How to Meditate Like a Preschooler

     Everything I know about meditation, I learned in the children's program. In the BSF preschool program to be precise. Sometime after the Bible story and the muscle activities to get the wiggles out, every class has Quiet Time. They remind the children of truths about God they learned in the Bible story, then they have them lie quietly for a few minutes, supposedly thinking about God. The children's biggest challenges are energetic, wiggly bodies. Mine is a lethargic, unfocused mind. So I am taking baby steps toward meditation by the same method. After my daily study, I focus on the main truth I learned about God, and then lay quietly for a few minutes. Quiet body. Quiet mind. Thinking about God. If my study raised a question, that is the time I listen for the answer.
     Lately I have been studying Revelation and meditating on grace. One idea that came to me from the sealing of the 144,000 in chapter 7 is that--Grace is not what is leftover after the judgment has passed, it is the foundation of it. That sounded impressively deep and spiritual but I wondered, was it accurate? So I thought my way through the Bible:

• God chose Noah before the flood. It would have derailed His plan for the continuation of man and the plan of redemption to have thought about Noah after the flood.
• God rescues Lot before the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
• God positioned Joseph in Egypt before the famine, though that is never listed as a judgment.
• God preserved a faithful remnant before the exile.
• God is saving an exact number of Gentiles before completing the redemption of the Jews.
• God will seal 144,000 witnesses before the tribulation judgments.

      In the plan of God grace precedes judgment. The judgment would not achieve its intended purpose without God's grace in preserving a family of faith. Admittedly, sometimes my meditation leads to a few minutes of sleep, but what beautiful thoughts to sleep on.

The Other Four Days

     I have heard for years that there are 365 verses in the Bible telling us not to be afraid, one for each day of the year. But according to Strong's online concordance, there are actually 361. What about the other four days? Are we ever commanded to be afraid? Actually, we are--four times. I began this curious quest after I noticed a command in Romans 11:20 referring to the Gentiles being grafted into the plan of salvation,
   "Granted. they were broken off because of unbelief, and you stand by faith. Do not be arrogant, but be afraid."

     That began a brief (because I am lazy) search for other references to be afraid. I found one a few chapter away in Romans 13. In that passage, Paul is teaching believers submission to the governing authorities. Verse 4 says,
    "For he is God's servant to do you good. but if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the
 sword for nothing. He is God's servant, an agent of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer."

     I will spare the reader (I probably have one) my comments on how American Christians seemed to have forgotten the above concept, and go on to Matthew 10, where Jesus has been warning the disciples he is sending out to expect betrayal and persecution, mostly he is telling them not to be afraid, but in verse 28 he says,
   "Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One
 who can destroy both soul and body in hell."
   That means it is okay to have a healthy fear of Satan.

     Admittedly, this last reference may be cheating because God is not directly telling his people to be afraid. In Jeremiah 2, God's message is a lament of the fickle faith of his chosen and lavishly loved  people. In verse 12, He commands,

   "Be appalled at this, O heavens, and shudder with great horror," declares the Lord.

     For one thing, He uses the word appalled instead of afraid and the command is to creation, not man. But if the heavens, who are entirely innocent of the fickle faith thing, are supposed to be appalled, it would probably be a good idea for God's people, who are prone to wander, to be fairly fearful also.
     So now you know what to do with your time off from the command to fear not. It is okay to be fearful the other four days. Just make sure you are fearing the right thing.

Alternate Reality

     Television shows love to do alternate reality themes. It allows the characters to step out of their usual roles, good guys become bad guys, strait laced become free spirits, etc. Then the whole thing turns out to be a dream, hallucination or near death experience, unless it is a sci-fi show where alternate reality is a given. Mentally ill people often live in an alternate reality of their own making, if not choosing. But since my son's accident, I have had an alternate reality sub-script running through my mind. While we were driving back to Montana and figuring out what steps we needed to take to get his injuries checked, legal help etc., my alternate reality was planning his funeral. Working out details like--where would we have it since he didn't attend our church? Even after we got home and could see he was okay, I was imagining driving to the hospital daily to deal with my son's head injury. Both of those alternate realities were more likely outcomes than his miraculous survival given the severity of the crash.
     Even now I consider how empty and joyless this Christmas would have been if I had lost my son in September. I am so thankful it didn't happen to us, but I am also very aware that there are some of my friends living that painful reality. I pray for them often and try to let them know that. Though their loved ones live on in the heavenly reality we cannot see, the pain of loss is intensified at holidays and there is no alternate reality to escape to, nor dream to wake up from. The grace that spared my son is the same grace that would have sustained us through losing him and the grace that helps those grieving now. But the reality of grace is that it doesn't let us escape the hard times, it lets us endure them.

The Lord or the Latte

     I have been thinking lately about my water bottle. I'm one of the few people I know who actually like drinking water. We have well water, so it tastes good besides being good for you, and I drink a lot more water when I have a bottle handy than I ever did out of a glass. When I drink out of a glass, I tend to sip a little and dump the rest. With the bottle, I take a sip here and a sip there until it's all gone. Until--I can't believe I drank the whole thing. So what's the problem? With a water bottle always at hand, I never know the discomfort of thirst. Being a middle-aged American, comfort is my middle name. I live in a comfortable house, sleep in a comfortable bed, drive a comfortable car and can afford almost anything I want in order to be even more comfortable. But it is not God's plan for his children to be comfortable, often is it just the opposite. Look at the tempting job offer Jesus made Paul in Acts 9, with special emphasis on the word suffer.
     I don't enjoy suffering, and I seldom have to, but maybe I need to. Maybe having all my wants and needs supplied is making me too soft to be a soldier. Not that I'm complaining. After all, it was not my idea to be born in a place and time of plenty. God chose this land of hot showers and lattes for me. I just don't want to find myself loving the Lord less than the lattes. I have never belonged to a church that practices giving up something for Lent, although as a Mormon child I fasted the first Sunday of every month. Ironically, the church in which I was saved had a potluck the first Sunday of the month, a dietary demonstration of the contrast between law and grace.  But I have friends who talk about giving up chocolate (ouch!) or all sugar (gasp!) for Lent, and I wonder if  I should set aside a time to deliberately deny myself some comfort. Could I even survive a month without chai?
     I still carry a water bottle with me, but am trying to leave it in the car when I go to church and BSF. How thirsty can I get in two hours anyway?  And some days I practice the "Poor Woman's Diet", which differs from the "Pioneer Woman's Diet" in that instead of eating foods only available to pioneer women, I eat as if I didn't have money to dine out or buy a frappe. In other words, the diet I followed of necessity while we were trying to raise a family on one income. This may be only a token step toward self denial, but it is a reminder to get off Connie's Continual Comfort Channel where it's always ME Time and pursue the mind of Christ, one small sip at a time.
    

