tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70130994221523262392024-02-20T08:19:49.391-06:00Because I said so!What I've learned since I completely lost it.Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-658800501165501512010-06-19T22:28:00.002-05:002010-06-19T23:58:04.853-05:00Change me Lord! And when necessary, use desitin!I got a funny picture today about growing as a Christian. I was asking God to purify my heart, show me where there was sin that needed to be rooted out, and also by the way, to help me to LET Him do that! So clean me up and let me have the faith to allow it to happen. <br />
I saw a baby getting it's diaper changed. Sometimes babies don't want to be changed. Maybe it's because they don't know they need to be changed, and they have more fun things they want to do! You can (and sometimes you MUST) wrestle them down and do it anyway, but it's hard and sometimes messy. They cry and fight, and it takes a lot longer. <br />
Sometimes they have been in the diaper WAY too long and they are sore and smelly! It hurts even to be touched. But because you love them, and you know it has to be done, you do it despite the smell. You have to be very gentle, and use a little desitin or A & D ointment to soothe and protect the tender areas. As they grow they find out that your intent is not to trap them or hurt them, and they trust you enough to lie quietly and let you clean them up. <br />
I think God wants me to know that just as I minister to babies He wants me to trust Him to clean me up, soothe and protect my tender areas (hurts from my sin and from others) and make me fresh and clean again, so I can be free to explore the world and live the life He created me for.Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-10330577730265132012010-05-27T22:38:00.003-05:002010-05-27T22:48:25.080-05:00Who do you think you are? Pride rears it's head again!I went with Mom to the doctor this week. I do it because I love my Mom and because I speak healthcare; a foriegn language if there ever was one. The doctor and his nurse were both very respectful and kind. They took time to answer our questions, and seemed to be very thorough. I asked if her EKG had returned to normal after the "small" heart attack last month. He ordered an EKG to be done before we left. Whenever we have a wait, Mom & I like to work on crossword puzzles, cryptoquotes or other mind challenges. So we were working on a particularly difficult one when they came to get her for the EKG. I forgot that I was the one who was interested in the results, so I stayed in the waiting area. When she came back out a couple of minutes later, I said, "Oh I forgot I wanted to see the EKG!" The tech said, "You can't see it. Only if a doctor is there." I tried to argue with her, but it was obvious she wasn't going to change her mind. I was FURIOUS! I wanted to bite her head off, in fact I thought I started to, but Mom told me later she thought that I was extremely polite to her. I don't think I was at all--I certainly didn't feel that way. It was partly that I really did want to know, the doctor wanted me to know, and so did Mom. It was also partly because in my heart I felt superior to her, and I wanted her to know that I was. Problem with a living sacrifice is it keeps crawling off the altar. That's me--again.Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-36566708971521268162010-05-02T00:39:00.006-05:002010-05-02T02:18:42.804-05:00The second greatest storyI think I startled Marian Larson when I called her name out as she walked through the hospital where I was working. "Are you still having a Bible study at your house?" She was, and very graciously invited me to come. I think I startled myself when I asked her. I didn't know that was coming out of my mouth.<span style=""> </span>I remember at the end of the Bible Study each person had the opportunity to pray, and I asked God to give me patience with my kids. I wondered at the serenity that came over me in the next few days as I DIDN’T lose it when they got into things, or when I was tired and they weren’t.<br />I am the child of a mother without a mother and a father without a father. I had 5 brothers and 2 sisters (I am the oldest--born when Mom was 17.) My parents worked hard to keep us fed and clothed, but we were poor. Dad worked nights for the railroad, and always had Thursday and Friday off, never a weekend. We had lived in 12 homes by the time I was 12. Mom didn't drive. But my mother's father always came to where we lived and took us to church. No one particular denomination, but a good church near our home. So I knew church well. I felt like God's grandchild—He was fun to visit, but I didn't live with Him.<br />Once at a Church of Christ camp there had been HEAVY pressure to "go forward and give your life to Jesus." I didn't want to do that, but after 17 choruses of "Just as I am" I thought I was the only one left in the room who hadn't, so I did. Not only was I very uncomfortable implying that I wasn't already a Christian, I was very scared of putting my head under water. (Oh you can't get to heaven without immersion, I-M-M-E-R-S-I-O-N!) At the age of 15, it was "let someone else put my head under water or eternity in hell, which will it be?" Both seemed pretty tough. I did go forward, and survived baptism by immersion, but I really didn't get the whole "Jesus died for your sins" part. I thought that my confession and baptism covered my sins up until that point, but after that each one had to be individually brought to Him. That was a heavy burden--I could see myself arriving at heaven's gates only to be told, "Sorry, you're out on a technicality. You forgot to ask forgiveness for sticking your tongue out at your Dad when he wasn't looking on October 17, 1962 at 7:19 p.m." After a few weeks of struggling to be perfect and completely up to date on all sins, I told God, "Maybe when I'm 30 I can be a Christian!" and gave it up as impossible. I eventually married John, a man much like my Grandpa, but not particularly spiritual. He was a Lutheran, which was fine with me. I was ready for some nice well behaved church, with organ music, beautiful candlelight services and no challenges! We lived near both our families in the Vasa area, and started our family. I went to church, taught Sunday School, and kept God pretty much at arms length. God is a gentleman. A decade went by. The whole year that I was 29 I felt a restlessness, an incompleteness, like I was missing something. Then my cousin and lifelong friend Becky told me that she had been going to Women's Aglow meetings and was really becoming much closer to God. She said, "I don't speak in tongues much but . . ." I didn't hear WHAT she said after that. All I could think was "You speak in tongues at all?" I had never heard of such a thing in my life. I would have written her off as a wierdo and avoided her permanently if it weren't for a very strange thing that happened next. She told me that I had to get rid of the Ouija board I had picked up at a garage sale and MADE me pray a prayer of renouncing it and repenting of using it. She also insisted that I burn it. Something about the first commandment--I wasn't sure, but Becky was not usually so pushy so I agreed. When I went home that night, I did throw it in the burning barrel in the back yard, but I wasn't sure it would actually burn. The barrel was full of ashes almost to the top and it had rained a lot so the ashes were wet. And the Ouija board wasn't exactly made of wood--some kind of plastic. I crumpled up some newspapers and lit them, and left to take the kids to church.