Let Me Be Perfectly Clear

     Sometimes in the Bible, God explains things on such a basic level it's almost as if he thinks we are stupid, which would be really insulting if it weren't for the fact that we are stupid. It's not just that we are too dense    to understand what God said, we also have a innate desire to look for loopholes and an Enemy who helps us find them.  But our Enemy's enemy knows about the loophole looking loophole, so He makes some things perfectly clear, as if our objections were going to be heard in court.
     As I previously blogged, one of the reasons I believe the days of creation in Genesis are literal, 24 hour days, is the sixfold repetition of the phrase evening and morning.  It's like He knew we would question what the meaning of day is. Another example is in his promise to Abraham of a son. Just so we don't think an infertile, geriatric couple were spontaneously able to have a child, God waits an additional 10 years to make it happen.  By that time Sarah was well past menopause and, even Abraham, was on the shady side of fertility. It would take a miracle for them to have a son. That is the point.
     God is equally repetitive about the virgin birth of Christ. Some commentators split hairs over the meaning of the word virgin in Isaiah 9:6, but there is no doubt in the gospel accounts that Mary has never been intimate with Joseph or any other man. God did not divinely tweak a natural, biological conception; the Holy Spirit miraculously intervened to create life in a way that, despite science fiction, has never happened before or since.
     The Bible is equally redundant about Jesus' death. The death was witnessed by soldiers who killed for a living. In case they were fooled, the spear thrust in his side proved he was dead. Naturally, none of this evidence sways those who hold to the swoon theory, who feel that a beaten, flogged, crucified, speared man could somehow recover by lying neglected in a cold tomb for three days. I hope none of these adherents are emergency room doctors, because that kind of care would finish off a much less traumatized patient.  
     In the Bible, God often goes to great length to prebunk the arguments of would-be debunkers. Those who refuse to believe will continue to, but they can never say God's word wasn't perfectly clear.

Reputation vs Name

     I have been in Bible Study Fellowship for decades, and in most of those years there has been a recurring theme that the Holy Spirit patiently hammers into my head until I grasp it.  This year's theme has been the difference between reputation and name.  There is nothing wrong with a Christian trying to maintain a good reputation in his church and community. It is one of the benefits of being obedient to the word. It is one of the things that attracts unbelievers to Christ. But often, in the specific will of Christ, believers are called to take a step of faith that totally trashes their reputation, but establishes their name. 
     One of the examples in our study of Genesis is Noah, 120 years of looking like an idiot, building a giant boat in a land that had never known rain. By the time Noah had, in our vernacular, the last laugh, there were few around to tell "I told you so" to, even if he had the heart to do it. His reputation was trashed, but his name is known by almost everyone in western civilization. His story is one of the most recognized stories in the world.
      I spent the summer studying Ezekiel who, in obedience to God's commands to be a living object lesson to the people, spent most of his ministry giving bad news and living in illogical deprivation. He didn't even make a dent in the idolatry of his contemporaries but, millennia later, the book by his name continues to make an impression in the lives of believers.
     Mary, who had the great privilege of miraculously giving birth to the Messiah, also suffered the lifetime stigma of being considered adulterous by those who didn't believe the miracle. Though she is now revered and even worshiped by many, the lie that Jesus is the product of adultery, lives on. She knew what would happen to her reputation, and Joseph's, when she agreed to cooperate with God. She lay down her reputation and gained a name.
     Of course, the epitome of losing a reputation to gain a name is Jesus. His birth was misunderstood, his teachings were misconstrued, his miracles were maligned, his death with, and as, a criminal destroyed the smattering of good reputation he still retained.  But his name lives on with a power far greater than reputation could ever have. In his name mankind is justified or condemned and to his name all will bow.  Jesus is the master of the universe, the focal point of history, the reward of heaven. I hope I have a good reputation, but if I have to choose one or the other, I choose name.

Wobbly Walk of Wellness

     I didn't expect to bounce right back after knee replacement surgery. At my age you don't bounce, you jiggle--and in all the wrong places, too. My daily allotment of energy drains away with a little "pffftt" sound that isn't even long enough to be rude.  While healing from my warm-up, arthroscopic surgery in October, I  experienced first, and second, hand (one handed massage is as satisfying as one hand clapping) the benefits of massaging my wounded leg morning and night with an anti-inflammatory oil concocted by my massage therapist.  It is easy to massage my own leg, the problem is that the fluids need to reach heart level to expel from the body and I can't massage past my own hips. The good news is, self massage makes my knee look and feel better, the bad news is, my hips become uncomfortable. Further good news is that my massage therapist can relax my hips, more bad news is that her office is downstairs. But that's not a problem because she can borrow the acupuncturist's office on the main floor Tuesday evenings, but that doesn't help because this year Christmas and New Year's Day fall on Tuesday. Massage loosens tight muscles and improves circulation, so its post-surgical benefits are intuitive, even to me, with my natural skepticism of "natural" medicine. My sister, who is a dedicated doubter, probably wouldn't even enter the building because the massage office is in the Wellness Center.
     My other concession to my wobbly walk of wellness has been using arnica tablets.  Arnica montana is a plant with benefits both from its natural anti-inflammatory qualities and from having montana as part of its name.  I had used it previously as an ointment and believe that it does speed healing of bruises, but it is also available in sublingual (under the tongue) tablet form, which I have faithfully used three times a day until both my supply and the bruising went away.
     I have also been faithfully taking my prescribed, unnatural meds. I use pain meds mostly at night because my leg gets in uncomfortable positions while I am sleeping and I want to go back to sleep.  Today I took my last dose of blood thinners. Yeah! Tomorrow I should get my stitches out and be able to shower without a Glad Press'n Seal condom on my knee.  Faithful exercise and a fairly flexible frame has enabled my knee to both straighten and acutely bend, but I didn't sweat the physical therapy worksheet once I realized the 14 exercises were really only three steps: quads, straighten, bend. I also added most of the exercises I normally do at home, but  have raised them from the floor to the bed, because the floor is harder and has more gravity than before my surgery.  However, day by day, the floor is getting back to normal.  And if the floor can do it, so can I. If not back to normal, at least back to usual, it would take more than knee surgery to make me normal.
    

Why Not?

     If the Newtown, Connecticut parents are anything like me, there are wrapped gifts under their Christmas trees for children who will not be there to open them. There are dates circled on calendars for recitals and programs, most of which are cancelled, and few would have the heart to attend anyway. In place of those joyfully anticipated events, they will be attending funerals. Instead of Christmas cards, parents are writing eulogies. Along with Advent activities, pastors are arranging funerals. Candles for Christmas and candles for mourning melt together. We want to know why.
     At a time in which mass murder/suicides are becoming uncomfortably common, the Newtown elementary school shootings are even more inexplicable.  No motive. No connection. The shooter left behind no explanation for the slaughter of so many innocent children and teachers.  They conclude the killer had a "personality disorder", a psychological spectrum so broad as to be meaningless.  Basically, the term means a behavior against societal norms, putting a person who wants to marry their toaster and a mass murderer in the same category. Perhaps the question is not why, but why not?
     What is different from when I was in school? Not the guns, rifles were openly displayed in the gun racks of pickups in the parking lot. Not bullying, but it was done in person, instead of texting or computer.  Alcohol, the nectar of popularity, fueled sex and fighting and despair just like the drugs of today. Why didn't we shoot first and commit suicide later?  I think it was because, whether or not we knew God, we had a vague suspicion that we might run into Him after we died and that He might not be happy with us.  In other words, we were afraid of God.
     When my son's roommate said he was an atheist, Will's response was, "Then why shouldn't I kill you?" Good question. If the only restraint on behavior is criminal penalty, and you are planning to kill yourself anyway, if there is no life beyond death and no judgment for what we do here, why not do whatever you want, even if that means killing children? In the Bible, fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. It is also the answer, it is the why not. We should not kill people, including ourselves, because God exists and will hold us accountable for what we do on earth. It is a concept so basic even someone with "personality disorder" can understand.
    Even if we could understand the reason, and all mass murderers had the same motivation, we cannot barricade ourselves and our children from random acts of violence. We cannot remove all weapons nor lock up all potentially dangerous people. Our only protection is to cling to, live out, and share the truth that there is a God and we will all answer to Him. The Newtown murderer will answer for the destruction he caused.  God will make the why not eternally evident.
    

The Late Ghost of Christmas Past

     I could tell the Ghost of Christmas Past was back, the day I came home from work and did 20 pushups in a row.  The good news is that this happened in November, the Ghost used to arrive in September. Maybe someday, it will miss Christmas completely and I will go through the whole season without feeling restless and sad. It didn't occur to me until this year, that the reason mom's schizophrenia gets so bad at Christmas and Easter is probably that she has ghosts of her own, and fewer mental coping skills available to deal with them. Her parents were wonderful grandparents but, from what dad has said, harsh, unfair and immature parents.
    There is another kind of bitter sweetness attached to Christmas now that my children are grown. I find myself following family traditions and baking Christmas goodies with an attitude of "Why bother?"  Christmas is actually about one, specific child, but I miss being around children at Christmas. My niece and nephew are teens now.  Alex is in the unaware, uncommunicative stage that I remember so well with my own boys but, because they were around the house, I managed to overhear things that were happening in their lives. Amanda, though always delightfully enthusiastic, is busy with dance recital practice, piano lessons and school programs. My new granddaughter-to-be, doesn't know us well enough to want to spend time with me. I miss children. The nest is still empty despite the Christmas decorations.
     Britten and Luke are unable to come to Kalispell this Christmas. Will will be here, but working nights or sleeping. I both understand and want Tracy to share the holiday with his fiance's family. But I have come to realize the test of the importance of holiday traditions is not that our grown kids come to our house to share them, but that they establish Christmas traditions in their own homes.
    The inconvenience of restlessness and insomnia is a small price to pay for the extra energy that enables me to do useful things around the house and, as I said above, the Ghost comes later every year. Meanwhile, no matter what tries to pull me down, I can always push up again.

