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.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, June 22, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, June 11, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Okey, Dokey
I first noticed the "okey dokeys" of the Bible when I was studying Genesis. Admittedly, the words okey dokey won't be found in any concordance, but there are situations in which some ordinarily godly individual goes along with a bad idea without running it by God. The first example is Adam caving in to both the serpent and Eve by eating the forbidden fruit. (Gen.3) He did not need to run that suggestion by God, he already knew what God thought about it, but Eve looked so cute with forbidden fruit juice running down her chin that, when she offered, he said, "okey dokey". At least, that what his actions said.
The next okey dokey was when Sarai offered Abram secret service privileges with her handmaid Hagar. (Gen. 16) Sounds like an ancient soap opera in the making. What could possibly go wrong? Millennia of middle east mayhem that's what.
Then there are characters like Rehoboam, Solomon's son and heir to the throne, who did seek advice but listened to the wrong people. (1 Kings 12) The GOP advisers recommended tax cuts, his democratic peers, tax hikes. What stands out to me in this passage is that Solomon HAD advisers. If the smartest man in the world valued their counsel, it was probably worth listening to. Rehoboam's orchestrated okey dokey cost him most of the kindgom. This okey dokey might not count because we are nowhere told Rehoboam was a godly man, but he had access to both God and godly men, as do we. Beware of those who give you the advice you want to hear.
Hezekiah was a good king who faltered at the finish line. (2 Kings 20) Despite seeing God's miraculous intervention in delivering his kingdom from the Assyrians and being healed from a mortal illness, when Hezekiah found out that because of his sin, his descendants, kingdom and treasures would be carried off to Babylon, he forgot to pray. In the face of this dreadful prophecy he said, "The word of the Lord you have spoken is good", . . For he thought, "Will there not be peace and safety in my lifetime?" No prayer of intercession, just okey dokey.
I am so grateful the canon of scripture is complete because my okey dokeys will not be recorded for all posterity to read. It is easy to be so caught up in the demands of daily life that I forget to pray. I am so entrenched in contemporary culture, I sometimes forget how far it is from how God wants us to live. I have been guilty of advice shopping until I found some I liked. I do not want to be guilty of faltering at the finish line, unmindful of those who come after me. Selfishness is not a privilege of senior saints. Hold me accountable. Okey dokey?
The next okey dokey was when Sarai offered Abram secret service privileges with her handmaid Hagar. (Gen. 16) Sounds like an ancient soap opera in the making. What could possibly go wrong? Millennia of middle east mayhem that's what.
Then there are characters like Rehoboam, Solomon's son and heir to the throne, who did seek advice but listened to the wrong people. (1 Kings 12) The GOP advisers recommended tax cuts, his democratic peers, tax hikes. What stands out to me in this passage is that Solomon HAD advisers. If the smartest man in the world valued their counsel, it was probably worth listening to. Rehoboam's orchestrated okey dokey cost him most of the kindgom. This okey dokey might not count because we are nowhere told Rehoboam was a godly man, but he had access to both God and godly men, as do we. Beware of those who give you the advice you want to hear.
Hezekiah was a good king who faltered at the finish line. (2 Kings 20) Despite seeing God's miraculous intervention in delivering his kingdom from the Assyrians and being healed from a mortal illness, when Hezekiah found out that because of his sin, his descendants, kingdom and treasures would be carried off to Babylon, he forgot to pray. In the face of this dreadful prophecy he said, "The word of the Lord you have spoken is good", . . For he thought, "Will there not be peace and safety in my lifetime?" No prayer of intercession, just okey dokey.
I am so grateful the canon of scripture is complete because my okey dokeys will not be recorded for all posterity to read. It is easy to be so caught up in the demands of daily life that I forget to pray. I am so entrenched in contemporary culture, I sometimes forget how far it is from how God wants us to live. I have been guilty of advice shopping until I found some I liked. I do not want to be guilty of faltering at the finish line, unmindful of those who come after me. Selfishness is not a privilege of senior saints. Hold me accountable. Okey dokey?
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