<br />Although my husband was never gone at night, it happened that that night he had to be away. So I came back much later to a dark empty house. Because of Becky's words and being alone, I was pretty nervous. But the strangest thing happened-after the kids and I went to bed, throughout that night, I had dreams or visions. There were evil things in my room that wanted to harm me. I could see them. But they had no power to do anything because of the strong power of love that filled the room. Dream after dream came; all of them various expressions of love. I knew then that I had always had some fear of the dark, but that I never would again. Yes there are scary things in the dark, but Jesus is there, protecting me from them. The next morning when I looked at the burning barrel there was NO trace of the Ouija board!<br />I began to read and study more about the baptism in the Holy Spirit, which Becky had talked about and coincidentally, Marian's Bible study group (did I mention they were Lutheran?) was also interested in. One day, shortly after that, I was driving to work, and suddenly God spread out a panorama of my whole life before me. I could see every event as it had been woven into His plan for me. Meeting and marrying my husband, learning to play guitar, going back to nursing school, things that I thought I had done on my own, were not a surprise to God--He had known about all of them before I did. I could see that He had always been there, when I was troubled, hurting, working, playing--all the time. And that He was very interested in me.<br />It would have been enough if that were all that had happened. It made me feel like I wasn't a random accident or an inconvenience. That alone would have been so precious. But He started answering my prayers. I would have thought that my greatest need during that time in my life was money. But I realize that money was what made me feel secure. So first, God showed me that He could provide financially--someone stopped John and asked if they could buy the broken down baler with weeds growing up around it for exactly what we needed to make the tractor payment. Stopped him on the road and gave him cash! Then He started to show me that it wasn't just money He could provide. My life was changing and others could see it. My sister gave her life to the Lord as soon as I told her what had happened to me. I also told John. He wasn't quite so impressed. At first he thought I was completely nuts! I got very good counsel from the Women's Aglow members to "not be your husband's Holy Spirit. Imagine a sign on his back--KEEP OFF!" I prayed for my husband to know the Lord too, and God sent him a co-worker who belonged to the AG church in Northfield. He came home from work one night having received deliverance and the baptism in the Holy Spirit and speaking in tongues! We were invited to be part of Servants of the Lord in Hastings--mostly Catholic Charismatics. Life has snowballed since then. Or maybe I should say rollercoastered! It is such an adventure to have that spiritual awareness. To be able to release the power of God through prayers and see them answered. To pray for someone sometimes once, sometimes for years, and then watch them catch fire! While I can't say that we haven't had troubles, there has never been a moment when I haven't felt God's presence through them. 7 years ago this month the unimaginable happened. John died at the age of 57. We had been married 36 years, my youngest daughter was just 15. The prayers and love of others were so precious during that time. I can't imagine how hard it would be to lose someone you have lived with for 36 years if you didn't KNOW that you would see them again. It's been the hardest thing I have ever done and I still miss him a lot, but I know he is in the presence of the Lord. And I know that whatever other difficulties I may face, they will not take God by surprise. He will be there with me, helping me to go from strength to strength.Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-9698109739016822452009-05-13T21:53:00.000-05:002009-05-13T21:53:12.531-05:00The Good Life: Six Years Ago Today<a href="http://thegoodlife-kristen.blogspot.com/2009/05/six-years-ago-today.html">The Good Life: Six Years Ago Today</a>Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-53270382477783325422009-04-25T09:52:00.016-05:002009-05-04T12:55:38.491-05:00Time and Eternity Part 2<em>In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and</em> <em>empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. And God said, "Let there be light." and there was light. Genesis 1: 1-3<br /></em>Or we could also say, "In the beginning God created space, matter and energy." I think I am a strange hybrid: a philosophical geek. I find it exciting to think of God speaking worlds, stars, angels and you and I into being. I'm still trying to understand the whole concept of time expanding as an object travels faster. But it would seem that would impact our understanding of how long ago the light from a distant star originated. It really could have been within 6,000 years!<br /><br /><strong>The fourth dimension:</strong> Space, matter and energy are measured in units that we standardize so that we can communicate and record them. They occupy dimensions as we do--length and width, weight and power. Since the development of extremely precise atomic clocks we have seen that time is impacted by gravity and velocity, making it a fourth dimension. So the answer to the doubter's question, "Who created God?" is that God created time, and existed eternally outside time and space. He is not part of creation, He is the Creator.