Finals' Week

     I have always been a disgustingly organized person. I probably had some little prenatal check list:  head first, then shoulders, placenta last, cry. I will probably die right on schedule. In college, during finals' week when everyone else was studying and finishing projects that had been assigned at the beginning of the semester, I was bumming around alone having, long since, completed all the assignments. I am the same way with Christmas, no last minute dashing through the snow for me. But this is the first time I have had such a specific deadline, this year I needed to have Christmas wrapped up, so to speak, by December 10th, after which I will be busy recovering from knee surgery.  The presents are bought, wrapped and delivered, the cards mailed, the house decorated and the goodies baked and in the freezer. I have no idea what to do in the post surgery, pre-Christmas interval. I have organized myself out of a job again.
     Recovery will be like finals' week, everyone else frantically running around preparing for the holidays, and me, sitting around, propping my leg up.  Naturally, I have prepared for this time by checking out library books and I will have exercises to do, but I'm not sure what else to put on my recovery list. I like making lists and being on top of things, but it's lonely at the top. I'm never quite prepared for that.

The Thorn

     I have often wondered how believers made it through life before the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. It must have been lonely. The way I usually receive guidance from the Spirit is by quiet impressions in my heart during my daily Bible study. He illuminates the parts I need to pay attention to in the way a blind person taps their white cane to know what lies ahead and which way to go. Today He was not quiet. This morning on my way to work I was listening to James McDonald on the radio. That's about the only time I hear him, 15 minutes, twice a week, on my way to work. Today he talked about humility and how God had given Paul a thorn in the flesh to keep him from being arrogant about the great revelations God had given him.  I laughingly told the Lord, "I've had migraines for all these years, and I'm still arrogant." Moments later the thought came clearly into my mind, "That is not your thorn in the flesh, your thorn is your mom."
     I knew it was the Spirit's voice in the same way I knew He was right. I just knew. That motherless child void within me has kept me small inside, at times, even broken. And it is that brokenness that has made me merciful to other broken people. It is that depth of sorrow that keeps me from settling for a shallow life. In that moment of mutual consolation, I found myself saying, "It's okay, I understand.", accepting the thorn.

Ducks in a Row

     I am one of those organized people who like to have their ducks in a row or, in my case, lambs in a line. I like to plan ahead, make lists so I can cross things off, buy birthday gifts weeks ahead of time, never have to run to the store for toilet tissue, etc.  This year I have to be even more ducky than usual because I am having a knee replacement December 10th and need to have all my Christmas preparations finished by then. I have most of our presents bought and wrapped, including stocking stuffers. The ones for Britten and Luke, who will not be here for Christmas, were ready for them to take home by the end of Thanksgiving weekend. Christmas cards, stamps and stationery are waiting for the annual Christmas letter which I inflict on my friends and family. And today I decorated the house for Christmas--minus tree. This is a little early for me but, of course, I am months behind retailers and many of our neighbors already have their lights up.  A week before Thanksgiving I saw red and blue lights out our front window, I thought a cop car was parked in the street; it turned out to be our neighbor's Christmas lights lining the fence.
     But I have discovered God is not at all interested in my ducks being in a row.  Years ago, when I was asked to be a BSF leader, I had it all planned out.  First, my husband would get the better paying job he was pursuing, then I would be able to quit my job at the hospital and we could afford Christian school without my income. Phase three would be accepting the role of group leader. There are many leaders capable of working, leading and taking care of their families at the same time, but I knew I was not one of those. I would have to make a choice. This was the third time I had been asked to consider leadership and apparently, the Spirit uses a "three strikes--you're in" rule because He was hammering confirmation into my heart and, though I knew God equips those He calls, it still felt like the clammy hand of death on my shoulder.  God's plan was that I first, accept the leadership position, then quit my job. Phase three was Reed getting his better paying job.  One of us had our ducks backwards.
     The problem with being terminally organized is that it is easy to transfer living by faith in God to faith in the Plan. It is also presumptuous to assume that God's plan for the future will coincide with ours.  We have just begun studying the life of Abraham in Bible study, and I can imagine the following conversation:

Abraham:  Pack up the camels Sarah, we're going camping.
Sarah:  Where?
Abraham:  Don't know yet.
Sarah:  How long?
Abraham:  For the rest of our lives.

     No Holiday Inn, no Walmart, didn't even know where to gas up the camels, much less put them in a row.  They went. Yes, they brought supplies, Sarah probably made a list, but God was their GPS. He had the plan.  I try to remember that as I rush about, herding ducks. Faith should not be the last thing on my list. It is not the back up plan.  It is the place we are to camp for the rest of our lives. 
    

 

Cowboys and Angels

     "There's a want and there's a need.
      There's a history between
      Girls like her and guys like me.
      Cowboys and angels, cowboys and angels."

      This is a new song on country stations called "Cowboys and Angels".  It's lyrics strike a chord with me because it somewhat describes my relationship with Reed. As anyone who knows me can attest, I'm no angel, but Reed is somewhat of a cowboy.  Reed was never a cowboy in the horse riding, Stetson wearing sense of the word, but he is a cowboy in the independent, unrefined sense.  No offense to his mother but, when I started dating Reed, he was only green broke.  On our first date, he said, "I don't know nothing about how to treat girls, so you're going to have to teach me."  I accepted that challenge.  It's not that he hadn't been exposed to good manners, it's just that he never particularly noticed them.  Even then, Reed was very well read, but he has yet to notice nuances like spelling and punctuation. How people dress and polite social manners are also nuances cowboys do not bother with.
      I am usually well, if inexpensively, dressed and have a good grasp of manners--Montana style, so we were considered somewhat of an odd couple when we started dating. Which explains an odd conversation I had with an acquaintance at Bible college.
    She said, "But Connie, you're such a lady and Reed's such a . . .a. . ."
    I finally took pity on her and suggested, "country boy?".
    "Yes, that's it."
     Cowboys have rough edges and rough hands. They live by their own code, but it is, for the most part, an honorable one. They can patch up animals, machinery and themselves with equal competence. They don't use lots of words but, the few they use, matter.  Somehow, those rough bundles of baling wire manage to snag women who are as unlike them as silk from burlap and both discover they fit together like vel and cro.
     It doesn't matter to me that there is more culture in my yogurt than in my cowboy,  I'm angel enough to know a good man when I see one.

Labor Day

    This year as we went around the Thanksgiving table sharing what we were most thankful for, I was thankful for Labor Day.  That was unusual because Labor Day is one of those holidays I've never paid attention to. The only reason I like Labor Day is that I get paid time-and-a half to work, while not missing out on anything special at home. Labor Day celebrates the spirit of  American laborers with a day of laziness and drinking beer.  To me, it is the American equivalent of the English bank holiday, meaning: nothing special is going on, we just want a day off.  Also, I don't like Labor Day's association with labor unions, which I believe were once a necessary evil back when workers were routinely exploited, and an unnecessary evil now.
     Doing actual labor on Labor Day is nothing unusual in our family (see Raising the Roof), but what made this year special was that all of our children gathered at our daughter's place in Butte to help reshingle her roof.  Watching our children working and laughing together and sharing the family stories was the reward equivalent of receiving the Nobel prize for parenting. In spite of us, our children had become the friends we always hoped they would be.
    Then, to cap off an already rewarding day, Tracy announced that he had proposed to his girlfriend, and would be adding to our family another daughter and a two year old granddaughter. This was an amazing development since Tracy's girlfriends tended to disappear like objectivity on CNN as soon as they used the "F" word--future. Fortunately, when a heart is too full, it only throws up praise. That was why this year Labor Day turned out not be a turkey and, instead, became the center of my Thanksgiving feast.

