Just back from almost a week away, I sit at this cluttered office desk knowing it has potential for serenity too, but can I reach out and get my hands on it?  The cabin in Eldama Ravine was a peaceful getaway for my birthday.  4 cabins on a quiet farm, a baby calf born while we stayed there, a big water tank to swim in when it got too hot, and children cooperating with each other in work and play, wow -Our stay was located not far from Utopia.  Insightful and loving, my husband made the kitchen off limits for me for most of Saturday, all of Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday.

I was not allowed to cook or clean.  I stumbled through worship songs on my flute as I sat “poolside” enjoying the occasional icy splash from the youngsters swimming in the tank.  I read It’s My Turn by Ruth Belle Graham, in its entirety, and ministered to my family with short mealtime readings-aloud, both serious and funny, from the life of the Billy Graham family.

The area was drier than I had ever seen it.  When we drove to Lake Bogoria, we saw the expected water’s edge dusting of salmon-colored flamingos.  We also saw a burnt orange sky with dust storms and whirling dervishes off in several directions.  That last night we were there, a beautiful rain storm blew in and soaked the area.  Next morning, we drove off toward home through a cloud of freshly-hatched termites seeming to emanate from the dampened earth like the steam from Bogoria’s springs.  Ted didn’t smear the windshield by attempting to use the wipers and wash until we had gone completely through- you almost couldn’t see through the windshield at all they were so thick.

I was a little reluctant to come home.  There is something less simple about here than there, I guess.  More obligations, more to do on the to-do-lists, and a very cluttered office that is supposed to be Grand Central for managing homeschooling but ends up being the room I avoid.  However, the rest cleansed my palate so I could taste again and discern the flavor of the important amidst the starches of the urgent.

Teah’s been calling me “Mrs. Noodles” lately and the tone in which she says it signifies it as a term of endearment.  I had played “Noodle’s Nail Salon” with her and one of her little friends, cleaning, shaping, and polishing their nails, for a price. One shilling for cleaning.  Two for buffing.  Three for polishing.  But I gave a discount for artists.  They were both artists.  And I gave a discount for 6 year olds.  And somehow that spoke love to her.  That time.  That game.  Mrs. Noodles was graced with the flavor of the important, at least for that meal.  One meal at a time, sweet Jesus.   One step at a time.  One day at a time.
-Liisa