On March 25, 1960 my younger brother was entering this world in a small hospital in the small town of Philipsburg, Montana. The doctor who delivered him was not competent enough to recognize how much distress the baby was in. He suffered from a condition called erythroblastosis fetalis, Rh factor, in which a mother with Rh negative blood has a slight blood transfer with her baby's Rh positive blood. The mother's body reacts by producing antibodies against the perceived threat, even when the threat is her baby. The sensitivity builds gradually and seldom affects first or second pregnancies. Roddy was the third child. He was left with speech and hearing problems, spasticity, mental retardation. The damage was irreversible.
On October 8, 1962 as my sister was entering this world my mother was leaving it. She was drawn into a world of danger, intrigue and secret conspiracies, the world of the paranoid schizophrenic. Schizophrenia is not split personality, as in the T-shirt "I'm schizophrenic and so am I". Schizophrenia is split thinking: schizo=split phren=mind. There is a breakdown in the way the mind processes information often causing hallucinations; the brain receives visual and auditory signals without outside stimuli. It is as if your television turned itself on and began broadcasting its own channels. Medications can mute the input but they cannot shut it off. The disease was incurable.
One might question the goodness of a God who would burden my father with both a handicapped son and a mentally ill wife, but there is a beautiful economy in God's purposes. Because my mother was mentally ill, dad would spend most of his life alone in his marriage. And because my brother was handicapped, he would spend most of his life with his dad. Through all the lonely years they have had each other. Isaiah 55:8,9 says:
" For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the Lord.
As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.
God has a plan for everyone born into this world. Often those plans don't make sense to us. That is because the plans are not of this world.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
No One to Play With
For many years I have called my sister's children, Alex and Amanda, my transition team to bridge the gap between raising my own children and having grandchildren. I married young and had all three of our children by the time I was 30. My sister, who is six years younger than me, didn't marry until she was over 30. (For a fee I will tell how much over 30.) My kids were in their teens when my sister's were being born. Unfortunately my niece and nephew have also succumbed to growing up, Alex is 13, Amanda 11, and the ship coming in with my grandchildren has not yet appeared on the horizon.
I have been grateful not to be made a grandmother through the creative efforts of my unmarried sons like many of my acquaintances have. I am also grateful that my daughter lacked that kind of creativity before marriage and while putting her husband through school. Now, after nearly eight years of marriage, they have decided to make a sequel "Grad School (non) Musical " which alters the ETA of my future grandkids. There are many reasons for wanting to have grandchildren: spiritual--I want to help pass the baton of faith to the next generation, revenge--someday I hope you have children just like you, selfish--you get to spoil them and give them back to their parents. My reason--I want to have someone to play with. That is why I look with such regret at the empty horizon and a transition team who will soon discover hanging out with their aunt is uncool; I am afraid I will have no one to play with.
I don't intend to be one of those grandmas who has things to play with, I want to be a thing to play with. I like coloring and pretending a blanket on the floor is a magic carpet. I like making forts in the living room and in piles of leaves, making up silly songs and wishing on the first star of the evening. I like imagining. For example, on Sunday we were at Silverwood amusement park where my favorite ride is the Paratrooper. On the first ride Amanda was with her mother and I rode by myself. I noticed how much it was like swinging and was tempted to pump my legs as if it would go higher, but I was a 54 year old woman riding alone on the Paratrooper. Toward the end of the evening while Reed and Alex were waiting in line for another ride, Amanda and I ran off to the Paratrooper. I pretended to use Jedi mind tricks on the group of teens in front of us, "These are not the rides you're looking for", and they actually did leave to go home. Perhaps I am a Jedi. Amanda and I rode together pumping our legs, grossly describing what would happen if our seat broke free. We named the stars--not the constellations--Herbie, Melvin things like that. Simply put, we played.
I was one of those girls often described as mature for my age. This is code for a child forced to grow up too quickly by hard circumstances. Maybe for that reason I didn't get playing out of my system, all I know is that I am tired of being mature for my age. I'm not going to start singing "Puff, the Magic Dragon" at this point. Maybe I'm just a girl who can't say grow, but the solution to the problem is simple--trust God. That is the solution to everything. Trust His plan. Trust His timing. Trust His goodness. Meanwhile I'll play with the transition team as long as I can and just keep watching the horizon.
I have been grateful not to be made a grandmother through the creative efforts of my unmarried sons like many of my acquaintances have. I am also grateful that my daughter lacked that kind of creativity before marriage and while putting her husband through school. Now, after nearly eight years of marriage, they have decided to make a sequel "Grad School (non) Musical " which alters the ETA of my future grandkids. There are many reasons for wanting to have grandchildren: spiritual--I want to help pass the baton of faith to the next generation, revenge--someday I hope you have children just like you, selfish--you get to spoil them and give them back to their parents. My reason--I want to have someone to play with. That is why I look with such regret at the empty horizon and a transition team who will soon discover hanging out with their aunt is uncool; I am afraid I will have no one to play with.
