In the corner stands our Christmas tree in its manicured, if miniature, majesty. I can practically look the angel tree topper in the eye. This tree tapers to a perfect point as if shaped in a giant pencil sharpener. All the ornaments match, unlike the early years of handmade ornaments made of popsicle sticks or gold painted macaroni, or all the mismatched ornaments I collected for my children at craft shows and dollar stores through the years. Rather than reflecting the beauty of the tree, those cheap ornaments reflected my children's interests at the time--cats, fishing, music etc. I bought those ornaments with the idea that they would hang them on their own trees when they left home. The youngest is 27. So far, no takers. I managed to drown out the memories of eggnog, Christmas carols and our children bickering as they fought over spindly branches to decorate, by streaming a Jim Gaffigan comedy video. I laughed until I cried--so I wouldn't cry.
This year's Christmas tree is well shaped, but it is not perfect. The perfect tree has mismatched ornaments clumped together on spindly branches, hung by the sticky fingers of arguing children. Angels should not be on top of the tree, they should be around it.
Friday, December 19, 2014
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Too Much of a Good Thing
I have mentioned before how discouraging it is to announce a surgery, pregnancy, job loss, etc. and have some well meaning, but clueless, friend tell a horror story about the knee that never healed, 72 hour labor, or person that never again found a decent job, but an overly optimistic response is also discouraging. The happy stories of the miraculously fast recovery, two contraction delivery, or job that made someone a millionaire, are equally hard to hear. One of the kind couples who brought food in after my surgery, told me about a friend who was back at her office job two weeks after a double knee replacement. Well, good for her! I, on the other hand, still got tired from eating. Overly optimistic outcomes make you feel like you must be doing something wrong, like you are not trying hard enough.
In my case, I had the same surgery with the same surgeon at the same hospital, and same rehab exercises, with two entirely different outcomes. The right knee was more stable, less bruised and swollen at two weeks than the left knee was at four months. The plan of God is not a one-size-fits-all formula. He has different outcomes for similar situations for purposes known only to Him. That is one of the reasons I find health breakthroughs so annoying. Even Christians get caught up in the health fads. If Facebook and Dr. Oz had been around during Israel's wilderness wanderings, they would have been touting the health benefits of the wood that purified the water at Marah. The healing power was not in the wood, it was in the purpose and power of God for that specific incident.
So when I respond to someone's news like that mentioned above, I'm going to aim for realistic, middle ground encouragement. Even encouragement can be too much of a good thing.
In my case, I had the same surgery with the same surgeon at the same hospital, and same rehab exercises, with two entirely different outcomes. The right knee was more stable, less bruised and swollen at two weeks than the left knee was at four months. The plan of God is not a one-size-fits-all formula. He has different outcomes for similar situations for purposes known only to Him. That is one of the reasons I find health breakthroughs so annoying. Even Christians get caught up in the health fads. If Facebook and Dr. Oz had been around during Israel's wilderness wanderings, they would have been touting the health benefits of the wood that purified the water at Marah. The healing power was not in the wood, it was in the purpose and power of God for that specific incident.
So when I respond to someone's news like that mentioned above, I'm going to aim for realistic, middle ground encouragement. Even encouragement can be too much of a good thing.
Friday, December 5, 2014
High Pain Threshold
Having a high pain threshold has come in handy many times in my life--15 years of a dislocating kneecap, 3 unanesthetized childbirths, 25 years of chronic migraines, but sometimes that blessing is also a problem. I do not think I was born with high pain tolerance, I credit my knee with that. When I was nine years old, I was playing in a sawdust pit with a friend. She called me and I stood up and turned to her while my foot was still buried in the sawdust, tearing the knee tendons. In my home that was not the kind of event worth the price of a doctor visit, so I just learned to walk, or limp, it off. From that time until I had it surgically repaired at age 24, my kneecap would dislocate spontaneously when my leg straightened too much, like when running flat out. Kneecaps going AWOL can be an extremely painful process and I believe that is when I developed a my tolerance for pain.
Physical therapists have been surprised that I am silent during procedures that make most of their clients groan. It is not that I cannot feel what they are doing, it is just not intense enough for me to rate it as pain. One deep tissue massage was painful enough for me to not seek to repeat it, but I had to be told that most patients scream. My obstetrician could not tell what stage of labor I was at because I was not making any noise (although I would have if I thought it would help). During the Botox injections I tried for migraine relief, it was not until the doctor was encouraging me as if I were in labor that I realized the process was supposed to be painful. And when I talk to people about having cortisone shots in my knees, I get the impression those are considered painful too.
The problem aspect of my pain threshold was brought home to me after my recent knee replacement. A few days after release from the hospital while my husband was at church, I thought I was getting sick to my stomach. It was not until I was halfway through my rehab exercises that I realized what I was actually experiencing was knee pain. That left me with forty agonizing minutes to wait for the meds to kick in. Several days later I had to repeat the experience when I mistook pain for tiredness. I am thankful for the discomfort my condition has spared me, but there are times when not recognizing pain is a real pain.
Physical therapists have been surprised that I am silent during procedures that make most of their clients groan. It is not that I cannot feel what they are doing, it is just not intense enough for me to rate it as pain. One deep tissue massage was painful enough for me to not seek to repeat it, but I had to be told that most patients scream. My obstetrician could not tell what stage of labor I was at because I was not making any noise (although I would have if I thought it would help). During the Botox injections I tried for migraine relief, it was not until the doctor was encouraging me as if I were in labor that I realized the process was supposed to be painful. And when I talk to people about having cortisone shots in my knees, I get the impression those are considered painful too.
The problem aspect of my pain threshold was brought home to me after my recent knee replacement. A few days after release from the hospital while my husband was at church, I thought I was getting sick to my stomach. It was not until I was halfway through my rehab exercises that I realized what I was actually experiencing was knee pain. That left me with forty agonizing minutes to wait for the meds to kick in. Several days later I had to repeat the experience when I mistook pain for tiredness. I am thankful for the discomfort my condition has spared me, but there are times when not recognizing pain is a real pain.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Placement Dyslexia
I believe there are many forms of dyslexia besides the mixing up of letters. I have an acquaintance who is directionally dyslexic, she cannot figure out how to get from one place to another unless she leaves from the same point of origin every time. To get to my house from the church, she would have to return home first because she only knows how to get to my house from hers. Another friend has recognition dyslexia, she cannot recognize close friends if she is in the car, even if they are honking and waving as they wait side by side at a stoplight. And I thought one of my sons was temperature dyslexic because he would head for school in five below temperatures in a T-shirt, but preferred wearing in a hoodie in 87 degree summer heat.
My husband is placement dyslexic, he has unerring instinct for putting things in the wrong place. If he comes home from work with an oily aircraft part in his hand, he will instinctively set it on the table cloth so he won't get the wood table dirty. He will bypass ten coat hooks in the laundry room to hang his jacket on a dining room chair. If we are transporting food to a potluck, he will automatically set the juicy, greasy or elaborately garnished item on the sloping car seat instead of the flat car floor. Not only will that make the dish more likely to spill, but assures it will spill on the upholstered seat, which is hard to clean, instead of the floor mat, which I can easily replace. He picks up jars by the lid, and gets furious when the lid is not on tight, but it would not occur to him to pick up the jar instead.
And although my husband will happily pet a strange dog or cat, he limits touching humans to me and a select group of female family members. It would never occur to Reed to hug a male family member. His only exception is when someone he knows is injured, in that case he somehow manages to touch that person wherever they are sore numerous times, male or female. But I probably should wrap this up, Reed has chosen to eat his cookies and milk on the small table holding the fifty Christmas letters I have just printed along with the stamped, addressed envelopes, and I want to make sure they don't get ruined the milky way. The placement could be worse though, he might have decided to eat them on my computer.
My husband is placement dyslexic, he has unerring instinct for putting things in the wrong place. If he comes home from work with an oily aircraft part in his hand, he will instinctively set it on the table cloth so he won't get the wood table dirty. He will bypass ten coat hooks in the laundry room to hang his jacket on a dining room chair. If we are transporting food to a potluck, he will automatically set the juicy, greasy or elaborately garnished item on the sloping car seat instead of the flat car floor. Not only will that make the dish more likely to spill, but assures it will spill on the upholstered seat, which is hard to clean, instead of the floor mat, which I can easily replace. He picks up jars by the lid, and gets furious when the lid is not on tight, but it would not occur to him to pick up the jar instead.
And although my husband will happily pet a strange dog or cat, he limits touching humans to me and a select group of female family members. It would never occur to Reed to hug a male family member. His only exception is when someone he knows is injured, in that case he somehow manages to touch that person wherever they are sore numerous times, male or female. But I probably should wrap this up, Reed has chosen to eat his cookies and milk on the small table holding the fifty Christmas letters I have just printed along with the stamped, addressed envelopes, and I want to make sure they don't get ruined the milky way. The placement could be worse though, he might have decided to eat them on my computer.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Honey Dues
Although it is not clearly spelled out in our marriage contract, there are only a certain amount of "honey do" hours allotted to a wife per year. Fortunately, any project that the husband considers essential, in my husband's case lawn mowing, watering, and snow removal, do not count against the honey-do allotment. It is the chores the wife considers necessary and the husband considers nuisance that count. For that reason, I try to spend my allotment as frugally as I spend money. Raking is one of the necessary/nuisance no-mans-land areas in our marriage. Reed, my manic mower, would be happy to let leaves litter the lawn indefinitely. After all, soon snow will fall and no one will see the slimy, sodden blanket beneath the snowy surface. This year, he was even doing internet research to justify not raking. I am willing to help rake as long as he understands I am helping him with his job. Chores are kind of like nicknames, accepting it one time may mean being stuck with it for life. The last thing I want at this low energy era of my life is extra responsibility.
This year I encouraged my husband to buy an attachment for the riding mower that would do the raking for him. Associating raking with using power tools might make it more manly or, at least, less time consuming. Less honey-do time consuming. I use a simple method to make dreaded chores, like housecleaning, go faster. I lower my standards. What is the least I can get by with doing and still make the house look good? I also have a low standard for raking. All I want is a two hour power sweep of the main drag. My all-or-nothing hubbie, who would be perfectly content leaving every leaf on the lawn, now requires every cranny of our half acre yard to be leafless. Admittedly, being meticulous is a good trait in an aircraft mechanic, but not when he's using my honey-do hours.
Because his raking job took twice as long as I was hoping, I will be forced to remove a two hour project from my honey-do list. . .but wait, I can offset those hours because I let him by a new tool. Marriage may be a two way street, but it is a toll road. One way or another you have to pay the honey dues.
This year I encouraged my husband to buy an attachment for the riding mower that would do the raking for him. Associating raking with using power tools might make it more manly or, at least, less time consuming. Less honey-do time consuming. I use a simple method to make dreaded chores, like housecleaning, go faster. I lower my standards. What is the least I can get by with doing and still make the house look good? I also have a low standard for raking. All I want is a two hour power sweep of the main drag. My all-or-nothing hubbie, who would be perfectly content leaving every leaf on the lawn, now requires every cranny of our half acre yard to be leafless. Admittedly, being meticulous is a good trait in an aircraft mechanic, but not when he's using my honey-do hours.