<br /><br /><strong>The time parade: </strong>I like to think of my life in time as a parade. I might be sitting along the street watching as different bands or floats come into view. Or I might be in the parade, marching in a band, or throwing candy to people I pass. But whether I am passively watching or actively performing, I don't know what I will experience next until it comes into view. I think of God as flying above in a helicopter. He can see the whole parade, beginning to end. He knows what choices we will make from His eternal perspective. And whether I watch, or march, or fly, I must remember that the parade is finite. When it ends, I step into eternity to meet God. I won't be waiting for my loved ones to join me--they will be there too somehow, and we will know how it all worked out from our lofty vantage point way above the parade of life/time. We will see how our actions impacted God's plan for our lives and for others, where we succeeded and where we failed.Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-64486450978565466452009-04-24T06:22:00.007-05:002009-04-24T07:45:42.451-05:00Time and Eternity Part 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJi9yUxiy_4nevpwNt0ahUePe-f8ry_0eU3see8jruJD0SlQslFxwKBEYFIe8At5JArtVIrlpcTMHZ6mNGY8qkpDewwLHIh9_vKSQ6NJclelSotqwMSXaNJQDpUfILd0ZDAcTftxi1WwBs/s1600-h/Rocklayers.Vasa4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328226642389055842" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJi9yUxiy_4nevpwNt0ahUePe-f8ry_0eU3see8jruJD0SlQslFxwKBEYFIe8At5JArtVIrlpcTMHZ6mNGY8qkpDewwLHIh9_vKSQ6NJclelSotqwMSXaNJQDpUfILd0ZDAcTftxi1WwBs/s400/Rocklayers.Vasa4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>"Time is what keeps everything from happening at once!" I used to really love science fiction and my favorite stories involved time travel. It is still fascinating to imagine what the world I live in was like a century ago, or longer. I had an opportunity a number of years ago to go through the Cannon Falls Beacon archives while helping Valerie do a project for school. We went down into the basement of the Beacon office where they were stored, laid out flat in piles. I love the smell of old books, old newspapers. I read several sequential weeks, and the effect on me was as if I were suddenly a stranger in town. The mayor, the preachers, the school bond issue, the scandals, the births and deaths, all started to hang together as I got a picture of a community of people who all knew each other and had an awareness of a world around them that I could see is lost to us now. "The Great War" (was that the War to end all Wars?) wasn't even on the radar yet. They still referenced the Civil War as a commonly known event. Those people considered my town theirs. And it was. Where are they now? Where will I be in a century? When I start to think about times gone by, people no longer around, and the persistant, relentless, forward only progression we are currently trapped in, I get sad. And I would love to go back and visit "the good old days" which at the time didn't seem all that great. My neighbor down the road wrote a book a few years ago, (Natalie Thomas, but which book?) In it, a character through some technological wonder, had an opportunity to go back to a day of his choosing so he could talk once more to his father. To his total frustration though, his 12 year old self, just ignored his dad, focusing on whatever it is a 12 year old thinks is important at the moment. The whole opportunity was wasted, again! I'll bet that's what I'd do. Not give that person a hug or tell them I loved them, but roll my eyes and ask them to please pick up their shoes. And then rush off to do whatever my old self thinks is important. That is a lesson I hope my current self figures out--people, not things. Eternity trumps schedule.</div>Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-42647452890700523562008-11-18T20:02:00.006-06:002008-11-18T20:51:49.728-06:00The Ghost of Christmas PresentFinds me about mid-November, taps me on the shoulder and reminds me that I have much to do, but <strong>lots</strong> of time to do it. There is:<br /><ol><li>The thoughtful (preferably hand-made) gift for each family member.</li><li>The Christmas village to be set up.</li><li>The house to be cleaned and decorated.</li><li>Cookies to bake and keep on hand for company.</li><li>A nice Christmas letter to send out to all of you--you'll love it, it won't be braggy, but full of encouraging words and humor.</li><li>I should spend quiet time reflecting on the true meaning of Christmas.</li><li>I should not spend overmuch on all of the above.</li></ol>About a week before Christmas I get unexplainably crabby and moody. No one can figure out why, including me. I wonder if it could be:<br /><ol><li>My craft ability is limited to lumpy cross-stitch and laminating old pictures.</li><li>I have no where to set up my Christmas village because (see #3)</li><li>My house is a mess, my decorations are being destroyed by the kids and the cats.</li><li>I ate the cookies.</li><li>This IS your Christmas letter. Deal with it.</li><li>When I sat down to reflect quietly I remembered that I had left my coffee cup downstairs. When I went to get it, I started putting away the breakfast dishes. Then the phone rang. When I got back upstairs to reflect quietly I realized my coffee cup was still in the micrwave.</li><li>And I'm overdrawn.</li></ol>Merry Christmas, thank goodness Jesus loves me anyway!Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-36165797586784702532008-08-08T15:12:00.005-05:002008-08-08T15:44:29.488-05:00Cooking with nothing: 1950's style<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZVyR24wcrrrBZ2-8d8owW8VL17rXoP4O80aJ5_SRTg1J6lBmUbZ-GyOazfIjy6RAylzePWxGpIv1DYvqvwonACC2BYv5qOOmxrO1MsDlqpfJ37dbLBnC6c2ZU1ZgSquSO2A5NZaZif3u/s1600-h/Carpenter+kids.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232247644012252610" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 395px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px" height="314" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZVyR24wcrrrBZ2-8d8owW8VL17rXoP4O80aJ5_SRTg1J6lBmUbZ-GyOazfIjy6RAylzePWxGpIv1DYvqvwonACC2BYv5qOOmxrO1MsDlqpfJ37dbLBnC6c2ZU1ZgSquSO2A5NZaZif3u/s400/Carpenter+kids.jpg" width="432" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Cooking for eight children was a challenge for my parents in the fifties and sixties. Dad got paid every two weeks and they got lots of groceries. That night we would have a very wonderful supper. My favorite (we had it often on payday) was wieners and pork and beans. For dessert we had ice cream. I don’t remember any trips to the store in between for extras that they might run out of. There was no boxed mac n’ cheese, or McDonalds, or Papa Murphy’s pizza. As a matter of fact once my dad bought something new that we had never heard of. It was an Italian food, pizza. It came in a box like the mac n’ cheese boxes. Inside was a packet of floury stuff which we mixed with two tablespoons of water to make the crust. By really stretching it thin we almost made it reach to the edge of a cake pan. Then we poured a tiny can of something like tomato sauce over it. Last we sprinkled on the cheese packet, which was a lot like the parmesan cheese. After we baked it for the required time, we all tasted it. I remembered thinking it tasted like barf. The crust was so thin it burned in some spots. So much for pizza. So with very little money and stretching the food as far as possible, they had to make do for two weeks with what they bought on payday.