The Sweet Life: Biography of a Baker...

I love to bake - which isn't exactly news to anyone who knows me well. I love to bake so much, that in spite of the fact that it's a mighty hot day out there, (and up here in my son's apartment), I am posting this blog as the scent of apple cinnamon muffins fills the air. Whatever the weather, a girl still has to eat, and I thought the muffins would be a nice accompaniment to the quinoa and spinach salads I've planned for my supper.

My love affair with baking goes back a long way. I have very early memories of watching my mother bake pies and cakes. (Mom bakes pies that can't be beat!) She quickly sensed my interest, and allowed me to "help" with her baking endeavors. I remember one incident where I got to roll out my own glob of pie crust and bake it in my doll-sized tart shells. These very tough and over-worked little gems were filled with jam and presented to my father at supper time. He seemed impressed that I'd "made them myself" and said they were great. (Which was sweet of the guy, considering the fact that he was used to my mother's divine crusts - so it's likely that he just wanted to encourage my interest in culinary arts.)

By the time I was ten or twelve I was baking often, progressing fairly rapidly from cake mixes and simple recipes to cookies, which according to my younger brother I excelled at. He would often come to me with requests to bake him cookies, saying. "Yours are better than Mom's, Shar - they're chewier!"

As a teenager I discovered a passion for baked cheesecakes, and during my twenties became proficient at baking them. My thirties were spent mastering pies and tarts. My husband doesn't "do" fruit, and Sam won't touch fruit that's cooked, so my early pies were all of the cream variety. Dan however, soon let it be known that HE would appreciate the odd apple or pumpkin pie. (Who are we fooling here? My younger son, like myself, has never met a dessert he doesn't appreciate.) I will admit that my apple pies are a bit inconsistent - in part because I make them on a whim and seldom use the best baking apples. (And there was the one time that I used salt  instead of sugar, which is a favorite story of Dan's. The poor kid actually choked down several mouthfuls before I got a taste and told him to toss the rest out!!)

So over the years I've become a good enough baker that a few friends have dubbed me "The Pastry Queen", which is flattering to say the least. It's good that I'm a decent baker, because my cooking skills remain fairly rudimentary. (I have mastered a shortish repertoire of "company meals", and when those aren't on the proposed menu I apologize in advance.)

"Main course may be iffy" I tell invited guests, "But dessert will be good!"

In spite of how much I love to bake there was one area that left me feeling daunted. For several years I refused to even attempt to make a loaf of bread. Finally, about four years ago I gave in to Todd's request to try making cinnamon buns. My first attempts were less than stellar, but after repeated efforts and recipe changes (and my discovery of a superior brand of yeast), I think I've finally got it down.

I hope that some day I'll be able to pass on my baking skills to another generation, just as my mother passed hers on to me. To date, it hasn't happened. Sam showed brief interest in learning to make cookies, but quickly got discouraged when he learned that you can't just throw everything into the bowl at once and stir it together. Dan is the least domestic male on earth, and only cares that food appears before him. MAYBE someday there will be grandchildren - maybe even a long overdue female child who will want to bake with Grandma. That would be the sweetest thing ever in a life that is already pretty sweet!

The Sweet Life: Biography of a Baker (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - June 12, 2012)

In childhood I helped Mother bake
by coating pans with grease,
and sometimes flour I'd sift and shake
as duties did increase.
By ten I could bake from a mix;
make simple recipes-
before too long I learned some tricks
and taste buds I could please.
My teenage years were filled with treats
to tempt most any tongue -
my praises, for producing sweets
were oft' by others sung.
It took a while to master pie -
(Good crusts are difficult)
One, apple-filled, I can't deny
was seasoned well with salt!
Through practice crusts have passed the test,
they're flaky and they're light:
My bread, I fear, was not as blessed -
Took years to get THAT right!
Those yellow packets filled with yeast
would NOT cooperate -
though leavening I did increase
loaves barely did inflate.
Persistence once again has paid -
now all will go as planned -
since change to recipe was made,
and yeast? Another brand!
Now I can make a loaf or bun
with texture light as air -
and gooey rolls of cinnamon
I almost hate to share!
At fifty I've acquired the skill
to decent loaf present -
Of home baked buns we eat our fill
and husband is content.

