Tomorrow I’ll be reviewing Marilyn Griffith’s “Tangerine.” Sweet with a slight bite. Easy to peel, digest, etc. etc.
Today I’m going to confess a bad attitude. Again!
What the who, is there a nasty attitude virus going around? If so I keep catching it.
I may have a cure, though. No, not the one where I throw the sheets over my head and refuse to get out of bed, though that sounds like it might do the trick especially if I could talk a family member into SILENTLY delivering French Press and chocolates.
But since that’s as likely to happen as me winning the lottery without purchasing a ticket I’ll just share my deeper thoughts.
This virus has been brewing for awhile. It flared on Sunday.
Rob and I discussed it on the way home from church. I’m not sure which of us is the carrier and which caught it, but we both spent a large chunk of worship time focused on other PEOPLE.
Ah-ha! The main symptom of said virus.
While focused on other people I was unable to really worship the Creator of the world, the King of kings and Lord of lords because, while He had my whole heart, my mind was distracted. I say He had my whole heart because I wasn’t watching the others in the service to mock them or judge them. My intentions were good, concern that they were unable to worship because they struggle with the type of songs that we were singing.
What? Yeah. That’s what I thought once I realized what I was doing. Then I put on another sour attitude because their struggle put me in a bad place. Grumble, grumble.
I need to readjust my view.
So here I go. Lord, people are going to disappoint me and hurt me and frustrate the life out of me if my focus is there, on them. Help me to hear Your voice, keep my eyes on Your path and my feet lined up with my eyes. Do Your will in my life. And here they are, (insert name(s)) now You take care of them. I quit.
Ahhh, I feel better. I think I might crank up the stereo and sing on the way home.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Friday, December 29, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Random Lessons from 2006
I'd like to share a few lessons I've learned this year.
First, I'm glad I'm teachable. Life would get a little stale if I just rode the big floating ball we call earth.
No longer a closet Pollyanna, I will look for the compliment in any statement directed toward me. Example...I found "you look like a deranged elf" endearing because it was preceeded with "you look adorable." Crazy? Perhaps.
Visits to Nannyland have refreshed a perspective I've lost now that my kids have gotten older. I tend to take life for granted and forget:
Sometimes all you need is a good nap.
That good music is designed for dancing.
Emotions are best expressed.
Some books and songs require belly laughs.
Walking is one step at a time, one foot in front of the other, and learned gradually.
Nike's catch phrase, "just do it" rings true in writing. Plugging away and being persistant has made writing easier and the end result less nasty. ( I may be deluding myself - please refrain from contrary comments until after the changing of the new year.)
I hope your 2007 is a year full of God's blessings, learning and moments that inspire dancing. And French Press coffee.
First, I'm glad I'm teachable. Life would get a little stale if I just rode the big floating ball we call earth.
No longer a closet Pollyanna, I will look for the compliment in any statement directed toward me. Example...I found "you look like a deranged elf" endearing because it was preceeded with "you look adorable." Crazy? Perhaps.
Visits to Nannyland have refreshed a perspective I've lost now that my kids have gotten older. I tend to take life for granted and forget:
Sometimes all you need is a good nap.
That good music is designed for dancing.
Emotions are best expressed.
Some books and songs require belly laughs.
Walking is one step at a time, one foot in front of the other, and learned gradually.
Nike's catch phrase, "just do it" rings true in writing. Plugging away and being persistant has made writing easier and the end result less nasty. ( I may be deluding myself - please refrain from contrary comments until after the changing of the new year.)
I hope your 2007 is a year full of God's blessings, learning and moments that inspire dancing. And French Press coffee.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Blog Pays Off
Who says Bl0gs are useless?
I’ll have you know that “Scrambled Dregs” has paid off big-time.
Several months ago I whined about auto-drip coffee being forever ruined after my palette found French Press.
Fast forward to the annual-post-Thanksgiving-dinner-family-name-drawing-for-Christmas-gifts event. (Yes, it’s a cumbersome title – we thought about A.P.T.D.F.N.D.C.G.E but we just couldn’t sell the concept to the majority…something to do with turkey induced lethargy, I think.) My aunt who reads my blog and remembered the whining-about-French-Press-coffee post, drew my name and… gifted me with an 8-cup French Press. Thanks, sweet, sweet auntie. (This is one of the same aunts who took me to bright blue Mt Crash-a-lot in Colorado. In hindsight posting the French Press whines followed by the four part visit to Mt. Humilation was a brilliant marketing ploy. Of course this only works for family members who’ve somehow had a hand in scarring you and who read your blog.