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Breakfast</strong><br /><br />Usually nothing. Oh we <em>had</em> cornflakes and rice krispies or even egss! We also had a toaster which you had to watch because it didn’t pop up on it’s own. That hadn’t been invented yet. On each side was a little hinged door which opened down. You laid the toast in it and clicked it closed. Then you had to keep checking to see if it was done. Sometimes we would forget and the kitchen would be filled with smoke. On Saturdays or Sundays we might have pancakes with syrup. No sausage or bacon that I remember, but the pancakes were wonderful. But usually we didn’t eat breakfast on school mornings. We had no optional way of getting to school if we missed the bus, and we could never find a pair of matching socks. Or someone had stolen our best shirt, or we remembered a project that had to be done which required finding a butterfly, or cutting up construction paper and gluing it to something else. Which reminds me of another recipe which doesn’t fit into any other category . . .<br /><br /><em>Paste</em><br /><br />Flour<br />Water<br />Mix with your fingers or a spoon until desired consistency to spread on paper. Then forget it in your room or under the couch for about a year. In the meantime, if you need paste again, just mix up some more.<br /><br /><strong>Lunch<br /></strong><br />Not all schools then had hot lunches, so my mom had to pack lunches every night. They often consisted of two peanut butter sandwiches, maybe an apple. We got milk at school. I rarely got even a cookie in my lunch. I still tease mom about the time when I saw the lunches all lined up the night before and, miracle of miracles, each one had a hostess twinkie in it. I could hardly wait for lunch the next day. But when I opened my lunch box all I had was a sandwich and an apple. Perhaps she wasn’t the one who ate my twinkie, but I always suspected her. For a while I got on a kick where I wanted lettuce salad sandwiches. Mom was willing to make that for me. But I really hated it when she ran out of miracle whip and used margarine (oleo) instead. :( Not the same!<br /><br /><strong>Snack</strong><br /><br /><em>Cocoa (not hot chocolate mix, cocoa !)<br /></em>3 teaspoons sugar<br />1 teaspoon cocoa<br />pinch of salt<br />mix together with as hot a water as you can get. This is a problem if you don’t have a hot water heater in your house, but not insurmountable if you NEED something sweet. Stir mixture up until the lumps of cocoa dissolve. Add hot milk. Cold milk works too. If you forget about the milk it will boil over and burn on the bottom and it will be a LONG time before it is cool enough to drink, and it will be funny tasting, but still sweet, which is the goal.<br />(Payday extra special addition: marshmallows)<br /><br /><em>Marshmallows<br /></em><br />Toast on stick over fire until outside is burned. Eat off the outside, then toast again.<br />If it is winter or early in the morning, you can toast it on a fork over a burner on the stove. Don’t burn your lips. Can also be eaten right out of the bag of course.<br /><br /><em>Fudge (I could make this by the time I was 11)</em><br /><br />1/2 cup cocoa<br />2 cups sugar<br />pinch of salt<br />lump of oleo<br />1 cup of water<br />Cook and stir over stove until it boils. And boils. And boils. It still isn’t done. What you have to do is keep testing it by dropping a small spoonful into a jar of cold water. When you can mold it into a soft ball with your fingers it is ready to cool. (eat the soft ball of course.) Set the pan into a dishpan full of cold water and stir the fudge until it is cool enough that you can slick the side of the pan and not get burned. Pour onto a buttered plate. After about an eon it will harden. If it doesn’t it’s because you didn’t cook it long enough. Eat it anyway. If your fingers (or tongue, or lips) get burned, stick them into the cold pan of water.<br /><br /><em>Coffee sugar bread</em><br /><br />Coffee, (hot)<br />Sugar<br />Bread<br />Spoon<br />Dip a spoonful of sugar into a cup of coffee without spilling it into the coffee. Spread it on bread. Eat the part of the bread that the sugar is on. Repeat.<br /><br /><em>Saltine crackers with oleo on them.</em><br /><br />Also sometimes Dad would come home with a box of bakery day old stuff. That was heaven. But it didn’t last a long time. We all loved sweets.<br /><br /><strong>Supper (no not dinner, SUPPER!)<br /></strong><br /><em>Night before payday Hot dish<br /></em><br />Macaroni<br />Tomato soup<br /><br />Cook macaroni until it boils all over the stove. Drain well and add one can tomato soup. Serve to eight children, who will fight over it.<br />Payday extra special addition: hamburger<br />Variation:<br />Substitute cream of mushroom soup for the tomato.<br />Payday extra special addition: tuna<br />Serve with canned peas or canned corn. Most other vegetables have not been invented yet.<br />When company comes or sometimes on payday we would have<br /><br /><em>Salad</em><br /><br />Lettuce<br />Miracle whip<br />Mix together and serve.</div>Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-7136994399726551092008-08-03T16:53:00.005-05:002008-08-18T21:19:12.687-05:00You might be a Lindholm!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_omePQZml-V7wrN8tFm6o8l16NtWqW7-So26goDZ0Ncb0dMnI6pQwcEgie0UgeFPisyvxSzZMKvqxrDfX1CM90fwm5eVP_6t6bx4GYmLzZMI4WQ13Kts9SG0YR8ULtDJvUGg1L_oXhT_6/s1600-h/scan0003.