Because his raking job took twice as long as I was hoping, I will be forced to remove a two hour project from my honey-do list. . .but wait, I can offset those hours because I let him by a new tool. Marriage may be a two way street, but it is a toll road. One way or another you have to pay the honey dues.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Repeal Reveal
This year Montana voters have an opportunity to repeal election day voter registration which has been legal here for the past eight years. As an election judge, I feel same day registration further complicates the already complicated responsibilities of the election department's busiest day, slows processing and increases the likelihood of error. But my love for simplicity, efficiency and laziness aside, I think it is a bad idea because, for the most part, people who have somehow failed to notice hundreds of signs and radio and tv campaign ads are probably not people you want to vote anyway. Those against repeal say that taking away same day registration would deny people the right to vote, with particular emphasis on the elderly. Based on my experience working at polling places, the elderly are often the most committed voters. I have seen older couples hobble into the polling place when they could barely walk, vote seated because they could barely stand, and vote using the automark because they could barely see. They are not the people who forget about registering until election day. They are the people who respect the right to vote as the blood-bought privilege it is.
It is true that there is only one day in which to vote at your polling place but, like Christmas, there is more to the season than one day. Absentee ballots were mailed out October 6th, allowing nearly a month to vote. I vote only absentee since redistricting moved my polling place seven miles away. Previously, if I knew I would be out of town on election day, I voted absentee at the election office. Since the Americans with Disabilities Act, we can vote in almost any form imaginable:
Vote from home--absentee.
Vote from your car. Two judges will come outside the polling place with a ballot.
Vote seated. There are chairs, tables and privacy screens for those who need them.
Vote by letting a friend help you mark your ballot.
Vote by automark which is equipped with large print, braille, verbal prompting, even sip-n-puff voting for quadriplegics.
The idea that repealing election day voter registration denies people the right to vote is like saying people who can't go to Black Friday sales are denied the right to Christmas shop. The election department was already well equipped to accommodate all those who wanted to vote before the same day registration mandate. Who it does accommodate are those rounding up busloads of students, minorities and welfare recipients that THEY want to vote--their way. If that assumption is offensive, it is not nearly as offensive as of those arranging the buses, who assume their passengers are too stupid or too lazy to vote without their help.
It is true that there is only one day in which to vote at your polling place but, like Christmas, there is more to the season than one day. Absentee ballots were mailed out October 6th, allowing nearly a month to vote. I vote only absentee since redistricting moved my polling place seven miles away. Previously, if I knew I would be out of town on election day, I voted absentee at the election office. Since the Americans with Disabilities Act, we can vote in almost any form imaginable:
Vote from home--absentee.
Vote from your car. Two judges will come outside the polling place with a ballot.
Vote seated. There are chairs, tables and privacy screens for those who need them.
Vote by letting a friend help you mark your ballot.
Vote by automark which is equipped with large print, braille, verbal prompting, even sip-n-puff voting for quadriplegics.
The idea that repealing election day voter registration denies people the right to vote is like saying people who can't go to Black Friday sales are denied the right to Christmas shop. The election department was already well equipped to accommodate all those who wanted to vote before the same day registration mandate. Who it does accommodate are those rounding up busloads of students, minorities and welfare recipients that THEY want to vote--their way. If that assumption is offensive, it is not nearly as offensive as of those arranging the buses, who assume their passengers are too stupid or too lazy to vote without their help.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Fall Equi"not"
Montana and the calendar are not always in sync with when the seasons are supposed to begin and end. Winter starts sooner and lasts longer than it's allotted three months, spring lops over into summer, making summer that much shorter. But fall, fall comes right on time, again not by the official calendar, but when I think it should, just after Labor Day. Fall comes when the scent of corn dogs has faded from the fairgrounds, when the sound of school bells or sirens remind me I actually have to slow down in school zones again, when the sun streaming in the window is a welcome friend, instead of the enemy I worked so hard to banish with shades during the summer. Autumn in Montana is like biting into a sun sandwich, a thick warm slice of afternoon between refreshing layers of cold. The leaves change and so do I, from long sleeves in the morning to short sleeves in the afternoon and back to long sleeves again for the evening.
Autumn is a perfect balance of beginnings and endings. The beginning of the school year, the end of summer vacation. The beginning of harvest, the end of growing season. Rest for the farmers and their fields, the trees and the grass, the parents whose children were home all summer. Fall embodies the crunch of apples and leaves, the smell of smoke, the multi-colored splendor of the turning leaves juxtaposed with the muscle soreness of gathering up the deserters. According to calendar, today is the equinox, but I think autumn should begin wherever it falls.
Autumn is a perfect balance of beginnings and endings. The beginning of the school year, the end of summer vacation. The beginning of harvest, the end of growing season. Rest for the farmers and their fields, the trees and the grass, the parents whose children were home all summer. Fall embodies the crunch of apples and leaves, the smell of smoke, the multi-colored splendor of the turning leaves juxtaposed with the muscle soreness of gathering up the deserters. According to calendar, today is the equinox, but I think autumn should begin wherever it falls.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Sovereignty "Seuss"ily
Sovereignty, despite its fancy spelling, is not a complicated doctrine. It simply means that what God says will happen, happens. Children get it. It is we adults who don't understand. We see the evil in the world around us and doubt God's plan. That is why we worry. Worry is one of those pardonable sins in Christian circles, especially now that we have 24 hour access to programming designed to make us worry, but it is actually a serious offense. Worry is slander against God. It is a statement that God is either not strong enough, or not good enough, to take care of us. So I state sovereignty simply, in Seussical style.
God is sovereign. God is good.
His plans all happen as they should.
He works His will when men obey.
He tells them what to do and say.
He works His will through wicked men
who laugh at God and hate His plan.
They cannot change what God will do.
I don't think they should try. Do you?
Why do we worry, fuss and fret
when our desires have not been met?
Christians should not fear and mope
and live as if we had no hope.
Christians should not fear and mope
and live as if we had no hope.
God's plans work out the way they should
for God is sovereign, God is good.
for God is sovereign, God is good.
Friday, September 12, 2014
10 Reasons Why I Don't Worry
- God is sovereign. He is in control, regardless of how a a situation seems.
- God is all powerful. Which is why He can be in control.
- God is good. Which makes #2 not so terrifying.
- God commands us not to. I recommend obeying. See #2 again.
- It does not help. I have never heard of a situation improved by worrying.
- It maligns God. That is bad. Again #2.
- It negates our witness for Christ. If God left us on earth to be a witness and we are doing a poor job, He may put us in His relocation program.
- I have people for that. Since I have friends who worry on a semi-professional basis. I tell them the problem, they worry for me.
- It robs me of joy today and the eternal reward of having trusted God. Why should I steal from myself?
- God is sovereign. What more can I say?
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Willard's Daughter
In Montana my Dad goes by the name Bill. His actual name is Willard, but that is not as common in Montana as it is in Missouri, and he doesn't want to to be nicknamed Willie, thus the name Bill. So in Montana I am Bill's daughter and in Missouri I am Willard's daughter. It is an honor to be identified this way because Willard is well thought of in his home state. I know this because I am in Missouri with him now, as I was five years ago, and as we were about every three years throughout my childhood, despite the expense involved in getting our family of six from Montana to Missouri. Dad's determination made our paycheck to paycheck purse strings stretch far enough to get there.
The road must be longer from Missouri to Missoula than the other way around because few of his relatives made it to our house in Montana, but Dad made sure we knew our grandma, aunts, uncles and cousins nonetheless. I am staying at a cousin's house now, so that investment has matured. Dad, a spry 87 years old, believes this may be his last trip to Missouri. I don't yet know if I will have the heart or desire to come here without him but, whether I am in Montana or Missouri, whether he is on earth or in heaven, I will always be proud to be known as Willard's daughter.
The road must be longer from Missouri to Missoula than the other way around because few of his relatives made it to our house in Montana, but Dad made sure we knew our grandma, aunts, uncles and cousins nonetheless. I am staying at a cousin's house now, so that investment has matured. Dad, a spry 87 years old, believes this may be his last trip to Missouri. I don't yet know if I will have the heart or desire to come here without him but, whether I am in Montana or Missouri, whether he is on earth or in heaven, I will always be proud to be known as Willard's daughter.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
The Locket
There are times when you see the sovereignty of God at work more clearly than others. The story of my daughter-in-law's locket is one of those glimpses of grace. Too beautiful to be written in prose, I have told the story in a poem which, despite the title, is not about a locket. It is, as all things are, about God.
The Locket
It circled her neck on her wedding day
just as it had twenty two years ago
as she lay in her basket, crying low,
loved, but abandoned,
left with a locket and a note.
The note the Chinese mother wrote
said this child whose life had just begun
was second child in a land of one,
was second child in a land of one,
one more than she could care for.
Her daughter was abandoned to chance.
Her daughter was abandoned to chance.
Not by chance, the baby was found
by an older couple--childless, poor
in a one room shack lacking even door,
but with love enough to give her up
in a one room shack lacking even door,
but with love enough to give her up
to begin a new life in America.
In America, she was home at last.
And she loved her family, outdoor fun,
her Lord, her life and, in time, my son.
One final time, their daughter was given
her Lord, her life and, in time, my son.
One final time, their daughter was given
into the keeping of another.
The circle completed when she took his name,
Lamb--just like the lamb engraved
on the back of the locket she had saved,
left long ago by the hand of her mother--
by destiny, not by chance.
For Emily 8/12/14
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Strange Wedfellows
Every parent wants to see their child happy, in love, and married to a good person. That part is wonderful. The expense can be scary. Fortunately, for this wedding, we had the good sense to be parents of the groom. This particular groom is very laid back, as in no tux/save bucks, so we had very few wedding related expenses. The part where I get cold feet is meeting the in-laws. Everyone knows that a side effect of uniting a son and daughter in marriage is that it also unites two groups of perfect strangers--their families. The problem is the strangers aren't perfect. Sometimes the strangers are just strange. So we came to Colorado with no idea if we were the strangers or the strangees.
Since we met Emily's family and they are not strange, I have to assume we are the strange ones. Actually, based on extensive personal experience, I have assumed we are the strange ones for a long time. Not strange enough to get our own reality show, just enough to audition for one. I doubt we will get to Steamboat Springs often, but I look forward to getting to know them through the years. Emily's father actually reminds me a lot of Will's father, that guy I live with. 38 years ago, Reed was a stranger too. Now, after 37 years of marriage, I know him very well, so I am well qualified to say--he is still strange.
