Verbage

SHOUT for joy to the Lord,
all the earth.
WORSHIP the Lord
with gladness; COME before him
with joyful songs.
KNOW that the Lord is God. It is he who made us,
and we are his;
we ARE his people,
the sheep of his pasture.
ENTER
his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise;
GIVE thanks to him and PRAISE his name.
For the
Lord IS good
and his love ENDURES forever;
his faithfulness
CONTINUES through all generations.

--Psalm 100

Serious Food...Silly Prices

Three weeks have passed since my lament about the lack of supermarkets in suburbs. I have since found a Wal-Mart, a Safeway, a couple King Soopers, an Albertson's, and a few Super Targets. I will not starve in the big city.

In fact, as I discovered today, my food intake will thrive here -- courtesy of Sunflower Farmer's Market. I found this gem of a grocer on my way home from work today. It is small and full of organic goodness that is quite reasonably priced. (I bought a can of coffee -- that required a can opener to open! -- for $2.50 today.)

Anyway, I was so happy, I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a few photos of the bulk aisle and my basket full of pita and hummus and yogurt. Really, you can't beat a supermarket with the slogan: Serious Food...Silly Prices.

Milk heaven

If you will allow me to be an uber-dork for a moment, I'd like to share one of the highlights of my week. I mean, yes, work was great, and yes, I cycled Boulder, and yes, I caught a Rockies baseball game and Mercy Me concert this afternoon -- and I shall write about each of those in their turn -- but this event demands immediate spotlight attention.

Okay, let's just cut to the chase. I can't stand this tension. Drum roll, please...

This glorious morning, I had Royal Crest milk. What? You haven't heard of it?

Well, neither had I until I moved in with the Mattsons. But, after today's exquisite cereal experience, I now know what I've been missing in my nearly three decades of milk consumption.

This milk is hormone free. It is produced here in Colorado. And, get this, it is bottled fresh and delivered to the Mattson's doorstep in reusable containers.

It is milk heaven. I want to chug it from the bottle. I want to visit the dairy farm and see it in the making with my own eyes. I want to eat Oreo cookies every day just so I can get some more.

Alas, that would be greedy. And fattening. Nevertheless, I am grateful to the Mattsons for sharing their blessed dairy bounty.

Now, where are those Oreos?

Airplane stars

One of my favorite things about traveling is the way details make an imprint on my mind. A few examples:

* I can still see the way my very first bubble tea jiggled as I walked away from the street vendor in Singapore.
* While driving through the streets of a small town in El Salvador, a man carrying a basket on his shoulder cocked his head as our truck zoomed past. I remember his eyes.
* In London, the sun was setting as I walked along the River Thames. I remember the way the sun hit the words "London Bridge" as I walked by.

Tonight, I went for a bike ride after work. And somewhere in that sea of tan houses that is my suburban existence, several details emerged.

* On a hillside bordered by condos, a swath of bushes blushed yellow amidst green grass swaying in the wind. Fall is coming.
* A drop of water from a sprinkler hit my glasses and suddenly one stoplight became thirty as my vision fragmented like a fly's. It looked like Christmas.
* The low rumble of airplanes coming in to land at Denver International Airport drew my gaze upwards. There twinkling in the sky were half a dozen airplane stars.

And that's when I realized that every place on earth -- even the soulless suburb -- holds beauty. Sometimes we just have to look for it...or wait for it to reveal itself in the smallest of details.

A little tomfoolery

My friends and I have a lot of fun together. I miss them like crazy.

This was our tribute to "Garden State." And tomfoolery.

Mexican Train to Hungarian Blessings

Sometimes -- most times, maybe? -- blessings come in the most surprising packages. There is a swirl of whipped cream on the latte brought by a friend -- a spontaneous expression of love. There is the smile you can't suppress when scrubbing toilets as an act of service. And then there is Bob and Marge.

My co-worker, Sarah, lives with Bob and Marge. When she and Kaitlin and I went out on the town yesterday, the day's events included an invitation from Bob and Marge for dinner. It wasn't what we'd planned. We were thinking of a nice dinner downtown. But, well, okay. Maybe we could drop in and catch a late movie after the obligatory chow and chat.

The dinner was nothing spectacular -- a stew and some bread -- but, somehow, it tasted gourmet. Seriously. Think I had thirds.

Bob and Marge were old. Marge could barely see. Or hear. Or walk. But she was beautiful. She was one of those people who wears the Holy Spirit on her sleeve. I looked at her and saw Jesus.

Bob was cantankerous. He is a Hungarian immigrant who takes a certain amount of pride in knowing English better than most American speakers of the language. But he loved us. Genuinely. I could have called him Gramps and felt completely natural.

We chowed and we chatted. Offers of cake were made. Questions of our evening plans were asked.

Well, you see, we were going to go to a movie.

Would you like to stay and play Mexican Train?

Play what?

It's a domino game.

Ahhh, nifty. [Raised eyebrows.]

They looked at us like they'd offered drinks and live music. It was a sincere invitation.

Sarah, Kaitlin and I exchanged glances. We shrugged our shoulders and tilted our heads.

Well, okay, sure. Why not?

Bob and Marge smiled. Marge shuffled her walker to a nearby chest of drawers. The game was on....

And what a game it was. We laid dominoes end to end. We talked about sewing and practical jokes and mission trips and Jesus. Bob and Marge argued in that way only old people can: feisty and completely endearing. The time to go came too soon.

I think I'd like to ride that Mexican train to Hungarian blessings again. Maybe it can become a tradition. And maybe I can offer a few blessings in return...

Sarah, Marge, Kaitlin, Bob and me playing Mexican Train. Good times.

Road Tires

Me and my new road tires. Bring on the urban cycling!

Here are my road tires on their virgin trek in Denver. I stopped on this little hill to capture the moment.

*****
In preparation for becoming an urban cyclist in Denver, I bought some road tires for my mountain bike. When they landed on my front porch courtesy of UPS, I could barely contain my excitement. I tore into the box and pulled the thin (1.5-inch), slick beauties from the wrapping. Visions of cruising toward the Rockies, leaning hard into corners and leaving Mr. Cool Guy with Shades in my rubber dust, filled my mind.

Today, dear folks, I did just that.

After work, I traded my skirt for some shorts and donned my helmet. And then I rode. And rode. And rode. I have no idea how far I went. That's the allure of new paths and new places. The tires purred. I fist pumped and whooped and hollered.

It was grand, and I can't wait to do it again...

Goodnight Denver-land

I've lived in the Denver area for three days now. Well, more like two and a half, but who's counting? It's been good. And it's been bad. There's a lot of adjusting for a small-town girl moving to a big city. Yesterday, which was definitely a Monday for me, I had, in all my wisdom, broken city living into this: Traffic happens and suburbs suck. Let's just say I was in a very bad mood.

Today, however, God has proven yet again that He is the Lifter of my head. Work was steady; traffic moved along to Count Bassie; I found TWO independent coffee shops on my way to and from work; I discovered where some grocery stores are hiding out in my suburb; and I went on a lovely walk with my new roomie.

As I bid farewell to a much better day than yesterday, I wanted to share this gem of a sunset my roommate and I enjoyed on our walk. Goodnight Denver-land!