I've lost my touch.

I've probably also lost about 90% of my readers, since I've been so faithless to this blog. But for those of you who are still around, I extend a hearty thanks, and proceed with my story to prove that I've lost my touch.

Ahem.

First things first, though.

It's mission conference week here! (This has nothing to do with losing my touch, but I can't wait until the end of my post to tell you about it.) The Lord has moved in my heart already during this week, and I can't wait to see what He'll do by the end of Friday. Every day we will be having supper at church, then listening to a missionary present their work, then hear Jim Park, our main speaker, preach about missions.

Mr. Park is from the mountains of North Carolina - at least right now - has a country drawl to his voice, and a passion, for things that really count, that you rarely find in a city-fied, techy-centered person. He's seen people die. He's seen poverty. He's seen God work. He's traveled in and out of America, and worked among Native Americans, way up in the mountains. (That's special to me, because my brothers and sisters and I are the last of a line that has enough Indian blood in us to live on a reservation if we wanted to.) He has a 32-year old son who travels with him in a wheelchair.

But that's just the man. Those are details that are easy to tell you about. What I can't so easily convey is what Mr. Park has been preaching about each meeting. I can't bottle up his tears and show them to you. I can't bottle up my own and prove those, either. I certainly can't wrap my hands or this keyboard around the still small voice of God that whispered in my heart last night. I just wish all of you lived close enough to come be blessed yourselves. ...But if you did come, I'd warn you; come prepared to be convicted.

This week has been busy so far - a good busy, but busy nonetheless. I enjoyed Monday, because I've had so much on my mind lately that it felt good to spend a whole day just working with my hands and not doing so much thinking. I got a lot done, too.

Today I woke up with a long to-do list as well; finish sewing a skirt I want/need to wear this week, wash all my laundry, make pickles (garden produce is filling up the kitchen table!), and make rolls and cornbread. (My family is in charge of the meal at church tonight.)

I never got around to the pickles because I was sewing. My darling mother covered for me. She also made spaghetti sauce at the same time! I was rushing to finish that skirt so I could get it in the laundry. I had made the skirt "from scratch," meaning I made it without a pattern. I've made dozens of things without patterns, and they usually turn out wearable.

This was my...uh...third (I think) time re-making this skirt.

Proof #1 that I've lost my touch.

I'm also working on a shirt for a client - without a pattern. It has been much harder than I thought it would be.

Proof #2.

I finally got my skirt "done," though it's not as good as I wanted it to be, and I got my laundry in the washer. In the meantime, I mixed up 2 dozen cornbread muffins, 6 dozen rolls, and 3 loaves of bread.

That took all morning.

In the afternoon, I remembered my laundry and went to fetch it, so I could hang it out on the line. I did this even though I knew it didn't have much chance of drying before sundown.

Proof #3.

I set the basket of wet clothing down by the kitchen door so I could sample some of Mom's fresh pickles. They were good! I picked up and slipped on some near-by potholders, and returned to my basket. I swung it onto my hip and went to the back door.

My hand was turning the door handle when I realized something was wrong.

I looked at my hands.

I was wearing potholders! Now I knew I'd been in the kitchen too long!

Proof #4. (Mom and I laughed over that particular incident so hard we cried!)

By now (after hanging out the clothes) I was tired, so I disappeared to chill out a little bit. Next thing I knew, Mom was pulling my rolls out of the oven and telling me that two dozen of them (the pans on the bottom rack) had burnt. They were black.

Proof #5.

Do we really need proof #6 or #7? I can't seem to sew, can't seem to bake, ...can't even seem to keep up with a blog! I'm embarrassed to take my rolls to the dinner tonight, because even the ones that aren't burnt are nowhere near as high as they ought to be.

We need to leave in about 20 minutes. In that time I have to get cleaned up, pack my rolls and muffins, check my laundry (which, of course, will still be wet), talk with Mom and Dad about something, and various other little things.

But I'm sitting here writing.

That's proof #6.





(Note: To those of you who don't know me well enough to tell this, please do not worry about me. I will recover nicely. I am not as depressed as I sound. I just like to moan a little harder than necessary, just to see if I can make you laugh. Thank you.)