In the Wee Hours - Advice to Insomniacs Everywhere

In the Wee Hours - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (May '09)

I waken and my brain's abuzz -
the reason for this is because?
(And as I lie alert in bed,
I run through this list in my head...)
I heard a noise?
I have to pee?
Is it too bright? (At ten to three?!!)
Was it a dream that made me wake?
Do head or shoulders/knees/toes ache?
Am I too cold?
Am I too hot?
Do I feel hungry? (I think NOT!)
There seems no reason to explain
this over-taxing of my brain.
All that I know is I feel wired
at hour when sleep is most desired,
and thus I wallow in despair -
This isn't right - it isn't fair!
My loved ones all serenely sleep
while I lay multiplying sheep!
I WON'T get up and rouse the house,
I'll stay here quiet as a mouse
and boring tome I will accost
'til consciousness again is lost.
As pages turn I start to yawn -
I nod-
and then
             at last
                      I'm
                           gone.


Ahh yes - Insomnia. We all experience it from time to time.  Some of us experience it a lot...I've had "sleep issues" for longer than I remember, at least according to my mother, who I accept as an expert on the topic.

When I was young I had trouble getting to sleep, but somewhere along the way that changed. Now I usually drop off quickly, but after three or four hours my brain gets some misguided signal that it is now well slept, and thus I should commence solving the problems of the world.

I have developed some tried and true strategies for coping with the state of wakefulness in the wee hours, which are as follows:

1) Never assume that because you're awake anyone else in the house (or the apartment next door) cares a fig or wants to be awake too. (Rousing your spouse with a plaintive cry of "I can't sleep" is counterproductive to a happy union.)
2)  The "to pee or not to pee" dilemma becomes even more of an issue as we age. Honestly people, by the time you're fifty you PROBABLY DO need to pee once you've been in bed that long. Just get up as soon as you wake up and get it over with once and for all.
3)  Relocate if you are still awake twenty minutes after you peed. (That is, unless you can lay very still and quiet or you have a super duper mattress that can have a bowling ball dropped on it without waking up the person on the other side of the bed. Even then, it might be a good idea to move on...)
4) And the reason it might be a good idea to find a comfy couch is that human beings awake at three in the morning make more NOISE than a bowling ball dropped on the mattress, and because if your brain is trying to work out the mysteries of the universe it needs something trite or boring to numb it into submission.
5) Keep a stash of really dull books near your favorite couch. "How To..." manuals work well, and it can be useful to frequently review things like how to how to set the oven's self cleaning mechanism. Old computer manuals work well (DOS anyone?) as do math textbooks, or any other textbooks that you found too boring to actually read when you were supposed to. I recommend "Middlemarch". (I know it's a classic, but it put me to sleep for a solid year before I got through it. Todd swears by a scholarly tome entitled "James, the Brother of Jesus".)
6) If you are lucky enough to not own anything REALLY dull all the way through, simply put bookmarks in the most plodding and annoying parts of books you otherwise enjoyed, and read ONLY the selected passages when you need a good "put me down". I recommend the chapters in the scriptures that have pages on end of "and so-and-so begat so-and-so...", as well as the fifty page history/description of the sewers in Paris in "Les Mis".  Readers Digest articles like "I am Joe's Spleen" are also a helpful resource to have on hand.
7) Do NOT make a snack for yourself. Your waistline probably doesn't need it, and in case you've forgotten, the microwave makes noise!
8) If your eyes begin to feel droopy and your brain reaches that pleasantly mushy state where it truly does NOT wish to think, you may return to the marital bed or hunker down where you are.
Sweet dreams!
-Sharon

A Mouse! In MY House!! - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March 20, 2011)

Okay - let me start out this post with a definite disclaimer. I am a very good house-keeper - I swear I am.  In my youth I used to clean houses for a living. I know where dirt lurks and diligently seek to eradicate it. I will confess that at times I may be messy, but there's a difference. A few scattered newspapers or unhung clothes make a place look lived in, but dirt just looks gross, and I won't tolerate it.

Seventeen months ago I saw a mouse in my basement. We were all down there.  One son was chatting with his brother, who sat at the computer, Todd was in the bathroom and I had just sat down to watch television when something scampered out from beneath the couch I was sitting on. I let out a shriek that my sons still marvel at. ("I didn't know you could even make that noise, Mom!" one said.) It caught their attention though, and both rushed over to where I had assumed a typically girly pose - standing on a chair and pointing in the general direction of where the thing had disappeared.

