repair the thing.”

He finally noticed my facial expression.

“But you know, I do anything for you. If you really want a dishwasher, then it’s a dishwasher we’ll get.”

He was trying and I appreciated it. However, we both knew where this argument was going and what the conclusion would be.

“Honey, you really don’t need one, you know. I’ll do all the dishes. You won’t have to worry about them ever again, I promise. I already do my own after breakfast, right?”

“Yes, that’s true, dear,” I said, gamely. He had been doing his own breakfast dishes for a while now in an effort to be a husband more aware of his wife’s needs. I didn’t want to discourage him.

He nodded, satisfied that his point had been made, and then took off down the hall as I cleared the kitchen table of my cereal bowl and coffee cup.

I turned toward the sink and picked up the first of the breakfast dishes already stacked in the rack. I examined each one, putting aside the still cloudy glasses, the frying pan with grease still stuck to its side, the pieces of the juicer to which bits of orange still clung. As I washed—for the second time—the dishes he had so “carefully” done after his early morning breakfast, I breathed a prayer:

“Lord, bless him, but I’d still like a dishwasher.”

There is no man so deceived as he who, being blind, thinks that he can see.

The Great Thaw -- Janet Sketchley

It became known as the summer of the Great Thaw. Not to be confused with the Silent Warming, when the old chest freezer simply gave up.

The Great Thaw was controlled. Intentional. But with it came the sounds of spring: the trickle of water, the crack and thud of ice breaking and falling.

Sounds of hope.

An upright freezer can be a contrary thing, especially when it knows how to sneak its door open a crack for warmer air. In this particular household lurked one of these, rare in that its cold sprang from its shelves themselves rather than its walls.

Between the effects of time and the thaw/freeze cycle from its warm-air penchant, the shelves achieved great thickness: three times the original, and in places more.

Woe to the individual who had to fit a turkey or other non-tortilla-shaped item between these shelves. The frost grew, until an arm reaching for veggies wedged at the back would come out scratched and frost-tinged.

The time of fresh blueberries rapidly approached, and what were the homeowners to do? Never in their wildest imaginings could they fathom how to lodge sufficient boxes of the dark blue treasures for the year ahead.

The female of the home, a courageous lass, took drastic action. She flung open the freezer door, carried the contents to safe haven, and turned off the thermostat.

At the word of her intrepid mother, who is wise in these ways, she set an electric fan to blow into the den of frost.

The frost protested, turned to ice, but to no avail. First slowly, then with the eagerness of spring, water began to drip and ice to loose its hold.

Freedom came to the home.

Ice-free but cold again, the freezer has a new chance to preserve the family’s food. To help with this vital mission, it now wears an appliance lock to curtail midnight chats with the furnace that shares its lair.

May it long stand, this cold sentinel, protecting blueberries, ice cream and all manner of precious and perishable goods.

© Janet Sketchley, 2009
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For devotionals, reviews and conversation, stop by Janet Sketchley's blog, God with Us: Finding Joy.

He Shows Up In A Closet by Brenda Leyland

Imagine living in a dorm for several months with a bunch of chattering, laughing young women, and you’ll understand why a person sometimes has to get away for a little peace and quiet. When you share a small room with someone else, there isn't anywhere to be alone... to have some quiet time with God.

Except the storage closet down the hall. Stuffy and dusty, not to mention piled to the rafters with suitcases and cardboard boxes, along with a spare mattress on the floor, it wasn't the most inviting of places.

But, many years ago, as a young Bible school student and a fairly new Christian, I was hungry to meet with God. I’d read about other people’s experiences where the presence of God would fill the room as they waited. I desired an experience that would let me know God was really real in my life. I wanted Him to talk to me. I wanted to know what He thought about me and what He wanted me to do with my life.

And, so I'd go into that closet, hoping that I'd find Him there. Yet, so often, I would come away feeling disappointed because I never had any great momentous encounter. The ceiling of that stale room never opened and angels never came down on ladders... at least not to my natural eyes and senses. I never 'felt' Him near. I used to wonder why.

