Balboa Park is the largest urban cultural park in the country, the home of 15 museums, several renown artistic venues, and the world-famous San Diego Zoo: altogether, the park covers 1400 acres. Pepper Grove is the section Rebecca had chosen, Jerry and I took written directions the hotel furnished, and we found the area with little delay. Others coming from different streets, despite the large BUXTON signs stuck around the park, had a tad bit of trouble finding the group. The park is set among rolling–sometimes steep–hills and finding a certain area can be a challenge given the very large area Balboa covers.

The setting was idyllic; the finely clipped lawn stretched wide, then plunged steeply into a narrow canyon, its far edge rising to other green hills where grew also ancient California Pepper trees akin to those whose gnarled trunks and low-hanging branches stood before me in stately form. I gazed as Jerry parked the car, taking in the white tent that had been erected and the red and white checkered cloths that covered the tables.

Grandchildren ran to us, and thus began the party.

If the party had not been perfect, I wouldn’t try to convince you of such a notion, but in all truth, I can affirm that it was. From setting, to food, to conversations, to treats, “entertainment,” and to guests it was a sterling, perfect party, and it is safely ensconced in my memory bank, filed as a very special time and event.

“I want this to be a simple affair, Rebecca,” I had told her in the early stages of planning the party that my children were pitching for my 70th birthday. “I want my family and a few close friends there, but I don’t want anything extravagant; I don’t want it to be a burden on anyone.

“”Okay, Mom.”

That was the genesis of the party style, and I left it that way. Somehow these four marvelous youngsters of mine executed exactly what I wanted, even though I didn’t precisely know myself just what I envisioned. It was a dream party.

I had wandered around, admiring and exclaiming over everything, including my baby and childhood pictures that were displayed, which Rebecca had pilfered from our “picture room” in Crestline. The decorations were adorable and included bouquets of sunflowers and white daisies, stuck into large Mason jars and tied around with raffia streamers. Such was the thoughtfulness of these children of mine, that on every table, as part of the centerpieces, were resin ants, high-legged ones. I suppose those bug-eyed and fetching critters were to insure a realistic picnic ambience, just in case the natural born insects failed to make an appearance.

I was so engrossed with these things, that they had completely set up and were playing music before I even saw them. Those responsible were watching my reaction and later told me it was as though I was oblivious to them as two young women moved across the lawn, set up their instruments and began playing. I turned and saw that a cellist and a violinst had been engaged to furnish music for my party. Beside the people, who of course, ranked first, this music was my favorite part of the whole deal. With only a couple of breaks they played for the better part of two hours. That the music was so hauntingly beautiful, and afforded such a splendid visual sight, and that my children had thought of such a treat, moved me so that I stood in tears as I took it all in.

Michael had bought prime rib roasts and hand cut them into steaks, which he grilled to order, along with chicken breasts, and hot dogs for the children. Corn boiled in a giant pot, gourmet cheese was passed and green salads and luscious bread and plain butter and herbed butter, and fiery red watermelon slices were handed around. Then was the cake, black and gooey, and there were huge cupcakes with sunflowers in their centers, and gifts, and Happy Birthday sung to the string accompaniment and then I said, “It’s Shawnna’s birthday,” so we sang again, and this time I joined in.

They thought of everything; had engaged people from Andrew’s church to help serve, brought bottles of bubbles for the children, and their paper plates of food were served atop a Frizbee, so that when they finished eating, a Frizbee game went on for hours.

We visited for a very long time, and then the light began to fade, and we gathered for group pictures.

My four marvelous kids and their daddy and their mama.

And after this picture was taken, I said, “Okay, all the adults be gone. I want a picture of my grandkids with their granny.”

In no way do I deserve the life I have lived; the marvelous husband I married, the astonishing children God gave us, our 12 grandchildren and 8 great-grandchildren and the large number of loyal and loving friends. I’m thankful for health and physical possessions and that I live in this wonderful country, the United States of America. I’m ecstatic that I’ve been blessed with 70 good years on this earth.

This morning, we had a two-hour breakfast with Steve, at 3:00 we’re meeting Rebecca and Andrew and their families at the beach in Imperial Beach and at 7:00 we’re having dinner with our dear friends, Nita and Johnny Hodges.