I was filled with righteous indignation that A MOUSE would dare come into MY house! ( I had been warned that if you saw one of their kind in your house, there were probably ten more in hiding, but when rational thought kicked in I realized that the begonias I'd brought into the family room the day before had carried the thing in. There was a nice little one mouse sized tunnel in one of the pots, which were promptly carried to the garage.) Off we went to buy a couple of catch and release traps. We baited them with cream cheese and medium cheddar. Friends had suggested peanut butter, but as that's a deadly substance in our household cream cheese seemed like a decent alternative. The critter was caught that very night and released into the wild (well, onto the conservation trail) the next morning. Judging by the amount of poop in the trap, the cheese combo was a big hit so we continued to use it as bait and set out the two traps we had for the next week, just to be safe. Luckily, the mouse had been an unwitting stow away in the begonia pot as I'd suspected, and no more mice were ever spotted.

Until last week. Before bed Todd left some croissants on the counter, for his breakfast, and alongside them was a loaf of banana bread I'd baked for a friend. When he got up the next morning it became obvious that a mouse had somehow found its way into MY KITCHEN and had a feast. Todd wasn't impressed, and went in search of traps. It took two nights, but he caught the culprit and again the trail inherited one more mouse. Problem solved - we hoped. After all, there was no easy explanation for how this one had found its way in, and therefore we knew the possibility existed that it could have friends. The trap stayed baited for another two nights, and when no mice took the bait we were fairly confident it had been another isolated incident. In the meantime I spent my weekend at home sterilizing my kitchen and cleaning out the cuboards the mouse had gotten into. (Luckily none that contained food.)

The third mouseless night rolled around and Sam ate a midnight snack - a bowl of yogurt - and left his unrinsed bowl beside the sink. Morning four as I downed my pre-breakfast glass of water I noticed the bowl beside the sink, liberally strewn with mouse droppings. I almost cried.  I called Todd and Sam over to see the evidence and we three set about cleaning the kitchen AGAIN. The trap was still empty, and Todd vowed he'd rebait it that night and catch the little pest. I made him promise to call in the exterminators if there was any evidence of a third mouse. It took two nights but the second dairy loving rodent was caught and released. Now we play the waiting game to determine if there are more...

Needless to say this whole unsavory incident has unleashed a torrent of poetic vitriol toward mice. Here goes:

A Mouse! In MY HOUSE!! - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

"Not big enough for both of us -"
I bellowed, "is my house!"
(While standing on chair in disgust
and pointing at...A MOUSE!!)
"I'm gone three weeks and in you come
to eat a fine buffet -
I'll send you off to where you're from
you will not get away!
Perhaps you thought the house too still
with only one around,
and that at night you'd sneak with skill
to nibble all you found.
But Todd, alone though he may be
is now of you aware.
He's not thrilled with your company
and loathes his food to share.
Our kitchen you cannot invade
to eat croissants and bread -
try that again, and I'm afraid
that you will wind up DEAD!
At first appearance trap we bait
with cheddar and cream cheese -
then patiently we'll sit and wait
'til into trap you squeeze.
And with that cheese you'll then remain
until you are let go -
you're lucky we are so humane -
most mice fare worse you know!
If you return - you or your kin -
you'll meet another fate.
The Orkin man will be called in
and he'll exterminate!
All Mousedom - take me at my word -
warn friends and family -
If I must clean up ONE more turd
the culprit won't go free!
So please, don't make me say it twice
I have no time for that.
We have no room for mouse, or MICE
but wish we had A CAT!!"

On Bathing the Cat - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (For all the cat lovers out there!)

I love cats, but haven't owned one for twenty four years. Before I married my husband I had two cats, a mother and son named Mitts and Bits. I had to give both away when Todd came on the scene. ( He loves cats too, but is allergic to them.) So, I traded two cats for one man, and all these years later I still feel (most days!) like I made a good swap.

