What Facebook Thinks I Want

     I understand that in order to provide free sites on the internet, such as Facebook, it is necessary to have advertising. What bothers me is what the ads reveal about what they, whoever they are, think I want.  Until I finally profiled that I am married, I regularly received ads telling me that aging male models live in Kalispell, Montana and want to date me. And though I try not to follow many internet rabbit trails, something I liked or clicked convinced them that I believe in the existence of magical fat busters and miracle beauty products. Are they judging by my profile picture? I certainly didn't profile my weight.
     But to me the most irritating ads are those telling me how easy it is to get disability over 50. As if it wasn't bad enough that welfare has unleashed a plague of entitlement mentality in our nation, lawyers are actively trying to infect more wage earners with "something for nothing" disease so they can profit from them in the short term and the rest of us can pay for them for the rest of our lives.
     I don't mind that Facebook thinks I'm politically conservative, God fearing and cheap--those things are all true. I'm not sure why Godvine thinks I want to cry. I can't blame Facebook for the online versions of chain letters--my cousin sends those. And the warnings against eating toxic substances (which for millennia were called food) come from friends who are caught up in the latest health fads.
    But those things are minor distractions. It doesn't matter what Facebook thinks I want. What I want from Facebook is a quick peek at news and pictures from friends and family and time left over to put my face in a real book--with no advertising.

Mixed Messages

     I fully believe that Christians should use every opportunity to speak up for Christ, especially in an increasingly darkened culture, but I worry about the message we may be sending. We are Americans after all, we have the constitutional right to complain. Yes, it is aggravating when schools, stores etc. try to politically correct Christ out of Christmas, but confronting some poor employee sends the following messages:  1) I am a Christian.  2) I am easily offended. This is a problem because it is the opposite of what we are supposed to be. Lemon is not a fruit of the Spirit.
     Neither is prickly pear. Another reason we should not be offended so easily is because Christ spent a lot of his ministry warning his disciples to expect opposition. The world has always been hostile to the things of Christ. America is in the world. Ergo we should not be surprised that our culture misunderstands, maligns and litigates against Christianity. Finding the balance between communicating God's truth and clobbering people with it is difficult. We are to be the light of the world, but a flame thrower is overkill. If I cannot speak up for Christ in the way that represents his nature, I should stick with just one message--I am easily offended. At least that way, I'll mix well with my mixed up culture.

Your Ladder is Up Against the Wrong Building

Your ladder is up against the wrong building:

     if your financial plan involves an increase in the minimum wage.

     if you think our country's hope for the future is in good politicians.

     if you think a diet, doctor, exercise or living will puts you in control of how long you live.

     if you think homeschool, Christian school or Christian parenting methods guarantee your child will follow the Lord.

     if you are counting on the government to take care of you/give you money/have money.

     if you think the Affordable Care Act will be affordable or care.

     if you think worship equals singing or an emotional state.

     if you think wealth, success, fame or a relationship will make you happy.

     if you think you can divorce, start over, and your children will be happy as long as you are happy.

And if you think Christians are not gullible enough to believe in these cultural myths, your ladder must be on a different planet.
     

     

     

     



    


     

       

Finding a Way

     Today I marked next year's calendar with upcoming appointments, birthdays and anniversaries, as I do every year about this time. When I got to March 14th, my mother's birthday, I automatically filled it in before realizing I did not need to do that this year--or ever again. My mother is dead. A day not marked on a calendar seemed such a small thing to evoke tears. Though I have felt sorrow at the fringes of my consciousness for weeks, though I let myself click on the touching Facebook links promising to make me cry, tears have eluded me. Until now. Marking a calendar. Missing a birthday. It is as if not having a birthday removes her even further from existence. And fresh from that sorrow, I attended the funeral of a friend's son and shared her grief.
     There is a story I like, in which a young man falls in love with his teacher. In those days, unlike our own, it was unthinkable to act on such feelings. The boy's family eventually moved away. His teacher said he would forget her. He promised to find a way not to forget her. At the end of the story the now grown young man brings his wife back to his hometown to visit. His teacher had been gone for years, but the description of his young wife was the same as it had been for the young teacher. He had married someone just like her. He had found a way. From my own experience, when my dear friend Elsie moved into a nursing home, I found a way not to forget her in the midst of my busy schedule by having a weekly Bible study with her.
      I did not know how to mourn the complicated double loss of my mother, but Jesus knew. He helped me find my grief through Garth's death, through small pangs as I'm shopping and see a gift mom would have liked. And I found grief again today, through marking the calendar. Jesus has been showing me that He will find a way to help me grieve. He's good at that--finding a way.

Meeting at Moonlight Bridge

     No one has asked me about the process I use to write poetry--if only so it doesn't happen to them, but I am going to tell you anyway. Poems come to me in one of two ways:  I have an idea or feeling that is too big for prose and I simply need to find the right words to express it. What I value most in those poems is accuracy, they must be true to what I am trying to express. The other way I am afflicted with poetry is when a line comes to me and I, as the author, am curious to know what the poem is about. Those poems may be a composite of different things that have happened or even things that never happened. The following poem is one of the latter. It began with one line, the first. All that was left for me to do was find out what the poem was about. Turns out, it was a love poem. A young person might find it cute that someone my age could write a love poem. Apparently, I have a either a (please excuse font problem, I can't figure it out) good memory or a good husband. I have had some beautiful moments standing on that bridge in the moonlight, but it is hardly part of our regular married routine. Now that I've both bored you about my writing and removed the mystique from this particular poem, enjoy!

 Meeting at Moonlight Bridge

It was all of silk and silver,

the clouds in moonlit sky

the gurgling of the river,

like laughter, passing by.

That is the place I meet him

 when our day’s work is done--

the bridge between the refuges

of island and of home.

                                      

I revel in the beauty

and romance of the night,

my body is old and heavy

my heart is young and light.

When my lover comes to me

the moonlight hides the truth,

he sees me as I looked to him

when we were in our youth.

And I see him through eyes of love

the years have made more clear.

They bridge the space between the hearts

that meet in moonlight here.

Our laughter mingles with the sound

of river and of wind,

our hair like silk and silver

our hands and hearts entwined.

This bridge shall be a witness

when love’s great tales are told

of meetings in the moonlight,

of lovers young and old.

Just So You Know I Know

To the ice cream makers:  I know that your 2 quart container was downsized to 1.34 quarts, and then to 1.5.  I still buy your ice cream, but I know I am getting less. This is not because you worry about my weight.

To potato chip and cracker makers:  I know that all that extra air in the package is to increase profits, not decrease breakage.

To the city transit bus my tax dollars support:  I know the difference between paint and passengers. The number of passengers did not magically triple when you painted over the windows.

To hybrid owners:  I know your "green" car battery was built with toxic chemicals by underpaid "expendable" foreigners and with the carbon footprint of volcano farts.

To environmentalists:  I know that the products you use to live off the grid were made by the people you are trying to prevent from making a living off the land.

To groups sending surveys:  I know you only value my opinion when it is written on a check.

To charities:  If wealthy supporters have promised matching funds, I know you do not need mine.

To OSHA and HIPPA nazis:  I know you are not trying to protect my safety or privacy, you are trying to protect your jobs.

To those contingency lawyers who advertise on TV:  I know the only financial needs you care about are your own. But then, everybody knows that.

To the ACLU and other anti-Christian activists:  I know the future that awaits you. Good luck with that.

I know that writing this won't help or change these situations, I just want them to know I know.