Hope your Christmas was a French Press kind of day.
In the near future I think I’ll be sharing some family lore – the stories that crop up every time we get together.
Heads in my freezer, dead trikes, things like that.
Maybe I’ll start my campaign for a Blackberry soon, too. My cousin/nephew and I had a discussion over some excellent ideas for blog posts and in all the frivolity I forgot the darn topics, maybe they’ll come to me, they were funny enough to spew organic jelly while laughing over them. If I had a Blackberry that would never have happened (the forgetting, not the snort/spewing.)
So how guilty do you feel over Mt. Marked-For-Life, aunties?
I’ll have you know that “Scrambled Dregs” has paid off big-time.
Several months ago I whined about auto-drip coffee being forever ruined after my palette found French Press.
Fast forward to the annual-post-Thanksgiving-dinner-family-name-drawing-for-Christmas-gifts event. (Yes, it’s a cumbersome title – we thought about A.P.T.D.F.N.D.C.G.E but we just couldn’t sell the concept to the majority…something to do with turkey induced lethargy, I think.) My aunt who reads my blog and remembered the whining-about-French-Press-coffee post, drew my name and… gifted me with an 8-cup French Press. Thanks, sweet, sweet auntie. (This is one of the same aunts who took me to bright blue Mt Crash-a-lot in Colorado. In hindsight posting the French Press whines followed by the four part visit to Mt. Humilation was a brilliant marketing ploy. Of course this only works for family members who’ve somehow had a hand in scarring you and who read your blog.
Hope your Christmas was a French Press kind of day.
In the near future I think I’ll be sharing some family lore – the stories that crop up every time we get together.
Heads in my freezer, dead trikes, things like that.
Maybe I’ll start my campaign for a Blackberry soon, too. My cousin/nephew and I had a discussion over some excellent ideas for blog posts and in all the frivolity I forgot the darn topics, maybe they’ll come to me, they were funny enough to spew organic jelly while laughing over them. If I had a Blackberry that would never have happened (the forgetting, not the snort/spewing.)
So how guilty do you feel over Mt. Marked-For-Life, aunties?
Friday, December 22, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Why I Believe....
So many songs about a baby who was born in a manger, wouldn't it be nice if it was true? That Baby Jesus really did exist and came to bring peace, we need some peace in this messed up world. Innocence is a lacking commodity, too...and truth, well, we've replaced that with drama.
Pondering the birth of a baby, I want to share my thoughts on why I believe, why I've bet the whole farm on the far-fetched story of a baby born to a virgin, long, long ago.
Why do I believe in Jesus? Why do I a 40-something adult still cling to a story that others have dismissed as easily as Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy?
Is it because I grew up in a “Christian” home and have spent countless hours becoming inchurchiated?
Fair question.
As a child I panicked at the idea that Jesus might come back and take my mom and dad and leave me behind. So it seemed logical that I should do what it took to go with them should the rapture occur. And honestly, it’s a no-brainer, heaven or hell? I’ll pick heaven. Fate sealed, life taken care of.
But then, as I grew-up, survived the teen years, got married, began raising my children, dealing with mortgages, insurance, dentists and the ravages of sin, I faced another menu of choices.
For awhile I chose to step away from the church. Because I felt unworthy to even wear the name of Christ, I shed Him, as if I changed my clothes. Life as a modern woman, as defined by Cosmo, beckoned. The church had disillusioned me.
Deep down though, I hoped that Jesus would maybe recognize me as the little girl who had rededicated her life to Him a thousand times.
No religious guilt for me, just an honest relationship where I refused to pray for help or guidance because I couldn’t muster the gratitude to thank Him for giving me my breath or children or roof over my head. No guilt, true, but hollowness leeched into my soul.
Then the growing babies in my care began to ask questions about the deeper things of life, like what happens when we die. I then looked at the church as an educator for them. We’d go every once in awhile. Kind of like childhood immunizations. Satisfied that I took care of securing their souls, I continued to live as I had been, embracing life.