The birthday lives…

Rebecca said she would be there at noon, but “don’t feel pressured about arriving at a certain time, Mom,” she said when I talked with her this morning. “Come when you want to. If you want to be there as we’re setting up, that’s fine, but you don’t have to,” she reassured me. “Everything is under control.”

So as I’m lounging around in a motel room here in San Diego, my four  children are down at beautiful Balboa Park arranging a birthday party. The party is a picnic style, will be outside, starts at 4:30 and I believe we’re eating around 6:00, but I’m not sure of anything beyond that. The party is a little early, for my birthday is not until the 24th of July, but our schedules caused us to plan the party today, the 17th.

I’m turning 70.

I have absolutely no idea how this happened. How can I possibly be 70? Aren’t 70 year old females little ole ladies? Don’t they wear purple and scrunch over a bit? Huh, be honest, now, aren’t they? And is that I of whom you speak? Impossible, except for my birth certificate which reads July 24, 1938.

Jerry and I arrived here in San Diego yesterday, went to church at Steve’s last night. (He’s our oldest child, and he pastors a thriving church here in the area.) We slept fairly late this morning, had a bit of breakfast here in the hotel, then we’ve spent a few hours doing a little shopping.

Today is Shawnna’s birthday and I hadn’t bought her anything yet, but found her something really neat and I would tell you about it, but she reads here from time to time and I don’t want her reading about her present, but actually she better not be reading, she’d better be down at Balboa arranging my party.

Anyway I’ve got this nice gift and a great helium balloon to give her at my party…my shared party.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you about the festivities; next week on the 24th I’ll tell you how it feels to be 70, and unless things change drastically in the coming up days, it will be a delightful report.

Still can’t believe it. You know what just occurred to me: I think someone forged my birth certificate!

Cheers!

Thou hast loved righteousness, and hated iniquity; therefore God, even thy God, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellow.” Hebrews 1:9

·        Belief in God helps me understand David’s response when he saw the ark coming—that lowly symbol of The High God. He stripped off his tunic and “danced mightily before the Lord.” 

Although I have never thrown aside a tunic and danced before an ark, I’m glad that action is not a mystery to me, nor foreign to my thinking. I’m glad the very presence of God strikes both a physical and a spiritual response within the depth of my soul.

I’m glad I understand weeping in His presence.

·        I delight in the comprehension that even if I’m a “failure,” I’m still a valuable being.

I think often of the 11^th chapter of Hebrews that tells extraordinary accounts of miracles and deliverance. Then—right in the middle of verse 35 –come these stunning words: “…and others were tortured, not accepting deliverance; that they might obtain a better resurrection. And others had trial of cruel mocking and scourging, yea, moreover of bonds and imprisonment;

They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented: (of whom the world was not worthy) they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth.”

Listen, though, to the concluding remarks. Verse 39 “And these all, having obtained a good report through faith…”

I’m glad I believe in God and His righteous judgments; that I understand His mind and Being to exceed human reasoning and value.

·        I’m glad for the practical help I find in the Bible.

Markers are there, warnings and sound advice. Though we are generations removed from their origination, these ancient writings are fresh as frolicking lambs. Their instructions are relevant and, when followed, lead to enduring marriages, stable families and the development of upstanding citizens.

·        The United States of America is commonly referred to as being founded on Judeo/Christian principles.

I’m glad I believe in God, His Word and His principles, and that I have seen them produce the finest country in the world.

·        There is something within the human being that strikes an affinity for mysticsm, elevated feelings, and other-worldy feelings.

 We are attracted to vision, dreams, and “impossible” happenings. Millions of people “shoot-up” with narcotics and inhale hallucinogens in order to feed that craving.

Not so with a Christian, for such a person is enveloped by a heavenly “high” and thus escapes the cravings and chains of alcohol and drug addictions. Serving God and investing deeply into Him satisfies that need. It is at once highly practical and wonderfully mysterious to be a child of God, not easily told, not fully understood. It’s of another world.

·        I love the understanding that God chose me, that I’m now of a royal nation.

I’m glad I believe I’m set apart, love to think that God ordained my birth.