In the Same Vein

     After more than four decades of being a blood donor, my good vein has finally been pumped dry.  I like donating blood. It's desperately needed, free, and comes with refills. And it's not as if I had other plans for bleeding on my to do list. I could not give blood in college because, believe it or not, I did not weigh the requisite 110 pounds. I started donating when we moved to Helena. The retired nurse volunteers who assisted donors to the snack table (in case they should faint) were so feeble they would have blown over in a stiff puff of wind. After that I donated at a state-of-the-art facility in Denver where I got such a bad poke, the bruise lasted for days. Later I donated at the old courthouse in Kalispell, accompanied by my toddlers who volunteers spoiled with snacks while I lay bleeding. In those trusting days, your donor number was also your social security number. Church ladies and service organizations supplied sandwiches and cookies for the required post-bleed feed.
     Then we got fancy--bar coded donor cards, computerized check-in, with a scanner the elderly volunteers manning the entry desk treat like a deadly, but sacred cobra, tilt donor chairs, television so you can veg and hemorrhage at the same time, monitors that beep when the bag is full and store bought snacks to protect us from the dangers home cooked food.  Before leaving the entry desk you have to at least pretend to read 15 pages of donor instructions, restrictions and prohibitions. In the donor area, a phlebotomist verifies your I.D. and asks what sex you consider yourself. If you consider yourself a woman but have an Adam's apple, you flunk. They take your temperature and blood pressure. To check iron levels they place your swabbed finger behind a plastic shield lest blood should squirt out of your finger and into their unprotected eyes, though the only time this occurred  was on "Dracula, Dead and Loving It".  Then you take a computerized (and extremely politically incorrect) test about the restrictions you just reread in the waiting area to see if you qualify to give blood. This is why I will not miss donating. Paperwork. The assumption that you are unclean. No matter how many times you donate, there are no shortcuts. It's like volunteering to go through TSA security after your flight has been cancelled.
     But, as I said, I am tapped out. My only good vein is in my left arm and, sometime this summer, it shriveled. I have been deferred before--low iron level. I can fix that. High blood pressure. Meds fixed that.  At first, they blamed my inadequate vein on dehydration and, since it was blistering hot last summer, I could believe it. But the heat has gone and my vein has not come back.  It succumbed to the same phenomenon that has claimed so much of my body--old age. So the next time the Red Cross calls, I will ask them to remove me from their list. I'm sure they will be disappointed, they are disappointed that I don't bring a buddy with me to the bloodletting. After 40 years in the same location, Lefty has left the (body) building. And I don't even mind that my sacrifice was in vein.

There's Trust, and then There's Trust

    I trusted Jesus as my Savior in 1972 when I was 16 years old.  I trusted Him to save my soul, but I didn't really trust Him to direct my life. That has been a much longer process.  For many years through my daily quiet time, the Holy Spirit whispered into my heart the same message, "Do you trust me?  I eventually found it easy to trust His guidance in my own life, but I wasn't sure He could do the same for my family--not without my help. It took me years to discover that not only am I not the Holy Spirit's little helper, but that my interference was getting in the way of what He was trying to do. He used people and circumstances I never would have thought of and got way better results. I was especially disappointed that I was not my husband's Holy Spirit because I had so many good ideas about how to change him.
     After all, I was practicing on my children. When children are young, parents get to be their Holy Spirit. We apply Biblical principles to their behavior. We convict them of their sins. We administer discipline. We begin to like the role of Holy Spirit, but it is a job that we need to increasingly work ourselves out of. Just as we do when we move from holding our babies, to walking beside our toddlers, to coaching our teens from the sidelines, to blessing and releasing our young adults. It is God who will see them when they're sleeping, know when they're awake, and know if they've been bad or good for the rest of their lives.
     I think the reason God doesn't change our loved ones' hearts through our nagging is because, like a parent, he doesn't want to reinforce bad behavior--ours. Do I trust the Holy Spirit to work out God's plan in my life? Absolutely. Do I trust Him to work out God's plan in my children's lives? Certainly.  Do I trust Him to work out God plan for them without my words?  Well, I need a few more years to work on that one. There's trust. . . and then there's trust.

Supersize Surmise

     There has been a lot in the news lately about supersizing. Michael Moore even made a movie about it, and he should know, he is supersized. Our bigger portions rest on our bigger plates in our bigger houses that we drive to in our bigger cars. This is all attributed to greed--greed for food, greed for space, greed for power. I'm sure some of that is true, but I discovered something while sorting through some of my mom's old mail, cards have gotten bigger too.  Christmas cards used to be what we now consider "money holder" size. And there was no money--I looked. Wedding and baby congratulations cards she received in the mail were about two inches square, the size I sometimes stick in the bag with a shower gift. The size the post office won't even deliver anymore lest it get stuck in their machinery.
      I just can't chalk this one up to greed.  I have never met anyone greedy for bigger cards. For women it just means more to store, for men it just means more to throw away. Phones, computers and Christmas lights have actually become much smaller. So I close this blog with a Suessical sound.

                                   I surmise that supersize
                                   isn't always greedy and unwise.
                                   Some things get bigger,
                                   some get small.
                                   Is that a bad thing?
                                         Not at all.
                                  

Between the Lines

     It is amazing to me how quickly a parking lot goes to pot (or looks like the drivers were on pot) when snow covers the lines. Customers who have been using the same lot for years will suddenly forget if the parking is straight in or diagonal. Not only do orderly rows become car cacophony, but the carcophony holds fewer cars.  The lines do not confine the cars, they confine the chaos.
     If a parking lot is a microcosm of our culture, why are we trying so hard to erase the lines?  Many today want to blur the lines between right and wrong yet those are the guidelines that keep our society orderly, efficient and safe. If we cannot handle something as simple as parking without guidelines, perhaps we shouldn't remove them from language, sex and violence.  "No rules, just right" makes both the enlightened and criminals feel better about themselves, but it only works for people living in the outback--alone.  Besides, there is not enough snow to cover the lines the conscience draws.  I could expand upon this premise, but you are probably smart enough to read between the lines.

20 Captions You Will Not Find Underneath My Picture

Any phrase with the words:        (unless accompanied by standing next to)

• accentuating her toned arms
• deeply tanned
• tall
• slender build
• athletic looking
• Mensa member (more like Sensa user)
• Pulitzer prize winner
• Nobel prize winner
• Rhodes scholar
• intrepid explorer
• computer geek
• long tresses
• leading authority
• staunch liberal
• fitness guru
• well known musician
• from the reality show
• fitness model
• doctors hate her
• avowed atheist  (so thankful for that)

A Cozy of November

     My November blogs consisted of titles with no words under them.  Although this was a time saver for myself and for those few who actually read my blog, it seemed a little terse, even for me, the word miser.  November, like February, is a rather dreary month in Montana, a place holder for the holidays to come. Until Thanksgiving November is just the cover band for the main attraction--Christmas.  The grass is dormant, but not yet covered with snow, the trees are bare, naked against the cold, the cold is uncomfortable, but not brisk enough to be challenging.  Yet there is a certain coziness to November.
     It is a month for baking and book reading. I can remain inside without guilt because there are few outdoor chores requiring my attention. It is too early to worry about decorating, gifts, and goodies. November demands little more of us than food and gratitude--to our veterans, to our God.  Our language has many words for groups of things:  a herd of bison, a convocation of eagles, so I have coined a word for a collection of November days--a cozy of November.

November has its place to keep

when autumn beauty's gone to sleep,

enters bleak, but leaves well fed 

and Christmas wonder lies ahead.

The First Thanksgiving

     I have been too busy since Thanksgiving to post about Thanksgiving, so today is the day. By the first Thanksgiving I am not referring to the pilgrim/Indian kind.  This was the first Thanksgiving I can remember spending at my childhood home in Missoula that was not shadowed by my mother's mental illness. She was not there to sit at the table, there were no strange noises coming from her bedroom, I didn't even have to dread the duty visit to her dementia facility on the way out of town.  Our daughter and her husband drove over from Helena, my sister's family came from Kalispell.  We ate.  We took pictures.  We laughed. I have wondered since my mother's death in June if the Ghost of Christmas Past would pay me its annual holiday visit--the remnants of sorrow from childhood Christmases long forgotten. The Shadow. 
     The Ghost has come, but it came much later this year. It did not even make it to our Thanksgiving dinner. That is why this Thanksgiving was so different for me. Perhaps it will be the first of many.

Eternity is Too Short

     Due to an overzealous security program on my new laptop--I call this one Dimples--I have been unable to connect with my own blog.  No doubt some reader was praying for respite.  This was followed by an underzealous security program that let moving banner ads of men's biceps cover the top of my blog. Neither the strict nor the kinder, gentler security program could prevent pop ups for, ironically, Norton Internet Security. Could it be that ads that cling to the screen like a three headed leech are not good for business?  Buying it would be like inviting a stalker to dinner.  But all this is just the preamble to my main amble and title to this piece--Eternity is Too short.
     Eternity is too short to spend even the first hundred years looking for familiar hymnbooks, or the King James Bible, or the piano/organ only section. The familiar comforts of our own brand of Christianity should be left behind with the books and the buildings and our bodies. There is nothing wrong with having a comfort zone, but while it comforts, it also confines. One of the glories of heaven will be unity with believers of all eras, ages, nations and denominations. We will speak, sing and pray in ways we cannot comprehend now.  I get a small English-only version of that in Bible Study Fellowship and it makes me hunger for more.
     A visiting missionary once told us about explaining our mansions in heaven at his church in Africa. An older woman spoke up, "It would have to have a tin roof, Pastor." That was the finest home she could imagine.  It is hard to imagine bigger than our comfort zone. When Reed travels for work, we have the opportunity to visit many different churches. I make a conscious effort to lay down the invisible scoreboard where I compare their church to my church and just enjoy the preaching and fellowship. I have not yet been disappointed. God is doing something global, eternal and beautiful and we can, by our own prejudices, make it narrow, divisive and judgmental.  I would like to practice that heavenly perspective now because eternity is just too short.

