Shrinkage

    By shrinkage I am not referring to the "Seinfeld" version of a male appendage encountering cold water, I am not anatomically equipped for that. The shrinkage that afflicts me is what happens when my bladder encounters a movie theater. I have been blessed that, despite my age, I don't have to get up at night to use the bathroom. Supposedly the bladder functions more efficiently at night, hence the need for master bathrooms. Mine functions most efficiently in the morning. I can't swallow my own saliva without having to go to the bathroom multiple times in the morning.  My schedule mostly cooperates with my bladder peculiarities, except on Tuesdays when I go to BSF. I can seldom survive those two hours without a bathroom break. Some of the women I pass coming and going complain they shouldn't have had that second cup of coffee. Second cup of coffee--I forego cereal on BSF mornings because of the half cup of milk.
    On mornings when we are on the road, my befuddled brain begs for caffeine but my butinsky bladder bullies me into abstinence. Afternoons and evenings I can go for hours without a potty break--unless I go to a movie.  Somehow, even though the bladder is a sightless organ concealed within the body and, in my case, well insulated by fat, my bladder can detect when I have entered a movie theater.  That is when shrinkage occurs. The same bladder that is content during eight hours of sleep or six hours at work, shrinks to the size of a raisinet so that I cannot make it all the way through a movie. It is not the movie's fault. I can watch the same movie at home on dvd where I have plenty to drink, leisure to pause, a bathroom mere steps away and not need to go.  Shrinkage occurs only at theaters, where I have to descends stairs, walk down a hallway and miss part of the movie. I'm proud to say I can do all that in record time in the  middle aged woman category.
     I am also getting pretty good at guessing when the slow times are in movies I haven't see before, but I missed the only scene in "Thor" in which Chris Hemsworth had his shirt off and the scene that explained why the new Bond film is named "Skyfall". However, calculating the length of the movie, anticipating potential unimportant scenes and appeasing the raisinet, diminish my enjoyment of the parts of the movie that I get to watch.  I have to wait for the dvd to come out to see what I missed because there, in the comfort of my own home with a beverage in one hand and the remote control in the other, (I hope the washing instructions author is not offended by my revision)--some shrinkage may not occur.

Ready or Not

     You tell yourself you will be ready. Fifteen years ago we brought home a puppy. Garth is a mutt, or more politically correct, mixed breed, very mixed breed, but looks mostly like a small black lab with curly hair. He grew to be a 50 pound dog and, as such, according to the veterinary charts, we could expect him to live about 12 years.  Fifteen years ago that sounded like a long time. We walked many a mile together, going to and from the island. And he had a regular route through the neighborhood where he knew he could get pets and dog treats. His legs are not strong enough to make it to the island now, even a walk to the bridge leaves him raspy and gasping.  A tossed treat is no longer enticement enough to get off the floor, although he will stretch his tongue a long ways to reach one. But he still dutifully follows us from room to room in the house. We tell him not to, but he has never been particularly obedient and is now deaf.  When he first became deaf, he looked embarrassed to be caught sleeping when I came home unexpectedly but, in whatever way animals keep track of our schedules, when we come home at our usual times, he is awake and watching out the window to make up for not hearing the garage door. One benefit of his deafness is that he doesn't bark every time friend, foe or family come to the door but, when he does, it's a muted, deaf sounding bark. He no longer bursts through the dog door when I pull into the garage because his hind legs collapse going through it and on the wood floor of the laundry room to get to it.  He mostly stays on the carpet. And sometimes, even there, he scoots with his front legs until his hind legs are strong enough to put him upright. Someday, he will not be able to get them up at all.  That is the day when the companionship of having a pet becomes the sorrowful stewardship of saying good bye and putting him down.
     At our house that involves a quick shot to the base of the skull because, however gentle the vet may be, he is terrified of the vet's office and I don't want him to spend his last moments on earth afraid. But as long as he is not in pain, enjoys his food and can get in and out of the house, we do not care about the "no longer" part. We have seen this coming for a year now, known it for 15 years. You tell yourself you will be ready . . somehow, magically, you will be ready. But you never are.

Adversity

     I have been thinking about adversity lately. As a nation, we were horrified by the senseless shooting of first graders in Newtown, Connecticut. Closer to home, a church family experienced both the disaster of a pregnant mom having a heart attack, and the miracle of safe delivery of baby Grace and successful bypass surgery for her mother. But not all experienced miracles, a local pastor's family lost their 5 year old daughter to an asthma attack a few days before Christmas.  The miracle mom's family was able to share their faith from the front page of the local paper.  The pastor's family shared their hope amidst sorrow at the funeral. Through the internet, their testimony has traveled around the world.  I pray that the believers in Connecticut have been reaching out to their suffering community.
     Adversity is an inescapable part of the human condition, but God can use it, as He does all things, to bring glory to Himself.  Our testimony is loudest in adversity. No eloquent four point presentation of the gospel is as compelling as a Christian's inarticulate gasp when pain and confusion and trust and hope all mix together. Inexplicable peace amidst adversity, that is the thunder of our faith.
     Throughout their childhood, I shared my faith with my children, but the times when I shared most honestly and openly the meat of what matters to me, was in the heat of arguments.  I have experienced far smaller sorrows and miracles than those I read about this Christmas season but, since the storms of adversity will come, I don't want to waste the opportunity to testify about Christ. Let the thunder roll.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

    For most of my life my right knee has been my "good" knee. My "bad" knee was the left because I injured it in a playground accident at age 9 and, for the next 15 years, the kneecap would spontaneously dislocate at inconvenient times. Admittedly, there is rarely a convenient time to be in intense pain. In my twenties, I had "Lefty" surgically repaired and it became the "ugly" knee because of the scar that looks like a giant, white millipede crawling down my leg.  My left kneecap no longer did it's disappearing trick, but it was still the bad knee because it was weaker and more arthritic than the right.
    Three weeks ago I replaced Lefty with a shiny new knee. The giant millipede scar will have a smaller earthworm scar to keep it company. While it is healing, Lefty is still the bad knee but, theoretically, after healing is complete my left knee could become the good knee.  I am hoping to be able to ride a bike again, maybe even jog. The problem is, after all these years of carrying the onus of my bonus weight, "Righty" is now creaky and arthritic. The good news is, the arthroscopic surgery I had in October for Righty's torn meniscus should buy me a few years before it needs replacement. The bad news is, I will have to bike/jog in a circle. That could get ugly.