Who Cut the Cheese?

Growing up with three brothers,

disgusting body noises and smells were the bane

of my daily existence.

PULL MY FINGER

was their motto.

When

WHO CUT THE CHEESE

came into vogue,

they punctuated this new battle cry with rude armpit noises.

It was a harsh childhood, I tell ya'.

My Gramma Geneva

used the slang of her times to join  in our giggles and slang.

When somebody emitted a rude noise from the lower region

of their body, especially if it was accompanied by

a milk-curdling odor,

Gramma would holler out with (wit) a thick (tick) Norwegian (Norvegian) accent,

WHO CUT THE MUSTARD?

(Hoo cut du musTURD)

Then, she'd smile with the same smirk my brothers used

when they'd annihilated the air purity with a SBD.

(For those of you not privileged enough to grow up with

three flatulenting brothers, it means

SILENT BUT DEADLY.)

Notice how I'm not using the actual word you're thinking of?

Yea, when my husband was teaching in a private Christian

school he was reprimanded by the trying-not-to-laugh principal

for using a bad word  in the classroom.

Apparently, a parent had called in because in some homes

FART

is a naughty word.

I wonder if they think a FART by any other name

would smell sweeter?

In case you are one who agrees with that philosophy,

I'll elevate my diction and avoid further mention

of that dreadful word.

Back to Gramma's mustard.

I couldn't begin to imagine where her saying came from,

until I heard this song as an older teenager.

I grew up, married and was blessed with six cheese-cutting kids of my own.

Now, I'm the one cutting the cheese.

Literally.

During the holidays there is a constant ebb and flow of activities,

 festivities, responsibilities and company.

Sometimes, coming up with a last minute meal or snack can be challenging.

A few years ago I discovered having cheese cut up and ready

makes sandwiches and cracker trays easy to create.

The cheese is layered with waxed paper and the bag labeled.

My other favorite flavors to keep on hand are

dill havarti and smoked gouda.

You haven't had dill havarti?

It's my favorite.

If you love cheese and you love pickles,

you will love dill havarti!

It'll be your new favorite cheese, I promise.

A piece of cardstock underneath sturdied up the package.

Two sizes were made, cracker and sandwich.

PULL MY FINGER!

I'm expecting more company this week

and I need to prove I'm not too old to

CUT THE CHEESE

anymore.

The Tale of Three Hammers

Some things never change.

This is how my Dad's tool bench has basically always looked.

The vise is the same. 

The pegboard is the same.

The grinder is the same.

Every house we've lived in,

whether Dad's workbench was in the basement

or out in the garage,

it's looked like this.

These green containers with Dad's familiar handwriting

have sorted his smaller items for years.

But, some things do change.

Look at this row of screwdrivers.

Notice anything unusual?

I'm not talking about the one that's leaning forward,

if that bothers you, you might be slightly OCD.

Think harder.

Every screwdriver is right where it should be.

There isn't one in the junk drawer,

one in the toybox,

one under the car,

and one in the garden.

They're all there.

They're all there in a nice, tidy row,

just waiting patiently to be used.

As a kid I could never find a hammer.

(I guess Dad couldn't either.)

There would be one in every fort the boys were making,

(I have three brothers)

there might be one in the driveway if we were smashing rocks or marbles,

there might be one at the neighbor boy's house,

if he'd lost his Dad's hammers and needed to borrow one of ours,

and there might be one in the boys' bedrooms because they were

"fixing" things or "making" things.

Count them.

Three hammers.

They're all there.

For years my Dad tried to keep his tools from wandering off.

He'd try to lecture the boys on responsibility.

He'd try that piece we all know about money not growing on trees.

He tried to instill the desire for orderliness,

showing them how great it was to go to the workbench

and actually find the tool you were looking for.

Nothing worked for many years.

But, I don't remember my Dad

ever

forbidding the boys from using his tools.

He just endured.

Maybe he knew that someday the boys would leave

and his tools would look like they do now.

Maybe he even dreamed about the day

when he would go to get a hammer

and he would have three to choose from.

But, I don't know if my dad ever dreamed about

 the amazing sons he would raise.

My brothers can build or fix anything.

Seriously.

And, they all buy a lot of tools and keep them in order.

In fact, my Dad's been known to borrow tools from his sons,

as they became more skilled and began buying bigger and better tools.

My Dad's workbench gives me hope.

Someday, my house will be clean.

My scissors will be where I put them.

My pens will be in the pen jar.

My burners will be clean.

My sewing machine will be threaded.

My glue sticks will have glue in them.

My tape will be in the drawer.

My cupboards will be clean.

My craft cupboard will be neatly organized.

My paints will not be open and dried out.

Until then,

I need to endure.

I need to remind myself that my "stuff"

is being used to train them for their futures.

And someday, by the grace of God,

I'll be sitting back,

marveling at the amazing children I have.

Then, I will take all 20 pairs of scissors,

and hang them on pegboard.

It's Always Well With My Soul

I've often wondered how people without Jesus make it through life.