3 Visitors

     I have written previously about my annual holiday visits from the Ghost of Christmas past, sad feelings from childhood Christmases with my mentally ill mother. But this year, like Scrooge in "A Christmas Carol", I have three visitors. The Ghost of Christmas Past is still my mother, though those thoughts come later every year. The Ghost of Christmas Present is the granddaughter I had for two years and lost when her mother and my son broke up. I have not seen her since April, except in my memories. The Ghost of Christmas Future is the baby the two of them announced last Christmas, but lost in January. We never got to meet on earth, but I look forward to meeting him/her in the future. I gave a donation to Hope Pregnancy Center in my grandchild's honor. Where the form asked for a name, I wrote "Peanut", which was all I ever called him. On the line for address, I put "Heaven".
     I used to long for unclouded memories of Christmas, but if I must be visited by those I cannot reach, at least my ghosts are not unwelcome. As with Scrooge, through them my life was changed. Deepened, broadened, opened. Christmas is better when shared with loved ones, even those no longer with us--or with us only in spirit.

I'm Not Finished Yet

     Despite my desire to praise God for miraculously sparing my son's life, I am still unable to say much about his accident, both for his sake, and for legal reasons because his case is pending. What I can say is that the accident was not the wake up call I had hoped it would be in his life and I was desperately disappointed. That is what I would have used if I were God. So I asked for wisdom, for some hint of what God was doing and the only thought I heard in my mind was, "I'm not finished yet." I wasn't sure the message was from the Holy Spirit because, frankly, it didn't sound very spiritual. No thees and thous or quotes from scripture. Just ordinary words. But I have double checked with the Lord and the message has not changed. He has a plan. He is working in my son's life, but He is not finished yet.
     That is the main thing I have been getting from the study of Revelation in BSF this year. God has a plan and what God has planned always happens. In spite of a world that seems out of control and Satanic opposition that we cannot see or imagine, history has been written. Gods knows exactly how many Gentiles will be saved, how many believers will be martyred, the redemption of the Jews is right on schedule. But it is not my schedule. God is not on my schedule and ultimately, I don't want him to be, because everything God has given me is greater that what I wanted for myself. I want good things for my son. God wants better things, and only He knows how to make that happen.
     The Bible is full of examples of God working out his plan in spite of our misunderstanding it  (Abraham & Hagar), refusing to cooperate with it (Jonah), and flat out opposing it (Pharaoh), but in the midst of those situations, they looked absolutely hopeless. If I don't close a book halfway through, or leave a movie before the end, I should trust the Author and Director of the reality show "Life" to come up with the perfect ending. I just need to remember--He's not finished yet.
    

A Word of Encouragement

    When life is flowing smoothly, it is enough for me to have the Holy Spirit as a quiet presence in the background, somewhere between a default setting and a screen saver, but when trouble comes, I need more. I need God to be as solid as the things I can see and touch. So in the rapids we have gone through recently, I asked God for encouragement and He sent me a letter. It was actually written by a young man we considered one of our "spare sons", though he never lived in our home. Jason was in jail when he called us looking for another "spare" and we wound up talking and then writing one another. The only time we met in person was when he was in pre-release in Great Falls. We bought him a bike so he could get to work. I knew from the newspaper that Jason re-offended after getting back to Kalispell and went back to jail. I had not heard from him for years before his letter came from the state prison in Deer Lodge. Jason apologized for not getting in touch and assured me that what we had done for him made a difference in his life.
    His letter came at a time of discouragement, when I wondered if all the years of love and instruction we had poured into our son made any difference. We had barely brushed up against Jason's life and yet, years later, he still felt the impact of our love. He encouraged me not to stop trying to help others, regardless of the outcome. Sooner or later, good would come of it. I knew when the spares left me that I might not hear from any of them, even Lance, whom I lived like a son. When he left, God asked me if I could love them like He did, for years at a time, without getting anything in return. I told Him I could. I planted God's truth in each of them like a time bomb and trusted that God would explode it when it was needed. I had no regrets about helping my spares, but I feared for my son.
     I needed real words of encouragement from God and he sent them through Jason. And this time, when I needed encouragement, He restored my ability to write, my way to cope and be comforted. And I hope this post can be God's word of encouragement to someone else.

When We Had Wings

     I lost my words for a time, and most of the humor that has sustained me through life. I nearly lost my son in September and, somehow, my ability to write also. My feelings were bigger than my words. But I had one more farewell left in me for McKenzie, the granddaughter I lost when my son and her mother broke up. I wrote it in October and finally I am ready to post it. Perhaps this is the last.

   When We Had Wings

When the spring was raw and new

and, like today, the cool winds blew,

my granddaughter and I

watched birds that wheeled across the sky,

wondering what makes them flee

capriciously from tree to tree.

We had wings and time did not,

or so I thought.

Now fall has come and turning leaves

ride like birds upon the breeze.

From the comfort of my home

I view the circling birds alone.

The trees we watched across the road

     still gladly bear their lively load,

as I would, could she come to me—

my MacKenzie.

Unstoppable as wind, thief-time

eventually takes all that’s mine.

But it cannot steal from me

the comfort of your memory.

When your mother went away

I had no power to let you stay.

I watch the birds and think of springs

when we had wings.

For All the Good It'll Do

    On September 10th as my husband and I were returning from a trip to Oregon, our son's boss called to tell us he had just received a 3 a.m. text from our son saying he had rolled his pickup and was bleeding. After several phone calls we discovered he had been to the hospital and was now at the jail. It was not a coincidence that the accident happened after I had days of extra prayer time for him. It was not a coincidence that the Lord had provided 10 days of rest and relaxation before beginning this ordeal. Nor was it coincidence that we didn't find out until 7 a.m., after having a good night of sleep.
    While we were driving home from Coeur d'Alene, Will sent pictures of the wrecked pickup that he got from the neighbor who investigated the accident and we realized that the problem was not the DUI or the truck, but that our son was nearly killed. It was no coincidence that he survived, even walked away from, the accident. It was a miracle. The other problems would need to be dealt with, but he was alive to do so. That was all that mattered.
   While we were waiting for his 7 p.m. release time, I decided to do my daily Bible study which, at that point was a chapter a day of Psalms. I couldn't see how Psalms could possibly speak to the situation our family was going through, but decided to read it anyway, for all the good it'll do. It was no coincidence that the passage for that day was Psalm 38, written by David, who was suffering justly for his sin, but still calling for God's help and mercy. It was exactly what I needed to hear. The next day's psalm was similar, David trying to suffer in silence for his sin but ending with a plea for mercy. The next two day's psalms also fit my needs perfectly.
   I turned in my time of need to a book written thousands of years ago, to read a chapter out of habit, not desire, for all the good it would do and I found God's word, speaking to my desperate heart, for a situation I had no idea I would be facing. That, also, was no coincidence.