·        I’m glad I believe in God because it has given me the opportunity to see people transformed.

Too many thousands of times to precisely chart, I have watched a man walk to a pulpit, and have seen the holy anointing envelope him to such degree that it was as though another person stood before me.

I’ve seen alcoholics and drug addicts delivered from cruel enslavement by the power of God. If I were a skeptic, I would be blinded to such things.

·        I’m glad I cherish the physical book of God, the Bible. I’m glad for its comfort and familiarity.

Seemingly a mere volume of paper and paste, in truth, dwelling within the pages of The Holy Bible are the everlasting words of life.

·        I’m glad I believe in God so that such discoveries as the Dead Sea Scrolls hold greatest significance for me.

These are exceedingly more than crumbling papers in clay pots. Archeological finds from Biblical lands take on great significance for me. I thrill in the understanding that they far exceed the mere sighting of fallen columns or a look at scattered pottery shards.

·        I’m glad I understand my mission in life is to help spread the word of the only saving gospel—that of Jesus Christ.

I’m glad God called me into His work, glad He called my children, for it is the greatest life in the world. When my children were at home, I often reminded them; “Do you realize the greatest men that walk this earth sit on our couch and eat with you around our table, and often sleep in your bed?” And to another as he was now a pastor himself, and we had spent time talking of scripture and of God, “Do you understand how advantaged you are? You get paid to do this.”

I am an incredibly blessed woman…and I’m glad I believe in God.

There is a reason that every generation looks to an inky star-spangled heaven and hurls aloud the ancient questions: Why am I here? Is there a reason? Is there order? What is the plan?

I’m glad I believe in God and in His Holy Word, for within that belief I find the ultimate answer to life’s greatest questions…that of God, of eternity, and of purpose.

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My devotional blog is here.

Given its title, I suspect the thrust of this post could be misconstrued, and readers might conclude this to be an apologetic for belief in a Supreme Being. That would be a timely and worthy subject, but is not the one for this piece today. Lengthy shelves that stretch into expansive rooms have long been filled with volumes so written, coupled with writings of repudiation in equal number.

My piece today—my 1000^th post here—may be rightly considered a corollary to that subject, but is conclusive and not open to valid rejection for it is an essay that goes to the feelings of my heart and of my soul. Though I am not a student of psychology, it seems logical to conclude that there could be no debate of the accuracy of this piece, for my discussion is not centered on the logic of my feelings, but merely is a reporting of them. Of course, one may conclude my feelings to be misplaced, and argue that my mind (or my heart) has led me to illogical conclusions, but none should be able to make the case that my feelings are not mine.

With joyous beat, I have passed the scalding intersection of the great question– Is there a God?  I’m not here to proof text but to tell you why I’m glad I believe in God and in His word. Multiplied reasons occupy my brain, my heart, and my soul: I’ve selected a few for this discussion.

·        It is logical to believe in God.

I prefer to hold opinions that stand up to reason. While I respect the intellect of many atheists, none can explain beginning, so no matter which brand of the evolutionary theory we’re hearing, the hard bump of beginning is always there. I don’t understand beginning either, and my finite mind cannot wrap around eternity which has no beginning and no ending. I can’t grasp that. That’s why logic screams: It’s God, the supernatural Creator, the One who extends beyond explanation or understanding, and who takes my hand when I’m walking these labyrinths, and who says, “Believe, believe in Me, for I am supernatural; I have no beginning and no ending.” My belief is logical.

·        Believing gives me hope of Heaven.

It matters not whether I am right, for I am discussing the benefits and joy of the belief. God’s word promises me a better life than this; one where there is no pain, no sorrow, confusion, sickness, or casting about in despair. No death. This belief in a future Heaven gives me comfort in this, my present.

·        Belief in God connects me with people who live exceptional moral lives.

My life is centered on God and His people. Because of the nature of my life’s work, my years have set me in close relationships with people of superior moral values.

I’m not at all an elitist, though, and through Jerry’s ministry and my own contributions to the church, we have cheerfully worked with many classes of people—from those who are homeless, to the very wealthy—from those who admit to being deep in sin, to others who, like me, are striving to be righteous. But my overarching, deep relationships are those with persons of high moral values.