Twilight for Twinkies

     Due to the tendency of union leaders to kill the goose that lays the golden, cream-filled egg, we may be facing a crisis unprecedented in my lifetime--the twilight of the Twinkie, the demise of the Ding Dong. Frankly, the fading of the fruit pie would not have a significant impact on my adult life, eating Hostess snacks is merely another memory of the childhood I have left behind, along with jumping rope and playing tag. These much maligned munchies are condemned for their preservatives and blamed for childhood obesity, the problem with that argument is that kids of my generation ate them on a semi-regular basis and we did not become obese.  When I was in school, each class had one, maybe two, fat kids. It was an unofficial, but long term position, like having a smart boy, a smart girl, a small kid, a class clown, a spoiled brat, a rich kid and a bully.
     The reason we could eat sugar-filled, fat-saturated snacks without building big behinds, is that we did not leave behind skipping rope and playing tag.  The caloric intake is not the problem, the caloric output is.  Back then the homes were small, the kids numerous, and the moms shooed us outside where we would be safe--from them.  Being confined to the house meant you were sick, had just been spanked or were about to be spanked. Be it ever so toy filled, there's no place like house arrest. All the good things happened outside, and most of those required physical activity of some kind.  Back then Wii was "we"--neighborhood kids, playing together like a pack of juvenile jackals. Yes, we were destructive, but that is why we had to run.  Running is good for you, so is climbing and hiding depending on the destructiveness of the game you have been playing.
     So don't dis the Ding Dongs. Calories are not the culprit and, I figure, all those preservatives will enable us baby boomers to live longer. Now it appears some other company will step in to fill our sweet dreams and rescue the Hostess workers from their own union, and the magical bond between their buns and ours will live on.

Cosmic Rays from Space

     I often wondered why, when God wanted to smite somebody, he used something ordinary like plague or hailstones instead of Cosmic Rays from Space. Zapping people seems a lot more spectacular, but God tends to use natural forces he has already created. Supernatural use of natural forces will cause a lot of the suffering in the tribulation as well. He also tends to punish us with the natural consequences of our sins. God had no problem creating everything, but he is economical in its usage. He actually invented recycling.
    It is this tendency of God not to reinvent the wheel that makes me believe that the days of creation were probably 24 hour days. Creation specifics are one of the many disputable areas in which Christians are free to disagree, it is not a teaching essential to salvation. But I believe God went out of his way to include the phrase "and there was evening and morning", with the days of creation to debunk the idea that "day" could mean an unspecified period of time. Both eons of daylight and eons of darkness would kill the plants and animals if they were anything like those we have now.  It's almost like God anticipated the theory of evolution.  "Day" probably means day.
     Likewise, I think "day" meant a 24 hour day even before the sun, moon and stars were created, because God tends to use the natural system he has already set up.  If his intention when he gave us the sun was to establish 24 hour days, he probably set that system up on day one. However, the disappointment that I will only see Cosmic Rays from Space in sci-fi movies, is worth the relief of not having to live looking over my shoulder, waiting to get zapped.
   

Bashing Black Friday

     I have to admit, I have already done some online peeking at the Black Friday sales.  I spend a significant part of Thanksgiving Day perusing the flyers, making a list, checking it twice, and planning the itinerary as if we were exploring space instead of parking spaces. Stories of Black Friday shoppers fighting and trampling their way to the holy holiday have given Black Friday sales a well deserved black eye. They are considered by some to be the epitome of ugly American greed. But greed is not what motivates me to leave my cozy bed at 5 a.m. on what is, for me, a work day, so that I can buy my family more extravagant gifts that I could ordinarily afford, it is love.
     Love--and thrift.  In the SILK (Single Income Lotsa Kids) days of my childhood, we lived on the cheap side of the thrift tracks. After graduation, I headed off to Bible college with faith, a student loan, and very little income. As a newlywed, I helped put a broke husband through aircraft fixing school (a modest investment on which I have lived for 33 years).  Then I was the overworked, underemployed mom of three children who were able attend Christian school on Reed's modest income.  I worked part time through some of those years, but my main contribution to the family finances was saving, not earning, money.  Our kids are grown and my husband is established in his profession so we have a more comfortable lifestyle, but I have not retired from my lifestyle as cheap financial officer. I consider thrift wise stewardship of the income God has given us.
     Greed is wanting, and buying, more than you need or can afford. Black Friday sales allow us to buy gifts that our loved ones want or need and still stay within our Christmas budget. My shopping-impaired husband even goes with me, after all, he is used to getting up to hunt in the wee hours of the morning. Finding these bargains was especially important as our children launched from home and needed--OUR stuff.  On one hand, I love getting a good deal, on the other hand, I love sleeping in, on the third hand, I love my children more, but on the second third hand, not enough to shop the dreaded discount stores like Walmart.  We mostly shop at hardware stores, and the hammer holding horde is neither as numerous nor bargain blood thirsty as the Walmart warriors.
     The last thing I want to do is recruit more shoppers to the sales, by all means stay home. Feel free to bash Black Friday consumerism, but don't look down on us stalwart stewards of our discount daily bread, we haven't had our beauty sleep.

If We Prayed It Like We Meant It

Our Father who's parked in heaven,
how often we use your name.
May our kingdom come, our will be done
on earth, if not in heaven.
Give us this day enough bread 

to last through retirement.
Forgive us our sins,

 but we will not forgive those

who sin against us.
You don't have to lead us into temptation, 

we can find our way to evil.
For ours is the whining 

and the wanting and the worry
forever and ever.

Amen

From the Reds to the Blues

    I was disappointed with the outcome of the recent election, of course.  I live in a little bastion of conservatism, most local radio talk shows are channeled to the right wing, the worst accusation in the campaign attack ads was--my opponent voted with Obama.  It gives us a skewed view of the national political climate, not as skewed as CNN, but skewed nonetheless. So I was sad Tuesday night, but not as sad as I was when "Billary" got elected for a second term.  We were studying the kings of Israel in BSF that year and I thought we had willingly reinstated Ahab and Jezebel.  The consolation was that they couldn't rule for decades like Israel's rotten kings.
     But I have learned something in the intervening years that helped me make it through election night, God is sovereign in the affairs of men.  He can use a leader who denies and detests him to work out his purpose just as well as one who loves and obeys him.  In fact, often God goes out of his way to choose an unbeliever to accomplish his will.  Pharoah's oppression didn't stop the Exodus.  Haman's plot to wipe out the Jews not only wiped out Haman, but many of their other enemies.  But my favorite example is Cyrus.  Cyrus was uniquely prophesied by name in Isaiah as one who would rebuild the temple in Jerusalem.  I don't think his name was written in scripture centuries in advance to convince Cyrus, he was an inclusive individual who liked to appease his subjects' god preferences. I think it was written to convince the Jews. I'm sure they were thinking, yes we want to build the temple, but why not choose some nice Jewish boy to lead us instead of this heathen?  For us it would be the equivalent of having a national Christian heritage day declared by Barak Obama.
     Yes, it is a great blessing to have godly leaders, but God is not the least bit frustrated by ungodly ones.  We are, but he is not. The Bible will not be found in the humor section of a bookstore, although there are some funny stories in it, but it does say that God laughs at our puny human plots against him. When God watches the schemes of our world's rebellious rulers, it is not only a reality show, but a sitcom. God thanks us for our cooperation in doing his will, but he does not need it.
     We are called to be people of hope.  I found hope in the record number of people who came out to vote, Americans are, at last, aware that our way of life is at stake.  I found hope that, after all the years of Republican leaders trying to impersonate Democrats, they are returning to their historic distinctives.  But mostly I found hope in the truth that no matter who is president, God is king.  All world leaders will give account to the king. And when those accounts are read, they will be the ones who are blue.

Sheepish

     I sometimes resent the idea that the Bible calls believers sheep.  You will never hear cheerleaders yelling, "GO MIGHTY SHEEP!!".  Sheep have few natural defenses and lots of natural stupidity. Lambs are cute, but even more helpless.  I am a Lamb, and today I was sheepish.  When my older son was a teenager, he would sometimes arrive home after school halfway through an argument with me that I didn't even know about. I'm not crazy about arguing, although I do it rather well, but if I'm having an argument, I would at least like to be let in on it.  I have also had this experience with my husband who will sometimes play both parts, filling in what I am thinking and saying for me.  Eventually, he will notice my silence and I tell him that if he is going to play my role, there is no need for me to participate.
     Today it was my turn. Our youngest son has been without employment for a couple weeks.  He already has a job lined up, but wanted to finish some side work first. Side work for an auto mechanic involves autos.  Since the only place he has to work on them now is our garage, the side work is stacked in our driveway making it look like we are having a perpetual party.  Our son has been working on them, but he is cramming an eight hour shift into two or three days and I started stressing about it.  Today my little sheep brain began playing worst case scenario about all the things that could go wrong if he didn't start the other job soon, and I mentally delivered several renditions of the same lecture.  I am not a worrier by nature, and I must not do it right because some people make it a calling and I don't enjoy it at all.
     So this afternoon, in walks the object of all my concentrated efforts, who tells me he has a call in to the guy with the lift truck to help move his tool boxes because he is starting the new job this week.  Then he tells me about his financial plan which includes all the good stuff we taught him and that he'll be back tomorrow to work on cars.  What a gyp!  All that good lecture material wasted.  And me, sheepish, but so thankful for the silence of the Lamb. 