Sleepless in Kalispell

     Due to 1) my last minute decision to add a second spaghetti dish to last night's linguine with clams 2) needing to have Will's dinner ready by 6 in order for him to make his shift at the hospital and 3)  my insistence that a friend who showed up at dinnertime eat with us, I forgot to take my evening meds.  The critical one being the nortriptyline I take for migraine prophylaxis (isn't that a fun word?--sounds like a Jewish custom, but means preventative).  It is one of those medications whose dosage must be increased or decreased gradually--no sudden starts or stops.  It is supposed to be taken at bedtime because  one of the side effects is drowsiness.  I take it at dinnertime because taking it before bedtime makes me have nightmares.  That warning is listed in the section below Unusual and Rare reactions, the section that says--Connie Lamb Only:  nightmares.
     Usually I can tell when I miss a dose because I am not sleepy at my usual bedtime.  Last night I was so post-prandially pooped that I fell asleep anyway, but my eyelids sproinged open at 3:30 and my brain didn't figure out the problem for another hour. That caused an unwelcome, three hour siest-a-resistance.  Normally, I pray (I also pray abnormally) when that happens, but even my long prayer list got depleted before I got drowsy.
     However, there are blessings even in insomnia. For instance, it gave me an opportunity to appreciate our cozy couch, the warmth of the gas fireplace, my spacious home, not to mention 24/7 intimate access to the Creator of the universe.  Eventually I did fall asleep, but resting in God bests sleeping in bed anytime.

Linked Out

    Last week I distractedly clicked on a Facebook link I thought had been shared by a friend. It showed a despondent looking picture of President Obama. I figured if something made Obama sad, it would probably make me happy.  It turned out to be one of those sponsored links promising, in this case, tips for surviving the upcoming economic disaster.  I do not doubt that there will be a collapse of American economy. It would be foolish to believe our nation will be the only one in history that hasn't destroyed itself by printing more money to pay its debts. Economies are governed by natural laws just like everything else in the universe. I passed the time alternating between sorting through boxes and being irritated while the speaker droned on promising survival tips but providing only example after example of his premise. However, I was unwilling to shut it off because it would mean the hour I spent waiting for the tips had been totally wasted.  As expected, he did not disclose his specific method of preserving resources in a collapsed economy. Those are in a free newsletter, which no doubt leads to a program which is not free. In other words, part of his wealth preservation formula is to fleece people on the internet.  But he did hint that the secret was to invest in hard assets such as silver, gold and land.
     By divine coincidence we have been studying Matthew 6 in BSF this week, so I was uniquely prepared to recognize that the analyst's method was a prime example of what Jesus said not to do.  Mt. 6: 19, 20a says, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break through and steal. But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven. . "  Prepping for doomsday has become a cultural phenomenon that even Christians have become caught up in, and the internet is an ideal forum to spread and support it.  To spin the old soda jingle, "I'm a prepper, he's a prepper. . .Wouldn't you like to be a prepper too?"  It sounds prudent, even like good stewardship.
    The problem is that God is apparently not a prepper and doesn't want us to be a prepper too. God does not need to be, He is as much in control on "doomsday" as any other day. In my last couple studies of Matthew, I noticed that Jesus spends half the book warning the residents of Jerusalem about the coming siege.  He does not tell them what to pack, he tells them not to pack and, more importantly, when to leave.  Jesus wants to save their lives, not their stuff.  I try hard to be a good steward of the blessings God has given me both as an act of obedience and because, most often, the means God provides to take care of our old age is our young age.  There is nothing wrong with gathering emergency supplies as long as we remember that, as  Christians, we would be obligated to share them with our saved and unsaved neighbors should they be needed.  Some preppers are prepared to defend their possessions at gunpoint.  I have not yet found a verse to back up that sentiment. Besides, in desperate times, what you need is food and hard assets don't taste very good.
     Back to Matthew 6--God has not promised us silver, gold and land, what he has promised are food and clothes. Since God knows what we need and has promised to provide it, Jesus encourages us not to worry--actually, he commands us not to worry. Moth and rust may not be as much a threat to our current assets as thieves, scams and economic collapse, but 100 percent of the time, the penalty for our earthly withdrawal is 100 percent of our assets. Paul Harvey used to preface some of his news with, "So you don't run out of things to worry about. ." and thanks, in part, to the internet we will not have that problem. To spin another jingle, "Silly Christians, prepping's for pagans".

My Mind is Made Up

     Today I had fun finishing the phrase my mind is made up.

My mind is made up:  but I wish it was real.
                                 and I made yours up for you.
                                 and so is my face.
                                 does that mean it's fiction?
                                 so, am I supposed to kiss it?
                                 like constitutional right to health care.
                                 like "reality" TV.
                                 like polite TSA agents.
                                 like global warming data.
                                 like Olympic sport categories.
                                 like lawyers that only want to help you.
                                 unfortunately, my body is real.
                                 now if only I could make up my weight.
                                 so why can't I make up my I.Q.?
                                 you'd think my imagination could do better than this.


     There are more I could add but I think I'll quit here.  I haven't quite made up my mind.
    

I Am 57, After All

   I am fairly certain that I'm a woman of a certain age, but what I want to know is if I'm old enough to be excused.  When do I get to blame my faults, failing memory and figure flaws on my age?  Is 57 old enough to blame for my lost figure, looks and car keys? Can I hold my age responsible that I gained weight, wrinkles and age spots?  I don't mind the ravages of time as much as the implication that it is my fault I got ravaged.  If I just worked out more, ate healthier, bought better cosmetics etc. I, too, could look like the aging models in the magazine ads.  Never mind that at my youthful best I didn't look like those models at their aged worst, it is my fault if I look my age.
    I workout. I lift weights--me.  I do resistance exercise, it's called gravity.  I'm not a couch potato. I'm a potato that's down on the floor exercising. Still, the best I can manage is to be firm under my fat.  I try to eat healthy.  I actually like fruits, vegetables and whole grains.  However, I do not follow the ever changing food and fitness fads.  I have lived too long to believe that ordinary foods are toxic or that some newly discovered food or exercise will transform my body.
   And frankly I can't afford beauty. I have indulged in facials that removed the red from my skin and the green from my wallet. While they tightened my facial muscles, they loosened the ones gripping my credit card.  For those who can't afford, or spell, an aesthetician, a less expensive alternative is to buy expensive beauty products and apply them yourself.  But this is only slightly less expensive.  There are now hundreds of anti-aging products created just for those of us in the boomerange, designed to erase the traces of both time and our bank accounts. Besides, there is no point having my face write checks that my body can't cash, and vice versa. I have seen some of these lifted, tucked and tightened women and they look, at best, unnatural and, at worst, like mummies.  Excuse me if that sounds inappropriate, but I am 57 after all.

Words That Should Exist

longage--If there is such a thing as a shortage, why not a longage? When our cat Maynard stretches out in the sun, there is definitely a longage of cat.

backage--If there is frontage, there must necessarily be backage.For instance, the same realty ad describing a home with gorgeous river frontage, may forget to include the gravel pit backage.

smartfounded--The opposite of dumbfounded.

combobulated--No one knows what discombobulated really means anyway. It probably happens to people who are dumbfounded.

ept--This one I heard on a sitcom long ago, the opposite of inept.

dubitably--We don't need this word, there are plenty of synonyms, but it would be fun to say.

impotential--The likelihood (as opposed to the likelisweater) that your newly elected official will not keep his campaign promises--or the unlikelihood that he will.

distresso--Spilling your cappuccino in the car.

detextive--A person who recognizes and deletes texting errors before sending.

overflush/underflush--We have a dual flush toilet, push the small button for number one, the large button for number two. Occasionally I get them mixed up, there should be a word for that.

lethalize--Legalizing murder. See abortion. Sometimes mistaken for euthanasia.

superpceed--Being so concerned about offending a minority that you wind up offending the majority. For example, renaming Christmas Winter Holiday so as not to offend the tiny percentage of Americans who claim to be atheists.

tolera-bull--Being offended that other people are intolerant.

omnibore--Someone who shares boring facts on every subject.

goozle--Coined by my son, a combination of gush and ooze, used to describe the head of a whole roasted pig.  As in, "The eyes goozled out."