These last four days I've been cat-sitting for my sister while she visits our mother. Her cat, Vada, is a funny little beast. She was found as a very small kitten by my niece, and the theory that accounts for her drooling is that she was never sufficiently nursed by her mother. For years she lived like a hermit in my sister's basement - by choice. She was skittish, wary of people and perhaps a bit intimidated by my sister's older and larger cats. My sons, as small boys were always excited by a Vada sighting. ("I saw the little cat!" they'd tell me with excitement, like they were reporting a sighting of Yeti or something equally unbelievable.)

When Vada was about seven years old my sister acquired a Golden Lab named Jake, and for some inexplicable reason Vada adored him. The two would snuggle up together, which was always a sweet sight. Maybe she loved the big galoot because he was the laziest and gentlest dog you could ever meet. (He took his meals lying down, for goodness sake!) Jake died a year ago, and Vada misses him.

She's an old cat now - nineteen years old. According to my sister she has maybe one tooth left. She still drools, and has the loudest, most alarming voice I've ever heard. Vada is a high maintenance kitty at this point. She gets three square meals a day of watered down wet food with a side order of  kibble. Two meals a day she gets pills, divided and disguised in pill pockets, and she gets a few treats with each meal too - which she always gobbles first. Meals don't stay with her very long. I've scooped her litter box multiple times a day since I took over as caretaker, and this morning I had to spend several long, memorable moments scrubbing cat vomit off my sister's treadmill. The strange part of all of this is that old and infirm as she is, I've never seen Vada happier. In her dotage she's become an affection junkie, purring for hours on end as my son Sam and I take turns stroking her.

I like to think we're helping to make her last days her best days.

In honor of Vada I'll share the one and only poem I've ever written about cats - a lighthearted description of how to bathe our feline friends. (I'm not about to try this with Vada!)

On Bathing the Cat  (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Aug. '07)

Cat owners who have allergies
can try to bathe dear Fluffy -
or they can choose to sniff and sneeze
and go on feeling stuffy.
I read instructions recently
that explained how you proceed
to get this job done decently
and survive the nasty deed.
Most cats aren't fond of getting wet,
so you ought to trim her claws -
(it takes a certain etiquette
to give manicures to paws.)
If you have managed this first chore,
arms and sanity intact -
then fill the tub and bar the door,
or she'll bolt and that's a fact!
Now I'm afraid you must get tough -
with gentle force just grip her -
and hold her firmly by the scruff
as you attempt to dip her.
Be warned that she will hiss and spit
when you put her in the tub -
and be braced for a serious fit
when you shampoo and you scrub.
Make sure that thoroughly you rinse;
don't attempt to blow her dry -
or you'll risk further accidents -
neither of you wants to fry!
When this ritual's quite complete -
you and Fluffy both still living -
then offer her a little treat,
and pray she'll be forgiving!

FIFTY!

There was a time when a lady's age wasn't something she talked about. Those days are gone. In an era where age is a matter of public record, why be shy? Anyone who wants to know how old you are can find it out online anyhow. So, unabashed I will shout it out to the world - "I'M FIFTY!!"

I'm happy to be fifty. I'm old enough to have the really hard work of raising kids behind me, but young enough to enjoy my less demanding days. I'm healthy and grateful to be enjoying relative prosperity. I have no reason to dread being fifty.

I've been officially "in menopause" for well over a year. I know this is another of those taboo subjects, and that the thought of no longer being able to bear children is supposed to make me all weepy and maudlin, but why? I think it's wonderful to no longer buy a zillion "supplies" that you need to haul around with you everywhere you go "just in case". It is sheer bliss to not have to put up with feeling bloated and cranky and head achy for a week out of every month! As for childbearing, that boat pulled out of port years before I got anywhere near menopause. I had two children and three miscarriages - and after the third I decided the odds of  having more children weren't on my side, and made a conscious decision to be happy with the two sons I had. So menopause ushered in an era where I no longer had to worry about whether there would be anymore "surprise" pregnancies that seemed more likely to end in disappointment than in a squirming bundle of joy.

I'm happy enough to just look forward to the day I'll have grandchildren.

Of course, it's not ALL fun. Skinny as a rail most of my life the pounds began to accumulate in my late thirties - about the same time my body began to be a lot less predictable. Since then I've gained thirty pounds that stubbornly refuse to leave my backside regardless of how much I exercise or how careful I am with my diet. I have decided to love myself as I am - which doesn't mean I'm giving up hope that somehow I'll still manage to drop those pounds. No, I'm just going to focus on the things I like about myself when I look in the mirror. It means I'm going to stop complaining about how I look and NOT put my husband on the spot by asking awkward questions like "Does this outfit make me look fat?"