Good Hair Day

     I thought that in the two weeks I would be off work following my knee surgery, I would be doing lots of blogging. This has not been the case.  Apparently, my knee bone is connected to my funny bone. Tuesday I had a good hair day, literally, that part was going right. I felt okay and could walk reasonably well, for someone new to Earth who had just recently discovered there was such a thing as walking.  But I skipped BSF that morning because three inches of snow had fallen the night before and I was worried about getting to the church, not in my car, my snow tires work well.  I was worried about getting from the parking lot into the building.  My knee was not strong enough for the fine movements involved in balancing on slippery surfaces and Connie + crutches + ice seemed like a formula for disaster.
     But Tuesday is shopping day--not for me, my knee was not strong enough to shop for me. Tuesday is the day I shop for a shut in. A woman who has been doing things her own way for 88 years and is not about to change. DJ is not the most particular person I have known, but she is number four.  Since preparing a list for two weeks worth of groceries is not her own way, I gamely offered to shop on my lame leg as soon as the snow melted.  As I drove the motorized cart through the store that day, buying groceries that weren't even for me, I was having a bad hair day.  A woman who worries on an Olympic level, who refuses to leave the door unlocked for me to get in with the groceries because she thinks getting startled might break the hip she had surgery on 12 years ago, is perfectly fine with me, her treasured friend, limping through the snow with her groceries 6 days after surgery.
     Whatever blessing I might have gained for this sacrificial service to the Lord, was surely lost in the mental complaining I did afterwards.  The thoughts inside my head were in much worse shape than my leg. Fortunately, people can only see the outside, and my hair looked terrific. 

A Tale of Two Toilets

     For years the toilet in our master bath had a crack in it.  Because the crack was superficial, we didn't bother to replace it. Frankly, a toilet with a crack on it seemed only fitting.  But when we needed to replace the flush pump for the second time in a couple years, we decided to dump that idea and aspire to a new throne. Aside from the tiny toilets you see near a school's kindergarten class, I have always thought of toilets as a one-size-fits-all item, like Snuggis, only way more useful.  But good fortune smiled upon our cracked potty when I found a Costco coupon for a small tank, dual flush, tall toilet.  I wasn't sure about the other features, but I realized a tall toilet might help counteract the increasing gravity that has accompanied my increasing age.
     Where is Al Gore when you need him?  No one is sounding the alarm about the global gravity crisis.  I have no hard data, (but neither did Al Gore) and I have noticed an alarming increase in gravity the closer I get to the floor. It gets worse every year, yet the U.N. does nothing, but then, that's what they are there for. But there is something I can do, I can buy a tall toilet.  In our miniature, master bathroom, now the only victim of the gravity vortex is the soap.
     One problem solved, another created. I cannot seem to reprogram my knees to adjust to toilets of different heights.  At first, I found myself landing abruptly on the tall toilet. Now, having gotten used to it, I keep landing abruptly, shall we say, short of the runway on the normal sized toilet in our main bathroom.  I did not realize until now that part of the fearful and wonderful way our bodies are made includes toilet- tailored sitting.  This is a minor inconvenience compared to serious matters like the gravity crisis, but still a tall tail tale worth telling--at least here, where the expectations are low.

Eternity in Our Hearts

     Ecclesiastes 3:11 says "He (God) has set eternity in the hearts of men."  I understood that verse in the sense that I cannot imagine my own extinction. I cannot conceive of not existing.  I also think of that verse every time I stand at a graveside saying goodbye. An innate sense of right and wrong tells me we are not meant for this, we were not created for goodbyes.  But I heard a message from Ecclesiastes last week that stressed another side of having eternity in our hearts, the knowledge that, no matter how much we achieve here on earth, death will claim all. Wealth, fame, accomplishments, all will be left behind. The king carries no more beyond the grave than the pauper.  Eternity can be a bitter weight to carry in our hearts.
     Eternity is only a comfort to those who know where they will be and who they will be with. It is like the aroma of Christ in 2 Cor. 2:15, 16--to the saved, it is the fragrance of life, to the unsaved, the stench of death.  It is our nature to both long for, and fear, eternity, for only eternal life can give this earthly life significance. It is God's nature to use both the fear and longing to drive us to him. In the heart he transplants into his children, eternity fits perfectly.

Clutching Crutches

     Until yesterday I had not used crutches for 31 years. At age 24 I had surgery to correct a kneecap that had been dislocating since I injured it playing in a sawdust pit at age 9. I was not very good with crutches back when I was younger, stronger and more coordinated. Having grown older, weaker and fatter has not improved the situation. Fortunately, I did not need to use them for long thanks to my bff Cortisone. Within a few hours my knee went from pain from any movement to able to bear weight. Now I only need a crutch for walking longer distances, like out to our mailbox, and I only use one crutch. Even I can't be too big a clutz using one crutch.
     The culmination of the crutch crisis was another of those odd answers to prayer I have blogged about.  Having a stiff, painful knee is nothing new for me, what was new is that the problem was my right aka "good" knee.  I have always counted on "Righty" to make up for "Lefty" and I suppose it felt taken for granted, so about a week ago, Righty got sore.  But not too sore.  I have had two cortisone shots in my left knee because it not only got sore, but unbending.  Bending is a handy thing for a knee to do.  It is practically their entire job description. Righty was painful but still bending fairly well so I couldn't decide whether or not to have it shot.  Then, like an idiot, I prayed about it. The answer came quickly.  Wednesday morning I gimped out to get the newspaper and around the house as usual but when I sat down at the table my right knee hurt like crazy.  I decided to have it shot after I was finished taking blood pressures at Sykes.  Halfway through my two hour shift I hobbled back to the rest room. The trip back to the pharmacy took the remaining hour.  Not really, but I realized partway back that Righty had about had it for the day and I wasn't sure I could make it back without her.
     I knew I could have asked someone to help, but the number one unspoken rule when I was growing up was--Don't draw attention to yourself. If I ever have a heart attack, I will probably text 911 so they can get back to me at their leisure. It is very hard not to draw attention when the place wounded knee decides to make its last stand is in the middle of a restaurant. I got back to my chair in the pharmacy, but by the shock waves I was experiencing, I knew I would not be able to walk out of there. I could have asked the pharmacists to help me into my car but, even if I could have driven, I still wouldn't have a way into orthopedic urgent care.  So I called Reed to pick me up after my shift--literally.
     Another odd God thing is that the doctor I have been waiting two months to see about a knee replacement for Lefty, happened to have an opening between patients and decided to help out the urgent care.  He gave me a cortisone shot, recommended crutches, and told me not to run any marathons.  What luck, I didn't happen to be scheduled for any.  For my birthday Monday, I'm getting an MRI--and I hadn't even asked for one.  If my miniscus is torn, I will need arthroscopic surgery.  I should use that time as crutch practice for my upcoming knee replacement when Clutzy Connie clutches crutches again.

Mortitas--Little Dead Things

   
    The famous philosopher Descartes said "I think, therefore, I am", although he said it in French so it sounded classier.  My philosophy is simpler, "I have cats, therefore, I have little dead things".  That might sound better in French, but I only know Spanish, and I think little dead things would be translated "mortitas".  These mortitas are usually left on the front doormat so we can appreciate them the minute we step outside in the morning. That is why I walk outside gingerly as if our front deck was a mine field. Sometimes there are whole mice on the mat, sometimes just livers, which means either they saved the best part for us or that cats don't like liver.  Thanks to the water feature we added to the front yard, our doormat has been added to the frequent feather program. I was never willing to put up a bird feeder because we had cats, but I didn't realize our little waterfall would be one of the top 10 sparrow spas. We might as well have installed a kitty McDonalds in the front yard.  For something so aerodynamic, wings and feathers don't rise from the doormat very well, even with vigorous sweeping, so the evidence of disassembled birds is there for all visitors to enjoy.
     Maynard is exceptionally proud of his hunting ability and meows loudly until someone comes out to congratulate him, which I do--sometimes, through clenched teeth.  It is occasionally unsettling to realize we share our home with creatures who take such delight in killing. I could eliminate the mortitas problem by not letting them outside, and I am aware that indoor cats live longer, but I would rather have them live shorter lives doing what cats are meant to do than long lives stuck in the house. . .wanting to kill something.

Crossing Guard

    I have worked as a home health aide since '98. That means I have probably been instructed about boundary issues 98 times.  Fortunately, in this context, it has nothing to do with the Rio Grande, and more to do with real ordinary.  Boundaries in home health care means not blurring the lines between profession and friendship.  It is wonderful to be able to assist people in the comfort of their home, the problem is the comfort of their home.  With no institutional formality, no supervisor looking over your shoulder and, sometimes, years spent with the same client, it is natural to become close. (I refuse to use the current buzzword for client--"consumer". It makes us sound like food.)  In fact, if I were a client, any caregiver who could work for me several hours a day, year after year and never discuss anything personal would give me the creeps. Clients need company as much as competence. Boundaries do not mean there is no friendship between client and caregiver, boundaries mean you function in their home as a professional, not a friend.
     I have worked the same days with the same client for years. In that time I have seen aides for the other days come and go.  Some of them have taken her laundry home to do on their own time, loaned money, borrowed everything but money (she doesn't have any), brought family members--including dogs to her home, eaten her food or taken her out to eat on a daily basis, invited her to holiday dinners, etc. The problem is not so much that it makes us boundary crossing guard caregivers look uncaring, but that eventually those aides wind up sitting on the couch watching movies. They have slipped into friendship mode. Eventually, they have to be replaced. I have many boundary violations of my own. My client has had my cell number for years, but I gave her a "special" ringtone so I can screen her calls. Every light bulb, dish sponge and razor she has used in the past 6 years have come from my house, yet somehow I have managed to keep our relationship professional enough to have had years to enjoy it. When you value your "home work", sometimes the best defense is the fence.