 

If I Lived Before. . .

     If I lived in the time before blood transfusions, my younger brother and sister would have died in infancy of Rh blood incompatibility. If Rod somehow survived birth, in the time before hearing aids, he would not be the music lover he is today. A whole world of sounds and learning would have been shut to him, and perhaps, the door to an institution.
     If I lived in the time before Caesarians, I would have watched my sister die in labor with her first child. The same is true for my sister-in-law, who would not have survived to give birth to her third child, born with spina bifida.  If not for Caesarian birth, Zane would have died in infancy when the blister like meningocele on his lower vertebra burst in the birth canal, contaminating his spinal fluid. And if he miraculously survived that, his prospects for life would still have been as grim as Rod's.
     If I had lived before migraine interruptor meds, I would have suffered chronically from the nauseating pain fog of migraines or the medicated brainfog of painkillers. But that suffering probably would have been cut short if my Graves' disease had developed in the days before thyroid irradiation. Before radiation or meds, half of Graves sufferers died. From my own experience, I can attest it would be an unpleasant way to die.
    If my mother had lived before psychiatric drugs, as limited as they were in the sixties, she might have wound up in a nightmarish mental institution or made a perpetual nightmare of our home.   
    It is easy to long for the good old days of patriotism, morality and honor, but then--we are alive to do so.  Would I have lived to lament the losses of these times, if I had lived before?

For the Last Time

     All through the years of child rearing I used the phrase "for the last time", but didn't mean it.

     "For the last time, SIT DOWN!"
     "For the last time, BE STILL!"
     "For the last time, PICK UP YOUR TOYS!"

     For the last time simply meant if I had to say it again, child rearing would involve their rear. I would be repeating "for the last time" for many years. It was not until the children started leaving home that for the last time became accurate. Will moved out nearly ten years ago but, since he has been in nursing school, has spent the last three summers at home. He viewed this as favor showing support for higher education in general and him in particular, we viewed it as a bonus showing appreciation for a home in general and us in particular. Will will graduate and become an R.N. next spring and a husband sometime next summer. We are very pleased about both of these accomplishments, but it means his summers in our home have happened for the last time and there is sorrow in that thought.
     I console myself with the knowledge that not only will Will be visiting in the years to come, but he will be bringing his wife with him, meaning our investment in him (unlike most of our investments) will have actually doubled. In future years, it may even yield a stock split. I also find comfort in remembering that when he moved out at 20, I had no reason to anticipate these bonus Will-full summers. None of us know what wonderful things God may have in store for us. His bottomless blessings come with free refills and last for the last times.

Plucky

     I have stated before that I am not a plant person. In the plant world, I am known as Connie Kevorkian. Perhaps that explains why the one thing I enjoy about plant care is plucking off the dead blossoms. My horticultural history makes me uniquely qualified to recognize dead plant parts. My flowers are having their best summer ever, which I assume has more to do with the weather than myself. So while I am plying them with drink, I am also rolling them for dead blossoms. This improves the plant's appearance and my attitude. I may not know a ranunculus from a radish, but I know dead when I see it. And in the face of that kind of death, I feel plucky.

There Will Always Be Books

Dear Amanda,

     There will always be books. I know your mother has told you that someday digital media will completely replace paper and ink books the way music downloads have supplanted, for the most part, albums and cds.  But I do not believe that will ever happen.  It may be easier to transmit information through digital media, but books are much more than information. Books are adventures waiting to happen, and an adventure must be experienced with all one's senses.
     I have a Kindle and enjoy it's benefits. I no longer have to worry if I packed enough books for a trip. An e-reader can hold many books, I can always download more at my destination, and it's much easier to pack a Kindle than a stack of books, especially for airline travel. I also no longer have to worry about leaving a library book behind in an airport or hotel (or that Uncle Reed will think he left one behind when it is really buried by the junk on his dresser at home). But what I like best about my Kindle is that it introduces me to new authors. I no longer have the leisure to linger in libraries like when I was in school. My library trips are usually one stop on a long list of errands so, when I find authors whose books don't have sex and swearing, those are the only ones I look for.  I know there are lots of other good authors, but there is no "G" or "PG" category in adult fiction and the librarian might wonder why a middle aged woman only checks out children's books.
     My main reason for waiting so long to get a Kindle was that I am too cheap to pay money for books when I can get them from the library for free, but many of the daily deals are only $1.99 and I get to try a free sample first. Even Aunt Connie, the champion cheapskate, is willing to spend two bucks for a good book and I can usually tell from the sample if it will be Christian compatible. So you see, Amanda, e-readers have their benefits, but they are not real books because they do not engage all the senses. All e-books look and feel the same, the excitement is only is the story itself.
     There will always be printed books because the adventure begins with beckoning of the picture on the cover, the weight of the book in your hands, the sound of the pages turning, even the smell.  Even when the smell is old and musty, it may turn out to be a buried treasure that has been waiting for years for you to discover it. The only sense books do not stimulate is taste--and it probably should stay that way. In these days of self-check out, when librarians are only there to help you use the computer, I am afraid the excitement of going to the library is becoming extinct, but there will always be books, Amanda. There will always be books.

Things I Hope I Never Have to Say

•  Honestly, officer, I can explain.
•  At least now we know the airbag works.
•  May I have one of those seat belt extensions?
•  Do you know where your dad was going hunting?
• What's the number for search and rescue?
• I had no idea my dog was going to do that.
• Yes, his rabies shot is current.
• You'd think a man my husband's age would know better.
• I was sure that would hold our weight.
• I thought we were supposed to drink it.
• From up here in the tree, it looks like a grizzly.
• Yes, I knew grizzlies could climb trees.
• This is my first time in jail.
• I have no idea why I thought you were pregnant.
• Can you recommend a good proctologist?
• I'm just running out to buy some Depends.
• Will that be covered by our homeowners' insurance?
• The last time I saw my wedding ring it was. . .
• Does our fire extinguisher still work?
• Yes, I have proof of insurance.
• I had no idea I could still run that fast.
• So, you're saying there are no parachutes on this plane?
• You said those mushrooms were edible.
• The government is here to help us.
• Run!

   

Free Drinks at Lambs

     Admittedly, it was my idea to use a vacuum to try to suck up the yellowjackets that swarm around our mini-waterfall, but when I heard the familiar sound of the shop-vac coming unfamiliarly from the front yard, I knew I had created a redneck recreation. To understand why the persistent pests were so attracted to the water in the first place, I went to the source of all knowledge--Google.  Hymenoptera (isn't that a fun word, sounds like a gynecological problem) are extremely interested in finding reliable sources of water. When they find one, like our fountain, they tell all their friends, "Free drinks at Lambs!"  I am not an environmentalist.  I don't believe the world created by an all powerful God needs assistance from puny humans in order to survive. I'm more in the live and let live category.  But the abundance of bees has made our water feature into more of a creature feature. The waterfall, which I used to enjoy from nearby, has become as unapproachable as the Great Oz.
     Adding chlorine would poison the well, so to speak, but that wouldn't last long, and last year that killed the frog that had taken up residence in our fountain. Unfortunately, one of our neighbor boys discovered this during our annual neighborhood ice cream social. Bleached frogs do not turn white and are not a good party theme, unless you are on a scavenger hunt. I like frogs, and Reed claims to have seen another one a few nights ago, so I do not want to bleach him to death.  Besides, we do not need bleach to kill algae.  I discovered a cheaper, more effective method involving nicking the extension cord with the hedge trimmer, causing the breaker to shut off power to the water pump, allowing the sun to kill the algae. By way of disclaimer, my method was cheaper than bleach only because my husband can repair extension cords.  But, having made the discovery, I now skip the step involving the hedge trimmer and merely unplug the water pump. That rids us of the algae, but not the yellow-jackets.
     That is where the shop-vac comes in. Against my will, I sometimes find myself inadvertently encouraging redneck behavior in a family that needs little encouragement. By merely wondering aloud if it was possible to use a shop-vac to suck up yellowjackets, I planted a seed in the fertile soil of my husband's redneck imagination. And that is why the melodious gurgle of the waterfall is being drowned out by the odious whine of the shop-vac while my husband uses the hose extention to lunge at our unwanted guest pests with moves reminiscent of fencing (with a very short opponent).  I know what the yellowjackets will be telling their friends now, "They've had too much to drink at Lambs!" 