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236047068391452098" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_omePQZml-V7wrN8tFm6o8l16NtWqW7-So26goDZ0Ncb0dMnI6pQwcEgie0UgeFPisyvxSzZMKvqxrDfX1CM90fwm5eVP_6t6bx4GYmLzZMI4WQ13Kts9SG0YR8ULtDJvUGg1L_oXhT_6/s400/scan0003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br /><div>We recently gathered for our annual Lindholm campout. I remember getting together every summer for most of my life (60 years and counting). We used to just have a picnic on a Sunday afternoon, until the time about 25 years ago we had so much fun some of the aunties just didn't go home! About Wednesday I got a call from my cousin Becky telling me that Muriel and Katy were still out at the lake. John and I packed up the kids and took our camper out to the lake and joined them. Becky came too with her kids (or maybe she just had Ryan, I don't remember for sure.) Late that night John and Jim were going to go home so they could work in the morning (poor guys) but it was really looking stormy. I didn't say anything, but I was really not wanting to be in a camper alone if we had wind. They ended up staying overnight at the lake with us (there <em>was </em>a storm and we didn't blow away) and going to work from there in the morning. We had a wonderful time, and after that we had the family picnic somewhere that people could also camp.<br />I seem to remember as a child that the lunch (a pot luck affair) was something that magically appeared interrupting our play. Then after we had totally stuffed ourselves and wandered off, it magically got all cleaned up. How did that happen? It never happens anymore! We as a group are pretty laid back (read disorganized but fun!) however we have tried to import through marriage the "organization" gene. This has met with some success, but I suspect that often WE are the influencers instead of the reverse. (Apologies to my sons and daughters in law!)<br />Cousin Tim this year hosted a fun (not talent) show. He managed to cajole a few family members to present entertainment. We are an easy crowd and we were entertained! We had lots of music, lots of jokes and even a ventriloquist (she was good, it was her dummy that kept falling apart!) Between acts, he regaled us with "You might be a Lindhom if . . ." lines. I am sure I know even more that he never heard of. However, my memory being what it is, I thought I had better put some down before they got covered up with "where did I put that birthday card I bought and why is there lettuce in the freezer?"<br /><br />You might be a Lindholm if you think of the family reunion and start humming "The Lion Sleeps Tonight!" (I hear you--weemawoppaweemawoppa--ooo-ooo-OOO-ooEEumumawayyyy!)<br />You might be a Lindholm if you all go to church, but in separate vehicles.<br />You might be a Lindholm if you have more jobs than actual people in your family, but you are always borrowing money for gas from each other.<br />You might be a Lindholm if you know all the words to remote obscure songs that are out of print but have to be prompted to name all your children.<br />You might be a Lindholm if you don't know what a marshmallow tastes like without mosquito repellant on it.<br />You might be a Lindholm if you have been caught picking at yesterday's lunch remains which are still on the picnic table because it was brought by a relative who didn't camp and forgot it. We are not responsible for leftovers--they can stay there until next year!<br />You might be a Lindholm if a car breakdown is a social event and a competition!<br />You might be a Lindholm if your son was pulled over by the highway patrol, and when the car was searched for contraband, they spent more time trying to stuff the Jenga blocks back into the box than figuring out what WAS in that Coolwhip container? (<em>bait!)</em><br />You might be a Lindholm if you know which relative to ask for plumbing, carpentry, auto or spiritual concerns--and which relative NOT to ask!<br />You might be a Lindholm if you know enough healthcare workers to start your own M*A*S*H unit--but when someone actually needs healthcare at the family reunion, they will be helped most by the one who faints at the sight of blood! <em>(We're off duty and we've seen worse--leave us alone!)</em><br />You might be a Lindholm if your kid is in trouble, your mother died, or your wife left you, and you most of all need to go to the family reunion--where people will completely smother you with corny sayings, hugs and marshmallows covered with mosquito repellent. And you'll feel lots better! </div><p align="right"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjldAS1pW6ssyIXgNSP_pk4SeZIyKgcURSAwOq2xQlu_PvDV_NQ1alrSyyOLaBIT6zyYhqVxOgLzVkgQdrWpgwG-FJ-Mb6Vi_3sLaYIX5VLweCYg0mjUnH-7tYAror55hwQyJEoyk2UqE/s1600-h/scan0002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232252608697576802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigjldAS1pW6ssyIXgNSP_pk4SeZIyKgcURSAwOq2xQlu_PvDV_NQ1alrSyyOLaBIT6zyYhqVxOgLzVkgQdrWpgwG-FJ-Mb6Vi_3sLaYIX5VLweCYg0mjUnH-7tYAror55hwQyJEoyk2UqE/s400/scan0002.jpg" border="0" /></a></p></div>Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-34360634466108028992008-05-30T16:36:00.007-05:002008-08-18T21:28:38.658-05:00The Methren<p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQNz-hdbBsIDOZWx7_fQoYOCyHAUMyJ6151FPo48_kakUQj0PkQnlAIOKXfl_YWDdUxBMg1QP4DzkFfw0uCy4dPQ23dikv-gzG72i9lAWFlZt4VcwCCh35Wvuurx4YeGPjkc6MvBMvGs_/s1600-h/Craig_Amber.jpg"></a></p><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhEmnVPGP_SXNQLWp1MzR7avdC8mJOCVrKedJpfH66E1_yVTNa1OaTeb-eOMcxtlXABV_GcLhyphenhyphen6ifyVXl0-nmpQvWjqdOzoJ1qcO2_3YQUw2Tj2ghARKnpG9HpCMWDcuRa-mujlCwOgnG/s1600-h/The+Methren.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236048505737883698" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhEmnVPGP_SXNQLWp1MzR7avdC8mJOCVrKedJpfH66E1_yVTNa1OaTeb-eOMcxtlXABV_GcLhyphenhyphen6ifyVXl0-nmpQvWjqdOzoJ1qcO2_3YQUw2Tj2ghARKnpG9HpCMWDcuRa-mujlCwOgnG/s400/The+Methren.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I love that term--it was coined by my niece Crystal years ago. She and her mom, (my sister Martie, for those of you who don't have my family tree committed to memory yet) were at my house. I don't remember exactly what happened, but I must have yelled at someone's kid (not mine). Crystal said, "I hate this, even when Mom's not around, one of them always is--they're like, you know, the <em>Methren</em>!" We are, and proud of it! So last week, a horrible thing happened. Craig Eidson, Amber and Crystal and Pearl's dad died. Although he and Martie are no longer married, it was still devastating. Strange, how at a time like that, you want to just rush in and fix everything. Then you do rush in, and of course, you can't fix it. You can just cry with them. But one small thing we did get to do was bring food and help clean the apartment where Craig and Crystal were living. I just hope that all the love we felt doing that will just stick to the walls and the doors and the windows and everything. I have this picture on my phone now and every time I look at it I say a prayer for them all.<br />I guess it's a mom thing.