The Not-So-Great Smoky Mountains

    Twice in the past week I have explained to people new to Montana, or new to being alive, that summers filled with forest fire smoke are a relatively new tradition here. I grew up in Missoula, whose name means--a bowl-shaped valley especially well suited for trapping fumes.  My childhood memories smell like the pulp mill or smoke from the garbage burning barrel, back in the days when recycling was done with a match.  When I was a child, Smoky Bear was still alive and fire was considered bad because it destroyed things.  Logging was deemed good because it provided lumber to build things. In mathematical terms:  destroy = bad, build = good.  Although we understood that fires return nourishing nitrogen to the soil, we felt that returning good lumber and animals to the soil was too high a price to pay for plant food.
    Now logging is considered bad and fire is considered good--unless it it man caused fire, that is still bad. (I don't think the trees recognize the difference, but the people who hug them do.)  It is this Smoky Bear-eness and abundance of fuel in unlogged forests that produce the combustible cocktail we are forced to drink every August. This summer, we are even importing smoke from Idaho. Environmentalists consider forest fires a natural process that replenishes the soil and should not be interfered with, but breathing is also a natural process that forest fires interfere with and I'm afraid some of the soil replenishment will be the bodies of those with respiratory trouble.
     But underlogged, overhugged forests and Smoky's demise are only part of the reason for the cyclical, summer, sun siesta; turf wars among the fire fighting agencies also contribute to the Molotov meltdown.  We know of several instances where fires have been reported by pilots while they were still small and manageable but, by the time the various bureaus had finished marking their territory, the fire was a roaring conflagration.  I know that the swing of the pendulum that took us from the "spit on fireflies" fire fear of my youth to the "laissez faire" (let it be) trend of today, will someday reach a sensible synthesis. Yes, home builders should realize that their cabin/mansion in the woods will burn like a campfire/marshmallow, and that fire fighters can't save the behinds of those who chose to leave cities behind.  But it is not unreasonable for smoke soaked states to be able to breathe in the summer.  Someday I will tell my grandchildren, or anyone else who will listen, about the idiotic fire noncontrol of this time--that is, if I have enough breath to do so.
    

Environmentalwist

     Sometimes I wish I was an environmentalist because:

1. The smoke from "natural" sources like forest fires would not make my throat and head ache. I would only be bothered by man made emissions but, as a friend pointed out, that would be most of the time.
2. I could drive an electric car without worrying about the huge carbon footprint of producing the battery or the fact that, in an accident, it might electrocute the emergency responders and/or negate the term-- survivors.
3. I would be willing to pay more "green" for less efficient green energy sources, as if electricity was produced by rubbing fairy wings together and hydrogen is sucked from the atmosphere through a magic straw.
4. I could use lawsuits to destroy the economies of logging communities and still sleep soundly at night in the house logging provided for me.
5. I could jet to conferences all over the world to read mounds of papers on global warming and not recognize the irony.
6. I could protect fish from the erosion produced by logging so they can choke to death from the erosion produced by fires.
7. I could restore balance to the ecosystem by introducing an unlimited amount of predators.
8. I could protect animals from the cruelty of hunting so they can be eaten by the above or die of starvation.
9. I could work to designate more wilderness areas so fewer people will have more places not to enjoy.
10. I would be too busy supporting environmental causes to have to support my fellow man, which is okay because humans are the only species I would consider intruders in earth's ecosystem.

Shacked Up

    I'm not one of those people to run out and buy a best seller. I'm cheap. So I didn't read "The Shack" when it was a best seller, I read it when I found it at a garage sale for 50 cents.  I found the book delightful for many reasons, one of which being that I like allegories:  "Pilgrim's Progress", "Chronicles of Mansoul", "Hind's Feet in High Places", and especially children's allegories like "Riddle of the Outlaw Bear".  Allegories, like parables, present truth in a simple, understandable form. One of the reasons I liked "The Shack" is that it shook up my stereotypes by presenting God, the Father, in the first part of the book as a black woman.  This was for the benefit of the main character Mack, who had been abused by his father and did not relate well to the fatherhood of God until he had forgiven his own.  That idea forced me to remember that, although God is always represented as He in the Bible, God is a spirit.  He is as much an anthropomorphism as saying God has arms or eyes.  This is God's way of helping material man relate to an immaterial, spirit being.  I found the idea comforting because, though I knew I would feel no disappointment in heaven, I thought my need for a mother might go forever unfulfilled.  Releasing God from the limitation of masculinity gives me hope that He will fulfill that role in my life.
     "The Shack" presents the trinity in relateable, human form. Those who are offended by that should remember that "The Shack" is not a theology book and that presenting Himself in terms we can relate to was God's idea in the first place. The book made me realize my high view of God was making Him so distant from me that I was not devoting much time to thinking about Him, much less like Him. What Christians often settle for is a grand concept of God but a small reality, "The Shack" turns that around. I was faithfully performing according to my preconceptions of Christian devotion, but I wasn't seeking more intimacy with God and that is the devotion He wants. I have been a Christian for decades and somewhere along the way began to canonize my preconceptions--to write holy on the lid and put God in a box. The book contains a lot of deep understanding, simply presented. I happen to be fluent in Simple. I was especially convicted by the chapter about judging. However lofty our theology, judging God by human standards, even to justify Him, demeans Him. I got shook up in "The Shack" and I plan to come back.        

Musical Phan

     Call me a romantic, but I am a fan of musicals.  I wish life was a musical.  But I also understand the literal, logical, boring people who complain that nobody would sing like that in real life.  For those people, I have written my own anti-musical words, but they are to the tune of "Phantom of the Opera" so you have to have heard that musical to fit the lyrics with the melody.  This way I can gratify and irritate the anti-musical at the same time.

     Why do we sing our words, instead of talk?

Why should we dance our way, when we could walk?

Wouldn't it save us time if we could say

a homicidal madman's after us

let's run away?

How often do you see in real life

songs burst spontaneously

from man and wife?

What dire emergency would not get worse

by s-t-o-p-p-i-n-g to compose a melody

or write a verse?

   Now for the big finish:

I t-h-i-n-k that death itself would be more fun

if it was sung.

Oh no, I'm singing much too high now.

No, I'm singing much too high now.

O-o-h, n-o-o

 too high.

Raising the Roof

     It is not uncommon in our family to celebrate Labor Day by doing actual labor.  That was certainly the case this year as we gathered at our daughter's house in Butte to help her and Luke shingle their roof. Reed and I arrived Thursday night, Will and his girlfriend Emily on Friday, and Tracy, Friday evening after work. Friday's project was tearing off the assorted layers of old shingles and was assisted by pastor-shanghaied students  from the mining college.  Although the day was a long, ab workout of shoveling crumbling shingles, there is nothing like real wind to give an outdoor project a second wind, especially when the wind is accompanied by thunder, lightening and RAIN.  There are enough projects to do on that house without adding leaking ceilings, so the roofers were highly motivated to get the protective sheeting on the roofee, especially over the unpatched holes. 
     The holes were taken care of the next morning and the roofing was completed by Sunday afternoon, ahead of schedule.  Enough ahead of schedule to allow time for the weight lifting challenge of replacing the heavy four by eight foot picture window with its newer, much lighter, replacement.  Since I am both naturally and deliberately lacking in construction skills, I removed the roofing detritus, which any moron could do, and cooked, at which I am skilled.  It is always a blessing to be with, and help, our children, but the joy of seeing them helping each other was like winning the Nobel prize for parenting. As I've stated before, we had modest goals when we were raising our children--we wanted to survive them and tried to help them suvive each other.
     The reward for the hard labor of canning is the sound of the tiny pop of the lid.  The reward for the hard work of parenting is the sound of your children working and laughing together as the good friends you always hoped they would become. I don't know how often we will spend Labor Day raising the roof, but I hope to continue the tradition of labors of love.

Reaching August

     This is a poem I posted on Facebook and forgot to post here. I especially like this one because it is the most concise expression I have written about the feelings I have experienced every August we have lived here. My main criteria for my poetry is that it be accurate, this expresses my thoughts accurately.

Reaching August

In northwest Montana

August will sometimes

reach thin, cool fingers

to the burning brow of summer,

with wind whispered promises

of autumn rest.

Ten Reasons Why I Love Democrats

1.  I love Democrats because they can take an idea that hasn't worked in any country in which it has been tried and still think it will work here. You've got to admire that kind of optimism.

2.  Republicans need Democrats for the same reason wives need husbands, in any given argument somebody has to be wrong.

3.  I love Democrats because without their ideology to oppose, Republicans would wind up just like them.

4.  Democrats want Americans to have "a chicken in every pot" and, sometimes, just pot.

5.  Democrats want every American, regardless of income, to have equal access to lousy healthcare.

6.  If there were no Democrats, the news media would not know whom to be biased towards.

7.  The Democratic party is the party of the common man--if the common man is a movie star, liberal university professor, lawyer and/or wealthy.