I don't intend to be one of those grandmas who has things to play with, I want to be a thing to play with. I like coloring and pretending a blanket on the floor is a magic carpet. I like making forts in the living room and in piles of leaves, making up silly songs and wishing on the first star of the evening. I like imagining. For example, on Sunday we were at Silverwood amusement park where my favorite ride is the Paratrooper. On the first ride Amanda was with her mother and I rode by myself. I noticed how much it was like swinging and was tempted to pump my legs as if it would go higher, but I was a 54 year old woman riding alone on the Paratrooper. Toward the end of the evening while Reed and Alex were waiting in line for another ride, Amanda and I ran off to the Paratrooper. I pretended to use Jedi mind tricks on the group of teens in front of us, "These are not the rides you're looking for", and they actually did leave to go home. Perhaps I am a Jedi. Amanda and I rode together pumping our legs, grossly describing what would happen if our seat broke free. We named the stars--not the constellations--Herbie, Melvin things like that. Simply put, we played.
I was one of those girls often described as mature for my age. This is code for a child forced to grow up too quickly by hard circumstances. Maybe for that reason I didn't get playing out of my system, all I know is that I am tired of being mature for my age. I'm not going to start singing "Puff, the Magic Dragon" at this point. Maybe I'm just a girl who can't say grow, but the solution to the problem is simple--trust God. That is the solution to everything. Trust His plan. Trust His timing. Trust His goodness. Meanwhile I'll play with the transition team as long as I can and just keep watching the horizon.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Gone to the Dogs
Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone. Oh where oh where can he be? I remember that song from my childhood. I don't remember where the dog turned up in the tune, but I know where the dogs are now: at the craft show, the concert, etc. I have a dog and thoroughly enjoy his company at home or going to the island for walks where he can explore, sniff and pee to his heart's content, but Garth is no connoisseur of the finer things. I wouldn't consider taking him to a concert, even before he went deaf, because he has no discernible appreciation for music. Neither is Garth interested in art or craft shows. He is a dog. If I took him to those venues he would sniff, pee (or worse) and growl at other dogs because he is a dog and that's what dogs do.
But I have noticed that in increasing numbers other people are bringing their dogs to these crowded, public events. An outdoor concert is no longer an opportunity for humans to enjoy music, summer and nature at the same time, they have become an adult show-and-tell. Apparently a pet themed show-and-tell. One man staged a mini performance by standing up and putting his dog through a series of commands. Most of the showing off is more subtle.
Last weekend I attended a large craft show where a doberman (who knew they could be aggressive?) started after one of the many little mutts in attendance. The owner gave it an earnest tongue lashing and threatened to leave it in the car. Why didn't she do that in the first place? What part of the craft show did she think the dog would enjoy? Last night I was at a park for an evening concert when I smelled a noxious odor and then noticed a dog walking past. No, it had not gone or worse in the near vicinity, that was just the way it smelled. It was definitely the most aromatic of the many music loving dogs at the park. In past years at the concerts it was requested that dogs be left home because running children + dogs = biting incidents and the parks department didn't want to be sued. Also dog + dogs = barking, growling, fighting and dogs + grass= poop. Unless these animals have remarkably strange home lives I am sure the owners have noticed this pattern of behavior.
It would take rather extensive/expensive training to teach a dog to pee (or worse) only on command, get along with all other dogs and never growl at running children not to mention teaching them music/art/craft appreciation. It might be easier to train people to enjoy all dogs, stepping in poop and being growled at or bit but I have come up with an even simpler solution--take the dog to places where he can sniff, pee and other things he enjoys or LEAVE THE DOG HOME. This country is not going to the dogs, the dogs are being chauffeured there by their owners. If you want your dog to appreciate culture, feed him yogurt or better yet, let sleeping dogs lie.
But I have noticed that in increasing numbers other people are bringing their dogs to these crowded, public events. An outdoor concert is no longer an opportunity for humans to enjoy music, summer and nature at the same time, they have become an adult show-and-tell. Apparently a pet themed show-and-tell. One man staged a mini performance by standing up and putting his dog through a series of commands. Most of the showing off is more subtle.
Last weekend I attended a large craft show where a doberman (who knew they could be aggressive?) started after one of the many little mutts in attendance. The owner gave it an earnest tongue lashing and threatened to leave it in the car. Why didn't she do that in the first place? What part of the craft show did she think the dog would enjoy? Last night I was at a park for an evening concert when I smelled a noxious odor and then noticed a dog walking past. No, it had not gone or worse in the near vicinity, that was just the way it smelled. It was definitely the most aromatic of the many music loving dogs at the park. In past years at the concerts it was requested that dogs be left home because running children + dogs = biting incidents and the parks department didn't want to be sued. Also dog + dogs = barking, growling, fighting and dogs + grass= poop. Unless these animals have remarkably strange home lives I am sure the owners have noticed this pattern of behavior.