Who knew that what I embraced wasn’t life at all but slow death by poisoning?
One night, after the same old fight over the same old thing where Rob spoke unintelligible words and accused me of the same, I gave up. I told God I was through doing it my way and asked Him to teach me His.
He steered me back to Jesus.
Jesus freaks people out. He did 2,000ish years ago and still does today. Most preachers don’t spend a lot of time preaching on Jesus’ words because they are too simple and too costly. But Jesus boiled it all down for us. Love the Lord your God with all your mind, soul, strength and heart and your neighbor as yourself.
Love and brutal honesty were His trademark and expectation for those who followed Him. He enraged the religious. He spoke in stories and examples and He embraced the ugly and sin-sick.
C.S. Lewis pointed out (paraphrased) that Jesus either spoke the truth and is who He claimed to be, was a liar, or a lunatic along the lines of a man who might claim to be a poached egg.
Sometimes I find myself getting discouraged. I hate the games that are played in religious circles. I chafe at those who are selfish or mean yet call themselves followers of Christ. I’ve even pondered giving up, questioned if Jesus really is the ONLY way, truth and life.
But the strange thing is that when I get there, I picture a scenario that happened a long time ago. Jesus plunged into unpopularity. He’d been feeding and loving the people and then He introduced the concept of their commitment to Him. Too hard, too much, too painful, the people left.
His disciples stood near Him. I imagine they had the sour taste of disappointment in their mouths. Would a few have been angry? What a stupid thing to do in the middle of a flourishing ministry. Jesus asked the disciples. “Are you going to leave Me, too?”
Peter, who was prone to passionate outbursts, spoke. “Where else can we go? You have the words of life.”
I have to agree. I’ve looked under rocks, in buildings, Googled, searched, studied and have found nothing else that offers the words of life. Instead, I’ve unearthed a whole lot of nicely wrapped death.
That is why I believe in Jesus. Not religion. Not what other people tell me about Jesus. But Jesus Himself.
I believe Jesus is the Son of God, the Promised One, the Messiah, born to a virgin. I believe He lived without sin and became my Passover lamb and my scapegoat on a cross. I believe He died, was sealed in a tomb and that He rose again. His words fill me, because He is the Word and He has placed a part of Himself into me, just like God did when Mary’s womb was filled. I believe Jesus will return for me as He promised. I believe I will see Him on His white horse and on His thigh will be written King of kings and Lord of lords.
What else can I believe? He has the words of life. He is the Word of Life.
Merry CHRISTmas. May you come to know the Prince of Peace intimately......
Pondering the birth of a baby, I want to share my thoughts on why I believe, why I've bet the whole farm on the far-fetched story of a baby born to a virgin, long, long ago.
Why do I believe in Jesus? Why do I a 40-something adult still cling to a story that others have dismissed as easily as Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy?
Is it because I grew up in a “Christian” home and have spent countless hours becoming inchurchiated?
Fair question.
As a child I panicked at the idea that Jesus might come back and take my mom and dad and leave me behind. So it seemed logical that I should do what it took to go with them should the rapture occur. And honestly, it’s a no-brainer, heaven or hell? I’ll pick heaven. Fate sealed, life taken care of.
But then, as I grew-up, survived the teen years, got married, began raising my children, dealing with mortgages, insurance, dentists and the ravages of sin, I faced another menu of choices.
For awhile I chose to step away from the church. Because I felt unworthy to even wear the name of Christ, I shed Him, as if I changed my clothes. Life as a modern woman, as defined by Cosmo, beckoned. The church had disillusioned me.
Deep down though, I hoped that Jesus would maybe recognize me as the little girl who had rededicated her life to Him a thousand times.
No religious guilt for me, just an honest relationship where I refused to pray for help or guidance because I couldn’t muster the gratitude to thank Him for giving me my breath or children or roof over my head. No guilt, true, but hollowness leeched into my soul.
Then the growing babies in my care began to ask questions about the deeper things of life, like what happens when we die. I then looked at the church as an educator for them. We’d go every once in awhile. Kind of like childhood immunizations. Satisfied that I took care of securing their souls, I continued to live as I had been, embracing life.
