Dry run

Such insight for us all!

The unexpected journey into grief

Today the boys, well, Josh and Sam, left to go commercial fishing. It was a stressful transition, the packing for an unknown adventure, recovering from overseas travel while walking through our first Father’s Day without Scott. It was a lot all at once, to say the least.

Photo credit: Sam Blom

They boarded their plane with their gear and were quickly underway. And I was suddenly the only Blom in town. It’s not the first time this has happened with all the comings and goings of our family. But this one feels significant. It is a glimpse of the fall when they go to college.

The view is not entirely accurate as Katie will be here with me, and she is not home now. It’s interesting because as I thought ahead to this time it was not with fear. I don’t mind some time alone. I relish it, actually. Quiet…

View original post 334 more words


How Do You Read It?

Dave and I love watching each of our grandchildren learn to read. The older three now point out words and take joy in being able to read us signs, menus and books. 

What begins as sounds of individual letters morphs into blends. From there, children develop word attack skills, usually accompanied by a few hiccups, such as, “Why isn’t why just spelled Y?” I hear Taylor Faith laughing over that as she’s now reading this book by Lauren Child.
At times, even as adults, we need help to comprehend what we read. 

In a prelude to the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37), a lawyer tries to trick Jesus. The Lord’s response? “How do you read it?” From the rest of the parable, we learn that merely reading the Law (and setting a trap for Jesus), misses the intent of the parable completely.

Perhaps because this is the season of Lent, a time when many try to practice self denial in various ways, I pause to consider how I approach reading the Scriptures. I think of Jesus’ words: “How do you read it?” Although I don’t bring the lawyer’s malicious intent to the table, I look at my possible motivations for daily devotions:

Do I come out of duty? To check devotions off my daily ‘to do’ list? To win an argument? To prove my knowledge of verses?

Convicted of the not-so-hidden agendas that can muddy my time with the Lord, I backtrack to rethink my approach to reading and studying.

Did I ask the Holy Spirit to lead me into Truth?

Did I confess my agenda(s) and sin(s), and then rejoice that there is no condemnation for those in Christ? (Romans 8:1)

If I do these things, I find I read EXPECTANTLY, and not just HABITUALLY. I then read with an eye to true repentance that will lead to changed behavior, and I find myself praying for grace to walk in more authentic faith.

Braided Together

Love, laughter, and celebration braided together at Christmas when Brent’s entire family scratched Bella’s belly and broke into genuine, joyous laughs! This is my favorite picture from this year’s celebration. 

We find other life experiences braided together also, things like pain and disappointment that get woven into our lives everyday. 

What do we do with the stray strands of anger, bullying, or lying that are part of our neatly braided lives, the facade we show others? Ouch!

Now, as a mother of two boys and a woman with short hair, not to mention arthritic fingers, I rarely even attempt braids on any of my three granddaughters! Their moms, however, create amazing braids.

Grandma’s attempts are never the same. 😏

Studying the girls’ braids has made me think of all the strands God weaves into our lives. Whether neat as a pin or tendrils escaping, the Lord loves us! 
The more I learn of His grace, the more I accept the less desirable weave of stray ends. The Master Designer braids in fantastic days, moments, experiences! And we love these! But in His infinite wisdom, He points out a wisp of jealousy, pain or gossip we have swirled into our braid. 

We then complain and whine; “Can’t you tuck — or pluck–it away so no one will see it and I won’t be bothered by it?”

He continues patiently braiding, knowing that we need to deal with all the recalcitrant strands in our life. But the Lord will never leave us struggling alone. His willingness to love us always encourages us.

Christmas Running

Running on the treadmill of religion too often parallels the celebration of Christmas in our lives. The scenery on a treadmill doesn’t change; there is the knowledge that we are going through the motions, but boredom and monotony settle in quickly. Nothing new comes into view that might spur us on.

If we approach the celebration of Christ’s birth like a treadmill, the essence of Immanuel, God with the us, never comes into view. We see the baking, decorating, gift buying, party going repeat every year. The trappings may change somewhat, but the wonder  gets lost in drudgery. We have to shop, have to bake, have to clean, have to entertain… just like last year. Little changes, and the wonder once associated with Christmas dulls or sparkles with artificial snow and tacky tinsel.

Others, however, choose to run outside. They expend energy as if they were exercising on a treadmill,  setting either a comfortable pace or a more demanding speed. Yet they run a course that allows for sights as well as insights. The terrain changes, expanding the mind as the heart pumps and feet pound.

While I only get to watch and cheer for runners in our family, I love to approach the Christmas season with an outside runners’ perspective. 

Instead of the treadmill approach to Christmas, I enjoy the freedom to experience the joy and hope of this time of year. The party could be a potluck gathering of friends and family. The gifts might be fewer, with time spent around a large puzzle worked on over 3 or 4 days. People of all ages can get involved in completing the masterpiece! Savor the time rather than worrying over having all the napkins match. Bake cookies and take them to another family, the local fire department or a lonely neighbor. 

And walk outside to listen for the angels of old who announced the best gift ever. It could prove very liberating to get off the Christmas treadmill. Merry Christmas!