8.  Jesus said, "the poor you will always have with you", Democratic entitlement programs help fulfill that scripture.

9.  If Democrats were really the voice of the poor, they wouldn't have enough money to tell us that.

10. I love Democrats because they have beautiful ideals. It isn't their fault that the ideals don't work with actual humans.

Cutting U.S. in Thirds

     I read an interesting article on Facebook last week stating that Barak Obama's perspective is that of the third world.  That could explain the infamous "You didn't build this" gaffe.  My only personal experience with a third world country was last year's visit to Guatemala, but I was unable to get in touch with the man-on-the-street mentality because I didn't want to be robbed or killed by the man on the street.  Most of my knowledge of third, or possibly fourth, world perspective comes from time spent with my college friend Chuku.  He was from Nigeria, a country whose economy is based entirely on check cashing scams.  Chuku was from the Ibo tribe whose scam-impaired people owned and ran many business.  From time to time another tribe or Muslim group would decide "Hey, you built this, but I want it", so they would kill or drive out the owners and take it over.  Within a short time the businesses were no longer profitable and the buildings in bad repair.  What the occupiers did not realize is that the wealth did not come from the business, and certainly not the building, it came from the enterprise of the workers.
     The third world perspective was further explained to me by a missionary to the primitive Bantu people of Africa.  The Bantu believe the world has a finite amount of goods.  If I have more than you do, I have stolen your share.  From that perspective I can see why other nations would resent American wealth.  We are hoarding the money.  In other beliefs they are just like us--they believe in vampires.  Okay, except for a resurgence in the entertainment industry, most of us don't believe in vampires, but the Bantu do.  Not the blood sucking kind, but the life force suckers.  Not only are foreigners stealing their wealth, but their fellow countrymen are stealing the energy that might bring them wealth and influence.
    They also believe nothing happens by chance, if something bad, like sickness, happens someone must be punished for it.  That makes Africa a very dangerous place to have a car accident, because it was obviously a car intentional and the car, driver, or both must pay.  I would laugh at this primitive, superstitious view of the world if we didn't do the same thing here.  The difference here is that we have more lawyers, so instead of beating on people, we sue them.  In America there are no accidents, it is someone's fault that there was no warning label telling you not to eat your toothbrush, or that coffee is hot, or not to sleep in the refrigerator.  Of course we are not motivated by primitive superstition, we are motivated by greed. Even before court tv and "American Idol", our nation was full of people willing to admit they were morons if it might get them money.
     But I digress.  One of the reasons people from all nations have been willing to die to get here is to pursue the American dream--that by hard work you can achieve anything.  The wealth that we can't share with the third world is that vision.  I hope election 2012 doesn't change that.

The Reason Why

     When bad things happen to us, we seek desperately to understand why in the, probably futile, hope that knowing the reason will make the trial easier to bear. I call this a rush to judgment. The phrase rush to judgment usually refers to finding someone guilty before any evidence has been produced. Legally and morally this is wrong, but the media are not burdened by such minutiae. In American culture we frequently have the opposite also, a rush to acquit, where some individuals are quick to publicly forgive a criminal whose offense was not against them.  Being soft hearted is not illegal, but the only ones entitled to forgive a school shooter, for instance, are those directly affected by their crime. But I use the term rush to judgment to mean Christians who start proclaiming the reason for their suffering when it has barely begun.
    Tracy had a grade school friend whose family had moved from Denver to Kalispell where the father took over an insurance agency.  Months later the expected clients had not materialized and the home they had bought at the peak of the housing market was worth less than they paid for it.  I talked to the mother shortly after they realized they would need to return to Colorado and she had already come up with THE REASON this trial was happening.  Such rush to judgment is our nature but it is like thinking you are seeing from the top of the mountain when you have barely begun the hike.
     Job had plenty of reasons to complain about his suffering and friends who rushed to judgement with their own faulty theology, but it was still not a good idea to demand that God explain himself.  It's too bad Job couldn't read the prologue to his own book because that is where the plot is explained.  God did not explain his reasons to Job. What He did explain was why Job had no right to ask. God is pretty understanding about our weaknesses, but one of those is that we probably couldn't comprehend THE REASON if He gave it to us. And probably there are many REASONS because God is not in the business of wasting things--especially our suffering.
    I can now look back on things that happened to me years ago and find some purpose in them. For instance, my mom's schizophrenic delusions were one of the things God used to get me out of the Mormon church so I could hear the gospel, but there were a thousand other things he used to bring me to the point of accepting Christ.  I have as much understanding of what God is doing in my life as an ant on a chessboard understands chess.  I have been a Christian long enough to know we may never know the reason for our suffering.  Besides, I have never once demanded an explanation for why God is blessing me. Ours is not to reason why, and probably, we should not try.

Inoffensive

     Over the years Americans have somehow gotten the idea that we have the right not to be offended.  A lot of ridiculous rules have been created to support this ridiculous right.  In many public schools Christmas has become "winter holiday" in order not to offend atheists and people of other religions.  The pledge of allegiance is considered too exclusive to be recited in some schools.  We are sacrificing American culture to the god of political correctness, all for an imaginary right.
     Segue to Chick-fil-A.  Because to mayor of Boston didn't like Chick-fil-A's financial support of traditional marriage legislation, he refused to let them open restaurants there.  I repeat because one individual who happened to hold office found the company's pro-marriage stand offensive, he denied permission for a business to open in his city.  This set off a fire storm of support for Chick-fil-A, including a "Chick-fil-A Day", which had customers lined up down the sidewalk for a chance to eat there. It was, no doubt, their most profitable day ever. Gays also used the occasion for their own protest, but they did it by being customers. Go ahead, hurt me some more.  The Bible has many examples of the evil plans of God enemies being turned into a blessing for his people.
     Even those who strongly disagree with Chick-fil-A's beliefs came down hard on the mayor for abusing the power of his office.  Since the incident shed light on corruption in the permit process and made the chain more popular than ever, it wound up being a good thing.  But the underlying error was not repudiated, anyone living in a society of more than one person is going to be offended.  I'm even offended by the bossy lady I see in the mirror from time to time.  Collectively we need to grow up and live in the real world. If anyone finds that offensive--tough.

In Pandora's Box

   When I first learned to use Pandora I felt that I had graduated from computer infancy to pre-toddlerhood.  I loved the way it used my selected preferences to find other music I might like, introducing me to groups I might otherwise never have heard of.  Clicking the thumbs up icon for the music I liked seemed like a good way to show my appreciation. Then I innocently "liked" several piano pieces, not realizing that Pandora would would put me in a piano box. Now it only lets me listen to piano music. 
     I've been forced to keep secrets from Pandora.  I refuse to "like" the piano music it chooses even when I do.  I feel guilty.  After all, Pandora offered itself freely and brought me only enjoyment. But I want more from our relationship than piano music.  I'm not ready to be that exclusive. I'm still hoping we can work out our differences.  I can be patient.  I'll wait right here, in Pandora's box.

Poetic Justice--Ezekiel

     I have plans for when I reach heaven--seeing Jesus, reuniting with loved ones, exploring the splendors of heaven, apologizing to Ezekiel. . .  Although I can't claim to have mastered any book of the Bible, I have an embarrassingly loose grasp on the book of Ezekiel.  I am not good with symbolism and Ezekiel uses symbols like Paris Hilton uses a credit card.  So my plan for when I met Ezekiel was to apologize, knowing that we will all be exceptionally good sports about such things in heaven.  But I may revise that plan.  I have spent my summer doing homiletics on Ezekiel, one chapter a day.  Homiletics is a wonderful way to study and apply scripture, but it really only analyzes what is there, it does not interpret symbols. However, I found two tools that have helped me immensely:  1) a free online commentary by Ian McEvoy--in simple English (I happen to be fluent in Simple)  2) realizing that most of the book is poetry.
     I am a budding, blooming, fading poet myself and, even though Hebrew poetry is different, especially when translated to English, I have begun to recognize poetic patterns.  In poems even I use symbols and, if I really don't get it, good old Ian straightens me out.  Ezekiel is not a feel good book, most of the symbols are to explain to clueless exiles still hoping to return someday to Jerusalem, just how badly Israel has sinned and that Jerusalem won't be there to go back to.  There is no way to make that message "seeker friendly".  In Hollywood, Ezekiel would be a disaster movie.  Yet the recurring theme of the book is, "Then they will know that I am the Lord".  God is revealed just as much in judgment as he is in love.  Try putting that on a bumper sticker.
     Studying a book of inevitable judgment is kind of a downer but the good news is now, when I bump into Ezekiel in the afterlife, I won't have to just shrug in embarrassment.  And he can do his own commentary.

