Lumps aren't always a bad thing, they may be unappetizing in gravy (although I always tell my family they are chunks of meat) and are terrifying in a breast exam, but it is the lumps of shortening in pie crust that make it flaky and it is the unmixed lumps that keep cornbread and muffins from falling apart. "Over beating makes things fall apart" seems like a good life motto to me, but there is something to be said for leaving life a little lumpy too. Most parents want their children to have an easier life than they did, but we have seen the disastrous results of parents trying to smooth all obstacles from their child's path. The children grow up spoiled, unappreciative and unprepared for the demands of an adult world. God approves of lumps. He has, in fact, promised them, but only for this life. Heaven is smooth sailing.
As much as it pains me to say it, I used to envy one of the women in my Bible study. She came from a wonderful, Christian home, married a wonderful, Christian man who used to surprise her with things like a new car or trip to Hawaii. They had two wonderful, Christian children. Their teenage son had an outspoken testimony for Christ in public high school. She had never even lost anyone she was particularly close to. Her life seemed perfect. Years later she divorced her husband in the middle of his chemotherapy; I don't know what has become of her. I know nothing of the circumstances that led to her divorce, but I can't help but wonder if her perfect life left her unprepared for the imperfection that is life.
Although it is still a mystery to me, the Bible says that Christ was made perfect through suffering and there is an intrinsic value in it for our good. Suffering is not Satan's tool to disrupt our lives, it is God's tool to perfect us. I would not have chosen a childhood like mine for myself or my own children, but I can see how it has shaped me into the adult I have become, and how it prepared me to follow Christ who is shaping me into something far more perfect than our human ideas of perfection. Some of the hardest lumps touch the most helpless, both young and old: lack or loss of health, home, family and independence, but even at our peak, we will never be without lumps in this world. God's recipe for perfection doesn't call for beating us until there are no more lumps. I'm grateful for that. The same lumps that batter us, make us better batter.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The Ghost of Christmas Past
"Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot and Never Brought to Mind? Oh how I wish they could. There are many like me that are visited at the holidays by the Ghost of Christmas Past, memories of bad experiences, or in my case, not memories of specific incidents but of feelings of the past. To have the feelings return without the memories they are attached to, is even spookier. Some are haunted by good memories of loved ones now gone. Some of us had family members for whom instability was a holiday tradition. We remember these times more than the other bad times because holidays are a focal point for memories. A similar tragedy may have occurred on another random day but, unless it was connected with a birthday or other significant date, the memory isn't triggered at any particular time of year. The other reason these bad memories are so vivid is that expectations are higher at Christmas. In spite of the breakdown of traditional homes and values, there is still something in us that clings to the dream of happy children, loving parents, miracles and wonder. When the reality is emptiness and disappointment the dream falls all the farther. In these days of single moms, absent dads, abuse, homelessness and poverty, many will not have any good Christmases to balance out the bad. My heart aches for them.
I will close with a poem that expresses my experiences with the Ghost of Christmas Past and the hope that all the haunted will someday find peace on earth.
To All the Ghosts of Christmas Past
To all the ghosts of Christmas Past,
whose vivid memories yearly cast
their shadows on my joy,
As winter nears, I feel your touch
and, from the rear, your talons clutch
and drag me to the past.
I close my mind to the memories
but, like disembodied spirits, these
feelings still remain.
Despite the many happy years
of Christmas with my children near,
the haunting goes on yet.
I wonder if I'll ever be
old enough to be set free
and send the ghosts away,
to stand unshadowed near the tree
and feel the peace God meant to be
part of Christmas Day.
I will close with a poem that expresses my experiences with the Ghost of Christmas Past and the hope that all the haunted will someday find peace on earth.
To All the Ghosts of Christmas Past
To all the ghosts of Christmas Past,
whose vivid memories yearly cast
their shadows on my joy,
As winter nears, I feel your touch
and, from the rear, your talons clutch
and drag me to the past.
I close my mind to the memories
but, like disembodied spirits, these
feelings still remain.
Despite the many happy years
of Christmas with my children near,
the haunting goes on yet.
I wonder if I'll ever be
old enough to be set free
and send the ghosts away,
to stand unshadowed near the tree
and feel the peace God meant to be
part of Christmas Day.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Spare Sons
I have been putting off this story because it is long and the ending is somewhat sad, but perhaps it is time. Christmas is coming, that focal point for memories, I cannot help but look back. Toward the end of my forty ninth year God made me a mother again--eight times. My husband and I had been heading, with some trepidation on my part, toward an empty nest. Only our youngest son, nineteen year old Tracy, was still living at home. It was not unusual for Trace to have friends spend the night for extended periods, but when Andy had been with us for several weeks, we felt compelled to ask about his long term plans. Though Tracy complained in his teens about his horrible home situation, he began to notice some of his friends had no home at all. Andy was one of those. He had many relatives, a mother in New York, a father and other extended family in Kalispell, but none who wanted him. Trace had an unusually compassionate heart, he asked if Andy could live with us. He wound up sleeping on the couch in our family room.
Then came Lance. He showed up on our front porch early in the morning one fourth of July, looking for Tracy. I figured anyone who knew Trace would know he wouldn't be awake that time of day, but Lance was from out of town and thought it would be alright. He had just got a job with a paving company in Bigfork and planned to camp on his family's property on Leisure Island, but the mosquitoes were bad that summer and we were afraid he might be sucked dry by morning and, after all, there were two couches in the family room. He had planned to get an apartment but, in November would begin serving ninety days in jail for aggravated assault. All of his potential roommates drank, which would violate his probation so, even before he asked, we decided he could stay.
That is how it started, the first two were friends of our son, the next two were Lance's friends, then friends of those friends until eventually we housed eight boys, though no more than three at a time for anywhere from one month to two years. When new acquaintances asked how many children we had, my husband and I didn't even know what to answer. We had rules for living in our home, if they were willing to abide by the rules, they could stay. While they were with me I was their mother. They considered us houseparents. One of the rules was that, if they were present at dinnertime, they were expected at the dinner table. Most of them had never experienced anything like that and, in every way, they ate it up. Mackenzie and Justin wanted to party so only stayed two months. A.J., Andy's brother, left after a month when I said the word "rent".
Another A.J. showed up on our front porch injured. That was a truly Samaritan experience since I barely knew him, but I cannot do that story justice here. After he recovered I drove him to two fast food jobs for a month until he saved enough money for bus fare to Colorado. Loren was a friend of Lance's living in his truck in the Kmart parking lot, he came to us knowing the rules and wanting to live here anyway. He lived with us for about a year and returned to the small town he was from. David was our token Christian boy from a stable home, a son of friends from college who wanted him to live and work in Kalispell for five weeks that summer. He was a novelty.
Lance, however, was the one God branded on my heart. He bonded me to Lance with the same fierce love I felt for my own newborns and I didn't know why until days later when he got in trouble with the law. Lance was a tattooed, alcoholic felon; he was polite, respectful, helpful and he was irresponsible, impulsive, unpredictable. He had lots of drinking buddies, a parade of girlfriends and a couple real friends. He didn't fit anywhere in my family, friends and life, but he fit in my heart perfectly. He met my deepest need--someone to see me without my competent mask on and know what to do. He also awoke my greatest fear--abandonment. I knew even before hearing his life story that he was the kind that walks away, but I couldn't help but give him the love God had given me for him. He left two years ago. I have never heard from him, but God gave me the assurance before he left that I had completed the part I was to play in Lance's life and that Lance would be okay. I cling to that.
For the season of the spare sons I was able to do what God has always commanded us to: feed the hungry, clothe those who came with nothing, take care of the sick, visit them in jail. My life was filled with boys, noise and joys, but it also opened a deep inner sorrow that the mother's love I gave to them was one I had never known from my own mentally ill mother. Despite the spiritual and emotional upheaval I was in, I was able to talk to each one about knowing the Lord. I was able to plant the gospel, like a time bomb, in their minds. I pray everyday for each of them. I would like to know how they are doing, but these are not the sort of boys to have cell phones or internet access on a regular basis, so I must content myself knowing that I served God's purpose for that time in my life and He would take it from there. I have never been more challenged or blessed in my whole life as at the season of the spare sons. I hope they can say the same.
Then came Lance. He showed up on our front porch early in the morning one fourth of July, looking for Tracy. I figured anyone who knew Trace would know he wouldn't be awake that time of day, but Lance was from out of town and thought it would be alright. He had just got a job with a paving company in Bigfork and planned to camp on his family's property on Leisure Island, but the mosquitoes were bad that summer and we were afraid he might be sucked dry by morning and, after all, there were two couches in the family room. He had planned to get an apartment but, in November would begin serving ninety days in jail for aggravated assault. All of his potential roommates drank, which would violate his probation so, even before he asked, we decided he could stay.
That is how it started, the first two were friends of our son, the next two were Lance's friends, then friends of those friends until eventually we housed eight boys, though no more than three at a time for anywhere from one month to two years. When new acquaintances asked how many children we had, my husband and I didn't even know what to answer. We had rules for living in our home, if they were willing to abide by the rules, they could stay. While they were with me I was their mother. They considered us houseparents. One of the rules was that, if they were present at dinnertime, they were expected at the dinner table. Most of them had never experienced anything like that and, in every way, they ate it up. Mackenzie and Justin wanted to party so only stayed two months. A.J., Andy's brother, left after a month when I said the word "rent".