Since we met Emily's family and they are not strange, I have to assume we are the strange ones. Actually, based on extensive personal experience, I have assumed we are the strange ones for a long time. Not strange enough to get our own reality show, just enough to audition for one. I doubt we will get to Steamboat Springs often, but I look forward to getting to know them through the years. Emily's father actually reminds me a lot of Will's father, that guy I live with. 38 years ago, Reed was a stranger too. Now, after 37 years of marriage, I know him very well, so I am well qualified to say--he is still strange.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Wise Words for Will
Dear Will,
You just got married so I thought I should give some advice about what women are like, only to realize I don't really know what women are like. I'm not sure my thoughts represent those of most women. I have always related better to men. Some women are as big a mystery to me as Bigfoot. I know women tend to cry more than men and some men think tears are a tool women use to make people do what they want. Sex is also a tool women use to manipulate men, yet you seldom hear them complain about that. The reason--the tears of the opposite sex make men uncomfortable, sex does the opposite. You can tell if a woman is using tears to manipulate because she will inevitably be manipulative in other ways. The truth is, some women are just leakier than others, they cry easily. Others like me, barring loss of home, limb or loved one, cry for maybe two minutes twice a year. As tempting as it is for you to "give her space" at these uncomfortable times, most women want support, not space.
They also want to talk. Women process feelings by talking about them, just as men process feelings by ignoring them or punching each other. We seldom want our husbands to solve our problems, we want them to understand our problems. Usually, we can come up with our own solution. We just need to know you are on our side.
Both husbands and wives need to be reminded that arguments are not about winning, they are about working together. Your father would rather have unanesthetized dental work than a verbal argument because I am better with words, therefore, more likely to win. But the real goal of an argument should be to harmonize, through compromise, two differing points of view. (Of course, compromise is not necessary if you are always right, like me.) Since arguments are inevitable, the only way to win is to talk until you are at peace with each other. Unresolved issues will resurface like dust bunnies with every new draft of discord. That said, it is important to stay on topic. Conflict is not the time to toss in the kitchen sink of everything you don't like about your spouse. Doing that obscures the real issue and makes the situation appear worse than it is. When it comes to complaints, the longest list loses.
If at all possible, pick your times to discuss things as carefully as you pick your times to say "I'm sorry". No one wants to be sandbagged by their sweetie as they walk in the door. Same goes for discussions when either or both are tired or hungry. Save the really big issues for after a time of mutual contentment. Trust me, I may not know much about women, but I have a black belt in arguing.
Love,
your arguably wise Mom
You just got married so I thought I should give some advice about what women are like, only to realize I don't really know what women are like. I'm not sure my thoughts represent those of most women. I have always related better to men. Some women are as big a mystery to me as Bigfoot. I know women tend to cry more than men and some men think tears are a tool women use to make people do what they want. Sex is also a tool women use to manipulate men, yet you seldom hear them complain about that. The reason--the tears of the opposite sex make men uncomfortable, sex does the opposite. You can tell if a woman is using tears to manipulate because she will inevitably be manipulative in other ways. The truth is, some women are just leakier than others, they cry easily. Others like me, barring loss of home, limb or loved one, cry for maybe two minutes twice a year. As tempting as it is for you to "give her space" at these uncomfortable times, most women want support, not space.
They also want to talk. Women process feelings by talking about them, just as men process feelings by ignoring them or punching each other. We seldom want our husbands to solve our problems, we want them to understand our problems. Usually, we can come up with our own solution. We just need to know you are on our side.
Both husbands and wives need to be reminded that arguments are not about winning, they are about working together. Your father would rather have unanesthetized dental work than a verbal argument because I am better with words, therefore, more likely to win. But the real goal of an argument should be to harmonize, through compromise, two differing points of view. (Of course, compromise is not necessary if you are always right, like me.) Since arguments are inevitable, the only way to win is to talk until you are at peace with each other. Unresolved issues will resurface like dust bunnies with every new draft of discord. That said, it is important to stay on topic. Conflict is not the time to toss in the kitchen sink of everything you don't like about your spouse. Doing that obscures the real issue and makes the situation appear worse than it is. When it comes to complaints, the longest list loses.
If at all possible, pick your times to discuss things as carefully as you pick your times to say "I'm sorry". No one wants to be sandbagged by their sweetie as they walk in the door. Same goes for discussions when either or both are tired or hungry. Save the really big issues for after a time of mutual contentment. Trust me, I may not know much about women, but I have a black belt in arguing.
Love,
your arguably wise Mom
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Will's Wedding Tribute
Worth the Wait
I have
often told people that if I’d know we were predicting his character when we
named our oldest son, we would not have named him Will. A child named Les might
have been easier to live with. We named him Will in honor of Reed’s middle
name—William, and my dad’s name—Willard, and Will fit him well, although it
might have been a better middle name with “Strong” for the first name. It’s not
that Will was rebellious, but that he headed his own way and it was not
necessarily where the rest of us were going. He proved the adage, “Where there’s
a Will, there’s a way.” I was
confident that I could out-stubborn him. I had, after all, decades of practice,
but I was afraid that someday he would head his own way and just keep walking.
Will did
surprisingly well in school for someone who claimed to have no recollection of
what happened there when I asked, “How was school today?” With his love of the
hunting and hiking, I thought Will might become an outfitter, but his senior
year Will earned a scholarship to DeVry
College in Seattle
and set out to become an engineer. When we looked in the rear view mirror as we
left him there and saw our backwoods boy alone in the big city, we should have
known it was a poor fit. After one semester of marking his time as if he was
serving a prison sentence, Will came home to the people and place he loved.
After a semester at the community college, Will moved in with Josh saying it
was bad enough to be a 20 year old drop out, without adding the phrase “who
still lives at home”. Will, Josh and Mitch had experiences in the outdoors so
interesting that I was surprised anybody was willing to go camping with them. Some
of these adventures provided Will with opportunities to practice medicine long
before he thought about becoming a nurse.
Will did not date in high school, none of our
children did, but I knew it would take an exceptional woman to love Will. Will
has a quick mind, an even quicker tongue and an extremely dry sense of humor.
His requirements for a girlfriend were that she love hiking, fishing and
hunting, but she also had to be “hot”. At 26, Will headed to Helena
for nursing school and into his life came Emily. She proved herself to be the
woman Will was looking for, the companion he didn’t even know he needed, and
will, in the years to come, become so one with himself he will not remember how
he got by without her.
Even on your most willful days, I knew we
were investing in someone of infinite value and potential. Today, with the
addition of Emily to our family, we are doubling that investment. What began
with parenting, ended as friendship. You were well worth the wait.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Aquiel's Tale
When my kids were young, we went through an aquarium phase. Like procreation, it seemed like a harmless enough hobby at the time, but the responsibilities are enormous. Thankfully, the responsibilities, like the fish, are short lived. Goldfish funerals were a regular ritual at our house. Most of our fish were named for characters from their favorite tv shows "Star Trek, the Next Generation" or "Walker, Texas Ranger". I have no idea where the name Aquiel came from, but one of the common goldfish was given this uncommon name. We did not have Aquiel for long, but she turned out to be an excellent illustration of a spiritual truth.
One morning as Reed was getting ready to leave for work, he noticed one of the goldfish zipping back and forth as though trying to build up speed. Odd behavior for a goldfish, it's not like they have anywhere to go. Apparently, Aquiel did not understand that because I found her dry, lifeless form on the carpet in front of the aquarium when I got up. The short life and death of Aquiel became a memorable illustration for our family of the appeal and consequences of sin. Desiring, what she thought was freedom, she expended great effort to fling herself from what she thought confined her, only to discover her chosen path led to her death.
Sin is like that. So appealing. Offering what looks like freedom but turns out to be destructive. Aquiel's tail led to her death, but Aquiel's tale lives on.
One morning as Reed was getting ready to leave for work, he noticed one of the goldfish zipping back and forth as though trying to build up speed. Odd behavior for a goldfish, it's not like they have anywhere to go. Apparently, Aquiel did not understand that because I found her dry, lifeless form on the carpet in front of the aquarium when I got up. The short life and death of Aquiel became a memorable illustration for our family of the appeal and consequences of sin. Desiring, what she thought was freedom, she expended great effort to fling herself from what she thought confined her, only to discover her chosen path led to her death.
Sin is like that. So appealing. Offering what looks like freedom but turns out to be destructive. Aquiel's tail led to her death, but Aquiel's tale lives on.
Friday, July 4, 2014
Being an American
Being an American
It was an American
time—
Finishing a
satisfying dinner
to get in my nice car
to drive to a well-stocked grocery store
and spend, what
amounts to,
a small part of our income
to buy special food
to celebrate, for a
time,
Being an American.
I know this is not
true
for some in our
country,
but it is the reality
of many people,
the hope of many
nations,
and it is possible
for those who work
hard,
dream big, and appreciate
Being an American.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Depends on the Mirror
I was shopping at Ross yesterday, which caused me to face one of my pet peeves--mirrors. It's bad enough walking by the store and catching, what I hoped would be my own reflection, instead I saw what appeared to be an upright blimp wearing my clothes. Inside the store there are many mirrors and, in most of those, for better or for worse, I looked like the person I recognize in the mirrors at home. However, in the changing room where I tried on a dress, that mirror made me look like a lumpy Beluga whale in drag. The problem is, the varying shapes and lighting of mirrors and windows can distort the reflection, kind of like in a fun house, minus the fun.
Another, probably more significant, source of distortion is the viewer. Sometimes our reflections look heavier in the shop window because we know what we just ate inside the shop. This is guilt distortion, the fun house mirror that makes us look short and fat. Our cultural distortion is the mirror that shows a tall, thin reflection, setting that as the standard for all beauty.
I am waiting for the GM recall of defective dressing room mirrors, the kind that may cause you to crash. .diet. Meanwhile I remember that believers are called to reflect the image of Christ to the world. Sometimes Christians distort that image by our own defects, sometimes it is distorted by the biases of the viewer. Wisely, God left his image in creation and the Bible, so reflecting Christ is not dependent on his flawed followers alone. Still, in many ways the impact of Christ's image within our culture depends on us--the mirror.
Another, probably more significant, source of distortion is the viewer. Sometimes our reflections look heavier in the shop window because we know what we just ate inside the shop. This is guilt distortion, the fun house mirror that makes us look short and fat. Our cultural distortion is the mirror that shows a tall, thin reflection, setting that as the standard for all beauty.
I am waiting for the GM recall of defective dressing room mirrors, the kind that may cause you to crash. .diet. Meanwhile I remember that believers are called to reflect the image of Christ to the world. Sometimes Christians distort that image by our own defects, sometimes it is distorted by the biases of the viewer. Wisely, God left his image in creation and the Bible, so reflecting Christ is not dependent on his flawed followers alone. Still, in many ways the impact of Christ's image within our culture depends on us--the mirror.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
10 Signs You Might Be a Pessimist
- If you look at a beautiful rainbow and think about homosexual activism, the questionable activities of the Rainbow Family, or an ugly tattoo, you might be a pessimist.
- If you are always the first person to notice, and mention, dirt or odors, you are probably a pessimist.
- If you hear gossip about a good friend and, instead of speaking up for them, assume it must be true, you are a pessimist.
- If your dire predictions about the economy, politics, gmos, climate change etc. don't come true and you just move on to a new dire prediction, you are an official pessimist.
- If a woman announces her pregnancy and you begin telling her horror stories about sickness and labor (this happened to me), you are a pessimist.