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQNz-hdbBsIDOZWx7_fQoYOCyHAUMyJ6151FPo48_kakUQj0PkQnlAIOKXfl_YWDdUxBMg1QP4DzkFfw0uCy4dPQ23dikv-gzG72i9lAWFlZt4VcwCCh35Wvuurx4YeGPjkc6MvBMvGs_/s1600-h/Craig_Amber.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236048816156817986" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 259px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 202px" height="237" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQNz-hdbBsIDOZWx7_fQoYOCyHAUMyJ6151FPo48_kakUQj0PkQnlAIOKXfl_YWDdUxBMg1QP4DzkFfw0uCy4dPQ23dikv-gzG72i9lAWFlZt4VcwCCh35Wvuurx4YeGPjkc6MvBMvGs_/s400/Craig_Amber.jpg" width="306" border="0" /></a>Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-81806459693356872008-05-14T22:36:00.005-05:002008-05-15T13:13:51.704-05:00Fireworks and Parades!Mother's Day is my favorite holiday. I didn't know this until the year John and all the kids forgot Mother's Day. I am sure I had acted like it was no big deal, and I probably thought it was no big deal. But that morning when it was business as usual, waking kids up, getting clothes and food ready, and starting out for church, I started to feel sorry for myself. I mentally listed all the things I did for my children, but still told myself, after all, I was glad to make that sacrifice. I would take the high road, and not even mention it; but it was challenging when my niece/godchild Erin came over early in the morning to give me a gift. Then at church all the mothers got corsages. After lunch (I made it and cleaned it up) a family we know dropped in. She told us how she had gotten breakfast in bed, and been taken out to lunch and "look at the pretty dress he bought me!" By this time I had lost any pretense of saintly sacrifice. I could hardly speak I was so mad! I managed to be polite (I think) but after they left, I gave John "the look." He really dug himself in then, saying "well ,you're not my mother!" (I am sure I had bought his mother's present!) Without saying another word, I got up and walked down the road, kids following and crying. Later, after everyone was sorry (including me) I decided that never again would I kid anyone that Mother's Day was not a big deal for me. It's not about money--it's the honor of the thing. One year--actually the year in question--John and the kids went and dug up some lilac shoots from an uninhabited farm nearby. They planted them on the yard along the road. Those lilacs are my windbreak now, and every Mother's Day I enjoy the pretty fragrant blooms and remind myself that, after all, a 100% saintly sacrificial mom would NOT prepare her children for the real world. If I have taught my children one thing, it is that Mother's Day should be fireworks and parades for mom! Or else!Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-53531409084041936042008-04-22T18:14:00.010-05:002008-12-09T08:43:27.213-06:00Advantages to being 60<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHO-r4pLV_93e9RTF9wI9TvJrPfoBpUyj6VXvH_fUgEVgrIAyMqWBtQqSepBuKJP3PvGvpm4qWujZpqg6ufW0XzFefLyWgVbFfjCuqNbn_6B875UlWfF17T3dingydeihVB6fh3ANUzGrg/s1600-h/senile.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192231137784789154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHO-r4pLV_93e9RTF9wI9TvJrPfoBpUyj6VXvH_fUgEVgrIAyMqWBtQqSepBuKJP3PvGvpm4qWujZpqg6ufW0XzFefLyWgVbFfjCuqNbn_6B875UlWfF17T3dingydeihVB6fh3ANUzGrg/s400/senile.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong><em>Advantages to being 60: (and I've just started!)</em></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">1. You can count on your fingers the number of years until you can retire. (Unless it gets changed)</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">2. Somehow you become an authority figure.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">3. If you are a nurse, you can eat crabby doctors for lunch! I don't know how that translates into other professions.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">4. Senior discount? Bring it on! I'm not proud.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">5. "That time of the month" means nothing to you.</span><br />6. "Cool" and "Trendy"--see above! Wear ugly shoes, elastic waist pants (around your real waist!), be comfortable while younger, less confident friends feel the pinch! And NO one will ever have to see your belly button again!<br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><em><strong>Things I am NOT going to do when I retire.</strong></em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">1. Go far far away in the wintertime for a long long time. I've been waiting my whole life to stay home through a snowstorm without feeling guilty.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">2. Stop working. But I might do something else. (Archeologist? Humor writer? Walmart greeter? Solitaire extraordinaire?)</span><br />3. Dye my hair*, get a facelift, or lie about my age. I've worked hard for these gray hairs and every wrinkle I have has a story. I'm not old--I'm seasoned! Actually, I have a feeling some of my octegenarian friends are laughing at this post thinking I have no idea what the big deal about 60 is. I know I worried all year before I turned 30, and it was no big deal at all!<br />4. Have a colonoscopy. (The movie I can stand to miss. I'll wait and buy the t-shirt--or sell popcorn for yours!)<br />5. Ditto mammograms. (eeu! What if there is a power failure? Or an earthquake?)<br /><br /><em>*Don't get me wrong, I have friends and family who color their hair and seem to carry it off very well. I just know I'd never keep it up. I'd be going around with my hair in stages all the time.</em>Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-32375228966363261602008-03-17T10:19:00.003-05:002008-03-17T11:22:42.814-05:00I am NOT 60!Well not yet anyway! Last week I developed what Dave Barry calls the "Martian Death flu." Now I have seen lesser people develop this and immediately become total wimps! But I pride myself on my kickbutt immune system (more powerful than MRSA, able to leap gram negative bacteria in a single bound--it's a vitamin, it's a vaccine, it's SUPERJULIE!) and also I am NOT a complainer (shut up Laura! Get back in your closet or I won't let you out until summer!) not to mention, I am the soul of stoicism. So you can see, when a person like me takes to her bed, with fever, aches pains and coughs, it is very serious. I was unable to pick up a telephone to call anyone, but I kept getting concerned phone calls from family and friends. "That's nice," I would think, and immediately fall asleep again. Finally on Friday evening, daughter Kris called. "Mom, you're really messing me up by being sick you know! We're having a surprise birthday party for you tomorrow, and a lot of people are coming from far away, and I don't even know how to cancel it now. I didn't know if I should not tell you & hope you start feeling better by tomorrow, or tell you and spoil the surprise! I feel so guilty."