·        The Bible is the best-selling book in the world.

It’s gratifying that millions of other people agree with me about the value in God’s immutable word.

·        It is intriguing to see Biblical prophesies fulfilled in the daily newspaper.

·        Believing the Bible causes me to adhere to the plan of salvation for this dispensation.

I’m glad I know to repent, to be baptized in Jesus’ name and to be filled with the Holy Ghost. If I did not believe in God and His holy word, I would not possess this amazing gift.

·        I can howl into the night with pain and believe I am being heard.

It would be ghastly to think my screams go unnoted, and that they merely  ricochet through eons of hopeless emptiness.

·        Although God is righteous, I’m glad I understand Him to be patient.

To Judas, “Here, dip with me.”

·        Believing in God reveals that I am more than a body.

My housing is dissolving, growing old, breaking apart. I’m glad I understand that I am an ever-living, never dying soul.

·        It brings me untold joy to believe the stories in the Bible are true.

I’m glad Daniel really slept with lions, Noah actually built that monstrous boat, and that all those animals marched in. I’m glad I believe Jesus made a mud-ball and stuck it in the socket of a blind man, who could then see!…and that He raised up dead people, and took a picnic lunch from that little boy and then fed thousands of people.

It makes me happy to believe Peter got out of his boat and walked on water and Jonah got swallowed up by a fish, and then, incredibly, grew angry at the people to whom he took the message of repentance.

I’m finding this much too long for one post. Will write part 2 for tomorrow

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My devotional blog is here.

You may recall Olive Riley, who was the author of a beautiful very lively blog, and who at 108 years old was considered the world’s oldest blogger. I wrote about her a couple of times several months ago. (Both of those posts have links to a video of a hilarious birthday party thrown for her.)

She has posted her last line, for on Saturday, just after 6:00 am, in the sure hands of God, she slipped from this earth into the chambers of eternity. She was an amazing woman and will be mourned by her family and her readers who numbered into the thousands. An Australian, she communicated on a regular basis with people from as far away as the United States and Russia.

In her final post of June 26th, she said she could not “shake off that bad cough.” She was born in 1899 and would have turned 109 on October 20.

Olive’s musing live on at www.allaboutolive.com.au and more recently at http://worldsoldestblogger.blogspot.com

My sympathy and best wishes to her family.

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My devotional blog is here.

I am planning to sit by a dandelion.

Not the yellow kind, although I certainly have nothing against those weedish flowers, and it’s a fact that a summer meadow flared golden with their mass is a splendid sight. But it’s not one of those dandelions with which I plan an engagement; it’s an aged one–one gone to seed.

You know the style, I’m sure. An ethereal orb, a wisp of fairy, a plaything, a seed; a nod to nature, a whisper to eternal plan.

I’m going to sit with one. I decided this morning.

Returning from Crestline to Lake Havasu, Jerry and I take the “backway,” choosing to travel a narrow two-lane road that is posted to warn of extreme switchbacks and quick elevation changes. It’s a magnificent drive that winds through the San Bernardino Forest past Lake Silverwood before reaching the 15 freeway. When we’ve had adequate rain, small waterfalls flash and creeks and rivulets run paths down the mountain side.

It was here I saw the dandelion beside which I plan to sit. I glimpsed him tall with his fellows in a particular slant of light, and knew right then I wanted to sit with that dandelion.

With a small chair and my camera I will go again to that spot. I may read and write a snip, but my first energy will be that of sitting by the dandelion. With my Nikon lens I will record the light as it plays over the ringlets of that dandelion, as its mood shows with a breeze or a flit of dragonfly or the brush of insect.

Imagery link here

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My devotional blog is here.

“Hi, I’m your daddy.” Those very words–or words quite similar–millions of times over, have surely been said around the world. But never has such a sentence been uttered in just this way. For while proud papa Michael Cintron was 6000 miles away in Iraq, his baby was born in Brooklyn, and it was through the latest technology that this dad could see and speak to his newborn son.

“Look your nose is squishy,” Daddy gushed…and “Look! He’s looking at me.”