- As a matter of fact, anyone who feels the need to share horror stories when someone describes a health concern, is not only a pessimist, but a clueless pessimist. If you respond to a joke about some human foible, like memory loss, with a tragic tale of Alzheimer's, you are proselytizing for the pessimist movement.
- Same goes for people who, when friends mention a name they recognize, feel compelled to share some sordid tidbit from that person's past, they are pessimists--and gossips.
- If you chronically listen to news talk radio or television and chronically find new things to be upset about, you enjoy being a pessimist.
- If you often complain about service in restaurants and stores that others enjoy patronizing, the problem is not them, it's you--the pessimist.
- If you think of pets (or children) mostly in terms of mess and expense instead of affection, even though you claim to be a realist, you are actually a pessimist.
Monday, June 16, 2014
GriefShare
In what may be good news for my readers, I have not been writing for a while. I have been working on another project, it is called GriefShare. GriefShare is a Christian based grief recovery support group. I had heard good things about it through BSF friends who had lost loved ones, but decided not to attend because I was coping well with my mother's death without any outside help. However, since I have never coped well with my emotions regarding my mother, I was willing to admit that there may be aspects of this complicated loss that I had missed. So I started attending GriefShare.
At first, I felt out of place because most had significant, life-altering losses like death of a spouse or child. My loss did not change my life even one percent. I did not lose a companion, mentor or even just someone to talk to. My mother was, at the same time, a stranger to me. I began to lose her fifty years ago and I had already mourned that loss many times. But, even as I felt out of place, I realized that I needed a place where I could say that my mother was a stranger and be accepted. I needed to talk about her death without having to explain the complicated back story. I had prayed that God would help me mourn my mother and He had been faithful. GriefShare was another tool He had provided to help me.
We met once a week. 20 people. 4 boxes of Kleenex. A workbook. A video. Small group time. Tears. Cookies. Chocolate. I discovered there is no simple grief. All relationships have complications, estrangements, even betrayals. At least, my mother left us involuntarily. She did not choose to be mentally ill. I also learned that grief is not optional. We cannot think our way out of it any more than we can decide not to bleed when we cut ourselves. It is as natural and inevitable as death itself. This was disappointing to me because my plan had been to think instead of mourn, to choose logic over tears. I learned there is no healing without mourning and that no one can do the work of grief for us. And despite our culture's instant gratification, microwave mentality, there is no time limit on mourning. Grief's expiration date is as individualized as the expiration date on life. Time does not heal all wounds. Time doesn't heal anything. It only lessens the intensity. Our lives will never go back to what they were before the loss, but life will be good again. There will be joy along with the sorrow.
Now that the 13 lessons of GriefShare are completed, perhaps I will have the mental energy (although my writing shows little evidence of mental energy) to write again. And if I cannot be a better writer, perhaps I can be a better comforter for having opened my spirit to the healing sorrow of GriefShare.
At first, I felt out of place because most had significant, life-altering losses like death of a spouse or child. My loss did not change my life even one percent. I did not lose a companion, mentor or even just someone to talk to. My mother was, at the same time, a stranger to me. I began to lose her fifty years ago and I had already mourned that loss many times. But, even as I felt out of place, I realized that I needed a place where I could say that my mother was a stranger and be accepted. I needed to talk about her death without having to explain the complicated back story. I had prayed that God would help me mourn my mother and He had been faithful. GriefShare was another tool He had provided to help me.
We met once a week. 20 people. 4 boxes of Kleenex. A workbook. A video. Small group time. Tears. Cookies. Chocolate. I discovered there is no simple grief. All relationships have complications, estrangements, even betrayals. At least, my mother left us involuntarily. She did not choose to be mentally ill. I also learned that grief is not optional. We cannot think our way out of it any more than we can decide not to bleed when we cut ourselves. It is as natural and inevitable as death itself. This was disappointing to me because my plan had been to think instead of mourn, to choose logic over tears. I learned there is no healing without mourning and that no one can do the work of grief for us. And despite our culture's instant gratification, microwave mentality, there is no time limit on mourning. Grief's expiration date is as individualized as the expiration date on life. Time does not heal all wounds. Time doesn't heal anything. It only lessens the intensity. Our lives will never go back to what they were before the loss, but life will be good again. There will be joy along with the sorrow.
Now that the 13 lessons of GriefShare are completed, perhaps I will have the mental energy (although my writing shows little evidence of mental energy) to write again. And if I cannot be a better writer, perhaps I can be a better comforter for having opened my spirit to the healing sorrow of GriefShare.
Friday, May 16, 2014
100 Things
Recently, for both personal and professional reasons, I have been attending Alzheimer's seminars at one of our memory care facilities. As a personal care attendant, I can count these seminars toward the eight hours of continuing education I am required to have per year. As the daughter-in-law of someone with Alzheimer's, I want to learn as much as possible about ways to help and relate to him in the years to come. One of the goals of Expressions Memory Care is to learn 100 things about each client so the staff can tailor its care to its residents. This caused me to think about what I would want someone to know about me if I were unable to care for myself. I promise not to list all 100.
- A cup of decaf, black tea with cream makes me feel relaxed and content.
- I am solar powered. Let me sit in the sun whether inside or outside.
- Let me walk barefoot, especially in the grass. After knee replacement, I learned how much it stabilized my stride, soothed my inflammation, and improved my mood.
- I sleep in nightgowns. I haven't worn pajamas since grade school.
- I'm not comfortable wearing a bathrobe in public. I like to dress before I leave my bedroom.
- I prefer music in 3/4 time, wooden instruments, one or two instruments to an orchestra.
- I like to have my hair stroked.
- The sound and warm feel of a clothes dryer relaxes me.
- Because of many happy moments spent poolside with our kids, the smell of bleach relaxes me.
- I love to travel. Talk to me about the places I have been.
- Latin music gives me energy. I like to exercise to Latin music.
- I love riding a bicycle. Not sure if a stationery bike would work though.
- I have exercised all my life and am fairly flexible.
- I am a writer and express myself better on paper.
- I love to cook. Hospitality, feeding people makes me very happy.
- I have a good sense of humor and love to laugh.
- I sleep on my left side, sleeping on my right gives me a migraine.
- I get more pain relief from ice than heat.
- I get no pain relief from Ibuprofen or Aleve, Tylenol works.
- Give me something useful to do. I am easily bored.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Here's to You, Captain Kangaroo
One of the greatest pleasures of my girlhood was riding my bike. I had to wait longer than most of my friends for that taste of two wheeled freedom because I didn't get my own bicycle until I was nine. My older brother got his at six, but I got my revenge when my parents finally brought home a surprise in the back of the station wagon--my very own 26 inch bicycle. My brother's was a dorky 24. It was purple and white. I named it April because that is the month I got it. I didn't need much riding instruction because I had been practicing on my friends' bikes for years. I have not forgotten that first sweet sip of freedom--from home, from slowness, from feet. I felt like I could ride to the moon. April and I spent many years together, she was a good bike, but she was not a Schwinn. My morning mentor, Captain Kangaroo, pedaled Schwinn bikes and I thought they were so cool, especially the Stingrays with high handlebars and banana seats. What I would have given for one of those.
I left April behind when I got married, but I always had a bicycle of some sort. In Denver and Billings I had a second-hand, three-speed which was sold because, in the 70's, the cool bikes were ten speeds. I still had that bike when we moved to Kalispell, but eventually got to replace it when my husband and I spent our $100 wads on new, cool mountain bikes from Shopko. He seldom rode his, but I wore mine out, not because I rode it so much, I had three children by then, but because it was cheaply made. Britten later gave me her nicer mountain bike, which she had replaced with a much nicer mountain bike.
There is nothing wrong with that bicycle, but there is something wrong with me. I am old. Or at least my shoulder is older, and when I ride bent over low handlebars, my right shoulder knots up. The knot is not the problem, it is when the knot cuts off the circulation to my right hand and climbs up my neck to my migraine zone so it won't be alone in its misery, that is the problem. This wasn't an issue last summer because my new knee, Lefty, was still just figuring out walking, but this spring I have been bicycle shopping. As luck and Boomer targeting would have it, the new cruiser bikes are just our old childhood bikes revisited. Some are eerily retro, with flower decals and tassels on the seat. All they need now is an AARP card clothes-pinned to the spokes. The good news is, we finally get to sit upright and see where we are going, the bad news is, they cost more than $100. Way more, depending on what you get. Beach cruisers, with one speed, coaster brakes and no fenders aren't too spendy, but hybrids, where you can sit upright on a suspension seat to see that you are riding on a mountain, can cost thousands.
So, when Reed found a suitable, sitable cruiser on Ebay for $180, he bought it for me. It arrived today. I wanted to ride it right away, but it was raining and I was afraid the box it was in would get wet. It is purple and white. I'm naming it April 2 because that is when I got it. And Captain Kangaroo, wherever you are, it's a Schwinn.
I left April behind when I got married, but I always had a bicycle of some sort. In Denver and Billings I had a second-hand, three-speed which was sold because, in the 70's, the cool bikes were ten speeds. I still had that bike when we moved to Kalispell, but eventually got to replace it when my husband and I spent our $100 wads on new, cool mountain bikes from Shopko. He seldom rode his, but I wore mine out, not because I rode it so much, I had three children by then, but because it was cheaply made. Britten later gave me her nicer mountain bike, which she had replaced with a much nicer mountain bike.
There is nothing wrong with that bicycle, but there is something wrong with me. I am old. Or at least my shoulder is older, and when I ride bent over low handlebars, my right shoulder knots up. The knot is not the problem, it is when the knot cuts off the circulation to my right hand and climbs up my neck to my migraine zone so it won't be alone in its misery, that is the problem. This wasn't an issue last summer because my new knee, Lefty, was still just figuring out walking, but this spring I have been bicycle shopping. As luck and Boomer targeting would have it, the new cruiser bikes are just our old childhood bikes revisited. Some are eerily retro, with flower decals and tassels on the seat. All they need now is an AARP card clothes-pinned to the spokes. The good news is, we finally get to sit upright and see where we are going, the bad news is, they cost more than $100. Way more, depending on what you get. Beach cruisers, with one speed, coaster brakes and no fenders aren't too spendy, but hybrids, where you can sit upright on a suspension seat to see that you are riding on a mountain, can cost thousands.
So, when Reed found a suitable, sitable cruiser on Ebay for $180, he bought it for me. It arrived today. I wanted to ride it right away, but it was raining and I was afraid the box it was in would get wet. It is purple and white. I'm naming it April 2 because that is when I got it. And Captain Kangaroo, wherever you are, it's a Schwinn.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Good Friday
Good Friday
Today is Good Friday,
as if nature
understood that,
today's weather has
cycled through
sunshine, sleet, rain and wind.
All these conditions mingling and changing
in a few short hours.
Much like the crucifixion,
God's love, wrath, sorrow, and power,
all these attributes mingling together
in the unchanging plan of God
in a few long hours.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Just One Life
I know the title sounds like this is going to be one of my spiritual posts, but actually it is a rant against the faulty zero risk reasoning of this era. Often the justification for increasingly burdensome safety warnings or standards is "if it will save just one life, it's worth it". I submit that is not a valid argument because there is no logical endpoint for that standard. A person rushing out of the house because a smoke alarm is going off, may trip and choke to death on their toothbrush. That does not mean we should outlaw smoke alarms or put warning labels on toothbrushes, "Do Not Place in Mouth". Admittedly, that would be a freak accident, but in our litigation lottery society, it would also be considered a golden opportunity.