Anybody Got a Match?

     I took up smoking again this summer. I didn't want to, it's just that smoke is all there was to breathe for a while and I am powerfully addicted to breathing. The Northwest had a rather dry winter, very dry spring and hot, early summer, so it is no surprise that there were lots of forest fires also. That is a natural consequence of dry weather in forested areas. The part I am angry about is the natural consequence that can be helped. For decades now our national forests have been managed, not by the people who live among them, nor even by the government agencies paid to do so, but by environmentalist litigation. Their perpetual protests of virtually every timber sale are the reason our forests are piled high with combustible deadfall. Those who claim to love trees have protected our forests into fuel filled infernos waiting for a match. Talk about tough love.
     Since many environmentalists live in big cities far removed from the property they are trying to protect, I would like to pass along my observations:

• It is hard to hug a tree when it is on fire. 
• On TV "Orange is the New Black"; after forest fires, black is the new green. You might need to change the name of your movement.
• Forest fires have done more damage to both animal and human habitat than logging, even clearcutting, ever did.
• Protesting salvaging of burned, but usable, timber impedes those rejuvenating benefits of fire you talk about.
• Didn't you people used to stand for clean air?
• It is easy to have convictions when it is not your skin in the game. Learn how to fight fires, come breathe our smoke, post a bond if you want to protest.
• Saving the planet is God's job, not yours. Try not be one of the things he has to save it from.

       We recently had a big fire in Evergreen that started on the property of apparent hoarders. They lost everything. Sounds like they should have. One of the things they hoarded, besides appliances, is wood. A homeless guy living on the property was careless with a cigarette on an unwatered lot full of old wood. He is charged with the legal version of criminal stupidity. That situation made me contemplate the crime of arson. Is it considered arson to cover an area with accelerant and wait for someone else to ignite it? I live most summers with the results of environmental arson, although I'm sure they will blame it on their beloved scapegoat--global warming. Humans may distinguish whether the fire is lightning or man caused, but I don't think the forest much cares who provides the match.

10 Signs You Are About to Say Something Stupid

1.  It is the first thing that pops into your head.  Before you brain is engaged.
2. You begin with the words, "I just have to get this out."  Meaning I will feel better afterward, too bad about you.
3. Any words following "I know I shouldn't say this, but. . ."  Not only are you about to say something stupid, but you are admitting it is deliberate.
4. You begin by saying,  "So that you may pray more fully. . ."  This is about GOSSIP, not prayer.
5. Ditto for "I'm just the kind of person who speaks their mind", admitting stupidity is your preferred lifestyle.
6. Anything following the words, "This is probably none of my business".  You are right, stop there.
7. "If you want my opinion/advice. . ."  Wait til they ask, they probably won't.
8. You are a lawyer/addict/politician and your lips are moving. Admittedly, there are exceptions.
9. What follows the phrase, "I don't consider myself a racist" usually removes any doubt.
10. Rambling more than two sentences past "I don't know what to say" will prove your were right.

Strange Choice

    In our much loved Patrick McManus books, his family names their dog Stranger in hope that it was only passing through. Alas, that was not the case so they shortened his name to Strange, which was a more apt description anyway. According to McManus, Strange was a canine collection of bad habits wrapped in fur.
    Which brings us to our dog, Keely. After our long-term Lab, Garth, died we wanted to get another dog. Keely, who was being "rehomed" by my son's girlfriend, met our two criteria of not shedding and being free. Keely does not have a lot of bad habits, but makes the most of the ones he has, the worst of which is passive-aggressive pooping. Despite numerous potty breaks, we could not leave Keely alone in the house without worrying that he would leave a little surprise for us. Since we kenneled him when we went out, he began to save those surprises for when we were sleeping. Eventually Reed decided not to prolong the anticipation and began a morning poop patrol. If my morning wake up call was the sound of a dog in distress, I knew what had happened.
     The week I began praying about taking Keely to the pound, he pooped in the house three times. I thought we had our answer. Unfortunately, there have been no answered prayer incidents for weeks now and we are feeling more and more guilty about the impending "pounding". Keely seems to sense this and is being even more needy and pathetic than usual.  To be fair I should balance Keely's faults with some of his good traits. His poop is hard. That makes it much easier to clean up but no less unwelcome. What else? Oh yeah, he doesn't shed and he was free. He is also quiet. He is so quiet, he has more in common with a couch pillow than a canine. He does not play. He goes out in the yard as infrequently, and briefly, as possible. His only physical activity is the happy dance he does before his twice daily feeding. We were hoping these months of having Tracy's exuberant Odin around would help Keely become more dog like, but it has not worked. And now that Odin has a new companion to play with, we no longer need Keely around to keep Odin company.
      Reed and I are leaving for a short vacation and one way or another need to make arrangements for Keely. So now we have to make the "strange choice", deciding once and for all if this dog is only passing through or make a long term commitment to our canine curmudgeon. Though he acts like a stodgy old man, Keely is only three, and at 20 pounds, should have a lot of dog years left to go. Go being the key word.

What Harm Can it Do?

      When our children left home and were no longer around to observe and imitate (that's the scary part) our table manners, my husband started putting his elbow up on the the table at dinner.  It's just the two of us, I thought, what harm can it do?  Lots. It turns out bad habits are like holiday pounds--easy to put on and hard to lose. Now his elbow is practically glued to the table no matter where we are or who we are with. Depending on what we are eating, he will even contort his right arm into unnatural positions so he can cut his food while his left arm is in the way. My husband has seemingly lost the ability to sit upright at the table unarmed. The camel does not just have its nose in the tent. It is eating the tent.
     That is why I am now so vigilant about other bad habits developing, like his recent tendency to leave candy wrappers and empty bottles in the living room instead of the garbage can. This time I am not asking what harm can it do. I already know, and it involves me becoming a maid. The same goes for his new habit of leaving his dirty dishes on the counter above the dishwasher instead of inside it. Despite his intentions to put them away later, I recognize this as a slippery, dishwasher-soap coated, slope leading to more work for me.
     I am not sure why many years of good habits are suddenly falling away. I know that my own habitual housecleaning standards have certainly gotten lax through the years, but that means less work for me, whereas my husband's bad habits mean more work for me. I fear manners patrol will turn me into Emily Post's nasty little watchdog, but I do not fear that as much as becoming my husband's housemaid. And if I save my manners memos for when it's just the two of us, when no one is around to observe and imitate my behavior, what harm can it do?