It would take rather extensive/expensive training to teach a dog to pee (or worse) only on command, get along with all other dogs and never growl at running children not to mention teaching them music/art/craft appreciation. It might be easier to train people to enjoy all dogs, stepping in poop and being growled at or bit but I have come up with an even simpler solution--take the dog to places where he can sniff, pee and other things he enjoys or LEAVE THE DOG HOME. This country is not going to the dogs, the dogs are being chauffeured there by their owners. If you want your dog to appreciate culture, feed him yogurt or better yet, let sleeping dogs lie.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
18 Ocean View
I was 18 when I first saw the ocean. I grew up in Missoula and a river runs through it, several actually, but being from a non-swimming family my experiences were limited to throwing rocks in the water and wading. Although there were several lakes not too far away I have very few memories of being at a lake. So when I found out the first social activity of the year at my college in Oregon was a beach party I was thrilled. I wondered how I would react. I am by nature a reserved person and I didn't know anyone there well enough to let down my guard with anyway, but as we got near enough to the coast for me to see glimpses through the bus windows I started crawling over my classmates for a closer look. I was entranced. When we got out of the bus and I could experience the ocean with my other four senses it was even more magnificent.
I had never seen such massive motion, it was as if the familiar mountains surrounding my Montana home had somehow come to life. I had never heard the roar of the ocean before, and yet it sounded familiar. The vastness of the sea stretching from the Oregon horizon to merge with her sister seas and cover the planet made me feel as small as the grains of sand on the beach. I knew within it's depths were fish of all sizes and descriptions, strange creatures, some still undiscovered, and nearby--whales. All this combined with the power of the wind until I began to distinguish in the roaring waves the call of a mother, the call to come home. The ocean calls us home because it is the sound of the womb, the first sounds any of us hear. A womb with a view. Burial at sea now seemed more fitting than lonely.
For the Christian there are many strange homecomings. Through Christ we come to God only to discover He is our Father and that somewhere inside we knew all along that He should be. We find a church home and discover that it is full of brothers and sisters from newborn to elderly. We travel to distant places and feel an instant kinship with strangers with whom we have nothing in common except the Spirit. And finally, we go one by one to the foreign beauty of heaven only to discover it has always been our real home.
I waded in the cold water that September in Oregon though few others did. They had seen the sea before. We have made many trips since then to the rocky Oregon coast. I have seen the northern Atlantic and enjoyed the warmth of the Gulf coast and occasionally swayed to the rocking chair motion of boats. In Hawaii I even saw whales. The first time I saw the ocean I wondered how I would react; it is the same to this day--with wonder.
I had never seen such massive motion, it was as if the familiar mountains surrounding my Montana home had somehow come to life. I had never heard the roar of the ocean before, and yet it sounded familiar. The vastness of the sea stretching from the Oregon horizon to merge with her sister seas and cover the planet made me feel as small as the grains of sand on the beach. I knew within it's depths were fish of all sizes and descriptions, strange creatures, some still undiscovered, and nearby--whales. All this combined with the power of the wind until I began to distinguish in the roaring waves the call of a mother, the call to come home. The ocean calls us home because it is the sound of the womb, the first sounds any of us hear. A womb with a view. Burial at sea now seemed more fitting than lonely.
For the Christian there are many strange homecomings. Through Christ we come to God only to discover He is our Father and that somewhere inside we knew all along that He should be. We find a church home and discover that it is full of brothers and sisters from newborn to elderly. We travel to distant places and feel an instant kinship with strangers with whom we have nothing in common except the Spirit. And finally, we go one by one to the foreign beauty of heaven only to discover it has always been our real home.
I waded in the cold water that September in Oregon though few others did. They had seen the sea before. We have made many trips since then to the rocky Oregon coast. I have seen the northern Atlantic and enjoyed the warmth of the Gulf coast and occasionally swayed to the rocking chair motion of boats. In Hawaii I even saw whales. The first time I saw the ocean I wondered how I would react; it is the same to this day--with wonder.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Carping About Carpet
I enjoy running (more like shuffling) around the house barefoot although my old feet have not only betrayed me, but demanded support, arch support. I also don't mind being asked to take off my shoes at other people's houses, I'm comfortable that way, but I don't care if guests or residents wear their shoes in mine. I'm all about comfort (ask anyone). I want my guests to do whatever is most comfortable for them--shoes or no shoes. My main reason for that is that I am running a home, not a carpet preserve. I know a carpet gets more dirty and worn when people walk on it in shoes. I want it to get dirty and worn. In ten years I will be tired of the carpet and want to replace it, but I am biologically wired not to replace anything until the old one is broken. Unless someone's boots are tracking in mud or manure, tracking in dirt is just contributing to the cause of someday getting new carpet. You're welcome.