Proud papa  Marine Lance Cpl. Michael Cintron via Webcam watched as his son, by Cesarean section, was lifted from his mother’s body. Michael actually got a good look at baby Michael James before Jeannie Cintron did. Immediately after his birth, the enthusiastic and empathetic hospital staff turned the little tyke toward the camera so Daddy could have a superior view.

In a remarkable four-hour Web cast from a maternity ward at Maimonides Medical Center, mom Jeannine Cintron’s delivery of son Michael James Cintron was beamed clear across ocean and land to his 26-year-old father in Iraq.

More from the Daily News here.

I honor this family and thank them for their unique contributions to the safety and welfare of our country. I do wish them well.

It would be neat if either on my blog or someone else’s all of you would take the time to write a note of congratulations to the Cintron family.

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My devotional blog is here.

Twilight when we left gave to pitch. Through the night we drove, heading from Arizona to California, and then the moon rose.

“Shirley, look at the moon. It’s red.”

We gazed at the strange sphere and Jerry offered, “Do you suppose it’s caused by the fires?”

Not exactly was the moon red last night, but it was discolored and with a gauzy appearance. Our state is ravaged now by hundreds of out-of-control fires. It is of such consequence and concern that the National Guard has been called in; the first time  in 30 years.

Mirander, a 27-year-old student, left behind her husband and a 7-year-old stepson in Riverside to spend one month working 12-hour days battling the flames.

“It’s pretty awesome,” she said of working alongside other troops. “We really stand by each other.”

The first wave of 200 troops took their places Wednesday, providing “a breath of fresh air” to crews on the ground, said Dan Burns, an assistant fire chief who was helping integrate the Guard into the firefighting effort.

“It’ll really relieve a lot of pressure out there,” Burns said. “The state got hit by so many fires at once — we couldn’t staff them all.”

Because this fire season started so early, the firefighting conditions have been among the worst in memory, even among longtime crews, said Terence McHale, policy director for CDF Firefighters of Cal Fire, the union representing the firefighters.

Fox News

Here from Adam Housley’s blog is a video link depicting one of the fires.

Please continue to pray for the thousands who have been evacuated and for our fire personnel who are exhausted and stretched to their limits.

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My devotional blog is here.

 ”For his mouth speaks from that which fills his heart.” Luke 6:45

That vulgar language appears to flow with ease from prominent black ministers continues to astonish me. Jesse Jackson’s crude remarks about Barack Obama are the latest example. Such words from a minister is appalling…but then, it must be that Jesse is speaking his heart.

Renaissance G writes “Oh, Jackson supports Obama all right.  But with such support, he would probably prefer that Jackson oppose him.”

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My devotional blog is here.

A lone Marine will lift to his mouth a bugle of noble metal, causing to ripple through the air of New York’s lower Hudson Valley the haunting tones of Taps. On Saturday with full military honors, in Frederick W. Loescher Veterans Memorial Cemetery, Robert Hewett will be laid to rest.

On June 12, a utility worker found his skeletal remains behind the 7-Eleven Shopping Center in Montebello.  Hewett, 57 years old, had lived in a nearby woods for 15 years. Homeless.

It was his honorable service in Vietnam that inked the title veteran onto his resume. When he returned from the battlefields, something had gone awry; he faded into obscurity and had taken to the thickets.

There is no record of his having contact with the Rockland Veterans Office. Jerry Donnellsen, agency director, said he had filed no papers nor had he asked for assistance.

But there will be an honor guard at his funeral, and he will be buried with respect and with decoration. For his “brothers” have learned of his military service, and of his death, and are planning his rites. Coordinated by the Marine Corps League’s Rockland County Detachment, a group of 340 Marine veterans living in Rockland and northern New Jersey have taken responsibility for the funeral of Robert Hewett.

“One of our strong convictions of the Marine Corps is that ‘no man left behind,’ and we take care of our own,” said Marino, league commander, yesterday. “We’re bringing him home. We’re upholding our creed.”

Rockland County and the League of Marines are joining together to pay for all funeral and burial costs of Robert Hewett.

On Saturday, drifting over New York’s lower Hudson Valley will be the distinctive tone of taps. A valiant group of United States Marines have pledged to see that no man is left behind, and that their brother is taken home. An honor guard will stand.

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My devotional blog is here.