I Dentify

     I love irony, I especially love it when social engineers have to slide down the slippery slope they created. The same hands that were applauding the debut of Caitlyn (formerly Bruce) Jenner are now wringing over Rachel (formerly African-American) Dolezal.  It is ironic that while we are watching shows like "CSI" and "Bones" where they can determine the sex of a victim from a charred, ancient bone fragment, our p.c. pioneers say sex is determined by the preference, not the biology of the individual. It is ironic that the fuzzy science of climate change is accepted without question but the science of fetal development is ignored. The same wash of hormones that create the baby's sex organs also hardwire the brain and body development to that sex. The gender police want separate restrooms for the sexually undecided, boys in the girls locker room, and girls on the football team. So why not apply the same rules to ethnicity?
     Rachel Dolezal is making big waves in the news for being discredited as president of the Spokane NAACP, which in her case means Not Actually A Colored Person. While it may not be necessary to be African-American to hold that position, honesty is a basic requirement even at the Dollar Tree and Rachel is not qualified in that area either. In this case, her white parents decided to come out of the closet with pictures of their blond, straight-haired daughter. Though originally unsure about who her parents are or what her skin color is, Rachel has now claimed that she identifies as African-American. In gender issues, identifying trumps reality. But if ethnicity becomes a matter of choice, how will liberals know who the mistreated minorities are? How will cops use racial profiling if skin color is insignificant? Who will we entrap in the welfare system?
     My mother did not identify as a paranoid schizophrenic, she believed she held secrets of such importance that those at the center of the conspiracy were willing to kill to silence her. The lesson I learned from growing up in that environment is that reality is important. Too bad Rachel did not have the advantage of my upbringing. If reality does not matter, those McDonald's workers don't need to picket for higher wages, they just need to identify as something more lucrative--like aerospace engineers. Rachel, I have decided to identify as a minority member too, millionaires are in the minority.
    

Sequences

     Since circumstances are the least reliable method of knowing God's will, I try not to use them for guidance. Circumstances are easy to manipulate and interpretation of their meaning is subjective. Still, I remember when I first trusted Christ and looked back at the hundreds of events God used to bring me to that point. I was amazed that God went to so much trouble to draw me to Himself. Individual circumstances may be misleading, but sometimes sequences of events can be significant. My mother used to say, "God sometimes does one thing to do another." She was partly right, but needed to increase another exponentially. God is the ultimate recycler, He wastes nothing. Especially for those who belong to him.
     A recent example of God using a sequence of events in my life is:  my neck and shoulders knotted up painfully + causing me to make one of my rare visits to the chiropractor + who also did acupressure to strengthen my knee = stronger knee. God knew it never would have occurred to me to go to the chiropractor for my knee problem by itself. Another vivid example is when we moved into this house. The day after we moved in, I got the stomach flu + causing me to send Will out to the  garage freezer for a popsicle + where Will noticed the freezer wasn't working = in time to save hundreds of dollars in food. We discovered that the outlet we had plugged the freezer into did not work but, thanks to my flu, we discovered it before the food thawed.
     These sequences are seldom as obvious as those above and sometimes the sequence is one bad thing after another with the benefit unrecognizable until much later, as in the story of Joseph. Such was our experience is getting to Kalispell. The company my husband worked for went bankrupt just a few months after we bought a house and two months before our baby was due + though all the other mechanics found jobs that paid as much or more, Reed's new job barely paid our bills + a job offer came from Kalispell = moving to where we really wanted to be--western Montana. We made enough on our house to have  a down payment for one in Kalispell, and we had Will at home so the bill was minimal, but there were a lot of tears and questions before all that good stuff happened. God did not just pry our fingers off our life in Billings, He dynamited them off.
     Now that I know that the trial sequences are detours to direct me toward greater blessing, I can relax on life's rough roads and sometimes even enjoy the view.

Signs of the Times

     The signs that I am growing old have been evident for some time now, the premature gray hair that I had in my thirties is neither gray nor premature anymore. Age spots and crepey skin have crept from my hands and are working their way down my arms to the bingo flaps that give new meaning to the seventies expression "hang loose". In the 1970's it was cool to hang loose, now, on the the long approach to my seventies, my body parts are hanging loose and cool is what I will be when I die. The signs that I am growing old are the size of billboards.     But what I'm really looking for are signs that I am growing up spiritually. It requires a magnifying glass, but I think I am seeing some.

•  I have stopped telling God how to answer my prayers. This happened, not because I figured out God is smarter than I, but the gradual realization that He had never used any of my ideas.
• I no longer ask God to tell me his will for someone else's life. Unless someone requests my advice (strangely, that seldom happens), I pray for God to reveal his will to them, not me. It is hard enough keeping track of God's will for my life, without trying to interpret what it might be for another person.
• This time, unlike two years ago, I am not whining about my unstable knee. I am not exactly thankful, but I'm not whining either.
• I AM thankful that the Lord changed my plan of having my right knee replaced this spring because that way I would not have had one good leg to stand on. I am also confident that whatever deficit remained in "Righty" has been taken corrected and noticed that "Lefty", which healed somewhat adducted (toed in) after my replacement, looks straighter.
• Another revelation through my rebellious knee was that, this time, I am not too proud to use crutches. Two years ago Reed had a hard time getting me to use a cane and even then I was wobbly. Perhaps that is more about old age than maturity, but I choose to believe it is the latter.
• I am not asking, much less demanding, that the Lord explain his purposes in allowing my trick knee one last (non)stand. It is a new knee, hopefully this is its last trick. But even if it is not, the Lord's purpose remains unchanged, it is for Christ's glory. I do not need to know what's in it for me.
• One thing that is in it for me, is good material to laugh at myself. If I have not got the hang of humility, at least I have humor to match my walk. Warped. With a little more arm swing, I could be an extra for "Planet of the Apes". As it is, I walk like an Orc. Though family members may not agree, I believe God gave me my sense of humor. It helped me thrive through a difficult childhood. I hope that gift will remain intact no matter what old age does to my body and brain.
• I have learned how to make a trust sandwich. I trust God. I trust God with our shaky economy, sinful culture, increasing Christian persecution, my children's future, aging parents, etc. I trust God.

     It is my prayer that as I decline in physical beauty, I will grow in spiritual beauty. A beauty that does not require a make up mirror to put on or a billboard for others to notice. Yes, I am growing old, but I am also, finally, growing up.

Beforewords

Before it was NOROVIRUS! we called it stomach flu and it wasn't CONTAGIOUS!, it was just going around. But then, we weren't on cruise ships where it is a  national newsworthy problem.

HAND SANITIZER used to be called soap and, no surprise, hand washing is still the best germicide.

Before it was GLOBAL WARMING/CLIMATE CHANGE! we called it weather, and only the laughably superstitious thought we could control it.

Before it was a FETUS, we called it a baby. And we knew, even without ultrasound, that no one gave birth to a BLOB OF TISSUE or PRODUCT OF CONCEPTION.