Wood floors are very popular now but that doesn't solve the floor problem. Many people are so fussy about their wood floors you would think they have to be cleaned with platinum. Some of them are so protected with rugs you can't even see the wood much less get it dirty, like those (reportedly) beautiful wood tables that owners perpetually cover with pads or tablecloths. If no one will ever see the wood you might as well save your money and buy press board. But, to get off the table and on the floor, I prefer carpet. Our home didn't come with buried hardwood floors that just need refinishing; we would have to start from square (foot) one.
My daughter prefers to put wood and tile in the houses they remodel because they have two dogs and carpet, although/because the dogs love it, gets nasty in no time. But as we have seen in our rooms with tile, vinyl etc. the dog hair just rolls itself into fanciful clumps and hides under the furniture. It's still there and even more alarming in bunny size. I prefer carpet because, unless you have a heated floor, it is warmer. This is Montana. Warm trumps pretty. Yes, the carpet collects dog hair, but that just makes it warmer. When we bought carpet for our first home, a trailer (we were too poor to call it a mobile home) in Helena , we were smart enough to buy a remnant that matched the dog we had at the time. You can reverse this process if you are between dogs and match the dog to your carpet but you may have to avoid the more bizarre shades of carpet. You should probably do that anyway, no matter what the decorating programs or polite guests tell you, bizarre is ugly.
So feel free to walk in my house in your shoes--or even mine. The carpet is there for the comfort and convenience of the people in the home, not the other way around.
Wood floors are very popular now but that doesn't solve the floor problem. Many people are so fussy about their wood floors you would think they have to be cleaned with platinum. Some of them are so protected with rugs you can't even see the wood much less get it dirty, like those (reportedly) beautiful wood tables that owners perpetually cover with pads or tablecloths. If no one will ever see the wood you might as well save your money and buy press board. But, to get off the table and on the floor, I prefer carpet. Our home didn't come with buried hardwood floors that just need refinishing; we would have to start from square (foot) one.
My daughter prefers to put wood and tile in the houses they remodel because they have two dogs and carpet, although/because the dogs love it, gets nasty in no time. But as we have seen in our rooms with tile, vinyl etc. the dog hair just rolls itself into fanciful clumps and hides under the furniture. It's still there and even more alarming in bunny size. I prefer carpet because, unless you have a heated floor, it is warmer. This is Montana. Warm trumps pretty. Yes, the carpet collects dog hair, but that just makes it warmer. When we bought carpet for our first home, a trailer (we were too poor to call it a mobile home) in Helena , we were smart enough to buy a remnant that matched the dog we had at the time. You can reverse this process if you are between dogs and match the dog to your carpet but you may have to avoid the more bizarre shades of carpet. You should probably do that anyway, no matter what the decorating programs or polite guests tell you, bizarre is ugly.
So feel free to walk in my house in your shoes--or even mine. The carpet is there for the comfort and convenience of the people in the home, not the other way around.
Life--condensed version
I think everyone at some point in their life should have a dog. This is not just because of how good it feels to come home to someone who greets us ecstatically and adores everything we say and do, or even because talking to the dog doesn't seem as strange as talking to ourselves . People should have a dog because dogs show us life--the condensed version. Remember those Reader's Digest abridged books? They could fit three classic books in the amount of pages the author allotted for one. Dogs, in their brief span on earth, have a lot to teach us about life.
Thirteen years ago when our dog, Garth, was a puppy he followed us around like a . . .well, you know. When he was in his toddler phase and we took him for a walk he stayed close by our heels because that was where he felt safe, much like any preschooler. A couple months later when Garth was in his "teens" he ran ahead, regardless of what we told him. He was satisfied with occasional glances back in our direction just to make sure we were around somewhere. Sound familiar? This was followed by many happy years of companionship with our adult dog. That is the stage of life Reed and I are in now, enjoying our grown children.
But Garth is now in his late life stage. He has a hard time getting his hips off the floor. Sometimes he will leave a tossed chunk of food laying on the carpet rather than get up, a sacrifice that would have been unthinkable before. Garth is now stone deaf and has nearly lethal breath. The white on his muzzle is spreading to the top of his head. He has grown a bumper crop of fatty tumors. He still loves going for walks but lags further and further behind. When I wait for him to catch up, he seems embarrassed. He pants for quite a while after we get home and drinks a lot of water. I have begun to shorten our morning walks.
What have I learned from a non-English speaking teacher one fourth my age? Besides seeing 70 plus years of human life condensed into little over a decade, I have learned cleanliness is next to loneliness, not godliness. The companionship of a pet more than makes up for the hair. It is important to stop and smell the roses (and everything else) as we pass through life. The same old routine can be exciting if you have enough imagination (poor pattern recognition and/or minimal intelligence). Now that Garth is deaf and we both suffer from arthritic knees, I learn that the goodness of life is not about what we can do, it's about who we have. When Garth dies we will learn anew to grieve and move on to love again. A dog's love is not undying, but it is unconditional. If unconditional love is all we learn from our pet's condensed life, it is more than enough.