Another A.J. showed up on our front porch injured. That was a truly Samaritan experience since I barely knew him, but I cannot do that story justice here. After he recovered I drove him to two fast food jobs for a month until he saved enough money for bus fare to Colorado. Loren was a friend of Lance's living in his truck in the Kmart parking lot, he came to us knowing the rules and wanting to live here anyway. He lived with us for about a year and returned to the small town he was from. David was our token Christian boy from a stable home, a son of friends from college who wanted him to live and work in Kalispell for five weeks that summer. He was a novelty.
Lance, however, was the one God branded on my heart. He bonded me to Lance with the same fierce love I felt for my own newborns and I didn't know why until days later when he got in trouble with the law. Lance was a tattooed, alcoholic felon; he was polite, respectful, helpful and he was irresponsible, impulsive, unpredictable. He had lots of drinking buddies, a parade of girlfriends and a couple real friends. He didn't fit anywhere in my family, friends and life, but he fit in my heart perfectly. He met my deepest need--someone to see me without my competent mask on and know what to do. He also awoke my greatest fear--abandonment. I knew even before hearing his life story that he was the kind that walks away, but I couldn't help but give him the love God had given me for him. He left two years ago. I have never heard from him, but God gave me the assurance before he left that I had completed the part I was to play in Lance's life and that Lance would be okay. I cling to that.
For the season of the spare sons I was able to do what God has always commanded us to: feed the hungry, clothe those who came with nothing, take care of the sick, visit them in jail. My life was filled with boys, noise and joys, but it also opened a deep inner sorrow that the mother's love I gave to them was one I had never known from my own mentally ill mother. Despite the spiritual and emotional upheaval I was in, I was able to talk to each one about knowing the Lord. I was able to plant the gospel, like a time bomb, in their minds. I pray everyday for each of them. I would like to know how they are doing, but these are not the sort of boys to have cell phones or internet access on a regular basis, so I must content myself knowing that I served God's purpose for that time in my life and He would take it from there. I have never been more challenged or blessed in my whole life as at the season of the spare sons. I hope they can say the same.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Panic as a group activity
I have had private moments of panic, like when someone pulls out in front of me on an icy road, or missing my freeway exit in a big city or family crisis like my son getting chicken pox days before our Disney World trip. But I'm not a fan of panic as a group activity. Some Christians might be disappointed that I refuse to join them in panicking over the political/economic/world situation. I have no intention of boning up to be a well informed worrier by watching hours of FOX news. Some believe those of us who refuse to join the panic are idealistic or uninformed. I prefer the words hopeful or trusting. I believe that of all the people living on the earth today, Christians should be the most hopeful. We are, presumably, the only ones who know God is sovereign. I believe we are called to be good stewards of the lives and planet God has given us, but He is its King. Therefore, I refuse to worry until God decides to stop being sovereign, and since God is also immutable, I don't expect to be worrying anytime soon.
I enjoy writing about the sin of worry because it's one I'm not particularly good at, and it's lots more fun to contemplate other people's sin. One of the things I learned at BSF is that worry, at its core, is a statement about God; it is saying either God is not good enough, or God is not powerful enough to take care of me. The current Christian paranoia is like a generic version of the sin of gossip, only instead of running down individuals, one can run down entire groups of people like liberals or environmentalists, etc. I don't think we dilute the sin of disdain by expanding its borders. That is one of the reasons I don't follow what I call PNN, paranoid news network, I am already arrogant enough without media reinforcement.
Patrick McManus defined two forms of panic, Blind Stationary Panic, which is done solo and involves jumping up and down while flapping your arms and Full Bore Linear Panic, which is more suited for a group activity and consists of running flat out until you hit something and veer off in another direction. That leaves me to define the Christian form of panic, I choose to name it Righteous Indignation Panic, partly because many Christians consider their paranoia and pessimism to be righteous indignation, and partly because the abbreviation would be RIP. I think that's cool. Many cite prophecy to reinforce their dismal outlook, but I don't think God gave us prophecy to make us frightened or cynical. I think one of the reasons He gave us prophecy was to reassure us that, no matter where we are in history, He knows what is happening and is in control of the situation.
It is right to be indignant at the sin and stupidity in our world as long as we start with the sinner in the mirror. We need to remember that what separates us from the misled masses is grace, not intelligence. If the best Christians can offer to change our sin ravaged world is cynicism and worry, I would rather join ranks with the liberals who believe that an idea that hasn't worked in any nation in which it has been tried, will still work in ours. You have to admire that kind of optimism. So for now I will stick with private moments of panic like realizing there are no rest stops on a long stretch of Montana road, or can't find my boarding pass at the airport or hear what might be a growl while walking alone on the island. If you're recruiting for a group panic, prepare to be disappointed, never mind, you already are.
I enjoy writing about the sin of worry because it's one I'm not particularly good at, and it's lots more fun to contemplate other people's sin. One of the things I learned at BSF is that worry, at its core, is a statement about God; it is saying either God is not good enough, or God is not powerful enough to take care of me. The current Christian paranoia is like a generic version of the sin of gossip, only instead of running down individuals, one can run down entire groups of people like liberals or environmentalists, etc. I don't think we dilute the sin of disdain by expanding its borders. That is one of the reasons I don't follow what I call PNN, paranoid news network, I am already arrogant enough without media reinforcement.
Patrick McManus defined two forms of panic, Blind Stationary Panic, which is done solo and involves jumping up and down while flapping your arms and Full Bore Linear Panic, which is more suited for a group activity and consists of running flat out until you hit something and veer off in another direction. That leaves me to define the Christian form of panic, I choose to name it Righteous Indignation Panic, partly because many Christians consider their paranoia and pessimism to be righteous indignation, and partly because the abbreviation would be RIP. I think that's cool. Many cite prophecy to reinforce their dismal outlook, but I don't think God gave us prophecy to make us frightened or cynical. I think one of the reasons He gave us prophecy was to reassure us that, no matter where we are in history, He knows what is happening and is in control of the situation.
It is right to be indignant at the sin and stupidity in our world as long as we start with the sinner in the mirror. We need to remember that what separates us from the misled masses is grace, not intelligence. If the best Christians can offer to change our sin ravaged world is cynicism and worry, I would rather join ranks with the liberals who believe that an idea that hasn't worked in any nation in which it has been tried, will still work in ours. You have to admire that kind of optimism. So for now I will stick with private moments of panic like realizing there are no rest stops on a long stretch of Montana road, or can't find my boarding pass at the airport or hear what might be a growl while walking alone on the island. If you're recruiting for a group panic, prepare to be disappointed, never mind, you already are.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Cheap Tricks
I fully expect my tombstone to say something like:
Connie Lamb
She Never Paid Full Price for Anything
(including this tombstone.)
As a matter of fact, I would be disappointed if it doesn't say something like that, I don't care if my loved ones have to scratch over someone else's name. My main contribution to the family finances all these years has been saving money. If my kids wanted to impress me with a recent purchase, they would say, "And Mom it was ON SALE". I was recently at a couponing seminar where with a mere three to four hours a week, lots of driving around, letting manufacturers fill up your e-mail, clipping, sorting, carrying coupons and storing and rotating stock like a grocery store, you can feed your family on $50 per month. When it was finished everyone around me was saying "That's too hard." or "I don't have that kind of time.", including me. Coupons only save you money if you insist on buying name brands.
My method takes 15 minutes per week: 1)check the sales ads 2) buy what's on sale 3) go home. If you don't get the newspaper most ads are available on line, sometimes by home delivery or always at the front of the store. Grocery sales cycle about every three months. That means you don't have to buy and store large quantities, just enough to last until the next sales cycle. Except in cases of 12 hour or early bird sales, I buy groceries when my errands take me near that particular store, there is seldom need to make a special trip.
Furniture and home improvement items go on sale around holidays. Unless you are shopping for growing children and don't know what size they will need, buy clothes at season end. I don't even bother looking at a clearance rack until it is 75 percent off. Clothes shopping goes very quickly for me because I check the clearance racks and leave. For me the feeling of finding a good 90 percent off sale is like my hunter husband feels after shooting an elk., I've bagged the big one.
When you know the good sale prices, you can shop at warehouse stores like Costco and know which items are really a better deal. However, if you feed many mouths, the convenience of having to shop less often may be worth more than saving money. My method will not work for people who decide what to fix for dinner on their way home from work, chances of your random choice intersecting with a sale price are slim. I've always kept some basics on hand even when all we had was a refrigerator freezer: a chicken, roast, pork chops or ribs, burger etc. It is much easier to remember to thaw out the meat than to stop at the store on the way home from work.
Saving money is easy but takes some planning. God has given us money as a way to meet our needs, paying more money than you have to is like flinging that blessing out the window. Also, being frugal in spending allows you to be generous in giving. I would rather work a little at saving money than work harder and longer to earn it. Remember, "You get what you pay for." is usually quoted by people who just paid too much or are trying to sell something. Even I have my limits though, I may only buy toilet tissue when it's on sale but I won't buy one ply regardless of the price. Also it's not a good deal if you didn't need it in the first place or don't know how you'll pay for it. By following these simple guidelines, you too can be as cheap and easy as I am.
Connie Lamb
She Never Paid Full Price for Anything
(including this tombstone.)