This season of giving thanks always reminds me of bounty. The colors of burnt umber (How I love Crayola’s original color names!) painted on a cerulean canvas create soul sparks of thanksgiving that fly heavenward!

Pumpkin aromas waft upward through our log cabin, infusing our home with warmth and richness. They too draw my heart to inhale and ruminate on the goodness of the everyday, the seemingly mundane. How often do I wander through abundance and not acknowledge the sheer extravagance?
Do I see the artistry of an evening’s sunset or rush off to get somewhere without pause or reflection? Have I consider all the Lord has lavished on me? Lavish, by definition, means “to expend or bestow profusely.” Such an over-the-top word gets limited play in today’s speech. It may even sound stuffy to some. But yet..

The lavishness of autumn reawakens  me to a spectacular truth that outshines even the beauty of fall:

“We have redemption in Him through His blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of His grace that he lavished on us with all wisdom and understanding.” Eph 1:7-8

This wood carving at Leheman’s Hardware in Dalton, Ohio, reminds me that God’s lavish grace had an unimaginable cost. With bowed head, I offer a prayer of thanks.

Transplanting at 4

A few years back, a neighbor brought us a lady slipper from the nearby woods. Dave planted it but alas, it died very quickly. After researching the transplanting of these delicate flowers, botanists discovered that lady slippers rarely transplant well because they flourish in the exact bacteria that exists in the soil where they live. Knowing the location of several of these lady slipper pockets, we now take the ATV out and enjoy them where they are at home. Transplanting them doesn’t work well.

As a child, I experienced a very difficult transplant, one that, after a spinal tap in my doctor’s office, took me 43 miles away. My parents carefully wrapped me in a blanket that July day, and placed me in the backseat for the trip that would drastically change my life. When the ’39 Olds  stopped, we had arrived at Vassar Brothers Hospital in Poughkeepsie, New York, one of the few hospitals accepting polio patients. I don’t remember the goodbye that was said between my parents and me that day; I actually have only a few clear memories because I was so young. 

Twenty beds occupied one large room, 10 beds on each side with iron lungs out in the hall. The next youngest patient to me in our room was 20. My parents visited on Saturdays and Sundays. Hospital rules being what they were then, mom and dad had to go up to Hyde Park to spend time out of the hospital between the afternoon and evening visiting hours. I vaguely remember repeatedly pressing my call button one night, but the hot packs remained  on my back and the backs of my legs all night, resulting in blisters the next morning. My parents met with the administrator of the hospital, which in its defense, was terribly overworked and understaffed, but after one month at Vassar, the next transplant came.

An ambulance would take me 43 miles south to the the New York State Rehabilitation Hospital, now know as Helen Hayes Hospital. The second pot for the transplanted little redhead would teach her to swim and exercise weakened muscles. This hospital would allow her beloved cousins to visit, along with her parents, on Saturdays or Sundays. 

During her 5 months in residence at NYSRH, the 4-year-old sang “Jesus Loves Me” to all the staff and folded diapers for the infants on the children’s ward where she shared a room with other youngsters. She also picked up a lifelong dislike for poached eggs and canned asparagus. Thinking she was crafty, she hid these things under other bowls on the tray. She sang along to “Irene Goodnight, Irene,”  and repeatedly asked her parents if she could take one of the infants home with her!
But before this major transplant to two hospitals in six months’ time, the Lord had already planted the good seeds of faith. Her parents, Grandma Lundy, and her Otisville church had all shared truths about Jesus with her through songs and Bible verses. And by God’s grace alone, one of the lady slipper  transplants did survive those months, returning home on January 21.

Transplanting: Part 1

Transplanting flowers can result in beautiful combinations such as the three-mum combination at my friend’s home. But sometimes, and for a variety of reasons, floral transplants don’t thrive. We usually give up on the dying effort and start again. But people, of far greater importance than plants, also experience moves, uprootings, transplantings. Some repotting brings beautiful new situations while others leave roots exposed, drying out and threatening death. Consider the Middle Eastern refugees fleeing war-torn homelands; a job promotion that necessitates a move; a young Olympic hopeful who relocates to train with a renowned coach; the children pulled into custody battles, or worse yet, sex trafficking. 

At some bends in the road, we make decisions with the best information we have. My husband turned down a corporate promotion once because he felt he would be useful serving in a fledgling church. 

Yet, a year after my third major back surgery, we chose to move three hours from our suburban home — and 30+ years’ worth of friends and family — to a quiet 4 acres on a dirt road.
Initially, the peacefulness fed my soul, especially after the hectic pace we had lived. But I missed people. This plant had some times of slumping over, then perking up, only to look bedraggled again. Being transplanted, even when planned and prayed about, is not a greenhouse-perfect transfer. People, as I mentioned before, are far more complex than plants. 

For almost eight years now, my husband and I have made personal and financial adjustments to our early retirement, worshipped at a church 40 minutes away, and found new doctors and dentists. We even left Winding  Ridge for a school year and lived in North Carolina where I taught high school English for a year. But that transplant is its own story!

Proverbs 16:9 often re-anchors my ailing roots: “In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.” 

I have a responsibility to research, plan, prepare. Yet, the sovereign Lord is the Divine Gardener. His landscape architecture lies far, far beyond my scope. But I can trust Him.