Thirteen years ago when our dog, Garth, was a puppy he followed us around like a . . .well, you know. When he was in his toddler phase and we took him for a walk he stayed close by our heels because that was where he felt safe, much like any preschooler. A couple months later when Garth was in his "teens" he ran ahead, regardless of what we told him. He was satisfied with occasional glances back in our direction just to make sure we were around somewhere. Sound familiar? This was followed by many happy years of companionship with our adult dog. That is the stage of life Reed and I are in now, enjoying our grown children.
But Garth is now in his late life stage. He has a hard time getting his hips off the floor. Sometimes he will leave a tossed chunk of food laying on the carpet rather than get up, a sacrifice that would have been unthinkable before. Garth is now stone deaf and has nearly lethal breath. The white on his muzzle is spreading to the top of his head. He has grown a bumper crop of fatty tumors. He still loves going for walks but lags further and further behind. When I wait for him to catch up, he seems embarrassed. He pants for quite a while after we get home and drinks a lot of water. I have begun to shorten our morning walks.
What have I learned from a non-English speaking teacher one fourth my age? Besides seeing 70 plus years of human life condensed into little over a decade, I have learned cleanliness is next to loneliness, not godliness. The companionship of a pet more than makes up for the hair. It is important to stop and smell the roses (and everything else) as we pass through life. The same old routine can be exciting if you have enough imagination (poor pattern recognition and/or minimal intelligence). Now that Garth is deaf and we both suffer from arthritic knees, I learn that the goodness of life is not about what we can do, it's about who we have. When Garth dies we will learn anew to grieve and move on to love again. A dog's love is not undying, but it is unconditional. If unconditional love is all we learn from our pet's condensed life, it is more than enough.
Me Time
It seems fast food commercials are trying to make us selfish: "Have it your way.", "Be good to yourself.", and now "Me time". I don't think this is a sentiment we need to encourage. If your me is anything like my me, 70 percent of the time is "me time" and that is only because for the other 30 percent we are asleep. That doesn't mean that I'm giving myself a treat (in this case, McDonald's iced coffee) on a minute by minute basis, but even when I am working or doing something for other people, I am still thinking about me. This is not an anomaly, it is the normal human condition. Ego centrism is present in newborns who may never in their lifetime learn the term. It is a good thing for babies to know and communicate what they want or they wouldn't survive infancy. The problem is we never really outgrow it. Having commercials reminding us to be good to ourselves is about as necessary as having doctors remind us to breathe and swallow.
I'm not a total narcissist. I work part time in home health as a caregiver--the real kind, not the marijuana kind. I enjoy my job because I think old people are the bomb, but that doesn't mean there aren't some for whom I wish I had a bomb, including one I shop for voluntarily. I enjoy sharing the hospitality of my home, especially the part where I get to feed people. Food is my love language. If you eat my food, you are accepting my love. I actually enjoy a pleasure more if I get to share it, especially with someone who might not have that opportunity otherwise. My conscious intention is to use my resources, especially time, for Christ but my default drive is set to "me time". So is yours.
God has given us many good things to make our time on earth enjoyable and it would be foolish and ungrateful refuse his gifts. So go ahead and give yourself that treat. But let's be honest, it's always Me Time.
I'm not a total narcissist. I work part time in home health as a caregiver--the real kind, not the marijuana kind. I enjoy my job because I think old people are the bomb, but that doesn't mean there aren't some for whom I wish I had a bomb, including one I shop for voluntarily. I enjoy sharing the hospitality of my home, especially the part where I get to feed people. Food is my love language. If you eat my food, you are accepting my love. I actually enjoy a pleasure more if I get to share it, especially with someone who might not have that opportunity otherwise. My conscious intention is to use my resources, especially time, for Christ but my default drive is set to "me time". So is yours.
God has given us many good things to make our time on earth enjoyable and it would be foolish and ungrateful refuse his gifts. So go ahead and give yourself that treat. But let's be honest, it's always Me Time.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Something More
There was more to him than the blond hair and long, red beard I noticed when I first met him that January day. More to him than the too slender build and pale complexion that made me think he had been a sickly child. He had more to share than the few sentences we exchanged on our long, first trip together when he gave me a ride back to college. In the months to come I would learn that he had the persistence to keep loving me in spite of numerous rejections, and in spite of me. So, in spite of myself, I began to return his love. There is something irresistible about someone who loves you.
It was not love at first sight, or second, or even tenth. There was more to it than that. And, having found something more, I have wanted nothing more.
It was not love at first sight, or second, or even tenth. There was more to it than that. And, having found something more, I have wanted nothing more.
My Heart to Break
Apart from being a victim of violent crime or weather, there are few things in life that leave you as vulnerable as loving someone. For that reason most of us station guards around our hearts to keep out all intruders. That is why I was both amazed and frightened to realize I loved one of my spare sons as much as my own children. I knew he would break my heart, not by his alcoholism or many other faults, but by leaving me. I knew from the moment I met Lance that he was the kind who walks away. Everything I learned about his life only made this more certain, but it was too late. God had bonded us together, it was too late to call the guards, my wall had already been breached. When he left our house for the last time two years and four months later, it was almost a relief. At least the waiting was over. I knew how to lose someone I loved, that was sadly familiar territory.