Dad's Hobby

     I used to think my dad didn't have any hobbies because he doesn't hunt, fish, play games or even follow sports on television. But in later years I realized he does have one hobby--fattening dogs. You've heard of the horse whisperer, my dad is the dog fattener. The medium sized mutt we had growing up remained normal sized throughout my childhood, but Dad's deceased dog, a terrier Chihuahua cross was as round as a football.  My brother-in-law, from a sheep raising family, said the inability to feel any ribs meant he was ready for slaughter. However, to clear up any confusion, that prediction and Mickey's actual demise were years apart. When my sister and I gave our brother a Dachshund mix for his birthday three years ago, Destiny was slightly pudgy at 20 pounds.  My parting words to Rod were, "Don't let Dad make her fat!"  Three years later Destiny weighs 35 pounds, twice her healthy body weight.
     Dad assures me he doesn't feed her that much, but he also tells me how much she enjoys all the scraps he gives her.  When I was home recently, he gave her a full, human sized serving of lasagna. He is one of the few people I know who ask for a doggie bag and actually give the food to the dog. Although Dad tells me how much better he feels after dieting 10 pounds off his 150 lb. frame, he doesn't see any application to his dog. I make it a practice not to tell parents how to raise their kids (ours turned out okay, but I think it was in spite of us) or how to take care of their pets, but I feel like Destiny deserves an intervention.  Dad thinks the reason she slips out of her collar when she is on a leash is that her head is too small.  Her head, paws and tail are the only parts of her body that are the correct size.  When Roddy told me he gives her three "Greenies" treats a day because the bag instructs one for each 15 to 20 pounds.  I said, "Roddy, she is supposed to be 15 to 20 pounds."
    Dad's last name is Neighbors, and I am not my neighbor's dog's keeper, but I would like to kidnap Destiny for two months and hold her at the Lamb's unfat farm until she looks more like a Dachshund than a Polish dog, but I am afraid it would be a temporary solution and Destiny likes things the way they are.  She likes to eat, Dad likes to feed, there is a certain symmetry to the relationship, if not to her body.  Dad could certainly have worse hobbies and there are no 12 step groups for dog fatteners. I prayed for a long time before giving Dad and Rod a dog, perhaps being fat is her destiny.

Hair of the Dog

     I thought there was something wrong with my bagless vacuum the day the dirt cup was only half full after vacuuming the living and dining rooms.  It had always been full before. That was the day I realized that most of the dog hair had at last left the building.  I loved our Lab, the hair--not so much.  There is still cat hair, mostly Maynard's, but his furry, little body is no match for Garth's hairy harvest. Finally, it is safe to observe the 10 second rule for dropped food and I do not have to de-hair the furniture by his favorite window.
     But enjoying hairlessness does not mean we won't we get another dog.  I will never be the pet lover my husband is, but neither would I deny him something that brings him such pleasure.  And I find walking to the island without a dog downright boring. With Garth it was an adventure if only because with so few cognitive skills, for him it was a new place every time. A dog is also the perfect walking companion, you can talk to a dog and they never question or contradict. Now I have to talk to myself and pretend I'm wearing a bluetooth when I encounter a stranger. Our greatest consolation when facing Garth's departure was knowing we would get another dog. But it may be hard to find a dog that fits our criteria of being free, non-shed and non-yappy. Labradoodles have been suggested but they are $1000, a far cry from our first criteria.
     I am not sorry we put Garth down when we did.  I didn't realize how stressful it was just watching him struggle with his daily activities, until he was gone and I experienced unexpected relief.  It was the right thing to do.  But going without a pet for the sake of a hairless house and less complicated schedule is like extracting your teeth so you won't get cavities.  Even if I wind up with three bags full of hair on vacuuming day, I'd rather have a homeless dog than a dogless home. Because devotion comes with the dirt, and that hair is hitched to a heart, and life without that is a cup half full.

My Great White Wail

     My mother told me that when I was old enough not to get my clothes so dirty, I could wear white. I'm 56 years old. I wore white for my wedding and when I worked at the hospital. I can't make it out of my bedroom in the morning wearing white clothes without staining them.  I am wondering just how old I have to be to master this milestone.  Perhaps when I am in a nursing home, sitting still, not cleaning anything. . . no, eventually I would have to eat and I would inevitably spill something.
     Who cares about coordinating ensembles?  My entire wardrobe is designed around not showing dirt.  I wear print tops because solids show more stains. My idea of a light spring color palette is khaki. The closest I come to pastel is gray.  It helps that dark colors like black and navy, and vivids like jewel tones go better with my complexion, but I knew I preferred them years before I found out about my color wheel. I wore whatever colors allowed me to make it to the end of the day in the same outfit without looking like an ad for  stain remover. 
     Frankly, at this point in life, I don't worry as much about wearing colors that flatter me--my body doesn't flatter me.  Like Captain Ahab, I continue to pursue my elusive white nemesis, but so far I remain off white.

Homemaker's Prayer

Lord,

Thank you for giving me a car nice enough to give people rides to church in,
but not so fancy that I can't put a dog in the backseat or let kids eat a snack in it.
Help me not to value my chairs more than the people sitting on them.
I don't need tables that require coasters or have beautiful wood that nobody gets to see
because it's always covered.
Give me carpet that my husband can walk on in his work boots.
Keep me from buying rugs to protect the floor from the people you meant to walk on it.
Help me not to confuse my house with a furniture museum.
   The world will not end if kids bounce on the couch cushions,
   or twirl in the swivel rocker.

You did not give me a home so I could protect my possessions,
   but as a haven for my husband, children, neighbors and sometimes, even strangers. 
Help me remember that you gave me a home to take care of my family, not the other way around.
     Shoes and paw prints should be welcome, even when they dirty the carpet.
     Let in the sunlight, even if it fades the upholstery,
     and use the good china, even if it gets broken.
Help me to keep my house clean enough to be comfortable
    for the hardworking man who pays for it
    and the children who grew up here.
But please don't give me enough money for fancy things,
fancy things come with a price beyond money.
Help me to hold possessions loosely and you tightly,
and to love the Giver more than the gifts,
because you are the true Home Maker.

                                        Amen




                    

The Nobleman's Daughter

     Sounds like a title for a Gothic romance. If I had lived in the times of aristocracy, I would have preferred to be a nobleman's daughter. Why bother boarding a flight of fancy to be a peasant in another era?  Nobleman, in those times, referred to someone highborn, an aristocrat.  Very few nobility have been born in Pollock, Missouri, nevertheless, I consider myself a descendant of a noble man. By noble I mean honorable, principled, worthy.  I am the daughter of such a man.
     I know this because I watched him spend half a century caring for my schizophrenic mother.  He stayed married to her, and true to his wedding vows despite long years of rejection. We kids would have understood if he had not, but he chose not to take his happiness at our expense, or Mom's. Because noble also means kind, compassionate, altruistic, gracious, even heroic, I am a nobleman's daughter.
     I watched him become increasingly confined to home as Mom's caregiver. I watched him spend most of his life savings when she needed to be in a nursing home. I watched him make joyless, twice weekly visits to her dementia home because she needed him, even when she didn't want him. And now I watch him mourn for her with genuine sorrow, instead of relief.
     Today is Dad's 86th birthday so I dedicate this tribute to him, a gift, from the nobleman's daughter.