<br />So, I had to get better. And I did. Sort of.<br />Saturday evening I drove over to Kris and Michaels, and walked in the door.<br />"SURPRISE!" everyone yelled.<br />"Sort of," son Steve added.<br />It was, of course, very fun, and I did feel lots better. They made me a scrapbook--which I can show off at work. Lots of funny cards and other gifts. Greg made me a DVD with greetings and well wishes from <em>almost</em> everyone (Rosie, you are still in trouble with Greg for missing your "cameo.") I would love to post some clips from it on this blog if I could figure out how. They are so funny! <br />But you know, I'm really not 60 yet.Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-6003675213062727922008-03-11T22:12:00.003-05:002008-03-11T22:43:05.990-05:00Pre-electronic communicationsActual letter writing is hard. Even before email, I used to type letters just because I could say more. But even if I got a letter typed, I then had to find an envelope without grease marks on it, and a stamp. If it was cold out, I would try to talk someone else into taking it to the mailbox. And then it took forever to get there, and who knew if you would ever hear back? Since I've always loved new technology, I used to send letter tapes to my sisters and nieces and nephew--back in the old days before cell phones. Long distance calling was pretty spendy, especially when I was being an at home mom (read--NO extras at all). I still have a lot of those tapes--and the funny thing is, I wish I would have shut up more, because now what is very fun to listen to is the kids in the background. One interesting tape is from Martie. Thinking Amber was taking a nap, she had grabbed a handful of frozen chocolate chips to munch on while she was taping a letter to me, and very soon after that Amber wandered into the room. Martie covered up the chocolate chips and kept talking, but Amber just kept circling around, "almost like she was sniffing!" Martie laughed, "It's almost like she has a radar for chocolate!"<br />Sometimes the kids made tapes too, and they are still great! Although they tend to have long pauses while they wandered off, or had fights over who was going to tape next, punctuated by earsplitting scraping noises as they picked up the tape player and plunked it down again. It would be neat to figure out how to get tapes onto CDs. I'd love to have the one Tom and Val made for Kris when she and Michael were living in England. It's probably somewhere around, unlabeled.Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-72379819058982418902008-02-20T16:20:00.006-06:002008-02-21T12:00:28.677-06:00The Root Cellar and other AdventuresI had the privilege to be an at home mother for about 10 years. When I first quit my job (after much prayer and fear and excitement) I mistakenly thought that I would 1. be bored and 2. have a neat house. In 10 years, neither ever happened. Since I was "not working" I felt guilty saying no to helping with many volunteer "opportunities." I also felt guilty asking my husband for ANY help around the house unless I was extremely busy, like, actively in labor! After all he was making money and what was I doing? I did have the opportunity to actually teach my children how to do housekeeping chores--the first thing I remember is teaching Greg and Kris how to make a bed with "hospital corners." They actually learned and probably still know how. None of the other kids ever got that skill. Anyway, during that time we lived on less (a nice term for in poverty!) and really got back to nature. We had a pretty nice garden and Greg and Kris learned to plant and weed. I gave them each a little corner of the garden that they could plant one of everything in, and they had to weed one row a day. We started out with great intentions every year (does this sound familiar?) but come August, the garden would get the best of us and the weeds would take over. But there was still lots of produce. I canned and froze, and experimented with making things you usually buy at the store--like ketchup (so runny it won the ketchup race every time--but tasted just like ketchup) and mayonnaise (same basic recipe as pudding but with vinegar and salt and I think mustard for flavor instead of vanilla and sugar.) John was also into making do. He, of course loved the power stuff, tilling the garden, setting up stations outside to blanch huge quantities of vegetables for freezing, and once--talk about mission creep--a whole apple pie assembly line which started out with 2 bushels of apples, an apple peeler corer slicer and a huge bag of flour and went on and on into the night, producing (eventually) 33 apple pies for the freezer. We subscribed to Organic Gardening magazine, and got a lot of ideas from it. One year after reading an article on making your own root cellar, John and Floyd (my stepfather, and John's best friend) decided they would make a root cellar. Neither John or Floyd is around to flesh out the particulars any more, but I remember that after much digging they produced a walk-in hole in the ground which they topped with boards, and then shoveled dirt over the boards. We then put squash and potatoes and carrots in there to store. However, when winter came, the snow blew and drifted over the top so well and so deep we couldn't find it. In the spring, the snow melted and the whole thing sort of turned into a mud pit containing rotten squash, potatoes and carrots. Not at all like "Little House on the Prairie!" We did a lot of things one time. Once we made maple syrup. We tapped the huge tree behind our house, and got a couple of gallons of sap which we cooked on top of the stove for a couple of days. It never really got thick, but eventually we got tired of simmering it, and smelling the wonderful smell and bottled it. We got about a quart. The next day Mom and Floyd came over to visit and John told Greg to go get it from the refrigerator to show them. On the way back from the refrigerator with the bottle in his hand, Greg tripped and spilled it. :-( So we never even got to taste it.