I believe in thrift; in not being wasteful, in making do, and using up. I don’t know if it comes from the way I was raised—in a family with six kids on the mission field, or from the 13 months I spent in the Philippines—a poor third-world country, or from twenty-five years as a wife and mother learning to make do through some lean years with my own family. Probably a bit of all three.

Today I’m pleased to say I outdid myself in the kitchen. While I was preparing food for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner at my sister’s home I made my mother-in-law’s turkey dressing (come to think of it is was HER mother’s recipe . . . does that make it my grandmother-in-law’s recipe?) and made too much to fit in the roaster pan. So I put the leftovers in a casserole dish, sprinkled shredded cheddar on top, and tucked it in a warm oven. When hubby came home at noon we ate it for lunch with a side of yogurt, and it was good! I also made chocolate chip brownies but ran out of chocolate chips so chopped up a bar of semi-sweet baking chocolate. Looks a little different but tastes the same as always.

For tonight’s dinner I decided to make a beef stew in the slow cooker. Rummaging around in the fridge I found a few ounces of leftover broth made from chicken bones, plus a small Tupperware of tomato paste and the last drips from a bottle of barbecue sauce. I used leftover water from the sweet potatoes I had boiled for tomorrow’s mashed sweet potato dish (I figure the water was full of vitamins that shouldn’t be wasted) and mixed it with all of the above in the crockpot. Then I browned the meat and sautéed some onions, celery and garlic and added it. Also peeled some potatoes and carrots and added them. The stew has been simmering for hours and smells divine, and I say, "Thank you God for ALL your provision."

All I wanted to do this morning was laundry and baking. Things I’ve done hundreds of times over the years, should have been simple enough, straight forward, easy . . . I wanted to get those chores out of the way so that I could get over to the new house to clean and paint.

I got the first two loads of laundry hanging up on the clothesline and was starting the third through the washing machine when I heard raindrops splattering on the outside deck. Dang! Out I went to get clothes off the line and into the dryer.

Next it was into the kitchen to bake. Partway through the pumpkin/cranberry bread recipe I remembered there was no vegetable oil. No problem, I knew I could substitute with melted coconut oil. Woops no coconut oil! So I improvised with half melted butter and half home-canned applesauce. Then I realized I had no cranberries so decided to substitute fresh raspberries. I put them in a strainer and washed them and without thinking set the strainer on the counter. A few minutes later I noticed red juice underneath the mixing cups, behind the sink faucets, and dripping down the cupboards. Dang! Time out to wipe it up, only to discover it had stained. Dang! More time taken to bleach the counters. Back to the mixing. I added the raspberries, and poured the batter into three small loaf pans instead of the two large pans called for. I popped them into the oven. And now I wait to taste test.

And I wait on the clothes to come out of the dryer. And I feel impatient.

Life is like that sometimes. We have plans but they get disrupted, interrupted, set aside. We end up waiting when we want to get on with the schedule. I’ve felt that way since December when Paul lost his job. Kind of like being stuck on the pause button. Arghh!

On Saturday Paul and I made a delivery of lawn mower engines to Carrizo Christian Academy at Immanuel Mission--a 2 1/2 hour trip out on to the Navajo Indian Reservation. I grew up at Immanuel Mission and Paul and I spent the first five years of our marriage there. My brother Greg teaches mechanics at the school--the lawn mower engines were for his students. He is also a pastor of the community church there, and his wife Kathy is a school counselor.

Greg and Kathy live out in the boonies--a couple of miles off the Mission property in a small mobile home at the camp of the Blackwater family. Once Paul and I arrived, they piled us into their four-wheel-drive jeep for a lovely evening picnic overlooking a maze of canyons at the base of the Carrizo Mountains. We worked up good appetites as we drove up the narrow valley, between red mesas and towering pinnacles, bumping along the “road,” our hair blowing in the wind, dust coating our faces.

Just above the small home of David Jordan, a WWII survivor and Navajo code-talker, Greg parked the jeep in a rocky ravine. Earlier that day on his morning run he had passed through a gully and had noticed a small clay pot sitting in the dirt on the rise. He hadn’t had time then to check it out, so now we were getting the privilege of discovery with him!

We scrambled out of the jeep and up the hill behind him, around juniper trees, dodging saltbush and prickly-pear cacti, stumbling over pieces of petrified wood (I brought a nice piece home for a paper-weight). Greg stopped for the rest of us to catch up and catch our breath, “Can anyone see it?” he asked. My eyes scanned across the rusty-red hills, “There!” I said, pointing at the slight color discrepancy on the hillside. As we approached the spot we found that the pot sat in crusted rivulets, having been uncovered in a recent rain, and it wasn’t a pot at all, but a mug. Greg, having studied archeology at Northern Arizona University, was able to place the mug as being of the late Mesa Verde period--black geometric designs on white. And near the mug we found the exposed bones of the body.

We kept a wide perimeter of the site as Paul set up his tripod and photographed the archeological treasure. When he was done Greg leaned down and for the first time in over 700 years touched the mug. He lifted it from the arid desert soil and gently cleaned out the caked dirt from the inner bowl. Then he handed it to me. I held the mug in my palm, wondering whose skillful hands had made it and who had given it up as an offering for the afterlife on the death of a loved one. It was a sacred moment for me as in a tangible way I was touching the life of the person who had created the mug, as well as the person who had died.

I stood quietly by the grave as Greg set the mug in a new place, on a flat spot between a bush and a rock, still close to the body--in a place of honor as the offering that it was intended--but where it would be protected from rolling down the hill and breaking into shards. He covered the mug with dirt, and it was gone. As we turned to leave a slight breeze swirled across the exposed gravesite and white wisps of bone literally turned into dust.