How I Became Omniscient

     Would you believe I was born this way?  John Locke said newborns were tabulae rasae--blank slates waiting to be written on. This is true as far as information is concerned, but those same selfish slates also consider themselves to be the center of the universe. They know everything because they are everything. Being firstborn increases the tendency to be a know-it-all. I am actually second born, but stepped into the over achiever role when my brother abdicated the position. In school, where social structure is more engraved in stone than blank slate, I was assigned to the smart kid classification.  A further step towards omniscience was becoming a teenager.  Teenagers know everything.
     But I didn't truly become all knowing until I got married. I did not realize it was a requirement at the time, but after I got married I found out I was expected to know:

•      The location of every item in our home, (even those I never use) and sometimes, even in man land, like the garage and shop.    
•      The hours of every business in our city and those to which we travel.
•      How to find places in towns we have never before visited, and how long it will take to get there.
•      Which restaurants take reservations.
•      How long a social event--concert, wedding, funeral etc. will last. More importantly, will anyone notice if he's not there? 
•      How to cut his hair. Fortunately, he isn't fussy about his hair and is, considerately, growing less of it.
•      The answer to any medical question, despite only having one semester training as a CNA.
•      How to make travel arrangements and willingness to accept full responsibility when things are "not as advertised".
•     A good sale price on every item except tools and firearms. Actually, I ace this one.
•     The polite way to express confrontation.  I am a master at aggressively polite letters.
•     Everything about children, especially responses to permission requests and questions about God and/or sex.  

        I do not have to know whether or not Reed needs to wear a tie to an event, because he will not wear one anyway.  Besides my husband, the jet mechanic, claims not to know how to tie one. I do not need to know how to coordinate his clothes. (See preceding.) So if I got the idea that I know everything, I got it from my husband.  He apparently considers me omniscient.  In this case, I will submit to his better judgment.

The Cash of Symbols

     As I wrote in my blog "Bury Me Not in a Mason Jar", I prefer to be buried, rather than cremated, when I die.  This is a preference, not an ultimatum (as if I could enforce it) and is dependent on the money available for my final expenses, but I prefer it for the same reason I prefer to take communion with unleavened bread--the symbolism.  I believe burial best expresses our hope of the resurrection of the body, just as unleavened bread best symbolizes the sinlessness of Christ. Obviously, there is a much larger price difference between burial vs. cremation than unleavened vs. leavened bread, and I am open to, and have, taken communion with leavened bread when visiting other churches. It is never a good idea to be pickier than God about issues that do not affect our salvation.
     I do not believe God needs the remnants of our earthly bodies to build our resurrected ones, that would be as ridiculous as thinking God needs us to use unleavened communion bread in order to keep Christ sinless.  That is backwards reasoning.  The type is not dependent on the symbol.  I am not even very good at perceiving symbolism, but seeing how seriously God took treatment of the symbols of the tabernacle, ark of the covenant, sacrificial system, etc. in the old testament, and the penalty for irreverent use of the Lord's Supper in the new testament, I am highly motivated to use symbols correctly.
     Besides, burial gives me one last chance to give my testimony, and I could never resist having the last word.  If the testimony of my burial can outweigh my lifetime tendency to buy the next-to-cheapest product available, those who know me as the ultimate bargain hunter will understand the significance of the splurge. To hammer in that testimony, I have written the story of my salvation to be read at my funeral and have selected hymns and scripture passages I would like included. If finances necessitate cremation, I hope enough money will be available to buy a gravestone, because that is where I can have the final word.  I had previously selected Is. 58 because it is my favorite passage and the phrase from verse 12, "Restorer of Broken Walls", but perhaps that is too obscure. I am now considering a verse on the resurrection and the phrase "to be continued. . ."

Last Rights

     There were no undertakers near the homesteads of eastern Montana in the 1910's when my great grandmother died in childbirth with her tenth.  Teenaged Elsie, washed her mother's body and placed the stillborn baby in her arms for display on the family table.  As difficult as that would be, I'm sure there was also great solace for family members who did with their own hands what they could for those they loved and lost. In the past I have had ambivalent feelings about some of our culture's death rituals, especially the embalming, beautifying and displaying of the corpse. It seemed pagan somehow. But I found solace in those customs when my mother died.  It was a comfort to see her face looking at rest in a way I had not seen for decades.  It was a comfort when guests told stories about mom from the years before schizophrenia, an honor that they cared enough, after all these years, to come and share them.  It helped me to know that my quiet dad and housebound mother had still made an impact beyond our family.
     Now, of course, there is an entire funeral industry. Washing, clothing and displaying the body of the deceased is handled by professionals. Nevertheless, it was a comfort to help select a casket that suited mom, clothes she liked to wear, her favorite color for the casket spray.  Those were the things I could still do for the mother I loved and lost, and lost again.  In great grandma's time it was customary for someone to keep vigil with the body from the laying out until the burial.  I suppose this might have originated in the time before embalming to make sure the person was dead and not deeply unconscious.  Reed and I kept vigil the last hour of visitation when the rest of the family had gone home. I did not stay for the sake of potential visitors, I stayed because of mom. I knew, of course, that my mother was no longer in the small body in the coffin, but it was the last place she resided and staying to the end seemed the right thing to do--the last, right thing that I could do for her.
    
     
    

Twice Removed

       Last Friday my mother died. One week later we learned it is time to put down our beloved 15 year old Lab, Garth.  Mom's death was both expected and unexpected.  Her strength had been declining gradually since the first of the year, then alarmingly, a few weeks ago, when dad said she couldn't lift her legs into the bed or even shift them into a more comfortable position. But I expected a slow decline from nursing home patient to hospice patient, from sleep to unconsciousness, from unconsciousness to death.  Instead she was busy cutting out recipes when Dad came to check on her Wednesday, had a good visit with her senior companion Thursday, and died Friday morning.  Schizophrenia took away my mother 50 years ago, death merely finished the process.  My mother, twice removed.
     Garth also declined gradually, from long walks to short walks, from barking at anyone who knocked on the door to deaf slumber by the door, from treatment options to grim expectations. The same spinal disc deterioration that makes it hard for him to lift his hips is causing bladder weakness resulting in infections.  But we did not put Garth to sleep that dark, one-week-after Friday because the vet could not get to him for two more hours and he was terrified to be there.  We took him home.  The inevitable must happen, but it will happen in the place he loves with the people he loves.
     What I call the beautiful economy of God is the way He uses one circumstance for many purposes. God does not waste suffering.  The simple tears I shed at the thought losing Garth, brought with them the sorrow of the slow, complicated loss of my mother.  Those were unknown emotions I was afraid to feel, sorrow I didn't know how to express--until now.  In the beautiful economy of God, even mourning can be a two-for-one special. Loved ones, twice removed.
    

Jousting with Job

     Job was another one of those Old Testament saints to which I planned to apologize when I got to heaven because I didn't like his book. Something along the lines of, "Sorry I didn't study your book, but you have to admit it was kind of a downer." Ezekiel was another such shunned saint until I studied, and actually enjoyed, his book last summer. That left Job.  I am relying on my beloved homiletics to help me joust with Job's joyless journal and wrest principles and applications from it. Nine chapters in, I have found a couple overarching themes.  The first is, most of the book would not even be necessary if Job's fickle friends had not presumed to know the mind of God.
     The paradigm through which his discomforters interpreted life is summed up in Bildad's speech in Job 8:20, "Surely God does not reject a blameless man or strengthen the hands of evildoers."  Since that was their underlying assumption, they denied what they knew to be true about Job's righteousness in order to make the facts fit the conclusion. God was punishing Job, therefore he must be sinful. Secretly sinful.  Altering facts to fit the paradigm brings to mind my favorite gory story from Greek mythology--Procrustes bed.  This homicidal host would offer his bed to travelers, then lop off or stretch the sleepers' bodies to fit the bed.  We see this all the time in the scientific world, where the prevailing paradigm is evolution. Questionable findings which are viewed as supportive are stretched while contradictory facts are lopped off Darwin's bed.  Besides that, our human nature tends to believe ill of people, even when we know better.  We would rather believe they are secretly sinful.
     The problem is, Job's friends were partly right.  The general principle that the godly are blessed and the ungodly suffer is true.  Do not be deceived.  God cannot be mocked:  A man reaps what he sows.  (Gal. 6:7)  The secular version is also well known--What goes around comes around. A missionary friend told us that after Brazilians trusted Christ they generally had a higher standard of living, not because they got a better job, but because when they were no longer spending their money on drugs, alcohol and gambling, they had more to spend on their family. Job's friends were right about the principle but wrong about the application.  Job was not being punished, he was being tested, and not because of his sin, but because of his faith. 
     This distresses me because it means I have to think instead of assume.  Thinking is hard. Making assumptions and whacking people with biblical principles is easy.  At least Job's comforters went to the trouble of insulting him in poetic form.  My version might be:

     You're suffering bad

     sorry you're blue.

     You must be sinful.

     Glad I'm not you.

     My fear is that most of the remainder of Job will be rehashing the same theme.  If so, that means God wants me to learn it but, at this point, I am not making any assumptions. I'll just keep jousting.

