Friday, June 29, 2012


Thumbing through old albums, I smiled a lot.  Smiling is my favorite!  I share the joy with you today. . .no words, just funny photos.

Friday, June 22, 2012


There should be a rule book for mothers of sons in sports. We eventually learn them but a crash course would help. Just this week in the news a hockey mom was on the ice scolding the ref for not stopping the kids from fighting.  Mixed reviews on that one.

Kent was about 7 when I watched him hoist the bat and walk to the batter's box. No more T ball! This was the big time as my son faced a wild pitcher on the mound. What he lacked in control, he made up for in speed.

That kid's pitching hard. Kent's gonna get hit by a wild ball. Lord, help me not to scream or run to the field if he does get hurt. At least I knew that rule.

Ball one.

Ball two.

Strike one!

Ball. . .to Kent's rib cage, knocking him to the ground! I gasped and stood but silently froze in place in the bleachers. Coach checked him then said, "Take your base!" Kent limped to first.

After the game Doug and I rounded up the girls then met Kent at the car to head home. "Hon, just before you got hit I was thinking the ball might get you."

"Me too, Mom! And you know what I was thinking?"

"What, Kent?"

"I was jus' thinking about where the worst place was to get hit by a ball."

Doug raised his manly eyebrows and gave me a side glance.

"A-aaand where's that, Kent?" I asked, wondering if the girls were listening.

Emphasizing every word, he declared, "The very worst place to get hit by a ball is. . .in the back of batter's box. So I stepped to the side, as far from it as I could." Doug sighed and smiled.

"Good plan, Honey. Maybe it'll work next time."

From that day on, "batter's box" held a double meaning in the Henderson household.

Another mother rule I learned the hard way was mothers should never pitch to sons!
That's a dad's job. But one day in our back yard I was the designated pitcher for our practicing hitter. Using a glove was always awkward for me but I had it on when I pitched to Kent. He connected with the ball and I saw it coming straight for my face! I held out my glove. It passed my glove and kept coming straight for my face! I turned my head just enough to spare my teeth but not my right cheek.

This time I was the one knocked to the ground. Explaining a swollen, bruised face can be doubly painful.

Last year our firstborn grandson, J.D., was in his second season of football. He rode with a friend to his game. His mother, Kimberly, later drove with the younger siblings to watch him play.

Snacks, kids, purse, sunglasses all rallied around her as she climbed the bleachers. She spotted her handsome son in his blue and white uniform, his chest ablaze with 36.

He was playing better than ever. "Goooooo, J. D!" she cheered louder than other mothers. He ran faster and hit harder. So she kept yelling, "Way to go, Jade! Woo-hoo!" The crowd in the bleacher rose and cheered with her as he ran.

I had no idea he was so good. I'm so proud of him. He's never run 53 yards before! He's probably hearing me up here and is encouraged.

So she hollered into the first quarter until the team came to the sidelines. She watched J.D. pull off his helmet, then saw his head of sweaty, blonde curls. . . Blonde? J.D. has brown hair! The Nordic kid was probably wondering about the crazy lady cheerleader in the stands.

THEN she realized

-right school
-right ball park
-right color uniform
-right number


Gathering up her snacks, kids, purse, sunglasses and shreds of dignity, she clamored down the steps and over to her son's field and his game. She still cheered him on through the last three quarters of his game.

After the game, he said, "Wondered where you were, Mom."

We're just encouragers, my daughter and me! To everyone! Maybe we should be the ones to write that rule book for mothers.

Dads just handle the whole bleacher scene far better than moms. Kent, now a father of four, even made TV showing us how to do it! Someone asked his wife (beside him), "Mary, why weren't you standing up to cheer like Kent?"

"I was. He's over 6 '5" and has his arms raised, ya know!"

That's how ya do, it, Kent! No lessons or books required. Men are just naturals!

Friday, June 15, 2012


I did a theatrical performance recently on puns.  It was a play on words.

You know I love puns so this post has a few more if you care to join me.

  • When chemists die they barium.
  • Jokes about German sausage are the wurst.
  • I know a guy who's addicted to brake fluid.  He says he can stop any time.
  • How does Moses make his tea?  Hebrews it.
  • I stayed up all night to see where the sun went.  Then it dawned on me.
  • A lady said she recognized me from her vegetarian club, but I never met herbivore.
  • I'm reading a book about anti-gravity.  I can't put it down.
  • I'm listening to the audio version on my

  • They told me I had type-A blood but it was a type-O.
  • Why were the Indians here first?  They had reservations. (I had reservations about sharing this one.)
  • We're touring the Coca Cola factory.  I hope there's no pop quiz.
  • He didn't like his beard at first.  Then it grew on him.
  • Did you hear about the cross-eyed teacher who lost her job because she couldn't control her pupils?
  • When you get a bladder infection, urine trouble.
  • Broken pencils are pointless.

  • I tried to catch some fog, but I mist.
  • What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?  A thesaurus.
  • England has no kidney bank, but it does have a Liverpool.
  • I thought about becoming a banker but then I lost interest.
  • A friend dropped out of communism class because he lost Marx.
  • I once worked at a bakery because I kneaded the dough.
  • Haunted French pancakes give me the crĂªpes.