Smart Phones, People--not so much

    At the meeting I mentioned in my previous blog, I was sorely tempted to whack an ill mannered attendee with a(n Emily) post, or at least whack her phone.  That wouldn't be fair, of course, her phone wasn't the problem, all of us had phones. What this careless caregiver failed to notice was that she was the only one answering her phone.  She must have assumed the rest of us were unpopular because she obviously didn't assume she should silence her phone. "Clueless Clara" got up three times during a two hour meeting to rush past the speaker and answer her phone in the hallway.  Since she works in home care, I know she was not being called to perform emergency surgery and I am pretty sure she was not waiting for an organ transplant, since those facilities do not usually call their clients "Grandma".
     At least she had the courtesy to leave the meeting to converse. I was in a multi-agency meeting where the director of the local hospice program was asking us to visualize the final peaceful moments of a loved one, dying at home, surrounded by family.  Not only did an attendee answer his phone, he continued his conversation in what he presumed was a quiet voice.  I know it was not work related because those conversations seldom involve grocery lists and end with "I love you." 
    Whenever we are asked to give input about staff meetings, I request beginning with a reminder of phone etiquette.  A crash course in considerate communication could be summed up simply as knowing when to be silent. Perhaps in the future they will invent apps that link the phone's ability to pick up signals to the owner's.  Now that would be a smart phone.

Two Weeks Notice

     Last week I attended a meeting at the home care agency where I work.  There is a new service available for seniors in our area with mental health problems. The most common issues for the aging are depression and anxiety, but it is not unheard of for people 60 and over to be diagnosed for the first time with ADHD or bipolar disorders. Suicide is also fairly common among the elderly. As home health care providers, we are in a unique position to observe behaviors that even family might miss on a short visit.  I am glad to know there is help available because I have already been involved with seniors in mental health crises.
    At the blood pressure clinic I have conducted at Sykes pharmacy for many years, many of the clients I see are "regulars", either because they come to Sykes everyday anyway or because having their blood pressure read is part of their Wednesday routine. One of these sweet seniors was "Dee".  At 90 years old, having outlived so many of her friends, she sometimes questioned if she had outlived her purpose. But when her statements became increasingly and consistently hopeless, I knew I needed to do more than pray for her.  Since she was not a client, I didn't have the option of reporting her to my supervisor, so I told the pharmacist who had cared for her for many years.  Her doctor was informed and her family moved her closer to them. Since I have not yet seen her obituary, I assume she is okay.
     Another such encounter was with a man who had been moved to the mental hospital from a nursing home, where he had stopped eating and refused to let his wife leave their shared room.  The nurses had to practically force feed him, and some of the other patients thought he should have been left alone to starve with his dignity intact.  Two weeks later his antidepressants started working and his appetite for both food and life was restored.  After his return to the nursing home, he came back with his little band and played music for the mental health patients.  I should know, I was one of them.
    There is no dignity in letting someone die under the distortion of depression, a disease where nothing is as it seems.  Such misplaced respect for his dignity would have let him die needlessly days short of a recovery.  Many of the seniors who commit suicide have visited their doctor a few weeks before, and many only 24 hours before their suicide.  Whether we are caregivers or just people who care, it is our responsibility--to notice.

Bermuda

     I have been too busy seeing Bermuda to have time to write about Bermuda, but I need to take the time before the impressions fade.  I guess a good place to begin would be from the top, flying over Bermuda.  After 6 1/2 hours of layover in Denver and Newark in the wee morning hours, I have to admit I was not very alert on that leg of the flight and it was mostly cloudy until just before we landed, but that just-before glimpse was of the blue water of the deep sea and the turquoise of the shallows sparkling like facets of a jewel.  Next I saw palm trees, which I consider exotic even though they probably grow in places like Oxnard.  And the large trees whose brilliant red blossoms caught my eye from the air, turned out to be the national tree, the poinciana. Reed met me at the airport and we took a taxi to the apartment where we are staying.
     There are lots of taxis in Bermuda because there are not lots of cars, the most common non-feet mode of land transportation is the scooter. Drivers of all forms of vehicles beep the horn a lot. This is not a criticism of other drivers' skills, it is a greeting to friends as they pass by.  Bermudans are friendly people, most exchange some sort of greetings as you pass on the pavement.  However, in Bermuda pedestrians watch out for cars, not the other way around. There are crosswalk signals, but they take a long time to turn on and most of us just cross when it looks clear. The trick is remembering that Bermudans, like Brits, drive on the wrong side of the road. People from Washington and other states where the pedestrian is king would probably get mowed down in Bermuda.  However, with the small cars and scooters they would probably be able to get up again.
     Reed has been getting to and from the airport for work in a taxi, I have done my sightseeing by using feet, ferries and buses. Using public transportation is quite a stretch for this Montana girl, but if the school children can figure it out (there are no school buses), I should be able to.
     Houses in Bermuda all have white painted roofs. That is because the roof is a rain catch for the house.  There are no rivers or lakes in Bermuda, but there is plenty of rain, and each home has a huge tank to hold  rainwater for household use. I have become somewhat of a water snob, having had well water for so many years, and I can verify that the water here is good. The houses themselves are painted in pastel colors which I will list in order of frequency:  pink, yellow, green, blue and the odd purple. But then purple is always an odd color for a house.  Most buildings smell musty to my dry climate sensibilities, but are clean and well kept. I have seen a couple staggering drunks downtown, but no beggars. There are "No loitering" signs everywhere.
     Recycling is done the old fashioned way--with an incinerator.  American greenies wouldn't be caught dead burning garbage but have no trouble cremating Uncle Joe. Bermudans burn garbage but recycle graves.  The white vaults look like the above ground graves of New Orleans, but are actually eight feet deep and may contain three generations worth of bodies.  That grave is sealed until decomposition is complete, then reopened for later use. When a 400 year old nation with a population of 69,000 is living within 27 square miles, recycling graves makes sense, shipping garbage 500 miles to the nearest recycling center doesn't .
     Another difference from the American mindset is their approach to business.  Shops and cafes are open until about 5:30 and then close no matter how many hungry, souvenir starved tourists are around.  Unlike  some island nations, business is taken seriously--but only until 5:30.  One of my assignments while out "touristing" is to find restaurants that are open for dinner.  We usually eat out a lot when we travel, but prices are high and this apartment is equipped, albeit minimally, for cooking, so we eat some meals here. We did try the national dish though, a red, spicy fish chowder.  And last night, at an Irish pub, I enjoyed breaded fish on raisin toast with sweet potato fries. I didn't like my sample of another Bermudan specialty, rum cake, but was pleasantly surprised to like rum raisin ice cream. I can't say the same for the favored soft drink--ginger beer.
     As I mentioned in Facebook, Bermuda is bursting with sunburned cruise ship passengers from New York/New Jersey.  I have not sunburned thanks to sweat-proof sunscreen, but I walk around most days with a sheen of sweat on my face and neck.  The temperature has been mild, 84 degrees during the day dropping to a frigid 77 at night.  Thanks to hormones, I have been spared from hot flashes and night sweats, but my face and neck sweat with exertion and, here, humidity.  However tacky I look sweating my way though Bermuda, it is nothing compared to the businessmen in shorts, knee socks and dress shoes.  Some of them even wear a coat and tie. It's the kind of outfit that would get you beat up in Butte. Unless, perhaps, you bribed them with a "swizzle" or "dark and stormy night", but I bet no Butte bartender would no how to make those.  And that is okay, the last thing we need to do is introduce more alcohol into Montana.
     Tomorrow I will take off again, poorer in wallet, but richer in wisdom for having been here. Wisdom tells me this blog is too long. So long.
    

Free Willing

     While I am killing time waiting for my flight to Bermuda, I might as well finish this post which for so long has consisted of only the title "Free Willing".  I tell people I do not believe in free will, but I probably should explain what I mean by that.  I do not believe human will is coerced by outside forces, but I believe it is so influenced by the kingdom in which we reside that they are not equal choices. The Bible makes it clear that mankind resides in one of two kingdoms, the kingdom of Satan or the kingdom of God.  Entering the domain of the "prince of the power of the air" is so easy a newborn baby can do it--we are born subject to sin. Entry into God's kingdom comes through the easy/hard choice of faith in Christ.  It is really an out of this world choice because the moment we believe, we become citizens of a heavenly kingdom.
     The best explanation I have read about free will is that we make choices based on what seems good to us. When we are subjects of Satan's kingdom, sinful choices seem good.  Unbelievers can choose good instead of evil, but to do so they must swim upstream against their natural inclination.  Without the Holy Spirit, there is no lasting power over sin.  Even our most altruistic choices usually have some inner, selfish motivation, even if it is only that we feel better about ourselves.  I was brought up Mormon and taught to live to a high moral standard.  I did fine with the external requirements regarding attendance, tithing, dietary restrictions etc., but I was continually frustrated with my inability to change my selfish insides for more than a few hours.
     Believers are free from the power of sin, the problem is that we have residual contamination from time spent in Satan's domain.  To change our decision making we must decontaminate our mind by soaking it in God's word.  The degree of contamination is why I feel our will is not really free. For instance, an alcoholic can choose not to drink, but that choice is 95% inclined toward drinking.  I am not an alcoholic and was raised in an alcohol free home, my decision regarding drinking is 95% inclined toward abstinence. I have, however, spent years of my life as an anorexic.  When I am caught up in that sin, decisions about eating that would take only moments in normal life can take hours and often end with the default choice of eating nothing.  I am still free to choose whatever I want to eat, but my inclination is 95% toward fasting. For me there was literally no such thing as a free lunch.
    Understanding the power of those sinful inclinations is what enables Christians to be merciful and gracious to those making bad choices in either kingdom. We are free to choose, but unless one suffers from total amnesia, our options are not equal. Choosing to take up our cross is costly, dying to our selfish will can hardly be called--free.
     