Prime Directive

     As any Trekkie knows, the "Prime Directive" on Star Trek was not to interfere with the natural development of an alien culture--unless that culture was doing something wrong (they always were), in which case the crew seduced their females and/or threatened to blow up their planet. Kind of like the United Nations, but with less bribery. However this illustration is interfering with the point I am trying to make, that I, too, have a prime directive--FEED PEOPLE.  It doesn't much matter who.  If an axe murderer came to my door, I would probably fix him a last meal before he executed me. I think I get this from my grandparents, eastern Montana farmers who stuffed visitors with food as if their next stop was Sudan. It was impossible to get hungry at grandma's house. There simply wasn't enough time between bites.  A hearty breakfast was followed by an equally hearty mid-morning snack.  Snacks at my grandparents' house differed from meals only in the size of the plates.  Mid-morning snack was followed by lunch, then 4 o'clock tea time snack, dinner at 5:30. By the time evening snack rolled around, so did we. Carrying on the tradition, anyone who wanders within a quarter mile of our house is offered food.  If they say they've already eaten, I reply, "What's that got to do with it?"  Appetite has no bearing on my prime directive.
     So it has been very frustrating for me here in Butte, celebrating another working holiday at our daughter's house, to be unable to fulfill my prime directive. Outside of the cookies I brought with me, I have been unable to feed people. Admittedly, part of the problem is that I have been spoiled by having luxury items like running water and countertops in my own kitchen.  Since my daughter's kitchen has been dismantled for remodel, her kitchen has been a sink and microwave in the laundry room.  Since we've been here, the kitchen cabinets have been assembled and hung, the microwave installed and a very nice sink is setting on the floor, but only the refrigerator has running water. 
    Since I possess both by nature and by choice, no building skills (more skills lead to more work), and it would be wasted effort to do much cleaning at this point, I have made no contribution to the work here besides that of my good company.  I have not fulfilled my prime directive.  On Star Trek that would lead to demotion, but it would be hard to find something lower than my unskilled labor position on the family work crew. And, as soon as I'm back in a working kitchen, I have every intention of interfering in the natural development of alimentary culture.

Oh Bleep!

     I have been a Christian for a long time and seldom use even the minced oaths acceptable in Christian  circles, even when in traffic with sadists, or when the person ahead of me in the bank drive through is taking so long I can only assume it is their first time handling money, or the shopper I am behind at the checkstand wants to pay for their groceries with a two party, out-of-state check. Such are the foibles of human existence, not worth fussing about. So please insert an acceptable Christian word for the bleep. As I mentioned in my "Giving Up" blog, understanding who Jesus is is a very inconvenient truth. Unspiritual as it sounds, that can be an oh bleep moment. Spiritual warming requires complete reorientation of our lives and unlike one politician's "Inconvenient Truth", God's truth cannot be half baked.
     But my oh bleep times happen when God reveals some service He wants me to do for Him and I don't want to do it. Early in my Christian life I thought such decisions were up to me, so my primary considerations when asked to do something in my church or community were my natural abilities, schedule and comfort.  Then, through my Bible study, I learned God is not concerned about any of those things. He rarely calls us into areas of our natural ability because then we are less likely to depend on Him and, since God equips those He calls, our abilities are not needed. God also adjusts the schedules of those He calls so our current schedule is of no concern. I experienced this time expansion aspect of serving God often when I led a prayer group that I was sure I did not have time for. We are concerned with comfort, God is concerned with obedience. Obedience brings a joy more satisfying than comfort.
     One of my vivid oh bleep moments was when I was called into BSF leadership--for the third time. The first two times I was asked to pray about leadership, I survived unscathed. The third time I had barely begun praying when I could tell by the pounding of my heart and unwelcome certainty in my mind that I was supposed to say yes. Oh bleep! I was not a natural leader, not even an unnatural one. God did not care. The same thing happened when I was asked to speak at a ladies' retreat. I knew I was supposed to say yes despite having no idea, beyond a general topic, what I would say. God supplied all the ideas, I was not nervous and actually enjoyed the experience.
     I do not agree to serve God because I am spiritual, I obey because I have learned resistance is futile.  I am spiritual enough to know when God is calling me, but unspiritual enough for it to feel like the clammy hand of death has grabbed me. Getting an assignment from God feels less like being touched by an angel, than being tazered by the Spirit, a startling sensation that can make even a seasoned saint say "Oh bleep!"                         
    

The Promise and the Pit

     One of the questions in our Bible study of Genesis 37 was, "Why do you think God gave these dreams to Joseph?" They certainly did not help his relationship with his family. They even precipitated his brothers' betrayal. And the contrast between the dreams of exaltation and the reality of the pit must have been bitter to bear. I believe God gave Joseph the dreams so he would have something to cling to in the dark times to come. The dreams strengthened the hatred his brothers already felt toward Joseph, but Jacob had been fueling that fire for a long time. When circumstance took everything from Joseph, the dream remained.
     I, too, have had those pinnacle to pit experiences, times when the Spirit has directed me, not through the soft illumination of his word or the subtle nudging of circumstance, but a personal message, just for me, impressed into my mind, foreign and unflinching. The first of these came after a women's Bible study I attended as a young mom. The message was that God had something new in store for me. I was excited and afraid. I thought maybe God would call us to the mission field. Instead He called me to three and a half years of depression. During that time I got a lot of bad information both secular and Christian, doubted and was doubted by others, but I knew one thing. I did not fall into that pit by my own deficiencies. Depression was the something new that God had promised me. It resulted, among other things, in a deeper walk with Christ, but I learned that walk during years spent in a dark, lonely pit.
     Another incident happened five years ago when our spare son Lance was still with us. He had violated his parole, but was released on bond to stay with us until time to serve his sentence. When Lance had come to us two years earlier, God's guidance for me to help him was as clear as if He had pried the roof off the house and dropped Lance into my arms. Still I wondered how I would know when I had accomplished my part of what would be a lifelong reclamation project. When I came home from my first week of BSF of the year, I got my answer. God thundered into my heart for several hours, the knowledge that I had finished the part God wanted me to play in Lance's life. God would take it from here. Lance would be okay. I did not know at the time, that when Lance left that Thanksgiving I would not hear from him again. That was five years ago. God gave His promise to sustain me in the years to come. By then I recognized the pattern of the promise and the pit.
     A personal promise from God is too obvious to ignore and too precious to dread, but when there is a promise, it will be followed by a pit. By God's grace, He gives us the promise first. By grace also, He gives the pit.

Giving Up

     I heard an interview yesterday on Christian radio of a journalist who had come to faith in Christ through  researching a story on the Bible. The host congratulated her on the courage it took to believe when she and all of her friends were leftist liberals. She said it didn't feel like courage, it felt like giving up. It made me laugh because that is what it felt like for me. I heard a preacher say that God is a gentleman, He doesn't go where He isn't wanted. I doubt Paul would agree with that, in that he was knocked both off and on his ass, and gentlemanly reticence certainly wasn't my experience. The Holy Spirit beat me to a pulp every Sunday during the invitation with the knowledge that I needed to be saved or I was going to hell. Week after week as we stood for the invitation hymn, I gripped the pew in front of me until my knuckles were white, heart pounding, resisting going forward. Resisting God. I was not a leftist liberal. I was a quiet, studious girl who wasn't doing anything a good Baptist would be ashamed of. Nevertheless, I did not want to relinquish control over my life (at that time I still believed I had it) even to someone as loving as Jesus. The battle lasted a year. I lost. God won.
     Even though for many years I wanted to be the Holy Spirit, at least to my husband and family, I have no doubt whatsoever of the Spirit's ability to convict people of what they need to do. He doesn't need my help. My goal is to speak the truth in love and shut up, even with my husband, especially with my children. I have had my teaching time with them, now I need to do the same thing Jesus did with his own disciples, trust the Holy Spirit to drive in the truth, beat them up, if necessary. The only way to win when slugging it out with the Spirit is by giving up.
    