As a matter of fact, I would be disappointed if it doesn't say something like that, I don't care if my loved ones have to scratch over someone else's name. My main contribution to the family finances all these years has been saving money. If my kids wanted to impress me with a recent purchase, they would say, "And Mom it was ON SALE". I was recently at a couponing seminar where with a mere three to four hours a week, lots of driving around, letting manufacturers fill up your e-mail, clipping, sorting, carrying coupons and storing and rotating stock like a grocery store, you can feed your family on $50 per month. When it was finished everyone around me was saying "That's too hard." or "I don't have that kind of time.", including me. Coupons only save you money if you insist on buying name brands.
My method takes 15 minutes per week: 1)check the sales ads 2) buy what's on sale 3) go home. If you don't get the newspaper most ads are available on line, sometimes by home delivery or always at the front of the store. Grocery sales cycle about every three months. That means you don't have to buy and store large quantities, just enough to last until the next sales cycle. Except in cases of 12 hour or early bird sales, I buy groceries when my errands take me near that particular store, there is seldom need to make a special trip.
Furniture and home improvement items go on sale around holidays. Unless you are shopping for growing children and don't know what size they will need, buy clothes at season end. I don't even bother looking at a clearance rack until it is 75 percent off. Clothes shopping goes very quickly for me because I check the clearance racks and leave. For me the feeling of finding a good 90 percent off sale is like my hunter husband feels after shooting an elk., I've bagged the big one.
When you know the good sale prices, you can shop at warehouse stores like Costco and know which items are really a better deal. However, if you feed many mouths, the convenience of having to shop less often may be worth more than saving money. My method will not work for people who decide what to fix for dinner on their way home from work, chances of your random choice intersecting with a sale price are slim. I've always kept some basics on hand even when all we had was a refrigerator freezer: a chicken, roast, pork chops or ribs, burger etc. It is much easier to remember to thaw out the meat than to stop at the store on the way home from work.
Saving money is easy but takes some planning. God has given us money as a way to meet our needs, paying more money than you have to is like flinging that blessing out the window. Also, being frugal in spending allows you to be generous in giving. I would rather work a little at saving money than work harder and longer to earn it. Remember, "You get what you pay for." is usually quoted by people who just paid too much or are trying to sell something. Even I have my limits though, I may only buy toilet tissue when it's on sale but I won't buy one ply regardless of the price. Also it's not a good deal if you didn't need it in the first place or don't know how you'll pay for it. By following these simple guidelines, you too can be as cheap and easy as I am.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
You Change the Dream
I tried not to have too many unrealistic dreams about the looks, intelligence or talents of my children there was, after all, only so much genetic material to work with, and I remembered myself and my siblings too well to have illusions about their behavior, but parents do have dreams for their children: high school graduation, maybe college, marriage and children (in that order). My two older children graduated from the Christian school, both attended college for a time, my daughter married a wonderful Christian man. We have had Christian friends with a "cookie cutter" parenting plan where each child was expected to do the same thing, for instance, play piano and one other instrument, participate in sports, go to the same college etc., but my children were distinct individuals and the one-size-fits-all plan was not going to work for them. It worked best to train up my child in the way he should go, tailoring my parenting to the child. They didn't always think it was fair but, deep down, I think they knew it was right.
So when my youngest son began struggling at the Christian school, I had to make a new plan. I didn't want him to attend the public high school when he wasn't spiritually strong and he wanted to drop out so, much against my wishes, I began to home school him his sophomore year. There are a lot of home schoolers in Kalispell, they have a choir, sports teams and other groups that meet together. When Tracy finished high school he could have participated in the home school graduation ceremony but its formality didn't fit my son's personality and I knew I would have to let go of the dream of watching him walk forward to receive his diploma. There are few rites of passage in American life and this one was important to me, so I changed the dream. I made his diploma on the computer, had an extended family ceremony for him, even had him pose in his brother's hand-me-down cap and gown. It was not the same, but it was what was needed.
I still wish for my sons the pure wedding night my daughter had with her husband, though I know those are nearly extinct, even among Christians, and for all I know, it may already be too late. We live in a broken society and, though our standards must be high, we have to be flexible enough to adapt to what is when it is not what we wanted. So far I have been spared many of the hard situations I have seen my friends face divorce, unwed pregnancies, chronic illness etc., but I hope to have the strength not just to let my dreams die, but to change the dream to something that fits the new reality I may be called to face. It is important that we put our hope not just in Gods' ability to keep our children on the right path, but to redeem to mistakes they make while on the wrong path. We cannot correct the damage or cancel our disappointment, but we can change the dream.
So when my youngest son began struggling at the Christian school, I had to make a new plan. I didn't want him to attend the public high school when he wasn't spiritually strong and he wanted to drop out so, much against my wishes, I began to home school him his sophomore year. There are a lot of home schoolers in Kalispell, they have a choir, sports teams and other groups that meet together. When Tracy finished high school he could have participated in the home school graduation ceremony but its formality didn't fit my son's personality and I knew I would have to let go of the dream of watching him walk forward to receive his diploma. There are few rites of passage in American life and this one was important to me, so I changed the dream. I made his diploma on the computer, had an extended family ceremony for him, even had him pose in his brother's hand-me-down cap and gown. It was not the same, but it was what was needed.
I still wish for my sons the pure wedding night my daughter had with her husband, though I know those are nearly extinct, even among Christians, and for all I know, it may already be too late. We live in a broken society and, though our standards must be high, we have to be flexible enough to adapt to what is when it is not what we wanted. So far I have been spared many of the hard situations I have seen my friends face divorce, unwed pregnancies, chronic illness etc., but I hope to have the strength not just to let my dreams die, but to change the dream to something that fits the new reality I may be called to face. It is important that we put our hope not just in Gods' ability to keep our children on the right path, but to redeem to mistakes they make while on the wrong path. We cannot correct the damage or cancel our disappointment, but we can change the dream.
Monday, November 8, 2010
In Heat
This is not going to be as raunchy as it sounds, okay, this next sentence may still be. My husband and I like to be in heat, but not with each other. Reed likes to hot tub. Most of our lives that meant he sat in the bathtub continually letting out the cooling water to refill it with hot. Thanks to our daughter we now have a hot tub. She worked for a spa company and refurbished a trade-in unit as a gift to us. When we installed it on our front deck, I told my niece and nephew, who had confused us with rich people, that we were now officially rich. The only problem is I don't like to hot tub. I haven't bathed in years, I am a shower person, a long session in the hot tub for me would be 5 minutes. I love being warm and there is something appealingly decadent about sitting outside warm and content while looking at the stars in winter, but I don't have the patience to stay there. You have to shower before you use the spa and again afterward. Reed loves to soak in it for half an hour in the mornings on weekends. I like to sleep in but, as soon as my feet hit the floor, I am showered, groomed and dressed in half an hour. The other reasonable time to hot tub is before bedtime but the shower and walk on the cold deck getting there and back spoil the attraction for me.
One place I do sometimes use a hot tub is at a hotel. The reason I am willing to soak in the chlorine scented stranger bisque at a public facility but not at home with familiar germs, is that when I am staying at a hotel I have leisure time. I won't need to jump out to put in a load of laundry or any of the hundred housework tasks that fill my days. At hotels I can relax. And being in the hot tub is better than being in the pool, which is way too cold.
My favorite place to be in heat is in our laundry room. Anyone who has spent much time around my house knows that I sit on my dryer. When I was a little girl our clothes dryer vented out the front near the floor. One of my favorite childhood memories is sitting on the floor in front of that dryer. I would warm my hands, still red from playing outside in the snow, until the tingling, pin prick sensation made me pull away. Besides making me warm, it was also a good place to sing, as with water in the shower, the sound of the dryer made my voice sound smoother. I felt sorry for my playmates whose dryers vented outside and we could only enjoy them when we were standing out in the snow.
My husband and I didn't have our own dryer until our second year of marriage, those years happened to be record cold winters in the already-cold-enough town of Helena, Montana. We vented the dryer inside in the winter more for self preservation than comfort. We lived in apartments through the Denver phase of our marriage and, even in big cities, people would think it strange to see a tenant sitting on the dryer in the laundry room and, of course, they were always vented outside anyway. A few months after we moved to Billings, we were able to buy a house and, once again, the dryer was my private sauna.
The laundry room in the house we have now has no room to lay the vent hose on the floor, so in the winter when it is vented inside, I sit on top of the dryer where the hose vents out and, just like when I was a girl I bask and dream and sometimes sing. I intend to continue as long as I'm able to climb up there. Now that I'm older and gravity is stronger, I keep a little stool handy to make up for what time has taken away. But time cannot take away what those times with the dryer gave to me, warm memories.
The laundry room is semi-private but real estate atop the dryer is limited, so my time in my sauna is my own. Unlike using the spa, there is no stripping or showering required, and drying clothes is something that has to be done anyway, so the time isn't totally wasted. Reed and I will most likely continue to be contentedly incompatible about being in heat, but I believe being comfortably different is a key to a lasting marriage--and most friendships. Reed can continue to be in hot water, while I remain full of hot air.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
In Rut
It is deer hunting season, a time when the males are flooded with testosterone and begin pawing, snorting and spoiling for a fight; apparently something similar happens to buck deer. Does find this behavior conducive to mating, it has the opposite effect on me. I grew up in Montana but am not from a hunting family. My husband, on the other hand, had grown up hunting. When we were newly married, we lived in Helena where lots of hunting is available but Reed was not. He was in school full time and working full time and we didn't have a vehicle capable of getting both into and out of the woods, so he did very little hunting there. After two years we moved to Denver where hunting in a big city is frowned upon. So hunting wasn't a significant part of our married lives until we moved to Kalispell. That is where I learned about going into rut.