Who knew that what I embraced wasn’t life at all but slow death by poisoning?
One night, after the same old fight over the same old thing where Rob spoke unintelligible words and accused me of the same, I gave up. I told God I was through doing it my way and asked Him to teach me His.
He steered me back to Jesus.
Jesus freaks people out. He did 2,000ish years ago and still does today. Most preachers don’t spend a lot of time preaching on Jesus’ words because they are too simple and too costly. But Jesus boiled it all down for us. Love the Lord your God with all your mind, soul, strength and heart and your neighbor as yourself.
Love and brutal honesty were His trademark and expectation for those who followed Him. He enraged the religious. He spoke in stories and examples and He embraced the ugly and sin-sick.
C.S. Lewis pointed out (paraphrased) that Jesus either spoke the truth and is who He claimed to be, was a liar, or a lunatic along the lines of a man who might claim to be a poached egg.
Sometimes I find myself getting discouraged. I hate the games that are played in religious circles. I chafe at those who are selfish or mean yet call themselves followers of Christ. I’ve even pondered giving up, questioned if Jesus really is the ONLY way, truth and life.
But the strange thing is that when I get there, I picture a scenario that happened a long time ago. Jesus plunged into unpopularity. He’d been feeding and loving the people and then He introduced the concept of their commitment to Him. Too hard, too much, too painful, the people left.
His disciples stood near Him. I imagine they had the sour taste of disappointment in their mouths. Would a few have been angry? What a stupid thing to do in the middle of a flourishing ministry. Jesus asked the disciples. “Are you going to leave Me, too?”
Peter, who was prone to passionate outbursts, spoke. “Where else can we go? You have the words of life.”
I have to agree. I’ve looked under rocks, in buildings, Googled, searched, studied and have found nothing else that offers the words of life. Instead, I’ve unearthed a whole lot of nicely wrapped death.
That is why I believe in Jesus. Not religion. Not what other people tell me about Jesus. But Jesus Himself.
I believe Jesus is the Son of God, the Promised One, the Messiah, born to a virgin. I believe He lived without sin and became my Passover lamb and my scapegoat on a cross. I believe He died, was sealed in a tomb and that He rose again. His words fill me, because He is the Word and He has placed a part of Himself into me, just like God did when Mary’s womb was filled. I believe Jesus will return for me as He promised. I believe I will see Him on His white horse and on His thigh will be written King of kings and Lord of lords.
What else can I believe? He has the words of life. He is the Word of Life.
Merry CHRISTmas. May you come to know the Prince of Peace intimately......
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - My Momma Drops By With a Poem
Here's a treat for you. My mom, the rhyming maniac, has managed to write a poem using the words Superman underwear and squat. And it even has a higher purpose than entertainment. sigh. Well. I did write that incredible Die, Cricket, Die poem a few months ago. (She will not be amused that I tied the two poems together - but it's my blog.)
Mom's Poem (Catchy Title Huh?)
T’was the week before Christmas,
And wouldn’t you know,
I was not nearly ready,
Nor had we had snow.
The stockings we’d found
In the basement, it’s true.
We’d shopped and had purchased
Some gifts (far too few).
The dinner plans, finally,
Were now taking shape.
(work schedules, conflicts, the dishes we’d make).
I longed for the days of the
Fisher-Price stuff, when
Delighting the children
Was never too tough.
A squeaky toy here,
A baby doll there,
Some books, new pjs,
Superman underwear.
Today it’s electronics
About which I know squat,
(except for a few things
my children have taught.)
But in all this confusion
We treasure so dear,
There’s really but one reason
For this time of year.
We stop in the night
To ponder the star,
That light that drew wise men
Who came from afar.
It beckons us still
To consider this birth.
This wondrous, unfathomed gift
To the earth.
The Redeemer who came
In the humblest of ways,
Wrapped, in the manger –
The Ancient of Days.
To purchase His treasure
From the bondage of sin.
He came for your heart.
Won’t you please let Him in?
Phyllis A. Griffith
Mom's Poem (Catchy Title Huh?)
T’was the week before Christmas,
And wouldn’t you know,
I was not nearly ready,
Nor had we had snow.
The stockings we’d found
In the basement, it’s true.