There are such things as freak accidents, just as there are instances when people get hurt and, much to the contingency lawyers' disappointment, it's not anybody's fault. By the reasoning "if it saves just one life" it would be important to get out of your home because most accidents happen in the home, not surprising, we spend more time there than elsewhere. Our homes are filled with electrical wiring, hot things, flammable materials and slippery substances. Our houses are not safe, but how can we go somewhere else? We certainly can't take the car because thousands of people are killed in auto accidents every year. Though bicycle accidents are less common, we have much less protection on a bike and more than one person has died that way. However, a bicycle may have enough speed to avoid an impending accident, pedestrians lack even that advantage. So in order to save "just one life" we can neither stay home nor leave it.
If we chose to bubble wrap ourselves and remain immobile in the middle of a room, we would be safe from accidents but our bodies would rapidly begin to malfunction. This would not be the fault of the bubble wrap. In order to save "just one life", it would be necessary not to live it. That is why I have zero tolerance for our zero risk mentality. Zero risk is our eternal reward, not an earthly entitlement. Hope that doesn't burst anyone's bubble.
There are such things as freak accidents, just as there are instances when people get hurt and, much to the contingency lawyers' disappointment, it's not anybody's fault. By the reasoning "if it saves just one life" it would be important to get out of your home because most accidents happen in the home, not surprising, we spend more time there than elsewhere. Our homes are filled with electrical wiring, hot things, flammable materials and slippery substances. Our houses are not safe, but how can we go somewhere else? We certainly can't take the car because thousands of people are killed in auto accidents every year. Though bicycle accidents are less common, we have much less protection on a bike and more than one person has died that way. However, a bicycle may have enough speed to avoid an impending accident, pedestrians lack even that advantage. So in order to save "just one life" we can neither stay home nor leave it.
If we chose to bubble wrap ourselves and remain immobile in the middle of a room, we would be safe from accidents but our bodies would rapidly begin to malfunction. This would not be the fault of the bubble wrap. In order to save "just one life", it would be necessary not to live it. That is why I have zero tolerance for our zero risk mentality. Zero risk is our eternal reward, not an earthly entitlement. Hope that doesn't burst anyone's bubble.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Love Lives Here
At times I am glad I am a Christian because I think the incongruities of our culture would drive me insane otherwise. Without an understanding of the perverse and pervasive nature of sin, life would make no sense. How else could I explain why an organization called "Love Lives Here" would raise money to support an abortionist? Love Lives Here began as a grassroots effort in Billings when some Jewish households were targeted for holiday vandalism. To show solidarity with their Jewish neighbors, the neighborhood bought and displayed menorahs in as many homes as possible. Hence the name, Love Lives Here.
Recently in my own hometown, a local physician's assistant, our lone abortion provider, had her office ransacked. Despite the fact that a bailbond office was also broken into, the "doctor" insisted it was a hate crime and blamed it on religious people. In our politically correct crime classifications, "hate crime" is thought to be worse than more personal crimes like murder, although I have yet to hear those referred to as "love" crimes. It was particularly poor timing for a ransack because a 40 Days for Life prayer vigil was set to begin about that time and had to withdraw to praying at churches or homes so the vigil would not be associated with acts of violence.
Apparently Love Lives Here does not have that problem because they have raised thousands of dollars to help rebuild a place that murders babies. Love Lives Here supports Death Kills Here. If I didn't understand that sin corrupts reasoning, the incongruity would blow me away. Or perhaps not, if I were not a Christian perhaps that reasoning would make perfect sense to me. Scary thought. I am trying to pray for Ms. Cahill to come to know Christ before a life which has made her bitter becomes an eternity so much worse. I am praying for the young man who vandalized the clinic and his Christian family and that the testimony of the pro-life movement will not be harmed. And I am praying that some good will come of this. Ms. Cahill is thinking of leaving our unloving community and going where people can live and let live. That's what we wanted too--live and let live.
Recently in my own hometown, a local physician's assistant, our lone abortion provider, had her office ransacked. Despite the fact that a bailbond office was also broken into, the "doctor" insisted it was a hate crime and blamed it on religious people. In our politically correct crime classifications, "hate crime" is thought to be worse than more personal crimes like murder, although I have yet to hear those referred to as "love" crimes. It was particularly poor timing for a ransack because a 40 Days for Life prayer vigil was set to begin about that time and had to withdraw to praying at churches or homes so the vigil would not be associated with acts of violence.
Apparently Love Lives Here does not have that problem because they have raised thousands of dollars to help rebuild a place that murders babies. Love Lives Here supports Death Kills Here. If I didn't understand that sin corrupts reasoning, the incongruity would blow me away. Or perhaps not, if I were not a Christian perhaps that reasoning would make perfect sense to me. Scary thought. I am trying to pray for Ms. Cahill to come to know Christ before a life which has made her bitter becomes an eternity so much worse. I am praying for the young man who vandalized the clinic and his Christian family and that the testimony of the pro-life movement will not be harmed. And I am praying that some good will come of this. Ms. Cahill is thinking of leaving our unloving community and going where people can live and let live. That's what we wanted too--live and let live.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Would Have Been
Would Have Been
Friday would have been her birthday
and I would have bought her clothes, a bracelet,
or some trinket she would have liked.
Although in her later years, she barely noticed the
birthdays and holidays
that had once been so important to her.
At Christmas I was too busy to focus on the one gift I
didn’t have to buy.
But her birthday, Mother’s Day--
they will be strangely empty this year.
As her illness estranged her life,
so it has shaped her death.
What am I supposed to feel?
Her death would have been sadder
were not her life so sad.
Meanwhile, the would have beens
hang on me like clothes,
but in a small part of my life, like a bracelet,
a trinket of the grief I would have borne
if our lives would have been different.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Waiting to Go Back Home
My mother spent the last three years of her life in a dementia facility. She was the only patient there who did not have Alzheimer's, but her debility and schizophrenia made her fit in well. I work with both elderly and mentally impaired in home health, but it takes a much greater level of commitment to work with dementia patients on a daily basis. That is a special calling. It helps to remember that the people who live in these facilities are not the elderly people you see. They are children, and soldiers, and parents. People with lives they are trying to get back to, but can't. This is for them and for those who will become them.
Waiting to Go Back Home
Carol is waiting right by the door,
she has her winter coat
on.
She wants to be ready when mommy appears.
She’s waiting to go back home.
Albert is pacing across the floor.
What’s taking Martha so
long?
Why is she spending so long at the store?
She ought to be taking him home.
Marion’s
children are late coming back,
school should be over by now.
The strangers around her don’t know where they are.
Why haven’t the children come home?
Who are these people, and why are they here?
They know that something
is wrong.
Shouldn’t their family have shown up by now,
so they can take them back home?
Why shouldn’t they fidget, and struggle and cry,
and try to
sneak out of the door?
Their mothers, and lovers, and children are gone
and waiting for them at home.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
One Was Caged
Seldom have I had a poem so unwilling to be girded with words as this one. It has been said that writing a book is like trying to wrestle an octopus into a mayonnaise jar, writing this was like trying to give birth to one. But, now that the labor pains are over, and my creation is not so appallingly ugly, I plan to either enjoy it or forget it.
One Was
Caged and One Was Free
From his cell, he heard her steps, light though those might
be,
the jailer’s daughter, little Jen, barely past the age of
ten
was bringing evening bread and tea.
One was caged and one was free.
He smiled at her with crooked teeth, folks called him Simple
Ben,
in jail for thievery of balm he thought would ease his dying
mom,
but fever took her in the end.
Then Ben was caged, but she was free.
“Are ya ailin’, missy Jen? Sit down, for pity’s sake.
For though it’s dark here in the jail, even by this light,
you’re pale,
and I see how you shake.”
Though dark his cage, his heart was free.
Without a word, she bent to slide his meal beneath the bars.
When she straightened up again, he saw the welt upon her
chin,
red where one had struck her hard.
While bound in rage, some fists are free.
“Father’s at his drink tonight.” whispered little Jen.
The jailer, in his house above, with wife and daughter he
could love
chose the bottle over them.
While he was caged, they were not free.
Through the bars, Ben held her hand until her trembling ceased.
He sang a song his ma had sung, when folks were cruel and he
was young,
that once had brought him peace.
Though he was caged, he wished her free.
“I’m glad to have you here with me.”
she said to Ben, at last.
And strengthened by his simple love, left cell below for
hers above,
in hope sleep held the jailer fast.
One was caged and one was free.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Eggs Actly
I love to bake. It is one of my few creative outlets. For instance, here I am roasting a well known Descartes quote, "I bake, therefore I use eggs". Because most things I bake call for eggs, occasionally a small piece of shell winds up in the bowl. My immediate reaction is to force the piece against the side of the bowl to get it out, but eggs whites are viscous and full on force actually pushes it away from, not toward, the side of the bowl. In order to extract the shell, I need to increase pressure slowly (not my best thing) and slightly to the side. When it comes to eggs, a gentle touch is needed.
I find that an excellent (eggshellant?) illustration of a spiritual reality. When we are urging others toward Christ, either for salvation or a stronger walk with God, our attempts to forcefully push them to Jesus often wind up pushing them further away from both us and the Lord. I have never heard a testimony of someone headbutted into the kingdom of God. The conviction of the Holy Spirit put intense pressure on me, the people of God did not need to. As much as I want to "help" the Spirit, what I want more is for my loved ones to know and serve Christ, so I try to come alongside, speak gently, trust God, and get out of His way. The God who breaks us in the first place knows the best way to remove our bits of shell. When it comes to people, a gentle touch is needed.
I find that an excellent (eggshellant?) illustration of a spiritual reality. When we are urging others toward Christ, either for salvation or a stronger walk with God, our attempts to forcefully push them to Jesus often wind up pushing them further away from both us and the Lord. I have never heard a testimony of someone headbutted into the kingdom of God. The conviction of the Holy Spirit put intense pressure on me, the people of God did not need to. As much as I want to "help" the Spirit, what I want more is for my loved ones to know and serve Christ, so I try to come alongside, speak gently, trust God, and get out of His way. The God who breaks us in the first place knows the best way to remove our bits of shell. When it comes to people, a gentle touch is needed.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Cat Scan
For most of the past twenty five years, we have had a two car garage and a two cat house. We did not plan it that way, but wound up with one main cat and one emergency backup cat. They comprise our home security system. Before having cats, we did not even realize the malicious nature of inanimate objects around our home. Our first cat, Annie, saved us many times by attacking walls whose hostile intentions had gone completely unnoticed by us. Cisco, our second guard cat, focused mainly on threats outside the house. He would flit from bush to bush in the backyard, all the while evading enemies totally invisible to us. Our only clue to their presence was the poofiness of Cisco's tail after having survived an encounter.
