Furry Friend

By Karen O’Connor –

One morning as I reached for my breakfast food in the back of my station wagon at a campground in the Sierra Mountains, I noticed that several of the plastic bags had holes in them. One in particular was badly punctured. I had filled it with various nuts and dried fruits. When I picked it up, most of the contents fell out.

How strange. I was certain I’d put this mix in a brand new zippered bag. “Oh well, I’ll deal with this later,” I muttered. It was time for the group’s morning hike and I didn’t want to be late.

My friends and I returned to our site that afternoon and I opened my car to take out a snack and some water. To my surprise several more bags were full of holes. Even my Kleenex tissues were perforated. I assumed it was an insect and let it go. Flies and mosquitoes were all around so I chalked it up to life in the outdoors.

At the end of the week we broke camp and said our good-byes. Then I drove down the mountain to the motel where I planned to spend the night before heading home the following day.

I organized my gear, did a couple loads of laundry, ate dinner, and headed for bed. The next morning when I opened my car a terrible stench hit my nose. What is that? I wondered. I didn’t have any fresh food in the car so I was really puzzled.

Then suddenly I noticed a small furry creature curled up in a little open box I had left on the floor of the back seat. A long tail hung over the edge. A field mouse. “Eeek!” I shrieked and shivered at the sight. Poor fella must have snuck in when my car was open, and then died in the extreme heat of the day after I locked my car.

“Help!” I called to one of the employees at the motel. “A dead mouse. I can’t bear to touch it. Would you please remove it for me?”

The man chuckled, reached in, and carried the little guy, box and all, to the trash container. I thanked him and off he went. But then I had a shame attack. It was just a field mouse, after all. Why did I make such a big deal out of it? He was one of God’s creatures, too. And if the Lord could make a place for him on the earth, surely I could allow him to help himself to a few nuts and berries.

“But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you.
Which of all these does not know that the hand of the LORD has done this?
In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind” (Job 12:7-10 NIV).

Spray Away

By Karen O’Connor –

It had been a long flight from California to New York. I was tired but excited about the opportunity to speak at a large convention. Finally I arrived with time to spare before walking onstage to wow the crowd with the dynamic message I’d prepared and then rehearsed at least a dozen times. I checked into my hotel room, unpacked, rested my voice, and ordered hot tea with lemon and honey from room service. There wasn’t anything I hadn’t thought of––or so it seemed. I took time to press my business suit and apply my makeup carefully.

At the last moment I walked into the bathroom to refresh my lipstick and touch up my hair. A little spray would do the trick. I didn’t want even one hair to escape. I hadn’t paid the stylist thirty dollars for nothing.

I opened my purse, took out a small plastic bottle and turned this way and that in front of the mirror, taking charge of every stray hair. Spritz! Spritz! Even a stiff breeze couldn’t ruffle my tresses after that.

But something went terribly wrong. Instead of holding my hair in place, the entire ‘do’ collapsed into wet strands. I looked at the container in my hand, ready to pitch it out the sixteenth story window. So much for my professional coiffure––not yet twenty-four hours old. Indignant, I looked in the mirror, ready to return to the corner drug store and demand my money back. How could the clerk sell me this counterfeit when I expressly asked for a purse-sized bottle of hair spray?

Then I glanced at the label. Starry Night cologne. Oh for heaven’s sake. Where were my glasses when I needed them?

It was too late to start over. I had to walk out there and hold my own—regardless of how I appeared. Well, I smelled nice that day––but I didn’t look too swift!

I was pleased to see how well my audience paid attention. Every eye was on me––but probably not for the reason I hoped. I soon found out.

A woman came up to me after my presentation. It was clear she had a few words of encouragement for me after listening to my lament over the state of my hair. “You may not be the most attractive thing on the block,” she said, “but you’re a good speaker!”

Costly Cookies

By Karen O’Connor –

When I think of my mother, I think of her butter horn cookies. Mmm! The kids in our family could polish off a plate of these melt-in-your-mouth treats in minutes. So when it was my turn to provide dessert for the married couples group my husband and I belong to, I decided to make a batch of Eva’s Butter Horns.

I looked in the pantry and fridge for the ingredients and realized I didn’t have any of them on hand. Our oven had been on the blitz for months, so I had not been able to bake anything. But the day of the meeting I had no more excuses. We had purchased a new oven when we updated our kitchen.

I drove to the store and purchased flour, butter, cane sugar, powdered sugar, chopped nuts, eggs and salt. Then I remembered I didn’t have a rolling pin, so I picked up that too. Total bill: $40.21. Add to that the $1634.03, the purchase price for the built-in oven, and I could see this was going to be one expensive batch of cookies, let me tell you. To be exact, each cookie—48 in all––cost $34.88.

But the worst was yet to come. As I tried to roll out the flour mass (make that mess), the dough stuck to the rolling pin for dear life. I added a bit of flour to the board and to the dough, but no luck. So I started over. Then it dawned on me that it makes sense to flour the rolling pin before rolling out the dough. That helped a bit, but the result was anything but the perfect circle my mother used to make.

It’s pretty hard to make butter horns (visualize miniature crescent rolls) unless the circle of dough is very thin and very round. After much frustration, I managed to make three-dozen cookies that only vaguely resembled the perfect ones Mom used to make.

However, the guests didn’t know the difference. Every cookie vanished from the plate within ten minutes of my arrival. I was lucky to eat just one, but I was determined to get my $34.88 share.