We’d shopped and had purchased
Some gifts (far too few).
The dinner plans, finally,
Were now taking shape.
(work schedules, conflicts, the dishes we’d make).
I longed for the days of the
Fisher-Price stuff, when
Delighting the children
Was never too tough.
A squeaky toy here,
A baby doll there,
Some books, new pjs,
Superman underwear.
Today it’s electronics
About which I know squat,
(except for a few things
my children have taught.)
But in all this confusion
We treasure so dear,
There’s really but one reason
For this time of year.
We stop in the night
To ponder the star,
That light that drew wise men
Who came from afar.
It beckons us still
To consider this birth.
This wondrous, unfathomed gift
To the earth.
The Redeemer who came
In the humblest of ways,
Wrapped, in the manger –
The Ancient of Days.
To purchase His treasure
From the bondage of sin.
He came for your heart.
Won’t you please let Him in?
Phyllis A. Griffith
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Christmas Dreadlines
Sugar plums and roasting chestnuts are the things that are supposed to come to mind when the Christmas season is upon us.
I wouldn’t know a roasted chestnut from a plum pudding.
And sugar plums -- are they anything like sugar beets or a sugar high?
Instead, foremost in my mind intermingling with the Christmas fa-la-la-la-la tunes, come the ghosts of this year past.
First -- the mother ghost -- what I coulda, woulda, shoulda but dinna --haunts me. After she sufficiently whips me about the head and shoulders, enter Mr. Debt to rear his hoary head. He manages to transcend time and become the ghostest with the mostest -- present, past and future rolled into one big headache. The writing wraith beckons, sure, but is easily ignored.
The absolute worst of all is the ghost of Christmas Ritual.
I’ll explain. I have Christmas Eve festivities at my home. In a moment of weakness, years ago, I agreed to my mother’s suggestion to host the family dinner. The tradition has not left me, nigh these two decades. The easiest year, was the one I spent in the emergency room with my eight-year-old. His injury wasn't hideous and when we returned the house was clean and food bubbled in the oven, thanks to my husband and my mom. But for months afterward I found things in odd places.
This experience may have intensified the ritual for me.
I have Martha Stewart dreams but live a Phyllis Diller life. In other words, I want candlight to glint and delicious smells to waft, and these do not occur naturally. Martha’s grand ideas must be kept waiting until I give in to the “company’s coming ritual”.
Defined, the ritual is the compulsion to clean the cupboards and closets so the clutter of my life has a proper home. Therefore, my December 24th gala often becomes a crushing Christmas dreadline.
This year I think I may buy lots of candles for my Christmas Eve celebration. And if my guests cooperate and promise to squint even the dusty things will glint. If the candles are scented I believe I could pull off the fine art of entertaining under pressure. Worse case scenario, a thousand open flames may take care of the clutter once and for all.
Wishing you organized closets and cupboards for 2007.
I wouldn’t know a roasted chestnut from a plum pudding.
And sugar plums -- are they anything like sugar beets or a sugar high?
Instead, foremost in my mind intermingling with the Christmas fa-la-la-la-la tunes, come the ghosts of this year past.
First -- the mother ghost -- what I coulda, woulda, shoulda but dinna --haunts me. After she sufficiently whips me about the head and shoulders, enter Mr. Debt to rear his hoary head. He manages to transcend time and become the ghostest with the mostest -- present, past and future rolled into one big headache. The writing wraith beckons, sure, but is easily ignored.
The absolute worst of all is the ghost of Christmas Ritual.
I’ll explain. I have Christmas Eve festivities at my home. In a moment of weakness, years ago, I agreed to my mother’s suggestion to host the family dinner. The tradition has not left me, nigh these two decades. The easiest year, was the one I spent in the emergency room with my eight-year-old. His injury wasn't hideous and when we returned the house was clean and food bubbled in the oven, thanks to my husband and my mom. But for months afterward I found things in odd places.
This experience may have intensified the ritual for me.
I have Martha Stewart dreams but live a Phyllis Diller life. In other words, I want candlight to glint and delicious smells to waft, and these do not occur naturally. Martha’s grand ideas must be kept waiting until I give in to the “company’s coming ritual”.