As the fall progressed, my husband would begin to get restless. Throughout the year Reed regarded airplanes being broken at work or repairs needed at home as a routine part of life, but during hunting season they were deliberate acts of sabotage bent on ruining his life. He became convinced that the only reason I married him was to separate him from everything he enjoyed. How did he figure it out when I had tried to carefully hide that during our previous seven years of marriage?
Through the years of my husband and sons hunting I learned how to disguise and eventually tolerate the taste of venison, to pray for my hunters' success instead of just safety, and the importance of taking pictures of the proud hunters and their upside down, tongue lolling trophies. There is no disconnect in the male psyche between admiring the beauty of an animal one moment and blowing its brains out the next. Despite the baldness that indicates the abundance of testosterone still coursing through my husband, rut isn't as bad as it used to be. He may still believe I am trying to eliminate all happiness from his life, but accepts that I am apparently in no hurry. Frankly, I would rather live with a man who goes in rut occasionally than one who lives in a rut perpetually.
As the fall progressed, my husband would begin to get restless. Throughout the year Reed regarded airplanes being broken at work or repairs needed at home as a routine part of life, but during hunting season they were deliberate acts of sabotage bent on ruining his life. He became convinced that the only reason I married him was to separate him from everything he enjoyed. How did he figure it out when I had tried to carefully hide that during our previous seven years of marriage?
Through the years of my husband and sons hunting I learned how to disguise and eventually tolerate the taste of venison, to pray for my hunters' success instead of just safety, and the importance of taking pictures of the proud hunters and their upside down, tongue lolling trophies. There is no disconnect in the male psyche between admiring the beauty of an animal one moment and blowing its brains out the next. Despite the baldness that indicates the abundance of testosterone still coursing through my husband, rut isn't as bad as it used to be. He may still believe I am trying to eliminate all happiness from his life, but accepts that I am apparently in no hurry. Frankly, I would rather live with a man who goes in rut occasionally than one who lives in a rut perpetually.
No Hypothetical Grace
Another topic for the devotional I haven't been asked to give is: There is no such thing as hypothetical grace. As a girl I would sometimes let myself imagine how I would deal with a death in my family or divorce, like so many of my friends had faced. I was not a Christian then; I didn't know how the grace of God carries you through unbearable circumstances, but even as a Christian when my friends faced those impossible times, I was convinced I wouldn't be able to. That is because there is no such thing as hypothetical grace. God doesn't give us His grace to face the possibility of loss, He gives it for the reality.
As a descendant of very long lived women, I will almost certainly face being widowed. This is true for most women. It is prudent to prepare for that by understanding your finances and life insurance, knowing the location of important papers, and how to take care of, or who to call, for car and house repairs. As an older friend said while struggling to roll up her sleeping bag after a women's retreat, "If I'd known he was going to die, I'd have asked a lot more questions." We can, and should, prepare beforehand in these ways, but we cannot prepare our emotions, we cannot cope ahead of time. I often told my children, "The head doesn't tell the heart what to do." This was mostly a warning against dating non-Christians, but it is also true for those hardships we anticipate. We can prepare our mind, we cannot prepare our heart.
When my children were young, I would see families in our church heartbroken over children who walked away from God. I told God I couldn't bear such a thing and prayed that my children would be faithful all their lives. But when he turned 14, my youngest, my loving son with a gentle soul, began to doubt and wander from God. He didn't turn hard, but certainly ungrateful, like many teens, and he hid behaviors he knew we wouldn't approve of. Although we allowed him to attend a different church with his best friend, we insisted he go to church until he turned 18. We could have made church attendance a condition of living in our home, as some Christians do, but we felt that if a grown child is going to church only because he is coerced, it is probably of no benefit to him. One of the things parents have to let go of when their children graduate, is the right to tell them what to do. Our son is now 23, he still doesn't attend church or read his Bible. He believes in God, but not that God is personally involved in his life.
I am coping through these long years of waiting by the grace of God. I have learned to look past the tattoos, piercings and cigarettes to the still gentle young man inside. He is one of my favorite people to spend time with. I remember that the God who began a good work in my son's heart when he was four years old, will be faithful to complete it. I remember that where we end up depends more on God's faithfulness than ours. If how we finish as Christians depended on us, none of us would remain obedient. And I remember that I, too, struggle with seeing God as passive.
Some of the best advice I read about Christian parenting was in a book by Edith Schaeffer, she wrote that the stage we are at as Christians is because of the experiences God has brought into our lives. He also has to do that in our children's lives, let them get there. Naturally we want to spare our children from making our mistakes, but it isn't realistic to expect our warnings to impact them as much as real life experience. Few of us fell into sins because we were never warned, all of us have a conscience, we simply chose to ignore the warning.
There are Christian books promising godly children, good health and financial security, often these are worth reading because they contain good principles, but God has offered us no such guarantees for this life and the pursuit of them is a sinful pursuit. Those promises are for heaven. Sometimes these false hopes are based on biblical proverbs, which are statements of general truth, but not promises of God. Hebrews 11:32-40 shows that many of God's greatest servants suffered incredible hardships, we will suffer as well, partly because it is the human condition and partly because of God's inscrutable plan for our lives. What God has promised is His presence in our suffering and His grace to endure, just when we need it, one day at a time.
As a descendant of very long lived women, I will almost certainly face being widowed. This is true for most women. It is prudent to prepare for that by understanding your finances and life insurance, knowing the location of important papers, and how to take care of, or who to call, for car and house repairs. As an older friend said while struggling to roll up her sleeping bag after a women's retreat, "If I'd known he was going to die, I'd have asked a lot more questions." We can, and should, prepare beforehand in these ways, but we cannot prepare our emotions, we cannot cope ahead of time. I often told my children, "The head doesn't tell the heart what to do." This was mostly a warning against dating non-Christians, but it is also true for those hardships we anticipate. We can prepare our mind, we cannot prepare our heart.
When my children were young, I would see families in our church heartbroken over children who walked away from God. I told God I couldn't bear such a thing and prayed that my children would be faithful all their lives. But when he turned 14, my youngest, my loving son with a gentle soul, began to doubt and wander from God. He didn't turn hard, but certainly ungrateful, like many teens, and he hid behaviors he knew we wouldn't approve of. Although we allowed him to attend a different church with his best friend, we insisted he go to church until he turned 18. We could have made church attendance a condition of living in our home, as some Christians do, but we felt that if a grown child is going to church only because he is coerced, it is probably of no benefit to him. One of the things parents have to let go of when their children graduate, is the right to tell them what to do. Our son is now 23, he still doesn't attend church or read his Bible. He believes in God, but not that God is personally involved in his life.
I am coping through these long years of waiting by the grace of God. I have learned to look past the tattoos, piercings and cigarettes to the still gentle young man inside. He is one of my favorite people to spend time with. I remember that the God who began a good work in my son's heart when he was four years old, will be faithful to complete it. I remember that where we end up depends more on God's faithfulness than ours. If how we finish as Christians depended on us, none of us would remain obedient. And I remember that I, too, struggle with seeing God as passive.
Some of the best advice I read about Christian parenting was in a book by Edith Schaeffer, she wrote that the stage we are at as Christians is because of the experiences God has brought into our lives. He also has to do that in our children's lives, let them get there. Naturally we want to spare our children from making our mistakes, but it isn't realistic to expect our warnings to impact them as much as real life experience. Few of us fell into sins because we were never warned, all of us have a conscience, we simply chose to ignore the warning.
There are Christian books promising godly children, good health and financial security, often these are worth reading because they contain good principles, but God has offered us no such guarantees for this life and the pursuit of them is a sinful pursuit. Those promises are for heaven. Sometimes these false hopes are based on biblical proverbs, which are statements of general truth, but not promises of God. Hebrews 11:32-40 shows that many of God's greatest servants suffered incredible hardships, we will suffer as well, partly because it is the human condition and partly because of God's inscrutable plan for our lives. What God has promised is His presence in our suffering and His grace to endure, just when we need it, one day at a time.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Perfect Weakness
If I were God and condescended enough to use a flawed human being like myself to work out my divine purpose, I would use people at their spiritual peak, limited as that may be. Apparently God and I don't think alike because He keeps trying to use me when I am spiritually floundering. There have been many times in my life when I am confidently trusting and obeying God. But there are also times when I return to my besetting sin and find myself in a spiritual vortex. I begin and end my days feeling like a failure. In those times God has brought into my life people spiritually needier than myself. I talk to them about what the Bible says, but not as one who has arrived spiritually.
It's almost as if God thinks I have a problem with arrogance. My 38 years as a Christian have revealed to me that I am a pride onion, as soon as one layer is removed, more pride is underneath. That is one of the reasons I don't listen to"talk" radio programs, I am arrogant enough without an outsider telling me that not only am I right, but it's okay to ridicule people who don't agree with me. Rudeness sells, but God doesn't buy it. Christians are called to be humble even when we we're right; I have a hard enough time doing that when I'm wrong which, in my own opinion, seldom occurs. Realizing when you're wrong takes all the fun out of arrogance. However, I am so skilled at projecting poise that when I was broken enough to wind up in a psych ward, the staff thought I was there for a job interview. I call it "terminal competence", the ability to look so together outside when inside I am quivering jello. I have been able to forgive and show mercy to others, not because I a such a saint, but because I am such a sinner. People know I understand their struggles, because I share them.