Dream Wedding

    I was not one of those little girls who had her dream wedding all planned out, just waiting to insert a groom.  I did not expect to be noticed, much less loved, by a man.  And I didn't even realize the loneliness that left inside me until I went away to college. It was the first time I thought there could be more to my life than living at home, smoothing the turmoil that accompanied my mother's mental illness. For that same reason, I did not have a good pattern for how marriage should be.  I only knew that I liked the way Grandma and Grandpa, after having spent the whole day together, could still be heard talking in their bedroom at night.
     But I knew one thing, if I ever did marry, it would be for life. And I would not settle for being one of those couples that stay together out of habit, like roommates, and not out of love. I wanted to be in love for the rest of my life. Because I am a Christian, being married was important to me, the wedding ceremony was not.  I bought a $78 wedding dress in the bridal shop at the mall.  The high waisted, tiered style then popular did not need fitting and it wouldn't have occurred to me have done so anyway.  Reed wore a rented tux and mismatched socks. My sole maid of honor wore a long dress she already had.  The best man wore a tux he had bought as a groomsman in a previous wedding.  I chose daisies for my flowers because Mom said she had a yellow dress she wanted to wear. We exchanged our vows at 10 in the morning in a 10 minute ceremony in a meadow.
      Our wedding was memorable to many attendees, however, because of the ensuing accidents.  The pastor of the church where the reception was held, didn't make it to the ceremony because on the drive to the meadow, a trailer carrying a stock car broke free and crushed the front of the pastor's car.  The friends doing photography didn't make it to the reception because they ran off the gravel road and into a tree, totaling their car and, to a lesser degree, them.  At the reception for those who survived the wedding, the pastor who performed the service stepped back to look up when he heard a cracking sound in the tree overhead and just missed getting hit by the falling branch.  If we had been of the signs and wonders persuasion, those signs certainly would have made us wonder.
     Today we have been married for 35 years.  We are still in love, but not the same love, for love changes and deepens through the years. His love for me was not the kind that battered down the door to my heart, it was the kind that kept patiently knocking until I was ready to let it in. Being in love forever--that was the dream that mattered.

Many Happy Returns

     Reed and I had what you might call a cheap honeymoon.  We both went to Bible college in Oregon, fell in love there, ran out of tuition money there, dropped out and got jobs there, so were living in Salem before, and for two months after, our marriage.  But our roots, families and hearts were in Montana so like faithful, but religious, salmon we returned there to wed and spawn. We spent the first four days of our marriage in a cabin friends had thoughtfully provided with everything--but plumbing.  After a few days without a shower I felt more like a dusty bride than a blushing bride, so we came back early and stayed in my folk's basement until we headed for that haven of honeymoon happiness--Helena. Actually, we went to Helena because we were planning to move there in the fall so Reed could go to aircraft school and we needed to find a place to live.  We bought a trailer (too old and cheap even then to be called a mobile home) and spent that one night of our honeymoon in a nice, $60 hotel.  That night ate up half our honeymoon budget.
    The cheap honeymoon was in keeping with our low budget wedding, impoverished college student courtship and frugal upbringing.  It was a matching set.  But I have to admit I was envious when some of our newlywed friends described their over $120 honeymoons.  For years I felt a little ripped off.  Not anymore.  In the past 16 years since Reed got his corporate aviation job, we have probably had 120 nights at nice hotels in places even more exotic than Helena.  What God provided is as far from the wistful travel dreams of a Missoula motel maid, as Montana is from England.  Yes, I've been there too.  In 2003 Reed gave me a journal to record our travels, it is nearly full now.  By faith, I have bought another to record the dozens of honeymoons to come.  What I did not understand about God on our first honeymoon is that every time He has withheld a blessing from me, it has been because He wanted to give me something better--in this case, a  husband who still makes me feel like a newlywed, 100 honeymoons and many happy returns.

Doctor, Docteur

    I have made several trips to Missoula in the past year trying to find my brother a doctor to help with his migraines. I assigned myself this task because I consider myself a professional migraineur, mostly because I have 20 years experience in that field and partly because French titles sound more professional.  
Consider:   chauffeur vs. driver--hauteur vs. snob-- voyeur vs. peeping tom
I have come to the conclusion that there are basically three kinds of doctors:  talkers, listeners, and neithers
If you have migraines, you need neurologist.  The first two neurologists I found for Roddy were talkers.  Dad accompanied Rod on his first appointment.  Dr. Talker's theory is that migraines are strictly genetic, nothing else matters. We have no family history of migraines and mine began following a car accident.  I seriously doubt it altered my genes.  My dad is from the old school where Doctor talked and patient believed and did whatever they said. I am not.  For that and other reasons, we moved on to Dr. Talker II.
     This time I accompanied Rod to his first appointment.  Dr. Talker II assured us that Rod's scoliosis and resulting neck condition and position had nothing to do with his migraines. Rod got relief from the migraine interrupter meds the doctor prescribed, but was taking them almost everyday.  When I made another 120 mile trip to Missoula to discuss meds for migraine prevention, Dr. Talker II rudely informed me that meds that benefited me had no bearing on Rod's treatment.  Movie quote:  What we had here was a failure to communicate.  He trained a lot of physician's assistants in his practice, all of which were an improvement on Dr. Talker II, but Rod's cerebral palsy and clonus made him more of a training exercise than a patient there.  "Come in and see this."  And Rod felt the doctor was trying to psychoanalyze him rather than relieve his pain.  Fortunately, a P.A. referred him to a pain and spine doctor with whom I am impressed.
    Dr. Listener recognizes Rod as a human, not a head.  I have a wonderful, listening neurologist, but I have found many specialists get so tightly focused on their specialty, they forget that the patient's body, mind and spirit are an inseparable unit.  Surgeons are the worst, they tend to look at their patients as some sort of kit to be assembled. The doctor who repaired my older brother's facial fractures after a motorcycle wreck told us after the surgery, Clell could go home. Unfortunately my brother's head was hooked to a fairly broken body.  Where the doctor's head was, I don't care to say.
    The third type of doctor neither talks nor listens. They don't need to because every patient gets pretty much the same treatment regardless of condition.  Neithers have their uses if you already know what is wrong and what treatment is needed. They are happy to write prescriptions and are usually available for a last minute appointment. Dr. Neithers made it through medical school, but not by much. They tend not to refer patients to other doctors because they know their marginal skills will suffer by comparison.  When my mother became too weak to walk more than a few feet at home, dad took her to Dr. Neither who X-rayed her knees, recommended ibuprofen, and sent her home with no diagnosis, no follow up and no walking aids.
     When doctor shopping, we amateurs should be connoisseurs.  Even without an impressive French title, "eu  r" an expert on you.

On the First Fine Day

     I have had this title running through my head for a while and have been wondering what was supposed to come next.  Now I know, this poem.

     On the First Fine Day

On the first fine day of spring
I shall wash all the bedding,
 flip the mattresses,
  organize the storage room,
   reorganize the pantry,
    take the unworn clothes
     out of the closets
      and donate them to Goodwill,
       dust the cobwebs off the
        (stupid, popcorn) ceiling,
         wash the walls and windows,
           vacuum the upholstery
            and behind the furniture,
             and hand scrub the grout
               on the tile floors,
but only an idiot would shampoo the carpets
on the first fine day of spring.

On the first fine day of summer
I shall wash all the bedding,
 flip the mattresses,
  organize the storage room,
   reorganize the pantry,
    take the unworn clothes
     out of the closets
      and donate them to Goodwill,
       dust the cobwebs off the
        (stupid, popcorn) ceiling,
         wash the walls and windows,
           vacuum the upholstery
            and behind the furniture,
             and hand scrub the grout
               on the tile floors,
but now is the time to shampoo the carpets--
on the first fine day of summer.

On the last fine day of autumn
 I shall wash all the bedding,
 flip the mattresses,
  organize the storage room,
   reorganize the pantry,
    take the unworn clothes
     out of the closets
      and donate them to Goodwill,
       dust the cobwebs off the
        (stupid, popcorn) ceiling,
         wash the walls and windows,
           vacuum the upholstery
            and behind the furniture,
             and hand scrub the grout
               on the tile floors,
but how will I ever know
which is the last fine day?

On the first fine day of winter--
I shall make a new list.

    

A(n)gst

     In our teens and twenties, at introspective moments, we ask ourselves the hard questions "Why am I here?" "What was I put on earth for?"  In later life, at various rooms of our house, we ask the same questions, "Why am I here?" "What on earth did I come in here for?"  I have learned to stay put and wait patiently for the answer to reveal itself.  I am invariably in the right room, I just don't know why.  If the struggle to find your purpose in young life could be described as angst, I will call struggle of later life "agst".  By then most of us have settled the issue of why God put us on the planet, we just can't remember why He put us in this particular room. We need the time that the young might have spent in contemplative naval gazing to contemplate why we picked up this ______? and what we intended to do with it.  We are not shallow, we are deep or, at least, thick, that is why it is hard for us to locate our navals. 
     In the end the answers for both angst and agst are much the same, use the thing we find in our hand, in the place where God has put us, in the way He brings to mind, for God's glory.