Questions

I thought I would do one of those question posts because I think they are a good way to get to know someone better.

1. If you could go anywhere this weekend , where would it be?

    Romania.

2. What is your favourite main dish?

     I have so many favourites, but I really like pizza, hamburgers, and chicken enchiladas.

3. What's your favourite dessert?

    Ice cream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!

4. What is your favourite subject?

    Probably History or English.

5. What's your favourite book?

    The Bible is my favourite because I can always find encouragement from it. I like Cabin on the Prairie too. 

I Climbed the Stony Stairs

This poem comes from my experience of climbing the trail (particularly the stairs near the end) to Vernal Falls at Yosemite National Park in California.
                                                       
                                                      I climbed the stony stairs again,

After seeing mules and mares again.

Their endless ascension wore me out,

I walked as if I had some grout.

They turned and curved all about

It seemed, as usual, an endless route.

I huffed and puffed my way along,

While the water played its thundering song.

I hiked along the narrow case,

Close against the wall, a steady pace,

Seeing all the rocks so far below

That God had thrown there long ago.

Finally, tired, I reached the awesome top,

Awed, to see God's glory made me stop.

To see this and still an atheist be?

I could not, for who else made me?

I climb these stoney stares within.

Jesus won't climb Golgotha Hill again.

He died there once and rose for you and me,

Yet still an atheist will you be?

~ Elisabeth~

This is the falls from below. If you look at other pictures of Vernal you will see that we definitely came in the dry season.

The seemingly endless stairs.

The view from the top.

Gypsy Sparkle

With wagons rumbling down dirt roads,

Gypsies’ ponies pulling harsh loads;

Children, running, laughing, racing;

While dogs are barking and chasing.

With their bright and shining attire,

Girl’s black raven hair boys admire;

Tinkle-jingling jewelry galore,

And boys red cravats to adore.

Gypsies setting up camp for night,

The women start fires just right,

Cooking food’s perfume fills the air,

And ponies munch the grass so fare.

Like chickens, laughing as they munch;

Narrating ancient tales a bunch,

Telling incidents of the day;

Then dancing and singing away.

Now to the world of sleep and dreams:

Women clean the pots, a child screams,

Men yelling orders across the camp,

Then off to bed in wagons damp.

They sleep as stars twinkle and shine;

Ruffled hair from sleeping child fine,

Roaring, snoring old-grandpa men,

Whimpering babies now and then.

Gypsies now rise for a new day,

A life of wandering away;

To stay right here for some short while

Or going there a little mile.

Gypsies, that’s what Christians really are,

Wandering near and very far,

This world is not our residence;

But heaven with Jesus in confidence.

~Elisabeth~

April 3, 2012

At age 14

Stephen Robert Claire

Stephen Robert Claire

Dirty, messed-up trouser pair;

His name was Stephen Robert Claire.

With dark brown, wavy hair,

He had an old chestnut mustang mare.

Stephen Robert Claire did ride

On the back, near mustang's hide.

Stern-faced, English-capped, always tried,

And told the truth till the day he died.

He was the fastest rider nearby,

He rode in the lowlands and the high.

Stephen Robert Claire rode without a lie;

Well-dressed but never wore a tie.

Across the fields, he brought the cattle;

He never lost in the cow-horse battle:

Watch chain did jingle, and spurs did rattle.

This was Stephen Robert Claire in his Saddle.

~Elisabeth~