I have often wished I could have the apostle Paul over for dinner because he understood this so well. Jello hadn't been invented yet, but he understood weakness perfectly and the verses he wrote about it are very comforting to me. He said that "God's strength is made perfect in weakness" and "when I am weak, then I am strong." I know that God can use his word to change the lives of the people I speak to, even though it comes from such a flawed mouthpiece. God uses me most when I am perfect--perfectly weak.
It's almost as if God thinks I have a problem with arrogance. My 38 years as a Christian have revealed to me that I am a pride onion, as soon as one layer is removed, more pride is underneath. That is one of the reasons I don't listen to"talk" radio programs, I am arrogant enough without an outsider telling me that not only am I right, but it's okay to ridicule people who don't agree with me. Rudeness sells, but God doesn't buy it. Christians are called to be humble even when we we're right; I have a hard enough time doing that when I'm wrong which, in my own opinion, seldom occurs. Realizing when you're wrong takes all the fun out of arrogance. However, I am so skilled at projecting poise that when I was broken enough to wind up in a psych ward, the staff thought I was there for a job interview. I call it "terminal competence", the ability to look so together outside when inside I am quivering jello. I have been able to forgive and show mercy to others, not because I a such a saint, but because I am such a sinner. People know I understand their struggles, because I share them.
I have often wished I could have the apostle Paul over for dinner because he understood this so well. Jello hadn't been invented yet, but he understood weakness perfectly and the verses he wrote about it are very comforting to me. He said that "God's strength is made perfect in weakness" and "when I am weak, then I am strong." I know that God can use his word to change the lives of the people I speak to, even though it comes from such a flawed mouthpiece. God uses me most when I am perfect--perfectly weak.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Blessing
Since my last post was on empty nesting, this might be a good time to share our family tradition of giving our children our blessing as they leave our home. This is a hand written letter, a kind of farewell address, the final words we want to leave them with. The letter has three main parts, our observations on their character, our hopes for their future, and the incredible privilege it has been to share our home and lives with them. Most of us know our own weaknesses and don't need many reminders, so we try to focus on areas that have shown improvement and on their strengths. Our hope for their future is the same for each one, that they will love and serve God. That is what we are made for and where we find fulfillment. The privilege of raising them is something you don't fully realize until you let them leave. You will see them again, but it will never be the same. Their time as a child in your home has ended and you leave the active phase of parenting to see if the values you tried to plant in their lives took root. Have they grasped the spiritual baton you tried to pass them? Will your children become your friends? Do you trust God to guide them in their adult years as you so imperfectly tried to do in their childhood?
We wrote the first blessing in a Bozeman hotel room as our daughter spent her first night in her college apartment. It is a good thing we had written it out because I was crying too hard to say a word as we parted the next day. We wrote Will's blessing in similar circumstances in another tear soaked hotel in Seattle. Because they were written in hotels, I have no copies of those letters and I regret that. Our youngest son's blessing was written here at home and recently so I have a copy of that tucked away with my important papers.
The value of letters is that they can always reread them, if they choose to save them. I hope they do because they are probably the only place where their dad has poured out his heart to his children so clearly. In the case of our youngest son, who moved out but stayed in town, there was a tangible difference in the way he related to his dad after receiving the blessing. He seemed more at ease. Until Trace read those words I don't think he knew how his father really felt about him.
I also gave blessing letters to most of the "spare sons" who lived for a time in our home, a story I will share at another time. We have few formal rites of passage in this country, grown children often leave home and return many times, and we would be fine with that; but this is our official recognition of their adulthood, a bon voyage less painful than breaking a bottle over their nose and a sneaky way to get in the final word. And the word is--thanks.
We wrote the first blessing in a Bozeman hotel room as our daughter spent her first night in her college apartment. It is a good thing we had written it out because I was crying too hard to say a word as we parted the next day. We wrote Will's blessing in similar circumstances in another tear soaked hotel in Seattle. Because they were written in hotels, I have no copies of those letters and I regret that. Our youngest son's blessing was written here at home and recently so I have a copy of that tucked away with my important papers.
The value of letters is that they can always reread them, if they choose to save them. I hope they do because they are probably the only place where their dad has poured out his heart to his children so clearly. In the case of our youngest son, who moved out but stayed in town, there was a tangible difference in the way he related to his dad after receiving the blessing. He seemed more at ease. Until Trace read those words I don't think he knew how his father really felt about him.
I also gave blessing letters to most of the "spare sons" who lived for a time in our home, a story I will share at another time. We have few formal rites of passage in this country, grown children often leave home and return many times, and we would be fine with that; but this is our official recognition of their adulthood, a bon voyage less painful than breaking a bottle over their nose and a sneaky way to get in the final word. And the word is--thanks.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Empty Nesting
After 28 years of raising children, my husband and I now share an empty nest. There was one abortive attempt four years ago when our youngest became old enough to leave; instead, we wound up housing more kids than we actually gave birth to, but I will share that story another time. I was neither eager for nor dreading our son's leaving. In the best of circumstances it is a mixed blessing to see your children go. Yes, you can have the house to yourselves but who will mow the lawn, scoop the snow, and especially, move heavy things? Our son has been building up his spindly 17 inch biceps for years and can move almost anything we own by himself. We had to buy a 600 lb. hand truck to replace him. I didn't dread his leaving, much as we enjoyed his company, because I could tell he was ready, the time had come. So how has it changed our lives?
I can now put coconut back in all the recipes I have been leaving it out of because Trace didn't like it. I fixed long banished liver and onions for dinner one night. Dinner is now often just two things, soup and bread, salad and sandwich, peanut butter and jelly. We can no longer finish a gallon of milk before it spoils. Our grocery budget sank faster than the stock market. With the extra money I am buying a luxury item that was previously beyond our reach--Tide. After 33 years of using cheap detergent I can now buy Tide.
When Trace still lived at home I didn't take much notice of his coming and going as I did my regular household tasks, now when he comes to our door he is an honored guest. I stop what I am doing to sit and visit with him. One of the blessings of the empty nest is the perspective to realize what a privilege it has always been to share homes and lives with our children. For 28 years we enjoyed that blessing. Thank you Britten, Will and Tracy--my honored guests.
I can now put coconut back in all the recipes I have been leaving it out of because Trace didn't like it. I fixed long banished liver and onions for dinner one night. Dinner is now often just two things, soup and bread, salad and sandwich, peanut butter and jelly. We can no longer finish a gallon of milk before it spoils. Our grocery budget sank faster than the stock market. With the extra money I am buying a luxury item that was previously beyond our reach--Tide. After 33 years of using cheap detergent I can now buy Tide.
When Trace still lived at home I didn't take much notice of his coming and going as I did my regular household tasks, now when he comes to our door he is an honored guest. I stop what I am doing to sit and visit with him. One of the blessings of the empty nest is the perspective to realize what a privilege it has always been to share homes and lives with our children. For 28 years we enjoyed that blessing. Thank you Britten, Will and Tracy--my honored guests.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
10 Things Women Can Learn from Watching Red Green
In my blog on quirky humor I mentioned that one of the factors that warped my children's sense of humor was allowing them to watch PBS. There are programs on PBS designed specifically to trick children into learning without realizing it, but there are also many revisionist, liberal, politically correct, greenie/weenie programs sponsored by left wingers who are rich but feel bad about it. PBS also offers haute faire dramatic presentations (mostly British), opera, ballet and other things rich people like to watch; although I think this is another attempt to atone for being rich. Middle class people like myself can enjoy PBS mysteries like Agatha Christie and Sherlock Holmes and some misguided souls even appreciate British comedies, which are far outside the warp factor of our family humor affliction. "The Red Green Show", however, is not a British comedy, it is a Canadian comedy, a redneck Canadian comedy, and our family appreciates rednecks. So for those who have faithfully followed the antics of the Possum Lodge members, I offer the following insights:
1. Men and women are different from one another and those differences should be celebrated--especially by the women.
2. Men are judged by their tools--and sometimes, executed by them.
3. With sufficient time and effort any household object can be improved enough to become dangerous.
4. The intended meaning of any word varies according to the perspective of the hearer. Harmonizing the two is a game.
5. All things can be mended, mutated or mangled by duct tape.
6. Handsome fades but handy makes things useless forever.
7. It is more difficult for men to say "I don't know" that "I am sorry" or "I love you".
8. You're not a misfit when you're with other misfits.
9. Give your husband credit for being smart enough to marry you.
10. We should pull for one another, we are all in this together.
1. Men and women are different from one another and those differences should be celebrated--especially by the women.
2. Men are judged by their tools--and sometimes, executed by them.
3. With sufficient time and effort any household object can be improved enough to become dangerous.
4. The intended meaning of any word varies according to the perspective of the hearer. Harmonizing the two is a game.
5. All things can be mended, mutated or mangled by duct tape.
6. Handsome fades but handy makes things useless forever.
7. It is more difficult for men to say "I don't know" that "I am sorry" or "I love you".
8. You're not a misfit when you're with other misfits.
9. Give your husband credit for being smart enough to marry you.
10. We should pull for one another, we are all in this together.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Homiletics Junkie
I admit to being a homiletics addict. No, it's not some kinky form of aerobics or "sexercise", it's a method of passage analysis I use to study the Bible. It's kind of like outlining backwards. Instead of starting with a topic and filling in main and sub points until you have a completed text, in homiletics you begin with the text as a whole and divide it into: context, divisions, subject sentence, aim and applications. When I first learned how to do this at a Bible Study Fellowship seminar, it was a very natural fit for me. My brain has been wired for homiletics all my life. It immediately loses the details and "shucks down to the cob" to find the main, important facts. All these years I thought I was just unobservant. Remember "Murder She Wrote", Jessica Fletcher would solve the murder by remembering some small, but significant detail. I will never catch a murderer unless they are covered with blood or waving a poster sized signed confession.