In God's recycling program experiences are never wasted. In October 2008 I came down with Grave's disease of the thyroid, on Thanksgiving Day Lance left, in mid December I had my overactive thyroid irradiated and in a one of a kind reaction to that, began writing poetry. By the time it became apparent I was not going to hear from Lance, I had poetry as an outlet for those feelings. I do not know the end of this story, nor even how I want it to end. God is the author. But I know that the God who did not waste bread, fish or a dying thyroid would never waste my love.
There is a Billy Joel song that expresses well the vulnerability that love entails. The first verses express his unwillingness to open his heart and be hurt, but recognition of the mistake of passing love by. The final verse of "And So It Goes" says:
So I will choose to be with you
as if the choice were mine to make.
But you can make decisions too
and you can have this heart to break.
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows.
Whenever you let someone into your heart, you are giving them access from which to break it, but that pain is preferable to the deadness of never letting it be broken. That is why God has asked us to love so many so much. He can heal a broken heart, those with numb hearts will never see the need. The best consolation I have found when I have lost someone is knowing that I loved them as much as I could for as long as I could. And so it goes, and so it goes and God's the only one who knows.
In God's recycling program experiences are never wasted. In October 2008 I came down with Grave's disease of the thyroid, on Thanksgiving Day Lance left, in mid December I had my overactive thyroid irradiated and in a one of a kind reaction to that, began writing poetry. By the time it became apparent I was not going to hear from Lance, I had poetry as an outlet for those feelings. I do not know the end of this story, nor even how I want it to end. God is the author. But I know that the God who did not waste bread, fish or a dying thyroid would never waste my love.
There is a Billy Joel song that expresses well the vulnerability that love entails. The first verses express his unwillingness to open his heart and be hurt, but recognition of the mistake of passing love by. The final verse of "And So It Goes" says:
So I will choose to be with you
as if the choice were mine to make.
But you can make decisions too
and you can have this heart to break.
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows.
Whenever you let someone into your heart, you are giving them access from which to break it, but that pain is preferable to the deadness of never letting it be broken. That is why God has asked us to love so many so much. He can heal a broken heart, those with numb hearts will never see the need. The best consolation I have found when I have lost someone is knowing that I loved them as much as I could for as long as I could. And so it goes, and so it goes and God's the only one who knows.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Lift Us Up Where We Belong
I have noticed it is in fashion for young women to display visible bra straps. When I was in high school it was perfectly acceptable to wear no bra, but a mortal embarrassment to have a strap showing. The braless look was especially popular among the young hippy girls but had the unfortunate, inevitable side effect of causing "the girls" to rest near the hips at a young age. Some of my U of M classmates had to bend over to fasten their belts. I have a friend who sells designer bra straps with lace, rhinestones etc. This is not a good idea for those of us who must wear industrial strength bras with their wide straps. People might assume that in a middle aged muddle we had somehow tangled our belt over our shoulders. I am not a pilot, but have lived among them long enough to know getting heavy objects off the ground requires a significant amount of lift, thrust and hardware. There's a reason you don't see a lot of rhinestones in a hardware store. Let's take that as a sign--a "Wide Load" sign.
Results Not Typical
I'm sure there is a rule of grammar somewhere that says not to start an essay with the word because, however now that I started with the phrase above, that rule no longer applies since it will be in the second sentence. Because we live in an age of litigation (brought on by an overabundance of lawyers, and the fact that the only elected officials capable of restraining them are also lawyers), we also live in an age of disclaimers like the title above. Disclaimers provide the legal loophole that protects a company from lawsuits if their product does not do what their advertising so brazenly proclaims it will. And as oxymoronic as it sounds, we also live in a age of gullible cynicism (or cynical gullibility if you prefer). On one hand some people are cynical enough to believe that there is a vast conspiracy among thousands of independent physicians, many of whom became doctors so that no one could tell them what to do (and to get paid to tell other people what to do) to hide the benefits of certain health products, on the other hand those same people are gullible enough to buy products proven only by anecdotal evidence.
The reason we believe that pills will burn away our fat, a special diet will prevent cancer or a topical cream will remove cellulite is because we want good health and looks--as long as it is easy. To quote X-Files, we want to believe. Advertisers know that given a choice between cheap and easy the public will choose easy. Advertisers choose easy also; producing scientific evidence for the effectiveness of a product is hard, finding someone willing to appear on TV in before and after pictures is easy. Slapping a "Results Not Typical" disclaimer somewhere on the ad is also easy. Their toned, cancer and cellulite free butts are covered.