What we now call SOCIAL ENGINEERING, used to be called propaganda and it was a bad thing.

GAY SEX was called perversion. Gay used to mean light hearted and happy.

MARRIAGE was one man and one woman vowing to stay together for life. If homosexuals want to redefine marriage, they should at least come up with their own word and stop stealing ours.

     Instead of pounding the populace with political correctness until we accept new meanings for familiar words, those who want to change our culture should just make something up. After all, they did that with morals.

   

Free to Do So

   
      Today is Memorial Day which, despite advertising, is not about home improvement projects, or  camping, or picnics, or a day off of work. It is a day to honor those who have died in defense of our country. I would like to dedicate this blog to that purpose.

 Those who feel the U.S.A had lost its greatness are free to do so.
 Those who think America uses its military might to oppress, rather than free from oppression, are free to do so.
 Those who believe our enemies, like bees, won't bother us unless we bother them, are free to do so.
 Those who argue that our nation prospered despite the faith and patriotic fervor of our founding fathers, instead of because of it, are free to do so.
  Those who consider the light of freedom no longer worth protecting, much less sharing, with the world, are free to do so.

  But they are free to do so because of those who believe that our nation and freedom are worth living for, and fighting for and, if necessary, dying for. And those are who we recognize today. In their honor I post the following poem:

 Today I am Free

Today I am free

to remember or forget

soldiers whose names I do not know,

who died in battles long ago

and those who perish yet,

in middle eastern sands

or other distant lands.

Today I am free

to berate or celebrate

the U.S.A. with all its flaws,

unfair taxes, unjust laws,

who excludes the God who made her great.

I fight government’s grasping touch

because I have so much.

Today I am free

to honor or condemn;

to sit in safety and abhor

the very thought of death and war,

or proudly be American

like those who bought my liberty.

Today I am free.

Taking Steps

     I am taking steps to make my uncooperative left knee stable, steps like doing every knee exercise I can think of plus twice weekly physical therapy, but I have been taking those steps for weeks now. The first step I want to mention is called the Sponge Bob. After the initial sore, but stable, phase where I could get around slowly but surely with a cane, my knee began to feel like a sponge. That spongy feeling caused my leg to bob down every time I used it, hence the name. Since I did not feel normal people were ready to learn the Sponge Bob, I used crutches in public.
     The next step was the Australian Crawl, where I swam my way around the kitchen with one arm reaching out to the counter at all times. In the rest of the house, where there were no handholds, I used one crutch. I learned to do lots of things clutching a crutch--one crutch vacuuming, one crutch laundry hauling, unloading groceries, etc. The One Crutch Clomp resembles the Peg Leg Lumber but includes making your armpit sore. In public I used two crutches. No need to show off how buff my armpit had become.
    When my leg no longer needed a crutch to keep it from collapsing, I circumnavigated the house using the Spiderman Swing. This dance not only involves using handholds but getting enough momentum to propel you from handhold to handhold, as if you were on erratic monkey bars. Between swings I could support myself if my knee was fairly bent. This position adds a dramatic dip to the choreography.
     Throughout this time, whenever I was in a grocery store I practiced the Cartwheel. This is not the cartwheel in which gymnasts start from a standing position and wheel the body sideways, landing first on the hands and then on the feet. What I mean by Cartwheel is walking by supporting myself with a shopping cart. I have been going up and down every aisle of our local grocery stores and have become a semi-pro on which stores have the most therapeutic shopping carts. Costco has big, sturdy carts, but the center of gravity is so high it makes my knee less stable. Also, most Costco shoppers are too hard core to make way for a cripple taking a shopping cart for a Sunday drive. On the other hand, the grocery carts at Smiths are a perfect fit. It is as if they were manufactured with a middle aged, 5'4" woman with a bum knee in mind.  I am getting faster at dancing the Cartwheel.
     The stage I am at now, and what I hope is my final step before walking in a normal, upright position, is the One-Legged Aboriginal Shuffle. In this dance I walk normally with my right leg and, with the left leg slightly bent, take a short step that faintly pounds the floor in a manner similar to the two-legged version that is traditional among the aborigines of Australia. This position gives me good stability for short distances and, instead of dipping down, I get to pop up straight whenever I reach a handhold.
     Since I was put through these same paces after my knee replacement two years ago, I know the day will come when I can step forward with my leg straight and walk without having to focus on the activity as if I was doing quantum physics. When that day comes, the only unstable body part I will have to deal with--is my mind.
     

    

The Winds That Blew

     I am actually working on a humorous blog entry, but it is not quite ready yet. And this poem, which has been forming in my mind for a few weeks, finally girded itself with words today. It is another poem expressing my grief over losing my granddaughter. It is probably not the last, but perhaps they will be less frequent than they are now. If God gave me poetry as a coping mechanism, I must use His gift as, and when, He chooses.

 The Winds That Blew

In later April, nearly May

I watched the petals blow away

from bushes where the berries grow

that feed the birds through winter’s snow.

A cool wind stole the tiny blooms.

It made me think of you, my child,

torn from my arms by tempests wild

between your mother and my son.

My time as your grandma is done

I tell my heart, but love won’t hear.

You, my grandchild, fed my soul,

warmed it against the coming cold.

Fresh as a blossom in my hand,

I hope that you can understand

I did not choose to leave you.

I could not stop the winds that blew,

the storm that parted me from you.

My plans for all the years ahead

are scattered like the petals shed

when spring blows cold as winter.

1000 Small Sorrows

     When a loss first happens, there is big sorrow, a time of great grieving, but most of the grief happens in small, daily doses. A few weeks ago I lost my granddaughter, McKenzie, not to death, but when my son and her mother broke up. I cried. . . hard. . . a couple times. But now I have reached the phase of small sorrows:

• seeing her picture on the wall and wondering if I will ever see her again
• looking with longing at Woodland Park, where she loved to play 
• seeing the fruit roll ups she loved to eat in the cupboard
• finding the playdough we made together in the crayon box 
• driving past the part of town where she lives
• finding out her mother did not let her continue dance lessons I paid for
• hearing the music from "Frozen"
• seeing the blue shirt I bought for her birthday and never got to give her
• realizing we will not be going to the swimming pool or lake together this summer
• wondering how McKenzie is dealing with her feelings with fewer coping skills
• . . .

     These are the 1000 small sorrows that heal my grief on a daily basis. But it doesn't feel like healing. It feels like reopening a wound.

My Heart Finds a Way

      I have been waiting for this poem to come for the three weeks since my son and his fiance broke up. Poetry has been my outlet for emotion for many years now, and I knew eventually I would be able to express my sorrow over losing my granddaughter.

 My Heart Finds a Way

You were just a stranger when you came into my life,

but as welcome as a blue skied day,

you would be my grandchild when my son married your mom,

so I loved you, my heart found a way.