But the main reason I am addicted to homiletics is that it forces me to apply what I am learning about in any section of the Bible to my life. I have studied the Bible since I was a teenager and I know a lot about it, but it didn't change my life on a daily basis until I was in a Bible study whose questions challenged me not only to think about how to apply it, but to be willing to write it down and share it with others. The addiction has gotten so bad that I do homiletics of my own free will and can't enjoy my BSF questions until I have finished them. During the summer when BSF isn't meeting, my daily Bible study is doing homiletics on a chapter of whatever book I have chosen to study. I enjoy it so much, I am almost disappointed when I have to leave it to go back to BSF, to which I am also addicted. There are much worse addictions than these, of course, but most of the BSF leaders, who are required to do homiletics, don't enjoy them. The list of people like me, who do them of their own free will and consider them fun, is very small. I am thinking of forming a support group, but I'm afraid it would attract people who think it's a kinky form of exercise.
But the main reason I am addicted to homiletics is that it forces me to apply what I am learning about in any section of the Bible to my life. I have studied the Bible since I was a teenager and I know a lot about it, but it didn't change my life on a daily basis until I was in a Bible study whose questions challenged me not only to think about how to apply it, but to be willing to write it down and share it with others. The addiction has gotten so bad that I do homiletics of my own free will and can't enjoy my BSF questions until I have finished them. During the summer when BSF isn't meeting, my daily Bible study is doing homiletics on a chapter of whatever book I have chosen to study. I enjoy it so much, I am almost disappointed when I have to leave it to go back to BSF, to which I am also addicted. There are much worse addictions than these, of course, but most of the BSF leaders, who are required to do homiletics, don't enjoy them. The list of people like me, who do them of their own free will and consider them fun, is very small. I am thinking of forming a support group, but I'm afraid it would attract people who think it's a kinky form of exercise.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Why I Stopped Giving God Advice
If I were ever asked to give a devotional, oddly that seldom occurs, my topic would be "Why I Stopped Giving God Advice". The answer would be because He has never taken it. For many years my prayers consisted of worry + suggestions. I thought maybe God needed some coaching on how to answer prayer, so I would run a few ideas by Him. I thought they were splendid ideas. Apparently God did not because He has never once followed my suggestions, in fact, everything He has used to bring about the changes I prayed for are things that never would have occurred to me.
For instance, when I prayed that I wouldn't have a migraine on my daughter's wedding day, as I had for several days preceding it, I never expected God to give me a 24 hour stomach virus so I would have to rest and the extra rest prevented a migraine. Perhaps I hadn't been specific enough, I had been hoping for a miraculous migraine reprieve. Another spectacular "outside the box" answer to my prayer was when I prayed to be able to pay off the second mortgage on our house. It never would have occurred to me that on the night before the company my husband worked for sold, the former owner would get in a fight with the buyers, fire the whole department in which my husband worked, then rehire them, causing us to receive a severance package which we didn't need to live on, freeing up money to pay the second mortgage and then some. That scenario never crossed my mind.
Looking back on my 38 years as a Christian, the changes God has brought about in the people I love have always been in spite of me, not because of me. Not only am I not the Holy Spirit's little helper, I usually get in His way. God didn't use the Reader's Digest sweepstakes to pay off my college debt. God grew my husband in leadership through being on the school board, his job, and through Bible study; I didn't need to leave articles on his nightstand or books open to the appropriate pages. Nagging changes only me, and not in a good way. Yes, I would really like to preach the sermonettes floating around in my head, but if that was all that's needed, why don't they change me? Only God can bring about real, heartfelt changes and He does it in unimaginable ways. Groucho Marx said he wouldn't join a club that would accept him as a member, would I really want a God who would accept advice from me?
For instance, when I prayed that I wouldn't have a migraine on my daughter's wedding day, as I had for several days preceding it, I never expected God to give me a 24 hour stomach virus so I would have to rest and the extra rest prevented a migraine. Perhaps I hadn't been specific enough, I had been hoping for a miraculous migraine reprieve. Another spectacular "outside the box" answer to my prayer was when I prayed to be able to pay off the second mortgage on our house. It never would have occurred to me that on the night before the company my husband worked for sold, the former owner would get in a fight with the buyers, fire the whole department in which my husband worked, then rehire them, causing us to receive a severance package which we didn't need to live on, freeing up money to pay the second mortgage and then some. That scenario never crossed my mind.
Looking back on my 38 years as a Christian, the changes God has brought about in the people I love have always been in spite of me, not because of me. Not only am I not the Holy Spirit's little helper, I usually get in His way. God didn't use the Reader's Digest sweepstakes to pay off my college debt. God grew my husband in leadership through being on the school board, his job, and through Bible study; I didn't need to leave articles on his nightstand or books open to the appropriate pages. Nagging changes only me, and not in a good way. Yes, I would really like to preach the sermonettes floating around in my head, but if that was all that's needed, why don't they change me? Only God can bring about real, heartfelt changes and He does it in unimaginable ways. Groucho Marx said he wouldn't join a club that would accept him as a member, would I really want a God who would accept advice from me?
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Fool Proof
I am not a fool. I have empirical evidence. Many times I have tried a "fool proof" recipe, everything from "fool proof microwave peanut brittle" "to fool proof no-streak window cleaner", without success. I can only conclude that it would have turned out if I had been an actual fool. Either that or I have gone beyond regular fools to a kind of super fool status, which would also be some level of achievement. I will not give up attempting "fool proof" recipes. I like a good challenge and I may just be an expert.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Turning Blessings into Burdens
With a little effort any blessing can be turned into a burden. We all do this to some extent when the things we so much wanted to own become possessions that have to be maintained, but some people are better at it than others and it's much more fun to discuss other people. My first example of this principle is "Ethel". Ethel was for the most part home bound but drew a lot of satisfaction from listening to Christian radio programming. That was a blessing. Ethel turned her blessing into a burden by deciding to take notes of the messages. Because she had a stroke affected left hand, note taking was difficult since her paper kept moving around as she wrote. Constantly repositioning the her paper caused her to fall behind. The very messages that were meant to uplift her had become a source of frustration--of her own choosing. It would have been far better to stop writing and just listen. Forgetting some points of the message would be better than missing the point of it altogether through frustration.
For a time Ethel and I attended the same Bible study. There were donation baskets on the way out where members could give an offering, if they chose, towards the expenses of that, and other, classes. It was mentioned only a few times a year and strictly voluntary. Ethel put in a dollar every week. Living on social security alone, sometimes she would be stressed for days about where she could come up with the dollar. She had become so inflexible about the dollar that she felt the need to skip Bible study if she didn't have it. Turning blessings into burdens; Ethel was an expert.
My other example is "Doris". Doris had never married and lived, after her mother's death, with her bachelor brother. The family savings had gone to her older siblings' rest home expenses, but her brother generously left her their shared home when he died. Out of her meager $400 monthly social security, Doris had to pay house taxes, insurance and upkeep as well as her regular living expenses. Though she feared being alone in case of crime, accident or illness, Doris refused to consider moving to an apartment. There was no family around to do repairs or maintenance. Doris was no longer physically able even to water the lawn and couldn't afford to have it cut when the rain made it grow. The very thing her brother had left her to bring her security was causing her to live in stress and poverty.
Both of these women were Olympic level worriers and I think that is an essential ingredient for turning blessings into burdens. I believe this for two reasons: 1)worry is a sin I'm not very good at, so I don't have to feel guilty 2)worry has great corrupting power. Worry, at its core, is a statement about God. It is saying God is either not good enough or not powerful enough to take care of me. Worry is easy to start, hard to stop, and spreads like wildfire. It can ruin the most joyous moment you are having now by convincing you it won't last or will never happen again. The antidote for the poison of worry is recognizing the sovereignty of God. I learned that through Bible study, I learned that because I wasn't thinking about the dollar for the offering plate. I will leave worrying to the professionals like Ethel and Doris, I'm just not good at it anymore.
I prefer to use my blessings for their intended purpose, to bring praise to God and pleasure to man. Surprisingly, when we stop creating our own burdens, we discover God doesn't give us all that many and, even those few, are for giving right back to him. If I want to turn something good into something bad, I'll give it to the dog.
For a time Ethel and I attended the same Bible study. There were donation baskets on the way out where members could give an offering, if they chose, towards the expenses of that, and other, classes. It was mentioned only a few times a year and strictly voluntary. Ethel put in a dollar every week. Living on social security alone, sometimes she would be stressed for days about where she could come up with the dollar. She had become so inflexible about the dollar that she felt the need to skip Bible study if she didn't have it. Turning blessings into burdens; Ethel was an expert.