And then, a couple of year ago I went through some inner healing, where I began to deal with old issues that still poked and hurt. So when the closet memory resurfaced I asked Him for an answer. I became quiet, focused my thoughts on Jesus, and tuned to the language of my heart. So God, why didn’t You come? Quick as a blink, I heard in my spirit: But I was there. Don’t you remember My Word in James 4:8? As soon as you came near to Me, I came near to you.

Of course! He'd been there all the time even when I didn't see or feel anything 'special'. When He reminded me of that promise, its reality burst upon my heart—as the joy flooded in the old feeling of abandonment and disappointment finally left.

On a later occasion, I asked Him why I couldn’t feel His Presence during that time. This is what I felt Him saying:

Because I was teaching you to trust my Word above all else. What you learned in the closet back in the 1970s has been your foundation of trusting Me for the rest of your life. In this season of your life, you feel My Presence and nearness often. But when I have to hide a little for a very good reason, I know I can trust you that you won’t stop believing Me. And you have believed that when you call out to Me, I AM listening to you, My Dear One.

Not that long ago, I envisioned that stuffy closet in my mind’s eye and smiled. There we were, Jesus and me, lounging on that old mattress. He had come. He had always come. And promises He always will!

Brenda lives in Alberta, Canada, with her husband and their sweet tortoiseshell cat, Miss Kitty. When Brenda's not watching for glimpses of heaven in unexpected places, she's probably writing about them on her blog It's A Beautiful Life.

Where I Write -- Kimberley Payne

Some days I have trouble sitting down to write because I can’t decide where the best place would be to stimulate my creative juices. I am blessed with several options, including my leather couch in the living room, my armchair in the sunroom, or my blue oversized chair in the office. In this summer season, my options can also include writing outdoors on the pool deck, or in a Muskoka chair overlooking the ravine, or on the low back chair on my front porch.

When the question was posed on The Word Guild discussion forum, I discovered that just as all writers are different, their writing places are as unique.

N.J. Lindquist likes to sit on her back deck, inside a tent with the netting closed. Her dog sits on the loveseat beside her. Stephanie Tombari taps away on her laptop late in the evening sitting on her bed with her husband out cold beside her. Patricia Paddey loves the freedom of her laptop. “It lets me write anywhere. And I do.”

Janice Dick uses a little white Mac laptop at her desk in the balcony overlooking her living room. Andi Harris is content to sit on her living room futon (curved out just so from her constant use), laptop in front, side table with fruit juice or water, and a couple of clip boards.

Belinda Burston sits “in a dappled place beside a sturdy clump of silver birch--so lovely that I had to capture it with the eye of my camera. A canopy of leaf laden branches, danced above my head, while a breeze passed through them with a sigh. The electronic drone of an air conditioner added to the symphony of tweets, twitters, chirrups and soft coo-ing. Over my arms, warmed by the sun, the cool, silken veil of breeze flowed. I was ready to listen in the cool of this morning.”

Carolyn Wilker writes most often in her home office using pen or pencil and paper, which she takes with her whenever she goes away from home. Linda Hall writes “with pen and paper –actually medium point gel pens, the ultra-fine Sharpies are good, on back sides of paper (unlined), and I like to write with various colored sharpies - like orange or red. I write in half shorthand (which I used way back in the dark ages when they taught shorthand to journalism students). And I usually work in Starbucks.” Heather Kendall also writes “the old-fashioned way with pen and paper”. She needs to have a rough outline down on paper before she dares put it in the computer.

Each writer and her writing space is unique. Today, I plan to sit in my tent-trailer and open all the windows to let in the air without the bugs. It’ll provide the shade I need so I’m not roasting in the sun. It also offers a clear view of the blue sky with a smattering of puffy clouds in the distance. Now that I’ve picked my place to write, I actually need to do so. What to write, what to write?

Kimberley Payne
www.kimberleypayne.com