I've been experiencing hot flashes for more than ten years now, so they're not a big deal anymore. I dress in layers, and sleep with my feet hanging out of the covers - which seems to help. When I feel the heatwave approaching I step outside for a minute (in winter) and stand in front of the open fridge if it's warm outside. I'm still not loving that part, but after all these years I've learned to cope.

I wear reading glasses now. For the time being the drugstore off the the rack variety is sufficient, but I know the day will come where I'll have to get a prescription for the real McCoy. I'm aging, and that's okay. In fact, it sure beats the alternative!

I leave you now with a few poems I've penned on these (Oh so "delicate") subjects. The tone is light, but the wisdom is relevant. Enjoy!

On Aging: By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (March '06)

I try not to sweat the subconscious -
but aging's not all in my mind.
It's there in my arthritic fingers,
it's there in my sagging behind.

Sometimes I'm still called a "hot mama" -
I carry myself with panache -
Though often it's not that I'm sexy -
just embroiled in another hot flash!

My mind's in a muddle too often,
I can be forgetful, I fear -
I feel young 'til I look in the mirror -
my vision's still ruthlessly clear.

I consciously try to stay upbeat
while gravity plays with my face -
Perhaps with that long promised wisdom
I'll learn to grow older with grace.

Men - Oh - Pause! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg (April '07)

Men, oh pause before you speak
and ask her to cool down -
unless you are a circus freak,
or better yet, a clown -
she isn't apt to be amused
by references to heat
and ignorance won't be excused
unless you're very sweet.

Men, oh pause - for goodness sake -
before you speak of weight.
This topic would be a mistake -
oh think man - hesitate!
You mustn't draw attention
to any of her flaws,
those hormones we won't mention
can cause her to grow claws!

Men, oh pause and heed my voice,
consider what I say -
her mood swings do not come by choice;
she can't hold them at bay.
She is not thrilled by all this change,
so pause before you act.
Consider how you might arrange
to show a little tact.

Following Stars - Fate or Faith? by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Good question. (If I do say so myself!)

Something a bit different for my last post of the year...I'll share a poem that doesn't rhyme, as well as one that does, all in the course of telling you about the year I decided to make my horoscope come true.

I started out 2011 feeling flat - not depressed, but stuck in my routines and frustrated with myself. The last day of 2010 I read my horoscope, which as usual promised great things. (Who would bother reading them if they didn't?) Anyhow, my horoscope foretold such great things for the year to come that I had to read what was in the cards for my boys (both Libras) and Todd (an Aries). Apparently great things were forecast for all of us, so I snipped out our horoscopes for the year and stuck them to the fridge.

I read that Aquarius forecast several times over the first few months. It talked at length about trying new things and freeing myself of old attitudes that weren't serving me well. It made sense to me to try to make those predictions come true, so rather than set a ton of resolutions I decided to use those predictions as the basis of making change.  It may sound crazy, but it worked.

I consider myself a woman with faith, but sadly my faith in myself has been compromised most of my life. This past year I plugged my nose (as I've never been good at holding my breath) and I dove into a few projects that I never would have had sufficient faith to follow through with before. I gave myself the year I needed to have, primarily because I had enough faith in myself to follow the stars that were there to guide me.

I'm still no believer in horoscopes, unless they're used as I chose to use mine. We choose where fate leads us, based on our faith in ourselves, and our faith in a higher power. For many of us, a belief in God inspires us to act in positive ways, for others it is the power of love. For true "believers" the two should be inseparably connected.

This poem was one of the first I ever wrote. I was twenty years old, and thought I had all the answers.

Sharon's Star:   (By Sharon A. Flood - May 1982)

My sister wrote a poem about herself.
She said she had a dream
and saw a star that beckoned.
(She woke and it was gone.)
I see stars in waking hours.
They try to chart my course -
I will not follow.
I don't look to the heavens to see
where I should go.
I look at the ground - my footprints
show me where I've been.