Just a smiling stranger, when you first came to my house

I looked on as you and momma played.

Before long us blued-eyed gals were giggling side by side.

We’d become friends, our hearts found a way.

But your mother did not become my son’s wife

and they both have walked away,

leaving me no place to be a grandmother to you.

Can I let go? My heart must find a way.

Though I always knew this day might come

and parting was the price we would pay,

still it’s not as costly as holding back on love.

I can’t see you, but you’re in my heart to stay.

There are many things in life that we cannot control--

my mind says goodbye, but my heart says stay.

I am not a stranger to the grief that tears me now.

I am waiting for my heart to find a way.

Doesn't It Make More Sense?

     I believe the biggest logical fallacy of our time is that correlation equals causation. A simple example of this is that most murderers are right handed. This is because most people are right handed, not because being right handed drives people to murder. There are a plethora of studies linking one thing to another, each implying that whatever their particular emphasis is significantly influences a behavior or condition. A recent example of this has been our governor's push for preschool education, citing a study showing children who attend preschool are less likely to become criminals later in life. But doesn't it make more sense that since most preschools now are private pay, the parents willing to invest in paying for preschool are also more involved in every other area of their child's development? Involved parents are less likely to raise criminals. The same argument applies to why I have noticed more overweight students in the public school choir than in the Christian school. Parents willing to sacrifice that much because they care what goes into their children's minds also care what goes into their bodies. Christian school doesn't make you slim. Here are a few other examples.

     Antidepressants now come with a warning about increased risk of suicide, especially in young people. But doesn't it make more sense that since virtually all suicides are committed by depressed people, and that depressed people are more likely to be taking antidepressants, the suicides are linked to the depression, not the meds. This is especially true for young people who would be unlikely to need antidepressants for the other health conditions they are sometimes used to treat in adults.

     At the 2012 primaries, a lot of Democrats voted Republican for the first time and chose fairly liberal candidates. This fueled theories that the Democrats were conspiring to get bad Republican candidates on the November ballot. But doesn't it make more sense that Democrats, unhappy with their party over Obamacare cramming, voted for Republicans most like the Democrats they had previously chosen.

     If you search the internet, you will find studies linking being overweight and/or diabetes to consumption of french fries/soda/wheat/doughnuts/you name it. But doesn't it make more sense that these things are single elements of a generally unhealthy lifestyle rather than causes themselves.

     Between the general misunderstanding of the relationship of correlation versus cause, the biases of study sponsors and/or those of the researchers themselves, the information age has become the misinformation age, of which sloppy journalism is just one of the signs. I don't have studies to verify my conclusions, but doesn't it just make sense?

   

Kaarmalizing Iran

     Any western Montanan who has not been living under a rock for the past year should recognize the name Marcus Kaarma. He is the man who shot and killed a 17 year old German exchange student who was burglarizing, aka garage hopping, his garage. I do not intend to retry the case, but I think the part most would agree on is that the disliked, neighborhood nut overreacted when he killed a likeable, neighborhood teenager for burglary. I think it is a good illustration of the deal our president is trying to broker with nuclear Iran. Iran is the nutty, unstable neighbor in the Middle Eastern neighborhood. Lifting sanctions against Iran would be like helping Marcus Kaarma make a better living knowing he would use some of that money to buy more guns and ammunition. Even if Kaarma promised that this time he would not use the weapons to kill anybody, most people would know that the word of the neighborhood nut isn't worth very much. It would mean especially little to the next door neighbor, in Iran's case, Israel, if Kaarma had repeatedly expressed the desire to wipe them out. These Israeli next door neighbors are not garage hopping, they are on their own property, minding their own business. And we clueless buttinskys, led by President Neville Chamberlain, are parking a weapons welcome wagon in their driveway. Kaarma reaped his karma when he went to prison for murder and, if our president has his way, we will reap ours.

Easter Mourning

     I am dreading the coming of Easter this year, which is a shame because Easter and Thanksgiving are my favorite holidays. But this year there will be no hiding an Easter basket for my granddaughter, no watching her hunt eggs in a frilly dress, none of those unspiritual distractions from the reality of the resurrection. And no granddaughter. I always knew the bond between McKenzie and I was dependent on the tenuous one between my son and her mother. I have no claim on her beyond that. At this point that bond is very weak and I have lost my only grandchild. I have pushed that knowledge away for a week, but now that it is time to prepare for Easter, I can no longer avoid it.
     My dear default drive, logic, tells me that because I knew this could happen, it should not hurt so much, but I have learned enough about grief to know you can't logic your way out of it. And I have learned that when you do lose loved ones, the greatest comfort is knowing you loved them as well as you could for as long as you could. Loving from a safe distance is a bitter consolation. McKenzie and I had some wonderful times together and I am thankful for that. Thankful, and sad. This year I am mourning Easter for more than the cruelty inflicted on Christ for my sin, I mourn the brokenness sin still causes in lives and homes and hearts. I don't know how to finish this post, but that somehow seems fitting.

The Art of Being a Dog

     Since my granddog is no longer spending his days with my son's girlfriend, he is at our house quite a bit. We even put up an electric fence at the places Odin was getting out. I suggested testing it by flinging our least favorite cat at it, but my husband vetoed that on the grounds that the cat wouldn't be grounded, so it wouldn't be an accurate test. I am hoping Odin, Tracy's irrepressibly happy Husky mix, will teach Keely, our stodgy-old-man of a Schnoodle, how to be a dog. Keely, though only two, is more of a doorstop. He has only a stub of a tail, but if he had a long one, he wouldn't wag it anyway. Outside of the brief happy dance he does in honor of his twice daily feeding, Keely is basically a couch accessory. On the plus side, he matches our color scheme.
     The weather is getting warmer and grass is not only showing, but growing in the back yard, so I am leaving the dogs outside more often. Keely thinks outside is for potty purposes only. We might as well have a sign by the back door of a dog lifting his leg. Keely spends nearly all his outdoor time standing at the back door waiting to get in. Odin likes to roll in the grass and other unmentionable substances. Dog things. He tried to play a spirited game of keep away with a little black and white ball and our gray and curmudgeon butterball. Odin won. Keely isn't good at keeping away. He practically imbeds himself in someone sitting on the couch. But sometimes, when Odin is running laps around the shop in the backyard, or racing to the back fence to bark at people who dare to walk past it, Keely follows him. Just like a real dog.
     Keely may know less about playing fetch or tug-of-war than a chia pet, but he is still young,  maybe he can be taught a few new tricks like--the art of being a dog.

Longsuffering 201

"Excuse me, you in white over there, I think I'm in the wrong classroom.
I don't remember signing up for Longsuffering, and certainly not the advanced course.
Isn't it an elective? No? Well I'm not sure I've had the prerequisite.