My other example is "Doris". Doris had never married and lived, after her mother's death, with her bachelor brother. The family savings had gone to her older siblings' rest home expenses, but her brother generously left her their shared home when he died. Out of her meager $400 monthly social security, Doris had to pay house taxes, insurance and upkeep as well as her regular living expenses. Though she feared being alone in case of crime, accident or illness, Doris refused to consider moving to an apartment. There was no family around to do repairs or maintenance. Doris was no longer physically able even to water the lawn and couldn't afford to have it cut when the rain made it grow. The very thing her brother had left her to bring her security was causing her to live in stress and poverty.
Both of these women were Olympic level worriers and I think that is an essential ingredient for turning blessings into burdens. I believe this for two reasons: 1)worry is a sin I'm not very good at, so I don't have to feel guilty 2)worry has great corrupting power. Worry, at its core, is a statement about God. It is saying God is either not good enough or not powerful enough to take care of me. Worry is easy to start, hard to stop, and spreads like wildfire. It can ruin the most joyous moment you are having now by convincing you it won't last or will never happen again. The antidote for the poison of worry is recognizing the sovereignty of God. I learned that through Bible study, I learned that because I wasn't thinking about the dollar for the offering plate. I will leave worrying to the professionals like Ethel and Doris, I'm just not good at it anymore.
I prefer to use my blessings for their intended purpose, to bring praise to God and pleasure to man. Surprisingly, when we stop creating our own burdens, we discover God doesn't give us all that many and, even those few, are for giving right back to him. If I want to turn something good into something bad, I'll give it to the dog.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Quirky Sense of Humor
Two of my children have, what I will euphemistically call, a quirky sense of humor. Fortunately, our third child is normal. My husband ridiculously suggested that they got it from me but, I'm forced to admit, I may have played some small part in it. When other parents were reading their children bedtime stories like Tom Sawyer or Harry Potter, I was reading mine articles from Dave Barry and Patrick McManus. If you haven't read works by authors like them, you will never understand a quirky sense of humor, and you may think the people who have it are merely dangerous or insane. If only it were that simple.
I blame cell phones. In the good old days when you encountered a person talking to himself, you knew he was crazy. Now you have to listen in on the one sided conversation for precious seconds to determine if they are tracking invisible yetis or updating the grocery list. I believe the Bluetooth device was invented specifically for this, but I'm not sure what category that puts me in.
I also blame television, of course. We limited what our children watched, carefully screening for sex, language and violence, but we let them watch "The Red Green Show". It was on PBS, how harmful could it be? But apparently watching red neck Canadians at the Possum Lodge building and destroying things with duct tape can scar developing psyches. We meant well.
Our other familial affliction is that we have a dry sense of humor, dusty actually, the kind that drives literal minded firstborns crazy. So when my son, with a straight face, told a stranger at a party that he was financing his college education by selling drugs, my firstborn mother-in-law felt compelled to explain that he was joking. There is usually some killjoy around to explain "He/she was joking.", which is probably a good thing, it saves us the need to explain that to a law or mental health official. I should also probably explain dry sense of humor to children. When my nephew asked if he should sniff the open Kool Aid package I, assuming that by age 10 he knew better than to try, said, "Sure, take a big whiff." When he stopped coughing, I explained what is meant by dry sense of humor. He might have been better off if I had explained that before the dry Kool Aid, but this way he will remember the lesson better.
At this point there is probably no remedy for our humor dysfunction and we will be doomed to enjoy "Calvin", "Dilbert" and other cynical comics the rest of our lives. Just remember not to take us seriously, don't sniff the Kool Aid and, certainly, don't drink it.
I blame cell phones. In the good old days when you encountered a person talking to himself, you knew he was crazy. Now you have to listen in on the one sided conversation for precious seconds to determine if they are tracking invisible yetis or updating the grocery list. I believe the Bluetooth device was invented specifically for this, but I'm not sure what category that puts me in.
I also blame television, of course. We limited what our children watched, carefully screening for sex, language and violence, but we let them watch "The Red Green Show". It was on PBS, how harmful could it be? But apparently watching red neck Canadians at the Possum Lodge building and destroying things with duct tape can scar developing psyches. We meant well.
Our other familial affliction is that we have a dry sense of humor, dusty actually, the kind that drives literal minded firstborns crazy. So when my son, with a straight face, told a stranger at a party that he was financing his college education by selling drugs, my firstborn mother-in-law felt compelled to explain that he was joking. There is usually some killjoy around to explain "He/she was joking.", which is probably a good thing, it saves us the need to explain that to a law or mental health official. I should also probably explain dry sense of humor to children. When my nephew asked if he should sniff the open Kool Aid package I, assuming that by age 10 he knew better than to try, said, "Sure, take a big whiff." When he stopped coughing, I explained what is meant by dry sense of humor. He might have been better off if I had explained that before the dry Kool Aid, but this way he will remember the lesson better.
At this point there is probably no remedy for our humor dysfunction and we will be doomed to enjoy "Calvin", "Dilbert" and other cynical comics the rest of our lives. Just remember not to take us seriously, don't sniff the Kool Aid and, certainly, don't drink it.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Loose Women
Middle aged women are loose. We can't help it. That is what happens when your muscles shrink and your skin succumbs to gravity. Your body becomes lazy. Your breasts head south to rest on your belly, your belly scoots down to rest on your lap, and your backside lowers to counterbalance the front side. Even your face, which has nothing to rest on, can't escape the cascading effect. The only solution is to fill the loose areas with fat, and with decreased muscle mass this is easy to do. My body is into easy. So is my brain.
As a young mom I would hop out of my car and, without thinking, gather up my children, diaper bag, an assortment of stuffed animals, a handful of toy cars and my groceries. Now I have to think before I can even get myself out of the car, not to mention the effort of remembering my purse, water bottle and mail. My biggest fear is not that I'll get Alzheimer's, but that no one will be able to tell.
So, as long as everything else on my body is declining, there is one more thing that needs to lower--my expectations. When I was young I worried that my knees were too knobby, now I'm just happy they bend in the right direction. As a girl I didn't like my freckles, now I think how small they look compared to my age spots. Yes my hair is gray, but I have lots of hair and with that and $10 it can be whatever color I choose. I am middle aged, happy and healthy and I choose to be comfortable in my own skin. I just wish there wasn't so much of it.
As a young mom I would hop out of my car and, without thinking, gather up my children, diaper bag, an assortment of stuffed animals, a handful of toy cars and my groceries. Now I have to think before I can even get myself out of the car, not to mention the effort of remembering my purse, water bottle and mail. My biggest fear is not that I'll get Alzheimer's, but that no one will be able to tell.
So, as long as everything else on my body is declining, there is one more thing that needs to lower--my expectations. When I was young I worried that my knees were too knobby, now I'm just happy they bend in the right direction. As a girl I didn't like my freckles, now I think how small they look compared to my age spots. Yes my hair is gray, but I have lots of hair and with that and $10 it can be whatever color I choose. I am middle aged, happy and healthy and I choose to be comfortable in my own skin. I just wish there wasn't so much of it.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Restful Rain
Besides being a season of undecided deciduous, today is a day of restful rain. In this north country, even on August nights, there is a whisper of fall that speaks in a voice, beyond hearing, but somehow still felt, "Soon there will be rest. Soon there will be rest." The land has nearly finished its summer labor of growing, the harvest will soon be gathered, rest will come. When the rain falls I can stay in the house with no guilt over neglected chores outside. God is watering my flowers and washing my unpicked apples. I can read the books I neglect during my perpetual running of errands. I can indulge this infernal drive to write. In the diminished light my house looks clean. The hum of the dryer in the laundry room comforts like a lullaby. Peace lies like a blanket over the animals and me; I unashamedly take a nap. It is excuse enough to be able to say, "It was raining."
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Dog Proverbs
On Facebook I have recently written two proverbs inspired by our dog. The first is: Don't walk deaf dogs at dusk. I experienced this first hand having been thoughtful enough to invite my dog for a brief walk at sunset. When the dog can't hear you and neither of you can really see each other, you aren't necessarily on the same walk. It all turned out okay, we both wound up at home, but why put yourself through needless frustration? The second proverb is : Dogs who have dined on departed deer are constant companions. I knew something was wrong when I emptied my doggy bag from the restaurant into Garth's dish and he didn't immediately gobble it down. (He waited five minutes.) Then I noticed his belly was as round as a Shetland pony's and gurgling. Obviously he had sniffed out a decaying deer on the island near us and had eaten his fill and then some. Garth sleeps on the floor at the foot of our bed so I had all night to listen to the melodious gurgling, panting and farting noises coming from our dog. The time awake was useful for planning how I could remove deer gut stains from our new carpet if the need arose.
As miserable as the deer meat made him, I knew Garth would happily go right back and eat some more, so all day I yelled at him when he tried to escape out the front door. And all day Garth followed me from room to room as I moved around the house flatulating magnificently--a mobile fart machine. Now that his belly is no longer distended and "Venison Vengeance" isn't wafting from his behind, Garth is happily spend his time in unoccupied rooms. There is no dog as faithful as an unwanted one--maybe that will be my next proverb.