<br /><br />Of course when you are living off the land you have to burn wood. There was plenty of wood around, and we got a used wood stove from a friend. It was very cozy to have wood heat, if you were near the fire. However, what I didn't know, but soon learned, was that the farther you got from the fire (and here I am talking distance <em>and</em> time!) the colder you got. You could stoke the fire up as much as you wanted to, and then turn the damper way down to help it burn slower, but in the morning someone had to run through the chilly house and get it going again. Different kinds of wood burn differently. Willow is just BAD--it never really dries out, and then it burns so hot and fast you have to keep adding more to the fire. But once John's dad insisted we take a load of willow he had cut down and split. (He said, and I quote, "Wood is wood. Take it!") There was a a big chunk of it that sat in our wood holder all winter. Everytime I would try to add it to the fire, it would actually put the fire out! So I'd pull it out, and put something else in. One day in the spring I looked at that piece of willow, and it had sprouted! Darn stuff! All winter, every day you had to carry in wood to keep by the stove. (Occasionally you would carry in a field mouse too!) Periodically you had to clean the ashes out of the bottom of the stove and take them out. These were all character building jobs for the kids (and an exercise in disappearing for Steve, who by now was big enough to have a job too!) But they left a trail of whatever they were carrying wherever they went, and let in a lot of cold air too. Cleaning the chimney is very important when you have a wood stove, since soot can build up inside of it, blocking the escaping smoke and causing it to drift around inside the house. Since John couldn't get up inside to clean the chimney, his solution was to start a really hot fire, getting some sparks up in the chimney and start a chimney fire. This is kind of like jumping off the roof to get downstairs quickly. It's quick and it works, but you are never quite sure you will survive the trip. Anyway we managed to never burn down the house, thank God! But when someone starts talking about how nice and cheap it is to have wood heat, I just smile and nod. I LOVE central heat and a thermostat!Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7013099422152326239.post-13169485645239934322008-02-18T21:39:00.002-06:002008-02-18T21:47:12.785-06:00Family Tradition<em>50 years before I was born my great grandfather prayed daily. My mother remembers his long prayers, always in Swedish. He always ended by asking God’s guidance and blessing on his “children, his children’s children, and his children’s children’s children. Within my family, there has always been a foundation of prayer and faith in God tying each generation to the next.<br />His daughter Ruth, my grandmother, married Fred Lindholm, a charming man who had a temper and drank. She prayed for him for years. They had a farm out by Spring Garden and God blessed them with seven children. But sadly, Ruth died of cancer when her youngest was only 1 year old. Grampa Fred gave his life to the Lord shortly before she died. He never drank again, he raised those children alone, taking them to church, caring for their physical needs and praying God’s blessings on them daily. I never knew him to drink or swear, however, when he got very upset with something he would shout, “God BLESS America!” or “Good NIGHT anyway!” His tone was not one of prayer believe me! When I was little, during the fifties, my Dad worked nights for the railroad. His days off were Thursday and Friday, so he never had a weekend off, and my mother didn’t drive. But every weekend my Grampa Fred would come and stay with us. He would take us to whatever church we happened to live near. We eventually got a well rounded ecumenical Christian education.<br />Eventually I found out that God doesn’t have grandchildren—I found my own faith in God (a long story). I remember my first tentative prayers to God, “I hate to bother you God, and I know I don’t deserve this but . . .” It was amazing the coincidences that happened when I asked God for something impossible! Little things, big things, it didn’t matter. I started to think perhaps there was a connection. I was so excited about this relationship with God who really cared about me personally that John noticed the change in me. He was a little wierded out, but instead of arguing with him I prayed for God to send a Christian man into his life. I figured then he wouldn’t think it was a girl thing.<br />We serve a mighty God! Soon after that, by total coincidence, ☺ he was led to the Lord by his co-worker, Les Hanson.<br />Another day I asked God to teach me about healing. A little while later I was outside hanging clothes on the line. My preschool son, Stevie, was playing with his matchbox cars, the dog was munching out of her dish and kittens were frolicking in the grass. One of them crept up to the dog and sniffed at the dish.<br />In a flash the dog snatched up the kitten, snapped its neck and tossed it aside, where it lay, twitching, eyes rolled back into its head. Without thinking the words came out of my mouth, “Oh Stevie let's pray for this kitty!” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. A lot. The cat was obviously dead. What was God going to do about a cat with a snapped neck? Steve remembers “its head was pointing the wrong way and its eyes were rolled back in its head.” But the words were out, Stevie was already heading over to the kitten where it lay. I don’t remember the words I used, something like “God you made this kitty and you can make it well. Please heal this kitty.” With very little conviction I prayed. But to my amazement the cat immediately sat up, stretched it’s neck around like it was stiff, and got up and walked off, a little unsteadily. It wasn’t my faith that healed that cat, believe me. Stevie calmly went back to playing with his matchbox cars. No big deal. We serve a mighty God.<br />Following my great grandfather’s example I now pray for my own children. When they were younger, I began to pray for those whom they would marry, and their children.<br />Every summer my mother’s family has a reunion. We camp together for a weekend. On Sunday morning we gather together, old and young, to pray and sing and tell how God has worked in our lives during the last year, and some of the older relatives will tell stories about the “olden days.”<br />I look forward to the day when I get to go to the BIG Lindholm family reunion in the sky. My Grampa Fred is there, as is his wife Ruth and many other aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings. My husband is there. I am a Grandma now. I pray for God’s guidance and blessings on my children, their spouses, (or future spouses) and their children and their children’s children and their children’s children’s children. </em>Julie Hedeenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00454837861157253156noreply@blogger.com5