After Cisco died, we got Sola, who has shown no aptitude whatsoever as a protector. As a matter of fact, we sometimes wonder if Sola is something we should be protected from. She has emerged from her standoffish, serial-killer-stare phase to an I-headbutt-you-because-I-love-you stage, which makes us almost as nervous. Just what parts of us does she love? We named her Sola because she was the only survivor of her litter, but began to suspect that she may have had something to do with that. Sola is our current emergency backup cat.
Our main cat is Maynard. He loves us--intact and inedible. Maynard has often saved our lives by wrestling doormats into submission. We unwittingly brought the mats into our home to protect us. A tile entryway and wet shoes are not a good combination. The worst threat we could imagine from a doormat was being a trip hazard. But Maynard sees the mild mannered mats for the malevolent creatures they are and has to subjugate them almost daily.
It amazes us that people who lock their doors, wear seat belts, and buy smoke alarms are willing to live in a house without cats. Who will alert them to the domestic dangers that roam their home disguised as innocent, inanimate objects? For a truly safe house, there's no substitute for a cat scan.
After Cisco died, we got Sola, who has shown no aptitude whatsoever as a protector. As a matter of fact, we sometimes wonder if Sola is something we should be protected from. She has emerged from her standoffish, serial-killer-stare phase to an I-headbutt-you-because-I-love-you stage, which makes us almost as nervous. Just what parts of us does she love? We named her Sola because she was the only survivor of her litter, but began to suspect that she may have had something to do with that. Sola is our current emergency backup cat.
Our main cat is Maynard. He loves us--intact and inedible. Maynard has often saved our lives by wrestling doormats into submission. We unwittingly brought the mats into our home to protect us. A tile entryway and wet shoes are not a good combination. The worst threat we could imagine from a doormat was being a trip hazard. But Maynard sees the mild mannered mats for the malevolent creatures they are and has to subjugate them almost daily.
It amazes us that people who lock their doors, wear seat belts, and buy smoke alarms are willing to live in a house without cats. Who will alert them to the domestic dangers that roam their home disguised as innocent, inanimate objects? For a truly safe house, there's no substitute for a cat scan.
Monday, February 17, 2014
For All That He Has Done
In a recent BSF lesson, we were asked what words we would use to express how much God's forgiveness means to us. My answer was that words were not enough to express something that wonderful, but the main thing I realized, was how long it had been since I even contemplated God's forgiveness. What words could I use? I learned years ago that the reason Biblical prophecy is written in poetry is that the thoughts were too grand for prose. I write poetry, so I decided to find my words in that form.
For All That He Has Done
We forget, once the burden has been lifted,
how it felt to be full of sin
and empty of purpose
at the same time.
We forget to marvel
that the crushing weight of guilt
rolled off of us, only because
it fell on Christ.
We forget the frustration
of stripping away a layer
of self-righteousness, only to find
more layers underneath.
We thank Him for our day,
but forget to thank Him
for all that He has done, to pay
for all that we have done.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Inside Out
In my 41 years as a Christian, I have studied Matthew many times, four of those times in BSF. Although the Bible is a living book, eternally applicable, and I am in a different stage of my life every time Matthew cycles through BSF, I was afraid that familiarity might breed contempt, even for much loved Matthew. So I prayed for fresh insight into this very familiar book. The theme that has come to me repeatedly through these first 19 chapters of Matthew is Jesus training the disciples to see the inside instead of the outside, especially of the religious leaders. If the disciples followed the leadership of the outwardly righteous scribes and Pharisees after Christ's ascension, Christianity would have died in its infancy. Despite their overt persecution of Jesus, the disciples still looked up to the Pharisees and were worried about offending them.
On the other hand, the disciples looked down on children and many others in the crowd who followed and admired Jesus. Christ was trying to teach his disciples that righteousness comes from the inside out. The fancy robes, time spent in the temple, scrupulous observance of laws, and even knowledge of the scriptures did not penetrate their hard hearts. That is because reading the Bible doesn't change us. Studying the Bible doesn't change us. We are changed only by applying what the Bible says. That is why I have stayed in BSF 23 years. The questions, discussion and accountability force me, against my lazy nature, to apply what I am learning.
It is man's nature try to become righteous from the outside in, by conformity to religious practices. But the church is not a magic box where spirituality grows. We all know people who have attended church, prayed, and read the Bible faithfully for decades yet remain spiritually stagnant in the same sins of gossip, bitterness, laziness, etc. that they had when they first walked in the church door. All being in church does for many people, is mold them into an acceptable Christian shape, and all they do for the church is warm a pew. I want more than that for my loved ones. I do not want them to read the Bible or go to church out of mindless habit, or even to please me, those are lesser things. I want them to do those things because they love God--from the inside out.
On the other hand, the disciples looked down on children and many others in the crowd who followed and admired Jesus. Christ was trying to teach his disciples that righteousness comes from the inside out. The fancy robes, time spent in the temple, scrupulous observance of laws, and even knowledge of the scriptures did not penetrate their hard hearts. That is because reading the Bible doesn't change us. Studying the Bible doesn't change us. We are changed only by applying what the Bible says. That is why I have stayed in BSF 23 years. The questions, discussion and accountability force me, against my lazy nature, to apply what I am learning.
It is man's nature try to become righteous from the outside in, by conformity to religious practices. But the church is not a magic box where spirituality grows. We all know people who have attended church, prayed, and read the Bible faithfully for decades yet remain spiritually stagnant in the same sins of gossip, bitterness, laziness, etc. that they had when they first walked in the church door. All being in church does for many people, is mold them into an acceptable Christian shape, and all they do for the church is warm a pew. I want more than that for my loved ones. I do not want them to read the Bible or go to church out of mindless habit, or even to please me, those are lesser things. I want them to do those things because they love God--from the inside out.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Connie's Mantra
With so much conflicting health information in the media, how do I evaluate what is true?
Connie's mantra: Whenever you read a cause, cure or preventative for a well known, well funded disease like Alzheimer's or breast cancer, that is not supported by two or three more independent sources, assume it is not true. Even if the website sponsors have no interest in relieving the suffering of millions of people, they would still be interested in the millions they would get from a proven remedy.
But what if the information is verified by objective scientific studies?
Connie's mantra: There is no such thing as objective science.
Many health studies are paid for by companies selling the product they want to be good for you. At best, science works within a paradigm, essentially, the lens through which information is interpreted. For instance, facts that do not support the current science paradigm of evolution are suppressed or ridiculed.
But what if a product is endorsed by a well respected doctor like Dr. Oz?
Connie's mantra: In order to be competitive in the media market, new health breakthroughs need to be aired on a regular basis. Unfortunately, health breakthroughs do not occur on a regular basis.
This leaves no time for long term studies of the products being endorsed, even by well respected doctors.
What if the health warnings are not trying to sell products, but warn about dangerous foods?
Connie's mantra: If I am not to fear the devil, who hates me and wants to harm me, I refuse to fear food, which my Father has given to bless me.
Current warnings have made Olympic leaps of logic by blaming disease on a certain food or drink when it is only one element of what may be an unhealthy lifestyle. The other common, cultural logic leap is assuming something is a cause when it is only another factor. For instance, most murderers are right handed, but being right handed doesn't make you commit murder.
What if doctors want us to be unhealthy so they can make more money? How can I distinguish real conspiracies from hoaxes?
Connie's mantra: A real conspiracy requires an agenda plus the ability to enforce it, including a way to silence those who expose the conspiracy.
My cat may have an agenda of world domination, but he has no way to carry it out. People who do well publicized, multi-city tours are exposing agendas. People who expose real conspiracies are in hiding or dead. I will believe there is a conspiracy among doctors to keep us unhealthy the day my dentist starts mailing me candy.
What about doctors who sell miracle products only by mail order because "they want to help as many people as possible"?
Connie's mantra: If they wanted to help as many people as possible, not to mention earn the respect of their peers, and $$$, they would make it available in stores. "Mail order only" means the product claims are unsubstantiated.
What is your advice about giving advice?
Connie's mantra: Pray relentlessly, speak occasionally. Blog, don't nag. There are two reasons I restrain my urge to give advice. 1. I am much wiser with my mouth closed than I have ever been with my mouth open. 2. The only people who really listen to advice are those who have asked for it. That is one of the reasons I blog, I can share my opinions on my take-it-or-leave-it blog and no real relationships have been harmed. In four decades as a Christian, I have learned that when God is working on my loved ones, my Spirit assigned role is to pray and shut up.
So despite all these warnings, you aren't worried?
Connie's mantra: I refuse to start worrying until God stops being sovereign.
I realize it is counter-cultural not to worry. Even in Christian circles, non-worriers are looked at as uniformed or delusional, as if we are somehow shirking our duty and others will have to cover our share of the worrying. What they should worry about, is committing the spiritual slander of implying God is either not good enough, or not powerful enough to take care of us. Doing that would worry me.
Connie's mantra: Whenever you read a cause, cure or preventative for a well known, well funded disease like Alzheimer's or breast cancer, that is not supported by two or three more independent sources, assume it is not true. Even if the website sponsors have no interest in relieving the suffering of millions of people, they would still be interested in the millions they would get from a proven remedy.
But what if the information is verified by objective scientific studies?
Connie's mantra: There is no such thing as objective science.
Many health studies are paid for by companies selling the product they want to be good for you. At best, science works within a paradigm, essentially, the lens through which information is interpreted. For instance, facts that do not support the current science paradigm of evolution are suppressed or ridiculed.
But what if a product is endorsed by a well respected doctor like Dr. Oz?
Connie's mantra: In order to be competitive in the media market, new health breakthroughs need to be aired on a regular basis. Unfortunately, health breakthroughs do not occur on a regular basis.
This leaves no time for long term studies of the products being endorsed, even by well respected doctors.
What if the health warnings are not trying to sell products, but warn about dangerous foods?
Connie's mantra: If I am not to fear the devil, who hates me and wants to harm me, I refuse to fear food, which my Father has given to bless me.
Current warnings have made Olympic leaps of logic by blaming disease on a certain food or drink when it is only one element of what may be an unhealthy lifestyle. The other common, cultural logic leap is assuming something is a cause when it is only another factor. For instance, most murderers are right handed, but being right handed doesn't make you commit murder.
What if doctors want us to be unhealthy so they can make more money? How can I distinguish real conspiracies from hoaxes?
Connie's mantra: A real conspiracy requires an agenda plus the ability to enforce it, including a way to silence those who expose the conspiracy.
My cat may have an agenda of world domination, but he has no way to carry it out. People who do well publicized, multi-city tours are exposing agendas. People who expose real conspiracies are in hiding or dead. I will believe there is a conspiracy among doctors to keep us unhealthy the day my dentist starts mailing me candy.
What about doctors who sell miracle products only by mail order because "they want to help as many people as possible"?
Connie's mantra: If they wanted to help as many people as possible, not to mention earn the respect of their peers, and $$$, they would make it available in stores. "Mail order only" means the product claims are unsubstantiated.
What is your advice about giving advice?