Love someone? Oh yes, I've done that. I love a lot of people.
And not be able to control what happens to them? Well I know that's true, but it's kind of a waste. I've got such good ideas for how to fix people's lives. I've offered God a lot of suggestions for how to answer my prayers through the years and He has never used one of them.

Who have I loved?
I loved my mom through 50 years of mental illness that made her a stranger to me.
I have watched loved ones in the sad, slow spiral of Alzheimer's.
I've seen others ridiculed for handicaps that God Himself gave them.
I loved the homeless boys God brought into our lives, one of them, like he was my own. And when they left and God asked me if I could love them the way He did, for years at a time, without getting anything in return, I said yes, but it was hard at first.
I loved my tiny grandchild who died at twelve weeks in the womb.
And I love the granddaughter I gained when my son got engaged to her mother, and lost when they broke up.
I have waited for loved ones to know and follow Christ, and watched some die without doing either.

My previous suffering experience? 
Can I count twenty plus years of migraines even though the meds I have now usually help?
I have never known poverty or hunger, but I spent three and a half years in the School of Depression. That counts double? Good, I didn't know if I would make it through that one.

I'd like to get a few credits for child rearing, a few more for childbirth, but the greater suffering was having them grow up and leave home. I want extra credits for that. I know letting them go was in the syllabus from the beginning, but I still was not prepared for how hard that final test would be.

And I got my Master's Degree in Grief when our youngest son died at 34. I'm just beginning to put that education to use.

I have had a good lab partner for most of these classes, but for a couple years there, we weren't sure we'd be able to keep working together.

So, just how long is this class? The rest of my life? Well, I don't know how well I will do in this course, but I love the sweet, fruity smell coming from the classroom."

The Rosebud

     I have mentioned before that I have wanted a grandchild for a long time. It seemed like the least my children could do for me after all the trouble I went through raising them. Still I considered it a mixed blessing when my Christmas gift from my son and his fiance was a sonogram of the baby they were expecting. Babies are wonderful, of course, but we had raised our children to know God's way was marriage first, then kids. I was disappointed because the baby's father had also been my baby and I had better dreams for him than the choices he made for himself. But I was not nearly as disappointed then as I was a month later when he called to say the baby had miscarried. I had called the baby Peanut and the sonogram sat on my nightstand so it was the first and last thing I saw everyday.
     Though many of the women I know had miscarried, I had never lost a baby. I knew from scripture that babies go to heaven, but I hadn't before thought deeply about what form these unborn babies have there. The Bible doesn't say. Though I do not take my theology from books and movies, I was intrigued by the story in "Heaven's For Real" where the little boy who saw heaven was being hugged by a girl he didn't know. She said she was his sister who died in their mommy's tummy. She looked like his other sister and her age fit the years since the miscarriage. Surely God would not leave these tiny ones in embryonic form where they could not experience the wonders of heaven. I have asked the Lord that when I die, Peanut is one of the first people I see. Though I call the baby Peanut, I think of  him/her as a rosebud.

                                                            The Rosebud

In God’s garden, there is a place

where tiny rosebuds bloom--

the babies, not yet fully formed,

who leave the earth before they’re born,

gone early from the womb.

My grandchild is among them now,

a rosebud picked too soon,

just partly formed, but wholly loved

and when we meet in heaven above

I know I’ll see the bloom.

To Peanut--miscarried 1/21/15

Eternal Spring

     My husband and I will never be part of the sandwich generation, those caught between taking care of their young children and elderly parents at the same time. Our parents had the good grace not to age much until our kids were long gone from the home. But both we and our parents can see a time coming when they will need more help and we will be sandwiched between Kalispell and Missoula. It is easy to be discouraged about the inevitable hard changes that are coming, but it is comforting to know they are temporary, that we will not be facing them alone.

                                                                      Eternal Spring

 Late in life, the seasons change

and not to spring.

At our autumn, when we have gathered most

of family, friends, rich years and things,

the friends begin to fall away,

our siblings, and our homes.

Our bodies start a slow decay

and we are left alone

without the spouse who shared our life

sometimes, without even

 our memories.

We fear the unknown winter,

but not the One who turns the seasons.

Who gave us the comforts of family,

friends, home, health

and years to enjoy them.

The Restorer of bodies and loved ones.

The Keeper of our memories,

the One who gave them meaning.

And by His light, we all will change

to find our lives have just begun--

Eternal spring.

A Poem Was Passing By

     Last night I was able to attend Stillwater Christian School's annual "For Such a Time as This" banquet. The evening was well organized, the food was good, the band played and the choir sang beautifully, and I was really looking forward to hearing Mike Huckabee speak. The only problem was that in the midst of all this merriment, I was having a poetry attack. Not a severe one. Just a pesky little poem trying to capture my attention when I wanted to give it fully to the event I was at. I found myself writing lines on the back of the program schedule just so they wouldn't distract me longer than necessary. That is the illustrious background of today's poem.

     

 A Poem Was Passing By

 A poem was passing by and caught me,

snagged me with its tempting hook

not enough to outright trip me,

just enough to make me look,    

studying the little thing,

wondering what it might mean.

Is it sad or sentimental,

anger filled or saccharine sweet,

or maybe it is just a story

laying dormant at my feet?

Should I pick it up and hold it

knowing all the work it means?

Twisting lines to create meter,

warping words to make them rhyme.

Maybe I should just release it,

pick it up and let it fly,

let the wind catch it, and free me

from a poem just passing by.