As miserable as the deer meat made him, I knew Garth would happily go right back and eat some more, so all day I yelled at him when he tried to escape out the front door. And all day Garth followed me from room to room as I moved around the house flatulating magnificently--a mobile fart machine. Now that his belly is no longer distended and "Venison Vengeance" isn't wafting from his behind, Garth is happily spend his time in unoccupied rooms. There is no dog as faithful as an unwanted one--maybe that will be my next proverb.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Autumn Leaves
I remember from a long ago botany class that trees which shed their leaves are called deciduous. This is our time of undecided deciduous trees. Leaves are just beginning to turn so many trees are bicolor, red/green or orange/green, while some stand out as bright red exceptions. Many haven't yet succumbed to peer pressure and are completely green. In anticipation of the cool winds and the leaves carried on them I have written this poem.
Autumn Leaves
Autumn leaves
bare branch bones,
bright colored foliage,
suddenly blown,
neither needing or needed by the tree--
free.
Autumn leaves
turning pages
books opened by
junior sages,
needing to learn but desiring to be
free.
Autumn leaves
empty homes
college bound children,
suddenly grown,
leaving their parents, each learning to be
free.
Autumn leaves
fields at rest
harvest is gathered
pantries blessed,
quiet beneath nature's cold canopy
free.
Blowing freely through my mind
memories autumn leaves behind.
Autumn Leaves
Autumn leaves
bare branch bones,
bright colored foliage,
suddenly blown,
neither needing or needed by the tree--
free.
Autumn leaves
turning pages
books opened by
junior sages,
needing to learn but desiring to be
free.
Autumn leaves
empty homes
college bound children,
suddenly grown,
leaving their parents, each learning to be
free.
Autumn leaves
fields at rest
harvest is gathered
pantries blessed,
quiet beneath nature's cold canopy
free.
Blowing freely through my mind
memories autumn leaves behind.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Autumn 2010
For some reason I never published the following blog so, even though it is not yet autumn, I'm publishing it now both because I like this one and because I am forgetful.
Unfortunately for anyone who stumbles across this blog, I am saving the best of my writings to send to publishers, including the story for which this blog is named, so this gets the leftovers, kind of a "bloggy bag", things I would be more likely to write in my journal. Now that I have a blog, I don't have to waste money on spiral notebooks. This is my journal from Sept. 2nd.
It is my favorite season--autumn. A time of cool nights and mornings but warm afternoons, tingling with promise. It is a time of beginnings, my beginning at least. Though I love to see green, growing things, by this point of the year I am tired of maintaining them; though I do little enough yard work, I am tired of watering plants and feeling guilty about not watering plants. Fall speaks to me of a time of rest, rest from growing, rest from the long summer days. Soon the insects will die and the leaves will fall, I will see the Swan peaks from my front windows, I will see into the Stillwater River, clear at last, when I cross the bridge. I feel the echo of excitement of the start of school years long ago, the smell of new crayons, even the smell of the pulp mill that permeated Missoula in the fall.
It is the perfect time of day to be outside and yet I prefer today to stay in the house, by the open door, in the sunlight. I made a pie this afternoon and I felt the satisfaction that came from such simple acts when my children were small and my days were spent at home with them. September brings dozens of memories to my mind, crisp as the apples on the backyard tree. If my chronic migraines have been a curse, the time spent at home has been a blessing. I am no so busy rushing around that I miss the comfort of my home, the beauty of my neighborhood and the goodness of the God who is my constant, but overlooked, companion. Surely He who gives the plants rest, will give me rest also, if only I take the time to realize it.
Unfortunately for anyone who stumbles across this blog, I am saving the best of my writings to send to publishers, including the story for which this blog is named, so this gets the leftovers, kind of a "bloggy bag", things I would be more likely to write in my journal. Now that I have a blog, I don't have to waste money on spiral notebooks. This is my journal from Sept. 2nd.
It is my favorite season--autumn. A time of cool nights and mornings but warm afternoons, tingling with promise. It is a time of beginnings, my beginning at least. Though I love to see green, growing things, by this point of the year I am tired of maintaining them; though I do little enough yard work, I am tired of watering plants and feeling guilty about not watering plants. Fall speaks to me of a time of rest, rest from growing, rest from the long summer days. Soon the insects will die and the leaves will fall, I will see the Swan peaks from my front windows, I will see into the Stillwater River, clear at last, when I cross the bridge. I feel the echo of excitement of the start of school years long ago, the smell of new crayons, even the smell of the pulp mill that permeated Missoula in the fall.
It is the perfect time of day to be outside and yet I prefer today to stay in the house, by the open door, in the sunlight. I made a pie this afternoon and I felt the satisfaction that came from such simple acts when my children were small and my days were spent at home with them. September brings dozens of memories to my mind, crisp as the apples on the backyard tree. If my chronic migraines have been a curse, the time spent at home has been a blessing. I am no so busy rushing around that I miss the comfort of my home, the beauty of my neighborhood and the goodness of the God who is my constant, but overlooked, companion. Surely He who gives the plants rest, will give me rest also, if only I take the time to realize it.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Coots in the Forum
In Ancient Greece old philosophers hung around the marketplace philosophizing until young Greeks stole their togas to wear to parties. In America past old coots sat around the wood stove at the general store spouting opinions until the owner gave them free crackers just to shut them up. In my hometown old coots go to Sykes, famous for its 10 cent coffee, to discuss life in the subtle tones of farmers who have spent most of their lives around loud machinery.
But now we have a new forum, the internet, a world wide soapbox where you can shout your lungs out and people can ignore you, but not throw vegetables. I am a writer, no one in the publishing world knows it, but I am a writer, or possibly just a coot hanging around the forum, eating crackers. Somehow it just feel more writer-like to type my ramblings neatly onto the computer screen than scribble them in notebooks which nobody sees. I have just entered kicking and screaming into Facebook where, after all the years of being as frugal with words as I am with money, (never use two words if you can get by with one) I am frustrated by the 427 allowable spaces. I am hard enough to understand in context, much less in little bytes. After this rant about people crass enough to broadcast what they ate for breakfast, I promise to write something beautiful or helpful. I have a lots of wisdom to share. Where did all these cracker crumbs come from?
But now we have a new forum, the internet, a world wide soapbox where you can shout your lungs out and people can ignore you, but not throw vegetables. I am a writer, no one in the publishing world knows it, but I am a writer, or possibly just a coot hanging around the forum, eating crackers. Somehow it just feel more writer-like to type my ramblings neatly onto the computer screen than scribble them in notebooks which nobody sees. I have just entered kicking and screaming into Facebook where, after all the years of being as frugal with words as I am with money, (never use two words if you can get by with one) I am frustrated by the 427 allowable spaces. I am hard enough to understand in context, much less in little bytes. After this rant about people crass enough to broadcast what they ate for breakfast, I promise to write something beautiful or helpful. I have a lots of wisdom to share. Where did all these cracker crumbs come from?
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Why I Started Writing
Graves disease. Seriously. Two years ago I developed Graves disease in which the thyroid goes into hyper drive. If our bodies were the Mafia, the thyroid is the Godfather, it controls about everything. I wasn't enjoying body aches, insomnia, weakness, being hot, weight loss (well, I was enjoying that) but not being hungry all the time (I even had to get up at night to eat), so I had it nuked. I should explain that I sometimes have reactions to medications so rare they don't appear in the side effects list, but to my knowledge no one has reacted to having their thyroid irradiated by writing poetry. Rhyming poetry. I hadn't written poetry for a decade and rhyming poetry for a decade before that, but there I was during the busy Christmas season wasting time trying to find rhyming words for poems I did not want to write. I wrote 22 poems in 20 days, one of them was about not wanting to write a poem. Not only did that sentiment turn out to be a poem, but it had that horrible "Purple Cow" cadence. "I did not want to write a poem, but verse and rhyme possessed me..."
My specialist had never heard of a reaction like mine and I didn't want to get in a chat room about it because I didn't want to associate with people that strange, so as far as I know, I'm the only one. Fortunately the poetry waned as the radiation subsided and it is now controllable. It even became a gift, a way to vent emotions for a sorrow I didn't know was coming. I knew writing could be a pain in the neck, I just didn't know it could spring from a pain in the neck.
My specialist had never heard of a reaction like mine and I didn't want to get in a chat room about it because I didn't want to associate with people that strange, so as far as I know, I'm the only one. Fortunately the poetry waned as the radiation subsided and it is now controllable. It even became a gift, a way to vent emotions for a sorrow I didn't know was coming. I knew writing could be a pain in the neck, I just didn't know it could spring from a pain in the neck.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Posing Naked for Strangers
In the Louis L'Amour story "Conagher" the lonely widow has no one to talk to so she ties poems to the tumbleweeds and the wind takes them away. These days we use the Web. We share private, personal details on Facebook, blogs etc. having no idea who will read them. It is like posing naked for strangers when we would never consider stripping in front of friends and family. So why am I publishing writings I would never burden friends with--my homely brain children?
For me, writing is a coping mechanism. So is my sense of humor, unfortunately. I thought writers were people compelled to write. Now I am compelled but who on earth would want to read it? Maybe nobody, but this way I don't have to know. I can get writing out of my system without rejection slips.
For me, writing is a coping mechanism. So is my sense of humor, unfortunately. I thought writers were people compelled to write. Now I am compelled but who on earth would want to read it? Maybe nobody, but this way I don't have to know. I can get writing out of my system without rejection slips.
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