Defined, the ritual is the compulsion to clean the cupboards and closets so the clutter of my life has a proper home. Therefore, my December 24th gala often becomes a crushing Christmas dreadline.
This year I think I may buy lots of candles for my Christmas Eve celebration. And if my guests cooperate and promise to squint even the dusty things will glint. If the candles are scented I believe I could pull off the fine art of entertaining under pressure. Worse case scenario, a thousand open flames may take care of the clutter once and for all.
Wishing you organized closets and cupboards for 2007.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Thoughts on Buddy.
If you are an “Elf” hater, don’t read any further. Okay, you can but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I love “Elf” – the movie. Generally speaking elves scare me. Situations such as the baking elf phenomena or the “you’ll shoot your eye out!” elves on “A Christmas Story” force me to classify them as close mutant cousins to clowns.
But Buddy the Elf – ah – he’s in a whole different kind of category.
I suppose with my sense of humor it could be because Buddy finds himself in many hilarious painful situations. My girls and I watched “Elf” last night. We rewound the taxi scene at least three times and the star hanging scene twice, just so we could laugh longer.
Yes, I’m afraid I’ve passed the mutant “laugh at all pratfalls” gene to my children. Sigh. Why didn’t they get the “Oh my goodness. Are you okay?” gene from my husband’s polite family? Oops. I digress.
Maybe I like Buddy the Elf because he’s just so sweet. I know he drinks syrup by the gallon, but that’s not the source of sweetness. Buddy is the ultimate Pollyanna (Paulyanna). Even when he despairs of being a proper elf and labels himself a “cotton-headed ninnymuggins” he still wants to be all he can be and hopes that there is something out there that is his to accomplish.
I want to be a Buddy. I want to see the potential and good and seek to make it even better. I want to live life without being self-conscious and concerned about the thoughts my behavior will generate in others. I want to see the world as shiny and exciting…each cup of coffee might be the “world’s best” in a wonderland where people leave gifts everywhere. I’d like to see the good but hidden gifts in others and encourage them to use them because they make the world a better place, while being thoughtful enough to warn them to watch for speeding cabs. I want to respond “yeah! He’s coming? Oh, Goody!” when I think about Jesus returning for me. Yes. That was Buddy’s response to Santa. So shouldn’t my response to Jesus be even stronger?
Believe. Sing. Embrace. Spread a little joy and cheer while you interact with others this weekend. And watch out for the yellow ones because they don’t stop.
I love “Elf” – the movie. Generally speaking elves scare me. Situations such as the baking elf phenomena or the “you’ll shoot your eye out!” elves on “A Christmas Story” force me to classify them as close mutant cousins to clowns.
But Buddy the Elf – ah – he’s in a whole different kind of category.
I suppose with my sense of humor it could be because Buddy finds himself in many hilarious painful situations. My girls and I watched “Elf” last night. We rewound the taxi scene at least three times and the star hanging scene twice, just so we could laugh longer.
Yes, I’m afraid I’ve passed the mutant “laugh at all pratfalls” gene to my children. Sigh. Why didn’t they get the “Oh my goodness. Are you okay?” gene from my husband’s polite family? Oops. I digress.
Maybe I like Buddy the Elf because he’s just so sweet. I know he drinks syrup by the gallon, but that’s not the source of sweetness. Buddy is the ultimate Pollyanna (Paulyanna). Even when he despairs of being a proper elf and labels himself a “cotton-headed ninnymuggins” he still wants to be all he can be and hopes that there is something out there that is his to accomplish.
I want to be a Buddy. I want to see the potential and good and seek to make it even better. I want to live life without being self-conscious and concerned about the thoughts my behavior will generate in others. I want to see the world as shiny and exciting…each cup of coffee might be the “world’s best” in a wonderland where people leave gifts everywhere. I’d like to see the good but hidden gifts in others and encourage them to use them because they make the world a better place, while being thoughtful enough to warn them to watch for speeding cabs. I want to respond “yeah! He’s coming? Oh, Goody!” when I think about Jesus returning for me. Yes. That was Buddy’s response to Santa. So shouldn’t my response to Jesus be even stronger?
Believe. Sing. Embrace. Spread a little joy and cheer while you interact with others this weekend. And watch out for the yellow ones because they don’t stop.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)