Connie's mantra: Pray relentlessly, speak occasionally. Blog, don't nag. There are two reasons I restrain my urge to give advice. 1. I am much wiser with my mouth closed than I have ever been with my mouth open. 2. The only people who really listen to advice are those who have asked for it. That is one of the reasons I blog, I can share my opinions on my take-it-or-leave-it blog and no real relationships have been harmed. In four decades as a Christian, I have learned that when God is working on my loved ones, my Spirit assigned role is to pray and shut up.
So despite all these warnings, you aren't worried?
Connie's mantra: I refuse to start worrying until God stops being sovereign.
I realize it is counter-cultural not to worry. Even in Christian circles, non-worriers are looked at as uniformed or delusional, as if we are somehow shirking our duty and others will have to cover our share of the worrying. What they should worry about, is committing the spiritual slander of implying God is either not good enough, or not powerful enough to take care of us. Doing that would worry me.
Monday, February 10, 2014
The Touch of the Gardener
Today is my in-laws' sixtieth anniversary. Sixty years is the diamond anniversary, an occasion so rare there are few cards and no decorations to cover it. I wanted to write a little synopsis of their marriage because it is such a testimony of the hand of God that a marriage so unlikely to succeed could last sixty years, but the story morphed into a poem. However, the symbolism of the poem is hard to understand without the back story, so I will try again with a short synopsis. In 1954 a sixteen year old girl from an alcoholic home on the wrong side of the tracks eloped with her twenty year old fiance on leave from the army. They ran away to Idaho where they married without parental consent, then returned to Helena where Del left his new bride and went to Korea for two years.
When he returned, they started having children and moved to Missoula, not too far from the tracks, which was fitting because Del worked for the railroad. It was there, through the intervention of some Christian friends, that they came to know Christ. They raised four children in a Christian home, and have doubled that investment by having eight grandchildren. I had the privilege of marrying their firstborn and eventually settling in Kalispell. The other two sons and a daughter live in or around Missoula. This poem is for Pat and Del, but it is about God.
When he returned, they started having children and moved to Missoula, not too far from the tracks, which was fitting because Del worked for the railroad. It was there, through the intervention of some Christian friends, that they came to know Christ. They raised four children in a Christian home, and have doubled that investment by having eight grandchildren. I had the privilege of marrying their firstborn and eventually settling in Kalispell. The other two sons and a daughter live in or around Missoula. This poem is for Pat and Del, but it is about God.
The Touch of the Gardener
The chances of it working were one in sixty--
planting an immature rosebush
in a crack of soil
in a bottle strewn parking lot
on the wrong side of the tracks,
leaving it alone for two years
and expecting it to grow.
But it did grow
and began to blossom
almost immediately.
By then, the bottles were gone
the town had changed,
though the tracks
were still nearby.
And in that unlikely place
a master gardener
found the struggling plant,
loved it,
and began to water it.
The roots sank deep
and the plant began to flourish.
When the time was right
the gardener took four cuttings,
established their roots
and planted them
not too far away.
In time they, too,
began to blossom.
What was once
a hastily planted rosebush
in the wrong part of town
became a rose garden
that passersby could see and enjoy
and, most of all, recognize
the touch of the Gardener.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Blowing It
Lest you think this is going to be an admission of personal failure, let me clarify that it'snot. I recently had a cold. I was blowing and rinsing so much of the aforementioned substance out of my sinuses, I was beginning to think my nose was importing toxic waste from Eastern Bloc nations. This was not a big problem around the house where no one could hear my sinus solos. However, Monday, when I went to BSF leader's meeting, my nose plugged up and I was reluctant blow it in front of all those tasteful, Christian ladies because I knew I sounded like I was trying to snort a small aquatic mammal out of my nose. Instead I just mouth breathed for the second hour, then went out to the car and filled three napkins. The same thing happened at BSF Tuesday except I only had to mouth breath for 45 minutes. Good thing Dairy Queen gives so many extra napkins. Happily, the great phlegm flood has fled. I know that I often look like I have it all together, now I know what substance is holding it all together. Of course, a classy woman wouldn't mentions mucus matters, guess I'm blowing it.
The Transporter
I admit to being a Star Trek fan, not enough to wear a costume and/or go to a convention, but enough to recognize most of the references. The original "Star Trek" premiered when I was an impressionable youth and "The Next Generation", when my kids were impressionable youths. As a matter of fact, the only time the television was allowed on during dinner at our house, was Saturday night for "The Next Generation". Segue to last weekend's refrigerator shopping. In the new refrigerators, instead of a dorky light bulb, there is a circular panel of lights resembling the transporter pads of the Enterprise. I almost succumbed to a too small refrigerator just for the transporter effect. For the non-Trekkies, a transporter separated the molecules of whatever was placed on it and beamed them vast distances through space where they would reassemble into their original form (most of the time--depending on the episode). Wouldn't it be wonderful to transport food from the refrigerator to the table and back--not to mention socks, the hamster and anything else that would fit on the mini transporter pad? Unfortunately, there is no magical means for moving things from one place to another--yet!
Segue again to my previous blog on "Christians, the Next Generation". Expecting young Christians to reach the same spiritual conclusions we have, without our experiences is like trying to put them on a spiritual transporter pad. For example, on the days when my husband went out for lunch, he would come home from work and tell me there was no need for me to fix dinner. This was poor consolation to the kids and I since we did not get full when he went out to lunch, no matter how well he described it to us. There is no magical way to move Christians to spiritual maturity. God has used the same transporter for many years, it is called life. Although we generously, (and fruitlessly) offer our descendants the benefit of our experiences, there is no substitute for the step-by-step, day by day plodding of life. For now the transporter beam is limited to a dream in my Trekkie head, and a gleam in my someday refrigerator.
Segue again to my previous blog on "Christians, the Next Generation". Expecting young Christians to reach the same spiritual conclusions we have, without our experiences is like trying to put them on a spiritual transporter pad. For example, on the days when my husband went out for lunch, he would come home from work and tell me there was no need for me to fix dinner. This was poor consolation to the kids and I since we did not get full when he went out to lunch, no matter how well he described it to us. There is no magical way to move Christians to spiritual maturity. God has used the same transporter for many years, it is called life. Although we generously, (and fruitlessly) offer our descendants the benefit of our experiences, there is no substitute for the step-by-step, day by day plodding of life. For now the transporter beam is limited to a dream in my Trekkie head, and a gleam in my someday refrigerator.
Christians, the Next Generation
In one sense, there is no such thing as a second generation Christian because God's kingdom is entered through a turnstile, one at a time. No one can buy a ticket on our behalf. Yet there are families in which Christianity seems to dominate like a genetic trait. Not mine, however. Although there are many believers salted through my extended family, I consider myself a first generation Christian because knowing Christ was not taught in my home. I learned about Jesus at a teen Bible study. At the age where many second generation Christians turn away from Christ, I was on my spiritual honeymoon.
I think we do a disservice to second plus generation Christian young people when we expect them to understand and react to spiritual things the same as we first generations do. A plane crash survivor will react differently to flying than one who has simply been told stories about a plane crash. Second hand knowledge does not have the same impact as first hand experience. At some point in my parenting I realized that I expected a level of spiritual perception in my children that I had reached only because of my life experiences. My children would have different experiences and their own spiritual journeys.
There are many advantages to having a Christian heritage, Christian homes have less divorce, abuse, addiction, poverty and sexual sin. I wandered before Christ found me and so will my descendants. But at the end of their wandering they will discover Jesus is as forgiving and faithful to them as He has been to the generations before. Second hand spiritual robes, no matter how beautiful, are still hand-me-downs. The next generation needs Designer clothes.
I think we do a disservice to second plus generation Christian young people when we expect them to understand and react to spiritual things the same as we first generations do. A plane crash survivor will react differently to flying than one who has simply been told stories about a plane crash. Second hand knowledge does not have the same impact as first hand experience. At some point in my parenting I realized that I expected a level of spiritual perception in my children that I had reached only because of my life experiences. My children would have different experiences and their own spiritual journeys.
There are many advantages to having a Christian heritage, Christian homes have less divorce, abuse, addiction, poverty and sexual sin. I wandered before Christ found me and so will my descendants. But at the end of their wandering they will discover Jesus is as forgiving and faithful to them as He has been to the generations before. Second hand spiritual robes, no matter how beautiful, are still hand-me-downs. The next generation needs Designer clothes.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Let Me Count the Ways
For someone who recently blogged about not being easily offended, it is hard to explain why the recent library name change from Flathead County Library to "Imagine If" is so offensive to me. It is hardly a personal slight. I did not expect to input on the name change, but then I didn't know there was going to be a name change. From the response in the paper, few did. The first reason the change bothers me is that it seems like buzz words. Remember a few years ago when every business wanted to be proactive? Buzz words are the parachute pants of business. In the years I have worked in home health care, I have taken care of patients, then clients, and now consumers. I refuse to refer to those I care for as consumers. What does that make me, food? I hope the next term for "caregivees" is less ridiculous. The second reason I hate it, is the feeling some "enlightened" person decided the term library was too negative or rigid to be politically correct. I am not a fan of politically correct.
A third reason I hate the name change is because "Imagine If" does not identify what, or even where, the business is. If I sent you out to buy some "Imagine If", where would you go? A "medical marijuana" shop? The condom department of a pharmacy? Adult fantasy store? I picked the least obnoxious of the new library cards, at least the word libraries is added (in small print). However, "Imagine If libraries" still sounds like a porn shop. The added phrases--No judgments. No funny looks. No questions asked., just make matters worse.
The fourth reason I hate the name change is the change in philosophy. Imagine If has no fines, therefore no incentive to return books in a timely manner--or at all. There is no need to be quiet because that would inhibit the video games, crafts and dancing. Imagine If wants to be a combo community center, Home Depot and Barnes & Noble. They could have created a more relaxed ambiance without the Montessori mayhem by just adding a coffee bar. Instead of the taxpayers covering the expense for a four library name change, the coffee coffers could cough up a little money. If they wanted to show that the library is more than books, they could have put that slogan on posters.
I've heard Californians talk about "reinventing yourself". That idea makes me nervous. Actually, California makes me nervous. Our library has reinvented itself--into a Flower Child. A free spirit we can count on to live by its own rules, imagination--and our tax money.
A third reason I hate the name change is because "Imagine If" does not identify what, or even where, the business is. If I sent you out to buy some "Imagine If", where would you go? A "medical marijuana" shop? The condom department of a pharmacy? Adult fantasy store? I picked the least obnoxious of the new library cards, at least the word libraries is added (in small print). However, "Imagine If libraries" still sounds like a porn shop. The added phrases--No judgments. No funny looks. No questions asked., just make matters worse.
The fourth reason I hate the name change is the change in philosophy. Imagine If has no fines, therefore no incentive to return books in a timely manner--or at all. There is no need to be quiet because that would inhibit the video games, crafts and dancing. Imagine If wants to be a combo community center, Home Depot and Barnes & Noble. They could have created a more relaxed ambiance without the Montessori mayhem by just adding a coffee bar. Instead of the taxpayers covering the expense for a four library name change, the coffee coffers could cough up a little money. If they wanted to show that the library is more than books, they could have put that slogan on posters.