Then & Now

    One of the benefits of aging is the perspective that comes from experience. Perspective is why I no longer jump on diet or health fad bandwagons, (perspective, and the fact that I am too old and fat to jump). I now realize the wagons are just passing through and only a moronic kangaroo would try to jump on all of them. Here are some of the "science" swaps of my adulthood. In the 70's the miracle vitamin was C, followed later by E, then B12. Now the cure for all ills is D3. Then the undiagnosed illness everyone was afraid they had was low blood sugar, which was a real issue--for about seven people. Now the illness you must have even though you don't realize it, is gluten intolerance. The reason gluten intolerance has become epidemic is because the list of symptoms consists of things experienced by every human on the planet, such as occasional sneezing.
     The impending weather disaster of the 70's was the coming ice age. Now, based on the same scientific expertise, it is global warming. The first sign of warming being the "cooking" of the statistics. The political ideology we feared back then was communism, which would usher in nuclear war. Now we fear terrorism, but not as much as being politically incorrect, even regarding terrorism. The enemy nations which inspired "James Bond" movies were Russia and China. Now our enemies are North Korea, who at least has the courtesy to admit it, and most Muslim countries, especially Iran. Unfortunately, our president is too busy being politically correct to attend briefings on our enemies. The bomb shelters of the 50's are back in vogue for the doomsday preppers of the 2010's, only now they contain more guns which will be needed to protect your hoard of trail mix from looters, not to mention protecting your brains from marauding zombies.
     In the 80's whether you went to the doctor for blood pressure or nail fungus, the culprit was coffee. Now three cups a day are the minimum requirement for health. When I had my first child, we were taught laying a baby on its back might cause it to aspirate and die, and the preferred thing to lay them on was faux sheepskin. Now laying a baby in any position except back would practically be considered a death wish, as would the sheepskin. Unfortunately, when this science shifts, it will be too late for the flat-headed babies. The immunization scare of the 80's was the supposed link between autism and the pertussis vaccine. In order to appease paranoid parents, a DT (diphtheria, tetanus) option was available. Now par(anoid)ents are omitting the MMR immunization because of (see above).
     Speaking of immunities, after years of being told to douse everything that might touch children with disinfectant, science now concludes that their bored immune systems are creating allergies just to have something to do. Along the same line, after school lunchrooms have made possession of a peanut butter sandwich as threatening as bringing a handgun to school (or pointing a cracker shaped like a handgun), doctors now say the upswing in peanut allergies is caused by introducing them too late. In a further food fad, coconut oil, which dieticians believed would clog arteries on contact, is now the current miracle cure. We know it works because it is endorsed by Dr. Oz, who is correct almost as often as the weatherman. There have been too many diets to count since the 70's, but one of the most popular now is the paleo, the diet that kept our hunter/gatherer forebearers slim for life--which was about 40 years.
     There are better ways to lose weight than jumping on and off of bandwagons and frankly, it makes us look a little gullible. Remember: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me over and over--we call that Obamacare.

     
                                                            

God's Day Off

    Many Christians today act as if our president got elected on God's day off. As though the leader of the nation that, at present, God most uses to spread the gospel, alleviate suffering, and speak out for justice in the world, was not of particular interest to Him. Even those who accept Romans 13:l,2 "Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God. Consequently, he who rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and those who do so will bring judgment on themselves.", often look for an escape clause. Others feel that our president is God's punishment on America, but if that is true, isn't it still our duty to accept it in the way God commands. It's not as if The Lord doesn't know believers live here.
     The last time I gave in to despair about our leadership, Bill Clinton had just been reelected.  We were studying the history of Israel in BSF that year, and I felt as if Ahab and Jezebel had won the election. However, I could not help but notice that God was Sovereign, that He blessed for generations following one faithful king, and brought that faithfulness from the most unlikely lineage. Israel had little choice in who became king and even a rotten one could reign for decades. We have the privilege of having, supporting and voting for worthy candidates, but God gets the deciding vote. And He doesn't take days off.

Walk in the Wind

     I had so many months of creativity constipation since my surgery, I began believing my ability to write resided in my replaced, right knee. Fortunately (or not), my brain is now fertile again, probably because of the constipation previously mentioned, and I am producing brainchildren at a prodigious rate. Hence the following.

                                                  Walk in the Wind

Today we must go for a walk in the wind,

out of the door we go.

and we must follow the path that it takes

wherever the wind may blow.

We are as free as the waves on the sea

riding the gusts so high,

coats spread out wide like the sails on a ship

watching leaf-boats blow by.

We feel as high as the clouds in the sky,

feather-light wisps of white,

over the mountains, not knowing the place

where will shall be tonight.

If you should see my granddaughter and me

out in the cool, March wind

you will not guess the adventures we’ve had

or places that we have been.

We have not hasted and rushed through our day

and surely must pay the cost,

but time that is wasted on walks in the wind

never is truly lost.

Secret at Blackbird Cafe

     The fun of a rhyme is finding out
     as I write line by line
     what the poem is about.

     That was certainly my experience with this poem, which is strictly a work of fiction that, I hope, does not resemble anyone's real life. All I knew when I started writing was that I wanted a certain rhythm, a secret, and a twist. This is definitely twisted.

      Secret at Blackbird Café

That’s Roscoe O’Toole and his favorite stool

is the one in the corner there.

He eats twice a day at the Blackbird Café

because home is too lonely to bear.

He had a good wife he will love all his life,

although she passed away years ago.

A drunk hit her car as he drove from a bar

and she died by the side of the road.

The law never did catch up with the kid,

but Roscoe found out who he was

and shot him down dead with a round to the head

like the sniper he’d been in the war.

I helped him then because I was his friend,

and that body will never be found.

I declare to this day that the boy moved away,

and sometimes, that I’ve seen him around.

No one would guess from Roscoe’s quietness

at his stool in the Blackbird Café

the secret we share and the stain that we bear

for the bloodshed that happened that day.

Say what you will of a man’s right to kill,

we believe justice was done.

And I feel no regret for my part in the death

of my worthless excuse of a son.

 

Without Words

     The older I get, the more I become persuaded as a Christian that the exhortation of I Peter 3:1 for wives to win their husbands to the Lord without words has a broader application.  I believe it also applies to mothers of grown children, especially sons.  One of the reasons I believe this is because the more I pray for wisdom in how to approach spiritual issues with my children, the more God tells me to shut up--in more sanctified terms, of course, but that is the gist of it. This is a shame because I think I have so much wisdom to share, but since I have noticed the Holy Spirit doesn't use any of my suggestions to change other people's lives, I will have to trust Him on this also. That is the heart of the issue--do I trust God enough to believe He can guide my loved ones without my words?
     I had 18 years of their childhoods to plant, pour and pound God's word into my children's hearts. We supplemented that with both church and school that taught God's word. Now I must do the same thing Christ did when He left the earth just weeks after his disciples finally figured out who He was, I must trust the Holy Spirit to bring to their minds what they have been taught. My job is to develop that gentle and quiet spirit that God values so highly. I have messed up enough myself to be gentle with those who struggle. Quiet is an ongoing project.
     Faith aside, having lived with my husband for 37 years and sons for 30, I have noticed that the way to a man's heart is seldom his mama or his mate's mouth. God typically uses men to challenge men. When I started going to BSF years ago, I told my husband how much I was blessed by it but, in a rare stroke of wisdom, I did not push him to go. I prayed for another man to invite him. That not only led to my husband joining BSF, but to him inviting other men. At a family gathering some time ago, a female relative was lecturing a male family member about church attendance in a fairly public setting. My husband told me, "That won't work. It will only push him away." I am a pragmatist. I want to do what works. Not only am I not my husband's Holy Spirit, but my words can actually obscure His. That is like a friend's story of their faithful dog trying to protect her husband from the paramedics that came to help him when he fell off the roof.  I am by nature that well meaning, but clueless, dog. I hope someday to find that winsome, wordless wisdom of a woman of worth.