      

Worth the Wait

     Had I known we were being prophetic when we named our first son, I would not have named him Will. Les would have been easier to live with.  It's not so much that Will was headstrong, but that he was headed his own way and it was not necessarily where the rest of the family was going, proving the saying--Where there's a Will there's a way.  I was confident I could out stubborn him, I had decades of practice, but I was afraid one day he would start heading his own way and just keep walking. When Will left home, I began the emotional equivalent of holding my breath. Waiting for Will.
     I felt like I was standing still and silent by the open door, trying to coax a wild creature into the house.  It was not that Will never entered our home, he lived a few miles away, we saw him often, but not for holiday meals or any of the expected times. Will came and went on his own schedule, unbound by social conventions, uncomfortable in large gatherings.  A wild creature.
     When I gave birth to our first child, I was overwhelmed by both the fierceness with which I loved her and the crushing vulnerability of knowing my own happiness was forever linked to hers. That vulnerability is even worse when the helpless baby grows into an independent child with a will of his own. I worked throughout his childhood to earn Will's respect because respect, unlike duty and guilt, is the basis of friendship between an adult child and his parents. Nothing worth having comes easy, but I knew he was worth of effort and now, in his late twenties, Will lives with us on school breaks, appreciates all we do for him and is finally willing to accept our help. He calls weekly, just as I do my own dad. What began as parenting ended as friendship. Worth the wait.
    

Out of Control

     There are two reasons I am skeptical of health trends. The first is that I have seen diets, diseases, preventions and cures come and go through the years. Caffeine has gone from bane to beneficial in a decade. The same chocolate that was once empty calories is now an antioxidant. Hypoglycemia gave way to yeast intolerance, which paved the way for the current cootie--gluten intolerance. I am not saying people don't really have these conditions, but even diseases become fads and can be over and/or self diagnosed. Vitamin C has been upstaged by vitamin D, cranberry juice by acai, etc. I have ridden the exer(cise)cycle from isometrics to aerobics to cardio, pilates and, currently, circuit training. If I tried to incorporate only those exercises that claimed to be the most important or effective, it would still take three hours a day. My same old fitness routine may be dated, but it also daily, which is probably more important.
     The second reason I put little credence in health fads is because they promote the illusion that we can control both the length and health of our lives. Jesus spent a large portion of his ministry healing people, but I know of only two health references and neither of them would be found in the wellness section of a bookstore.
     1) Mark 7:15-19 (My condensed paraphrase) Nothing we eat makes us unclean. It is only passing through.  Mark inserts that this declared all foods clean. Welcome back bacon.
     2) Matt. 6:27 Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? (NIV)  That sucks the go right out of the goji. We spend time and money trying to guarantee a longer, healthier life and the only guarantee Christ gives is that it won't work.
     Today I was one of hundreds of mourners at the funeral of a godly, healthy 61 year old man who died of a massive brain hemorrhage. Nothing could have prevented or cured his condition. The only thing the family could control was their testimony in mourning.  If I'm already floundering to control my body (hard), tongue (harder), thoughts (hardest), I am not adding health to the list. The healthy thing about being out of control, is the rest I get from knowing who is.
   

Walk a Mile in My Knees

    God and I are seldom on the same schedule. Take my knees. . .if only you could. Because I am relatively young for a knee replacement, because I knew physical therapy is important after knee surgery and because I have exercised all my life, I thought that my diligent efforts would be rewarded by faster healing. It made me feel in control of my recovery. My knees were not aware that I was in control, they thought they were. Exercise has helped me regain strength and range of motion but stability comes on its own schedule. I should have clued in when the skin around my incision turned red and tender, and when the stitches designed to dissolve under the skin decided to fester their way topside instead. I was not in control when both knees sent messages to my brain stem to "give out" at random moments, necessitating the cane I call Qwai Chung--a television reference meaningful only to boomers. I cannot control either the occurrence of damp weather or the accompanying stiffness that invades all my arthritic joints, including the new knee.
     There are some things you have to be wearing the knee to figure out. For instance, the new hardware is hooked to the old software, and some of that still hurts. It is possible to stand up and even start walking before your knees know what you are doing, it takes them a few steps to figure it out. As someone who, even at my most coordinated, had all the grace of a wounded water buffalo, those first few steps aren't pretty. I also learned to put function first, then form. It is better to take a stable step flat footed than try to roll from heel to toe and fall down. My knees are in control, I am just along for the ungainly ride. Actually, God is in control. He has decided it is going to be a long ride. I need to accept that. I cannot help having stiff knees, but I can choose not to be stiff necked.

Fatal Foods

     Descarte said, "I think, therefore I am." Whereas I have the internet, therefore I don't have to think. And because I am on the internet, I am bombarded with health advice. Because we are bombarded, health advice keeps upping the ante with increasingly alarming labels. The same food that used to be simply good for you has become food that prevents cancer. By contrast, other foods are practically considered toxic. It is a sign of the politicized times we live in. In the 60's it was enough to tolerate differences, affirmation is now demanded. For instance, anyone who doesn't affirm that the homosexual lifestyle is equally valid with heterosexuality, is said to be guilty of hate. I think that is why food has gone from being healthy vs. everyday to lifesaving vs. fatal.
     I try to eat well to be a good steward of my body, but tune out authors who claim the human body is not designed to digest ordinary foods like milk, wheat or sugar. I believe God made our bodies able to thrive in the diverse foods, climates, and cultures He knew we would encounter throughout the ages. If Christians are not to live in fear of Satan, who hates us and actively works against us, I will not live in fear of the food provided by a God who loves us and actively seeks to bless us. Bon apetit!

Toy Story 3

     Today, as I attended the funeral of an elderly friend from a former church, I found myself thinking about "Toy Story 3". Though I know the real heart of Art now resides in heaven, there is something poignant about seeing a life of 92 years condensed into an obituary on a piece of paper you hold during the service and then throw away.  Parting is painful. That's why I cried at "Toy Story 3", though I seldom cry at funerals. There are three scenes in the movie that move me to tears. In the first, the little boy of the original movie, owner of the toys, has grown up and is ready to head off to college. His mother walks into his nearly empty room, wordlessly places her hand on her chest and just stands there. Her child is leaving. Her heart is breaking. Been there, done that. The parting is not permanent, but it is definitive. A line has been crossed, the parent/ child relationship has changed, for the better, but it has changed and change is painful. Tears.
     In another scene, the toys are sliding down a conveyor belt toward an incinerator. When, despite all their efforts, they realize there is nothing they can do to save their lives, they reach out to hold hands/paws/appendages. If they cannot change their fate, they can at least face it together. Of course, in the movie the beloved toys are rescued at the last moment by conjoined triplet aliens, but their silent solidarity in the face of doom seems a beautiful analogy of the human condition. We can face the worst life has to offer, as long as we have a hand to hold. Tears.
     At the end of the movie, the young man delivers his rescued toys to a girl who wants, and needs, them. One at a time, he introduces her to the toys and, before he leaves, he plays with each one, one last time--a gesture of respect to those he is leaving behind. Tears. I could draw all kinds of spiritual analogies from "Toy Story 3", but the important thing for Christians to remember when we face the painful parting of death, is that at the last moment, we are rescued by the most alien being in the universe, the coexistent, triune God/Man--Jesus Christ.

Hanging Out

     I spent Wednesday afternoon with my niece and nephew hanging out at the pool at Meadow Lake. Hanging out, in my case, being an apt description. There was less Connie to contend with 10 years ago when I instituted the tradition of "Aunt Connie Day". At that time, my sister's family had just moved to Kalispell to start a business. It was the first time we had family nearby since early in our marriage.  Especially wonderful was that her children were toddlers while my own kids were teenagers, aka tall toddlers. I knew how to make preschoolers happy because I liked the same things they did. But teenagers? Even when they were happy, they refused to let it show, on principle.
     When Alex and Amanda were preschoolers, I would bring them home with me every Tuesday after Bible study, we would spend the afternoon having fun together, and their dad would pick them up on his way home from work. Once they were in school, we altered the schedule, I met them after school and we walked back to my house. Sometimes we would go to a matinee, sometimes, like last week, we went to the swimming pool. But there was also plenty of entertainment to be had closer to home, like our walks to the island or building forts in the living room. As they got older, we had to schedule Aunt Connie Day around piano lessons, dance and/or basketball. Now they are teenagers, with even more demands on their time and Aunt Connie Day has gone from a weekly tradition to an occasional suggestion.
     This year has been particularly difficult to schedule because I have had two knee surgeries followed by business travel with Reed. It is April and we just had our first Aunt Connie Day of the school year. Even though Alex is in the grip of growth spurt dementia and only dimly aware of his own existence, I think they both had a good time. I know I did. Someday they will have neither time for, nor interest in, Aunt Connie Day, but food and gravity are doing their best to make sure some part of me will always be there to hang out.