I've heard Californians talk about "reinventing yourself". That idea makes me nervous. Actually, California makes me nervous. Our library has reinvented itself--into a Flower Child. A free spirit we can count on to live by its own rules, imagination--and our tax money.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Going Postal
I took a client to the post office last week so she could mail a package. For some reason she had neither taped nor addressed the box, but had the address written on a sheet of paper. As we stood in line, we noticed two signs declaring that all packages had to be taped and addressed by the customer. We found out that not only were employees not allowed to help tape packages, they had no means to do so. All tape guns had been confiscated by the district supervisor from North Dakota, who had recently inspected our post offices and reprimanded the employees for being "too nice" to customers. Though the postal employees have no tape, there are dozens of rolls available for purchase at twice what they cost in other stores. The woman who waited on us had actually been written up for using the S word, claiming being too nice was customer Service. Neither rain, nor snow nor gloom of night. . .too bad it doesn't mention tape.
It would never occur to me to take a partially wrapped, unaddressed package to the post office, but I work in home health care and there are many clients who need extra help wrapping their packages (in every sense). This help will no longer be coming from postal employees. We live in an age when "going postal" is synonymous with job frustration and shooting up your workplace, yet some supervisor is afraid of the postal employees getting the reputation of being too nice.
In the last few decades e-mail has replaced snail mail, businesses encourage paperless billing, and the coupons that once came in junk mail can be accessed by smart phone. The snail is becoming extinct. More importantly, with the advent of UPS, FedEx, etc. the post office is no longer the only game in town for shipping packages. Additions like priority mail and flat rate boxes have helped the post office be more competitive, but this is offset by shipping stations that both custom wrap packages and find the least expensive shipping option. The post office is going bankrupt and, unlike the rest of the government, is required to be self sustaining. In the real world, a business going under might try to lower prices and improve customer service. But the post office is not part of the real world, it is part of the government, so its solution to financial peril is to increase prices and decrease customer service. Not coincidentally, I don't go to the post office much. Good thing. I might just go postal.
It would never occur to me to take a partially wrapped, unaddressed package to the post office, but I work in home health care and there are many clients who need extra help wrapping their packages (in every sense). This help will no longer be coming from postal employees. We live in an age when "going postal" is synonymous with job frustration and shooting up your workplace, yet some supervisor is afraid of the postal employees getting the reputation of being too nice.
In the last few decades e-mail has replaced snail mail, businesses encourage paperless billing, and the coupons that once came in junk mail can be accessed by smart phone. The snail is becoming extinct. More importantly, with the advent of UPS, FedEx, etc. the post office is no longer the only game in town for shipping packages. Additions like priority mail and flat rate boxes have helped the post office be more competitive, but this is offset by shipping stations that both custom wrap packages and find the least expensive shipping option. The post office is going bankrupt and, unlike the rest of the government, is required to be self sustaining. In the real world, a business going under might try to lower prices and improve customer service. But the post office is not part of the real world, it is part of the government, so its solution to financial peril is to increase prices and decrease customer service. Not coincidentally, I don't go to the post office much. Good thing. I might just go postal.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Divine Dialogue
My one regret about the house we now have is that there is no good place in either the house or yard from which to view, much less photograph, the sunset. However, we have an excellent rear view mirror reflection of it colors off the snowy Swan Peaks and I often take pictures of those. What is it about sunsets that move us? I think that at sunset the curtain between Earth and eternity lifts just a crack and we glimpse the unbearable beauty of God. I feel as if I am standing with my Creator looking up as He looks down, like Father and child sharing a moment together. In my heart I hear this divine dialogue.
"I made this for you," He says.
"I'm glad you like it."
"I will love you forever."
"Goodnight."
And He hears the longing of my heart, not to die, but to go home and see beyond the curtain with eyes that can bear the brightness. But my thoughts are vaster than my words, all I can say is,
"Goodnight Father. Thank you."
"I made this for you," He says.
"I'm glad you like it."
"I will love you forever."
"Goodnight."
And He hears the longing of my heart, not to die, but to go home and see beyond the curtain with eyes that can bear the brightness. But my thoughts are vaster than my words, all I can say is,
"Goodnight Father. Thank you."
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Because It Is
A verse that stood out to me during this week's Bible study of the feeding of the 5000 was Mt. 14:20, "They all ate and were satisfied". Hardly profound hermeneutics. The people had had enough to eat--but it made me think. The reason many people, including me, resist trusting Christ is the expectation that such a life could not possibly be satisfying. Our inborn appetites would not be sated with such meager fare.
We often blame our lack of satisfaction on not having enough ______________(fill in the blank); some suggestions--fame, fortune, leisure or love. Few of us have the opportunity Solomon did to seek satisfaction while possessing world wide acclaim, a prestigious position, an abundance of wealth, women, and even wisdom, but Ecclesiastes records that even he failed miserably. The death-styles of the rich and famous are often accidental or intentional suicide.
Christians are not satisfied because God's provision is all they get, they are satisfied because it is all they want. At least this is true for Christians not caught up in the continual, commercial coveting campaigns so prevalent in our culture. This contentment is not confined to affluent American Christians, it is also found in impoverished villages throughout the world. The simple, profound truth I realized--God's provision feels satisfying because it is.
We often blame our lack of satisfaction on not having enough ______________(fill in the blank); some suggestions--fame, fortune, leisure or love. Few of us have the opportunity Solomon did to seek satisfaction while possessing world wide acclaim, a prestigious position, an abundance of wealth, women, and even wisdom, but Ecclesiastes records that even he failed miserably. The death-styles of the rich and famous are often accidental or intentional suicide.
Christians are not satisfied because God's provision is all they get, they are satisfied because it is all they want. At least this is true for Christians not caught up in the continual, commercial coveting campaigns so prevalent in our culture. This contentment is not confined to affluent American Christians, it is also found in impoverished villages throughout the world. The simple, profound truth I realized--God's provision feels satisfying because it is.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Satisfaction Guaranteed
I love money back guarantees, especially at Costco where there is no argument, no shipping, no hassle. It is human nature to want a guarantee because it frees us from living with the consequences of a bad product. Unfortunately, we also want guarantees in our personal lives, our health, our finances, even our relationships. Humans crave guarantees because we crave control. That is why theories like man caused global warming are so popular despite lack of scientific evidence, it puts man back in the SUV driver's seat. Christians also crave control. That is why it is so tempting to believe the programs, systems and formulas that promise them. But think this through:
If God wants all his children to be healthy, why did He promise Paul so much pain and suffering? One good beating can undo years of good diet and exercise. Why has God been glorified through so many sick and suffering saints?
On a current health taboo, if gluten is bad for us, why did Christ tell us to pray for daily bread? Why did He use bread to symbolize his body in communion? Why did God accept grain offerings?
If making a relationship desirable guaranteed a loved one would never stray, what did God do wrong with Adam? How did Jesus blow it with Judas? We can build strong marriages but we cannot make them divorce proof. We can raise children with biblical principles, but we cannot eradicate their sin nature.
If God wants us to protect our possessions, why does Jesus tell us not to stockpile them? Why, in all his warnings to flee the impending destruction of Jerusalem, does he tell them to leave everything behind instead of send it ahead to a safe place? Maybe it's because He has already promised to take care of our daily needs.
If God wants his children to be financially secure, why did He exempt the prophets (see Heb.11), and His own Son? Why did Jesus seek out the poor?
If God does not want his children to suffer, why does he commend the refining quality of suffering so highly in scripture? Why have so many of his servants lived as outcasts and died as martyrs? God does not want us to suffer the preventable consequences of our own bad decisions, that is why He has given us so many instructions on how to make wise choices, but suffering because of our identification with Christ is considered a blessing. Even if it happens in America.
I admit it bothers me that Christians who would never be gullible enough to believe the promises of wealth or luck in a chain letter, commend or share posts that promise to Alzheimer's proof your brain, cancer proof your body or ensure your loved ones' commitment to Christ. Such guarantees are not for this world and the pursuit of them is a sinful pursuit. Heaven is where we get the lifetime warranty. No arguments. No shipping. No hassle.
If God wants all his children to be healthy, why did He promise Paul so much pain and suffering? One good beating can undo years of good diet and exercise. Why has God been glorified through so many sick and suffering saints?
On a current health taboo, if gluten is bad for us, why did Christ tell us to pray for daily bread? Why did He use bread to symbolize his body in communion? Why did God accept grain offerings?
If making a relationship desirable guaranteed a loved one would never stray, what did God do wrong with Adam? How did Jesus blow it with Judas? We can build strong marriages but we cannot make them divorce proof. We can raise children with biblical principles, but we cannot eradicate their sin nature.
If God wants us to protect our possessions, why does Jesus tell us not to stockpile them? Why, in all his warnings to flee the impending destruction of Jerusalem, does he tell them to leave everything behind instead of send it ahead to a safe place? Maybe it's because He has already promised to take care of our daily needs.
If God wants his children to be financially secure, why did He exempt the prophets (see Heb.11), and His own Son? Why did Jesus seek out the poor?
If God does not want his children to suffer, why does he commend the refining quality of suffering so highly in scripture? Why have so many of his servants lived as outcasts and died as martyrs? God does not want us to suffer the preventable consequences of our own bad decisions, that is why He has given us so many instructions on how to make wise choices, but suffering because of our identification with Christ is considered a blessing. Even if it happens in America.
I admit it bothers me that Christians who would never be gullible enough to believe the promises of wealth or luck in a chain letter, commend or share posts that promise to Alzheimer's proof your brain, cancer proof your body or ensure your loved ones' commitment to Christ. Such guarantees are not for this world and the pursuit of them is a sinful pursuit. Heaven is where we get the lifetime warranty. No arguments. No shipping. No hassle.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Reverse Sundowner's
There is a well known phenomenon among dementia patients known as Sundowner's Syndrome. As night approaches, patients become confused, agitated and uncooperative. I think I have reverse Sundowner's (Undowner's Snydrome? Undrome?) because the white skies of winter drain me and, as the sun goes down and the skies darken, I begin to feel more focused, energetic and calm. When the white skies are hidden, I feel relieved. My SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, usually begins after the holidays, January 2nd. This year it started after the holiday, Christmas. The New Year's baby hadn't even been delivered yet and I already felt like I was carrying a 50 lb. weight.
So I spent my Christmas money on a "Happy" light. Since it is from Costco, I can either get happy or my money back. It has two lenses, one for comfort, one for energy. I will have to wait and see if a box of small, but happy, light can overcome the effect of the big, but wintery, skies of Montana and reverse SAD into DAS, Drugged on Artificial Sunlight. But, to quote a classic, Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby, ain't nothing like the real thing.
So I spent my Christmas money on a "Happy" light. Since it is from Costco, I can either get happy or my money back. It has two lenses, one for comfort, one for energy. I will have to wait and see if a box of small, but happy, light can overcome the effect of the big, but wintery, skies of Montana and reverse SAD into DAS, Drugged on Artificial Sunlight. But, to quote a classic, Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby, ain't nothing like the real thing.
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