Recipe for Eva’s Butter Horns
Dough:
1 cup butter (softened)
2 cups flour (white or wheat)
1 egg yolk, slightly beaten
3/4 cup light sour cream

Filling:
3/4 cup sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
3/4 cup of finely chopped nuts (walnuts or pecans)

Directions
Cut butter into flour. Combine egg yolk and sour cream. Blend with flour mixture. Form into ball and cover with waxed paper. Chill in refrigerator overnight or for several hours before baking.

Divide dough into three parts. Roll each part into a circle about 12″ in diameter. Cut each circle into 16 wedges with knife or pizza cutter.

Prepare the filling. Combine sugar, nuts, and cinnamon. Sprinkle mixture over the dough. Roll each wedge, starting with the wide end, shaping into crescents.

Bake on ungreased cookie sheet until light brown at 375 degrees for about 20 minutes. Remove from cookie sheet to cool. Dust with powdered sugar.

Share and enjoy!

White Knuckle Ride

By Karen O’Connor –

What fun it was for Amy to be invited to lead women’s groups to London on a tour of tearooms. Not only was she tickled to have this opportunity – something she felt God had planted in her mind years before – but she enjoyed being with a group of women who had never been on such a trip before. Their laughter and exclamations made all the preparation worthwhile. For many this was a vacation of a lifetime.

Most of the women were middle-aged and older, and at a point in life where they had time to appreciate the lovely British tradition of High Tea and to enjoy the various cultural differences between the English and the Americans. One special attraction in the city was the famous double-decker buses.

Amy recalled with a smile the first group she took. “None of the ladies had been to England before so everything was new and they were like little kids, taking in the sights and sounds as though they were at an amusement park.” That is until something happened that set her back. “As group leader, it was my fault in a way,” she added. “I realized later that I didn’t spend enough time going over the instructions. Now that I’m planning another trip I must take care of that oversight.”

One afternoon, the women had gathered at the street curb, eager for their first ride on one of the double deckers. “As we boarded the bus, most of the gals decided to sit downstairs to be out of the damp weather and to protect their hair from the wind. A few, however, were brave enough to sit on the top deck. I split my time between both so neither group would feel left out. I wanted to be certain everyone heard what I had to say.

“The women downstairs were attentive and happy and asked me some observant questions. When I walked up the stairs to speak to those on the upper level, however, I noticed my passengers were sitting like soldiers on alert. Not a word was spoken and most of them clutched the seats in front of them. It appeared to
be a white knuckle ride!

“Is anything wrong?” I asked. “We’re having a great time downstairs, but you don’t appear to be enjoying yourselves.”

One of the ladies looked up at me with a touch of fear in her eyes. “Well,” she said, in a small voice, “that’s because you have a driver!”

Quite a Spectacle

By Karen O’Connor –

As I slip on my sunglasses today I’m reminded of how they might just as easily still be in Burlington, Ontario, Canada.

I walked out of Community Presbyterian Church one Sunday morning in April––the day before my appearance on the Canadian television program, 100 Huntley Street, fresh from the inspiring sermon, and delighting in the brisk morning air. I felt free, excited, and eager for what lay ahead.

I exchanged my clear glasses for sunglasses. Then I pulled on my warm jacket to shield myself from the wind. I thrust my hands into the side pockets––checking, as my husband Charles has taught me to do––for each item I had brought with me. I had left my purse behind in the hotel room.

Kleenex™ tissues. Room key. Identification. Check! Check! Check! All there—except my prescription glasses. Where were they? I had been wearing them just a moment before. I was certain I had returned them to my pocket after putting on my sunglasses. I couldn’t lose them. Not now. Not in a foreign country.

“What did you do?” I drilled myself.

I retraced my steps over the half-block from the church to where I was now standing. Back and forth I walked, looking at every square inch of pavement, in the street gutter, around bushes, under tall clumps of weeds. I might have appeared to be a spy or a detective to anyone passing by.

My glasses were gone. Out of sight. Vanished.

I rushed back to the church and checked in and around the pew where I had sat. Then I dashed to the hotel to be sure I had really taken them with me. Maybe I hadn’t been wearing them after all. By that point I didn’t know what to believe. This was more than a mere senior moment. It was a disaster in the making. I had to have my glasses to see!

Then I became downright giddy. “Hang on, glasses. I know you’re out there somewhere. I will not leave without you. You don’t belong here in Canada. You live with me in the United States.”

I was sure I was losing it by then. I prayed like mad, then returned once again to the route I had taken, and looked at every speck of ground in front, behind, and beside me. I begged God to show me the answer.

Then I felt His counsel––to relax, breathe deeply, walk slowly, look up. And then it happened. I saw my glass case with my glasses snuggled safely inside, sitting on top of a fire hydrant in front of an abandoned cottage.

“Hallelujah!” I shouted right there in the middle of the block on a Sunday morning in Burlington, Ontario, Canada–and I didn’t care who heard me. I kissed the case and slipped it into my pocket, my right hand holding it firmly. Then I nearly skipped all the way back to the hotel.

But it was not until I stopped to thank and praise God that I received the gift He had for me. “Look up, Karen. Up to me. And I will hear and answer you.”

I’m still not sure how my glasses ended up on top of a fire hydrant. Perhaps a kind person found them on the sidewalk and placed them there for the owner to notice. Or maybe I laid them there for a second while I pulled on my coat and switched to my sunglasses. I don’t remember. Nor does it matter. God knows.

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