It isn't enough to know
what not to do, where not to return.
If I would lift my gaze -
look up and forward -
I would recognize my guiding star
and follow it to the Son.

Now, at the ripe old age of almost fifty, I can easily admit that I most definitely do not have all the answers. I'm getting good at identifying the problems (in my life and in the world as a whole), and I do believe that having faith in ourselves and in those "higher powers" that I previously mentioned can move us all forward as we gain the courage to follow the stars that are there to lead us all onward and upward.

The second poem I'm sharing might seem grim. Society does seem to be slipping, but each of us can do our part to lay down a little sand. We are here to live, to learn and to make every day better than the last in some small way. Who's up for the challenge? Happy New Year to all of my friends and family. I love you all and look forward to another year of learning from whatever life hands me.

And of course, I leave you at the close of the year with one last poetic thought...

Humanity  (By Sharon Flood Kasenberg - April 2010)

The human condition
so broad and complex
has infinite power to baffle and vex.
There's no comprehending
the choices we make -
the creeds that we live by;
the vows we forsake.
The things that most want are
illusions at best -
and thanks for what's given
is seldom expressed.
We're searching for wealth and
perpetual youth -
and claim to seek wisdom,
but hide from the truth.
Our confidence wavers,
our manners are crude -
and most of us harbor
a bad attitude.
Compassion is lacking -
what's not understood
is too often labeled
as being no good.
We're all armed for battle
and itching to fight -
and egos convince us
our cause must be right.
Surrounded by plenty,
desires still taunt -
not too many of us
are sure what we want.
The answers may reach us,
if question we dare -
most grow apathetic -
too jaded to care.
Faith offers us answers
we choose to resist...
God wants all to live
but we mostly exist.

Christmas Light

I love Christmas!

Every year by the end of November I've begun my holiday preparations - writing the annual family Christmas letter to relatives and friends, going on the prowl for gift ideas and baking up a storm. I decorate my house with multiple Christmas trees and cover my windows in (mostly) hand-made snowflakes. Sam hangs our outdoor lights and helps me make his favorite candy cane cookies. Most years Dan and Todd limit their involvement to sniffing the air appreciatively and waiting for their next taste test - we always sample a bit of everything. The rest we share with friends and save for holiday noshing.

Christmas is a season of joy. People are more energetic and more filled with good will than usual. The happiness and excitement surrounding the season can be infectious. It's a season that makes us want to sing. I love Christmas carols, but have to confess that I find "holiday music" (Frosty and Rudolph - and especially that that "drummer boy" - ugh) a bit irritating. They grate on my nerves in short order, probably because I think they're out of context. None of them really have a thing to do with what I'm celebrating.

I am unabashed about expressing my opinion that Christmas is a religious holiday. Others can celebrate it as they wish, but I'm celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ. I'm celebrating the concept of "Peace on earth and goodwill towards men."  I say "Merry Christmas" without apology, and to my knowledge it has never offended anyone. Why should it? I'm just telling them to enjoy Christmas day happily - however they want to spend it.

Christmas is a time of reflection. As I contemplate a birth that changed the course of history I evaluate what I've accomplished throughout a year that is coming to an end. What have I left unfinished? What can I do to improve my life and my world in the year to come?  In a season of lights I am looking for personal enlightenment, and striving to share whatever light and hope I have within me with those around me.

I've written a lot of poems about Christmas, but this is my favorite. Love, light and hope to all, and Merry Christmas!

Christmas Light - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg (December 2007)

As days grow shorter, dull and dark
we pause to celebrate -
remembering the sacred birth
that changed our human fate.
Promised Messiah, born to save,
redeeming all from sin -
He takes our dim and troubled souls
and lights them from within.

A star shone o'er the earth that night -
it was the promised sign -
symbolic of the guiding truth
that did His life define.
It led the shepherds to the place
where He in manger lay -
and Magi from the eastern lands
were led by glorious ray.

The world too much in darkness dwells,
with eyes so often blind
to all the beauty that exists
and goodness in mankind.
The Savior came to bring us hope,
His teachings light the way -
and all enjoy a brighter path
who seek Him every day.

If we are willing to be led
like shepherds on a hill -
with earnestness of heart and mind,
we too can find Him still.
Then darkest seasons of our lives
are lit by stars above -
and we in turn will radiate
the wonders of His love.