  • Velcro--what a rip off!
  • Venison for dinner again?  Oh deer!
  • The earthquake in Washington obviously was the government's fault.
  • A cartoonist was found dead in his home.  Details are sketchy.
  • All the toilets in New York's police stations have been stolen.  The police have nothing to go on.
Now for those of who who don't care for nor get pun humor, feel free to leave a comment.  I'll even start you off with one assessment of this blog post:

A few days ago I posted on facebook:

Kathy Tippett Henderson
Did you hear about the cross-eyed teacher who lost her job because she couldn't control her pupils?

My punny friends boomeranged the humor right back at me:

Indeed, my friends ARE funny but looks aren't everything!

Friday, June 8, 2012


She was a good mother, busy checking off her To Do list one routine item after another.
  • clothes folded
  • supper simmering
  • trash collected
  • groceries into the pantry
She had just enough time to balance the checkbook and maybe write that overdue thank you note. With bank statement spread before her, she concentrated on the figures.

A helium voice pierced her calculating, "Mommy! I'm a pwrincess! See me twirling?"

Without turning to look, the good mother murmured, "Yes, Honey. That's nice."

Moments later her daughter's cheery voice interrupted again, "Mommy! I made my own crown. It's pink and it sparkles. Isn't it pretty?"

"Mm-hmmm, sure is, Baby."

But her baby knew Mommy was busy. Busy not noticing a twirling princess topped with a homemade crown. But she tried once more, "Mommy, come play ball with me."

"Later, Honey."

"Mommy!" she called in vain as the good mother worked on. Finally the little princess climbed into her mother's lap. She wedged her cherub body between her mother and the pile of bills, checks and bank statements.

Nose to nose, she placed small, dimpled hands on her mother's cheeks, pulled her right to her little lips and begged in one last attempt, "MOMMY! 'Wook at my 'wips!"

And finally I pushed away my checkbook and looked into my daughter's eyes for the first time that afternoon. She got my full attention at last. I left my list of motherly duties to become a mother. We played princess and queen in her kingdom now.
Yes. . .the story is in the first person. It's my sad, but true story, my confession actually.

Mothers today struggle as I did.  Perhaps technology is their distraction.  A young mother shares her insights on the same subject.  It's a blog post worth reading for mothers.

* * *
Good Christians also busy themselves doing God's work daily, especially on Sundays. Teachers teach. Singers sing. Pianists play. Ushers greet and take up the offering. Everyone sings. We talk about and chant praises to God. But I wonder what heaven truly hears. . .

I wonder if Abba Papa knows we're busy working for Him but maybe too busy to truly see Him, be with Him, to crawl into lap and truly look at His lips as He begs us to,
"Be still and know that I am God."

Our only response should be, as He taught us to say,

"Thy kingdom come. . ."

Be sure you're not so busy FOR God that you forget ABOUT God.

". . .Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

Look full in His wonderful face.

Friday, June 1, 2012


As a young person I was affected by the book Christy authored by Catherine Marshall. It later became a TV series. But her husband, Rev. Peter Marshall, was a story-teller too.  He served twice as the Chaplain of the United States Senate.  I yield my blog today to him because we all love a good story!

The Keeper of the Spring
by Charles R. Swindoll
The late Peter Marshall, an eloquent speaker and for several years the chaplain of the United States Senate, used to love to tell the story of "The Keeper of the Spring,"¹ a quiet forest dweller who lived high above an Austrian village along the eastern slopes of the Alps.
The old gentle man had been hired many years earlier by a young town council to clear away the debris from the pools of water that fed the lovely spring flowing through their town. With faithful, silent regularity he patrolled the hills, removed the leaves and branches, and wiped away the silt from the fresh flow of water. By and by, the village became a popular attraction for vacationers. Graceful swans floated along the crystal clear spring, farmlands were naturally irrigated, and the view from restaurants was picturesque.
Years passed. One evening the town council met for its semiannual meeting. As they reviewed the budget, one man's eye caught the salary figure being paid the obscure keeper of the spring. Said the keeper of the purse, "Who is the old man? Why do we keep him on year after year? For all we know he is doing us no good. He isn't necessary any longer!" By a unanimous vote, they dispensed with the old man's services.

For several weeks nothing changed. By early autumn the trees began to shed their leaves. Small branches snapped off and fell into the pools, hindering the rushing flow of water. One afternoon someone noticed a slight yellowish-brown tint in the spring. A couple days later the water was much darker. Within another week, a slimy film covered sections of the water along the banks and a foul odor was detected. The millwheels moved slower, some finally ground to a halt. Swans left as did the tourists. Clammy fingers of disease and sickness reached deeply into the village.
Embarrassed, the council called a special meeting. Realizing their gross error in judgment, they hired back the old keeper of the spring . . . and within a few weeks, the river began to clear up.
Fanciful though it may be, the story carries with it a vivid, relevant analogy directly related to the times in which we live. What the keeper of the spring meant to the village, Christian servants mean to our world. The preserving, taste-giving bite of "salt" mixed with the illuminating, hope-giving ray of "light" may seem feeble and needless . . . but God help any society that attempts to exist without them! You see, the village without the keeper of the spring is a perfect representation of the world system without the salt and light of God's servants (Matthew 5:13–14).

Where is your spring? God is the true Keeper of the Spring but you are His servant. Do your part to live a pure life and keep your environment righteous.