Products which have been scientifically studied, even FDA approved, have even more disclaimers. The prescription drug touting its health benefits on one page of a magazine is followed by two pages of warnings of possible side effects--like death. Looking at the picture in the ad is easy, reading two pages of side effects is hard. Learning the name of the drug to ask our doctor for is hard enough, we can't be expected to read the small print too. Besides, if there is a problem, there are also plenty of ads from attorneys hunting for people who have been harmed by medications. Working to earn and save money is hard, suing your way to wealth is easy. Fortunately it is also easy to read this blog and reading it will make you smarter and better looking.
Results Not Typical
The reason we believe that pills will burn away our fat, a special diet will prevent cancer or a topical cream will remove cellulite is because we want good health and looks--as long as it is easy. To quote X-Files, we want to believe. Advertisers know that given a choice between cheap and easy the public will choose easy. Advertisers choose easy also; producing scientific evidence for the effectiveness of a product is hard, finding someone willing to appear on TV in before and after pictures is easy. Slapping a "Results Not Typical" disclaimer somewhere on the ad is also easy. Their toned, cancer and cellulite free butts are covered.
Products which have been scientifically studied, even FDA approved, have even more disclaimers. The prescription drug touting its health benefits on one page of a magazine is followed by two pages of warnings of possible side effects--like death. Looking at the picture in the ad is easy, reading two pages of side effects is hard. Learning the name of the drug to ask our doctor for is hard enough, we can't be expected to read the small print too. Besides, if there is a problem, there are also plenty of ads from attorneys hunting for people who have been harmed by medications. Working to earn and save money is hard, suing your way to wealth is easy. Fortunately it is also easy to read this blog and reading it will make you smarter and better looking.
Results Not Typical
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Growing Weary
In the dead of winter I am desperate to see green growing things; now, near the end of the summer, I am growing weary. The price of the beauty and utility of plants is eternal vigilance: watering, weeding, mowing, gathering. The flowers themselves seem hot and weary, the vegetable gardens have begun to fulfill their imperative to reproduce and perish. Though it is the hottest part of the summer here in western Montana, in the evening stillness I begin to hear whispers of the coming autumn, "Soon there will be rest. Soon there will be rest." The vegetable gardens will be harvested and rest from their labor of provision, the flowers will keep blooming boldly in the face of the coming frost. The insects will die, unmourned by most of us. I like to visit warm climates in the winter, but I am glad I live where the land takes a winter vacation. God stewards, both plant and human, who work so hard at their seasonal labor, deserve some time off.
What My Children Taught Me About God
In spite of my earlier assertions that the great wisdom I have to share is going to waste since I am rarely asked to give devotions, (I'm unasked, therefore I blog) I have actually spoken at two baby showers. I was only asked to speak at one of them, I was in charge of the second and I was the easiest person to draft for devotions. Many women share how to teach your child about God and that is certainly a good thing, but I spoke about the things my children taught me about God. Naturally, my first living theology lesson came with my firstborn. Baby manuals led me to believe that my newborn would sleep most of the time, but my daughter was too young to read the manuals and so was awake more than she was asleep. That would have been fun except for the fact that for the first two months of her life, if she wasn't eating or sleeping, she was fussing. It wasn't colic or some other insistent fussing, but persistent fussing nonetheless. Frankly, I was not getting a lot out of the relationship. What I learned from my tiny theologian was unconditional love and hope. My love for her did not depend on her behavior and every night as I put her to bed I hoped the next day would be better. A couple months later it was.
I learned two poignant lessons from my second child. When my son was a preschooler we lived in a house with a detached garage and on one my many trips to the garage with the detritus it requires to take children anywhere, he started screaming, "Mommy don't leave me". Aloud I was murmuring reassurance but inside I was thinking "You dumb cluck. What in your experience with me causes you to think I would ever leave you?" Then God zapped me with the memory of the many times I questioned His presence with me after many years of experiencing only faithfulness. "Connie, my forgetful child, (the spiritual way of saying you dumb cluck) what in your experience with me causes you to think I would ever leave you?" Got it, Lord.
The second lesson came when my son was 8 years old. Unknown to me, at a relative's house he had watched a movie he knew he wasn't allowed to. Several days later, after I tucked him in bed he called me back to his room and tearfully confessed what he had done and how much some scenes had bothered him. Would I please forgive him? I was thrilled that at such a young age he was sensitive enough to the Holy Spirit to recognize his sin. I was delighted to forgive him. Until this time I had looked at God's forgiveness as a spiritual equation, we input confession and God inputs forgiveness, a transaction he completes because he promised to. This experience helped me realize that God is as pleased with our sensitivity to his Spirit as I was to my son's. He doesn't have to forgive us, he delights to forgive us.