I especially wonder how they make it through trials.

I know they won't make it through death into eternal life.

Friday, the day after my brother's cardiac arrest,

I skipped lunch at my writer's conference to go visit him.

I stopped at the information desk to find out his room number,

and was thrilled to discover that a serious young Christian I know

was working.

His trainee walked me to the Critical Care room,

and as I shared my story of the Lord's presence through Lee's trial,

she confided she was also a believer.

She rejoiced in our miracle and promised to pray.

The second time I went to visit Lee that day,

I had another blessing.

Our hospital has well-researched what is soothing

to suffering patients and troubled visitors.

The sights, sounds, smells, lighting, decorations and staff

all minister to mind, body and soul.

I stopped to listen to this gentleman playing beautiful music.

The familiar melody washed over my body and soul.

I leaned over the railing and let the tears flow.

It Is Well With My Soul

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Refrain

It is well, with my soul,

It is well, with my soul,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control,

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,

And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

Refrain

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!

My sin, not in part but the whole,

Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

Refrain

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,

The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;

The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,

Even so, it is well with my soul.

Refrain

It wasn't rock music,

it wasn't hip-hop,

it wasn't country,

it wasn't rap,

it wasn't pop,

chosen to soothe souls.

The gentleman was playing hymns.

He reminded me that despite another trying circumstance,

It Is Well With My Soul.

Is it well with your soul?

A Trying Moment for Momma Mindy

When I named my blog  "Momma Mindy's Moments" it was for two reasons:

1.  I love alliteration
2.  I wanted to capture how the Lord was working in my life, moment by moment.  I wanted to encourage my readers to find Jesus everywhere....

...in the midst of poddy-training
...in the midst of home schooling
...in the midst of child catastrophes
...in the midst of cancer
...in the midst of trials
...in the midst of playing
...in the midst of sewing and crafting
...in the midst of burning dinner

I intended to write mostly about happier moments, but my plans aren't the Lord's plans.  He allows suffering in our lives according to His Jeremiah 29:11 plan.  So, I've continued to write about all the life events in my moments.

Some moments are easy to blog.  Others are hard.

I've been skirting the issue for four days, not knowing how to write about this, so I'll just blurt it out.

Thursday, May 19, 9:30pm, my older brother, Lee, suffered cardiac arrest.  His heart stopped.  He was talking on the phone to his son, Ezra, and felt, again,  the two-week old discomfort in his chest.  It had reached the point where he and his wife had just agreed he needed to go to a doctor. He told  Ezra, "I'm not feeling well."  Within seconds he was on the floor, his hand still clutching the phone, and he was still.

His wife, Nita, hung up on Ezra and called 911.  They asked her to check Lee's breathing.  It was shallow and irregular.  She noticed his skin turning blue.  With the phone tucked into her shoulder so she could hear the instructions, she began CPR.  She continued until the paramedics arrived less than 5 minutes later.

The fire chief called our home while the paramedics were shocking Lee and because we live only a few miles away,  my husband and I beat the ambulance to the hospital.  They allowed us to go back into the emergency area when he arrived.

My big, tough older brother, former Airborne Ranger,  who has scaled mountains and dreamed dreams bigger than mountains, was hooked up to every contraption available.

My first view was only his pale white feet, sticking out from under a hospital sheet.  I was recalling his zeal as a newly saved 19 year old, signing letters with Lee W. "Willing to Die for Christ" Bxxxxx.  I'm pretty sure he was still willing to die for the Lord, but in his youthful zeal I know he pictured martyrdom by spear, sword or bullet, not his own heart failing his physical body.

The staff graciously allowed me to touch him and to speak to him, even while they were monitoring.  They worked around me.

Lee was slightly thrashing around and I touched his head and leaned in.  Every verse in the Bible I have memorized for thirty years escaped my mind.  All I can could say over and over was the name of Jesus.

I would whisper, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus is here."  It calmed him and he stopped thrashing.  His Excellent Name truly is a refuge and a fortress.  Wives are a good comfort, too.  When Nita was done with the paperwork and came in, he responded to her presence. It was amazing to watch.

The doctor relayed that the catheter lab discovered a 80 - 90% blocked artery and had immediately placed a stent in.  The staff repeatedly praised Nita for her CPR skills, doctors and nurses calling her a hero for saving her husband's life.

With tears in her eyes and a shake to her voice, she admitted she felt uncomfortable being hailed as a hero for something like that.  The praise constantly reminded her of what she had been forced to do.

He was in Critical care for a few days, and arrived home Sunday evening, three days after his ordeal.

Scott and I visited them at their home that evening, and the return to normal was surreal.  Lee was back at his desk using the computer in the living room, Nita was knitting on the couch, peace pervading the room.

Recovery will take time, but we're so thankful to be planning recovery and not a funeral.

As I look back over the weekend, I don't feel  panic or depression, I can only praise and thank the Lord.

 

Nita saved my brother's life.

I can't get over the wonder miracle of it all.