The hardest lesson I learned from my children was letting go. This was an ongoing lesson as my children spent more and more time away from me but high school graduation is what hammered it home. The year my oldest was graduating we were studying Matthew in BSF and I got to see how Christ prepared for separation from his disciples. As a Christian mother I was feeling compelled to tip my daughter's head back and pour everything she needed to know down her throat, to dump the whole theology truck on her, but I noticed that Jesus gave his disciples only what they were able to understand. I also noticed that immediately after they finally got the very first thing they needed to know about Jesus, who he was, he started preparing them for his departure. Jesus had to do the same thing we do, teach them what he could and trust the Holy Spirit to take it from there. Of course omniscience would be handy as we release our children, but I don't think Jesus was relying on his omniscience. For the most part Christ deliberately handled life with the same tools that are available to us, in this case, trust. He could leave his newborn followers because he trusted God to finish what he started. I learned to do that too.
Remember story problems from math class? I hated story problems, but the tests of life are nothing but story problems. And so I learned theology 101 from my three living lessons. Those principles have stuck with me much longer than anything I was taught in theology class in Bible college. This theology is fixed in my mind because it is attached to my dearest memories, my children.
I learned two poignant lessons from my second child. When my son was a preschooler we lived in a house with a detached garage and on one my many trips to the garage with the detritus it requires to take children anywhere, he started screaming, "Mommy don't leave me". Aloud I was murmuring reassurance but inside I was thinking "You dumb cluck. What in your experience with me causes you to think I would ever leave you?" Then God zapped me with the memory of the many times I questioned His presence with me after many years of experiencing only faithfulness. "Connie, my forgetful child, (the spiritual way of saying you dumb cluck) what in your experience with me causes you to think I would ever leave you?" Got it, Lord.
The second lesson came when my son was 8 years old. Unknown to me, at a relative's house he had watched a movie he knew he wasn't allowed to. Several days later, after I tucked him in bed he called me back to his room and tearfully confessed what he had done and how much some scenes had bothered him. Would I please forgive him? I was thrilled that at such a young age he was sensitive enough to the Holy Spirit to recognize his sin. I was delighted to forgive him. Until this time I had looked at God's forgiveness as a spiritual equation, we input confession and God inputs forgiveness, a transaction he completes because he promised to. This experience helped me realize that God is as pleased with our sensitivity to his Spirit as I was to my son's. He doesn't have to forgive us, he delights to forgive us.
The hardest lesson I learned from my children was letting go. This was an ongoing lesson as my children spent more and more time away from me but high school graduation is what hammered it home. The year my oldest was graduating we were studying Matthew in BSF and I got to see how Christ prepared for separation from his disciples. As a Christian mother I was feeling compelled to tip my daughter's head back and pour everything she needed to know down her throat, to dump the whole theology truck on her, but I noticed that Jesus gave his disciples only what they were able to understand. I also noticed that immediately after they finally got the very first thing they needed to know about Jesus, who he was, he started preparing them for his departure. Jesus had to do the same thing we do, teach them what he could and trust the Holy Spirit to take it from there. Of course omniscience would be handy as we release our children, but I don't think Jesus was relying on his omniscience. For the most part Christ deliberately handled life with the same tools that are available to us, in this case, trust. He could leave his newborn followers because he trusted God to finish what he started. I learned to do that too.
Remember story problems from math class? I hated story problems, but the tests of life are nothing but story problems. And so I learned theology 101 from my three living lessons. Those principles have stuck with me much longer than anything I was taught in theology class in Bible college. This theology is fixed in my mind because it is attached to my dearest memories, my children.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Ordinary Magic
As much as it pains me to admit sentimentality, there is a Hallmark movie I love called "The Magic of Ordinary Days". It is a movie in which almost nothing happens, like "The Shawshank Redemption", except for the plot, which is totally different. In this story the pregnant bride gradually falls in love with the man she was more or less forced to marry. The ordinary days worked their magic--creating love.
This reminds me of the summer I spent taking our home movies to Walgreens, having the 8mm cassettes, for which we no longer had a camera, converted into DVDs. We even had some old reel movies with no sound. What impressed me as I watched the weekly installments of the newly converted is that it wasn't the special occasions that touched me the most, it was the ordinary moments. My young kids showing off on the swing set or scooping the guts out of pumpkins, the kitten playing in a box, these are the times that move me to tears. What was so ordinary then is irretrievably precious to me now. The children are grown and gone from home, there is no one left to carve pumpkins, the kitten lived to a ripe old age and is buried in the back yard. The magic was in the ordinary days-capturing love.
This reminds me of the summer I spent taking our home movies to Walgreens, having the 8mm cassettes, for which we no longer had a camera, converted into DVDs. We even had some old reel movies with no sound. What impressed me as I watched the weekly installments of the newly converted is that it wasn't the special occasions that touched me the most, it was the ordinary moments. My young kids showing off on the swing set or scooping the guts out of pumpkins, the kitten playing in a box, these are the times that move me to tears. What was so ordinary then is irretrievably precious to me now. The children are grown and gone from home, there is no one left to carve pumpkins, the kitten lived to a ripe old age and is buried in the back yard. The magic was in the ordinary days-capturing love.
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