They thought they were coming to pay taxes. Mary and Joseph. As they journeyed to Bethlehem. Taxes. And what an inconvenient time, too. Mary's baby was almost due. They had not read the prophecy and schemed to make it come true. They just lived their lives and let God lead them. Prophecy is important and beautiful, it is a light for us in dark places. It is a verification that God's word is true. But some Christians drive themselves, and others, crazy straining to see fulfillment, dissecting every news article for hints, picking the passages apart letter by letter. They have turned the blessing of prophecy into a burden.
Our job is to read and study it, not make it happen. In the gospels we see prophecies about Christ spoken by unbelievers determined to kill him. We should share prophecy, but not as if it is some secret, Gnostic knowledge only a few are clever enough to understand. Or as a way to scare unbelievers into heaven. The problem is, we are naturally biased to see life through the lens of our own time, nation and self importance. With prophecy, as in so many other areas, we tend to see what we want to see. False proclamations of dates and identifications of Antichrists, make Christians, and Christ Himself, look foolish. Maybe we should just be like Mary and Joseph, live our lives, pay
our taxes, and let God's sovereignty work out the events that will
fulfill His Story.
Friday, December 28, 2018
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
The Manufacturer's Specifications
My husband is an aircraft mechanic. He has thick books of instructions for the use and maintenance of each aircraft. The pilots also have manuals and go to school for certification before they can fly the plane. The manufacturer determines when components must be examined, repaired or replaced and how their aircraft is to be used. There are no manuals stating "Do whatever feels best to you." We, too, have a manufacturer. He is called God. And He has specifications for how his creation and creatures are to function. The animals and galaxy do not seem to have trouble with those rules. We humans do. In spite of that, He has the right, as our manufacturer, to make those decisions. And He has the right motive because He loves us and desires what is best for us.
My husband's manuals are continually updating. God's does not. It is called the Bible. It records many times His expertly crafted people decided to fly by the seat of their pants, as we do now. No one wants to ride in an airplane maintained to standards the mechanic merely feels good about, we want to know it is safe to fly. If airplanes were crashing due to lax standards, the solution would not be a media campaign to lower our expectations about safety. Trying to normalize plane crashes by showing them as part of everyday life in television episodes or advertising would not make them acceptable.
Abuse of God's standards is seldom as public or dramatic as a plane crash, but also results in wrecked relationships, lives and even death. Of course, many today deny the existence of a Manufacturer, much less His right to determine our standards. So who does have that right? Certainly not the majority, because our whole culture is being hijacked by the demands of the few in the name of social justice or political correctness. So if the majority is not, and the minority should not, set standards for the rest of us, who has that authority? Even the supposed Big Bang does not have the power to bang out moral standards for its by-product beings. Governments are corrupt, individuals are selfish and lazy. We have thrown out the maintenance manual, traded our compassionate captain for an aimlessness autopilot, and we wonder why our journey no longer feels safe. The problem is, when we reject the Manufacturer's specifications, there are no suitable replacements. We are flying blind.
My husband's manuals are continually updating. God's does not. It is called the Bible. It records many times His expertly crafted people decided to fly by the seat of their pants, as we do now. No one wants to ride in an airplane maintained to standards the mechanic merely feels good about, we want to know it is safe to fly. If airplanes were crashing due to lax standards, the solution would not be a media campaign to lower our expectations about safety. Trying to normalize plane crashes by showing them as part of everyday life in television episodes or advertising would not make them acceptable.
Abuse of God's standards is seldom as public or dramatic as a plane crash, but also results in wrecked relationships, lives and even death. Of course, many today deny the existence of a Manufacturer, much less His right to determine our standards. So who does have that right? Certainly not the majority, because our whole culture is being hijacked by the demands of the few in the name of social justice or political correctness. So if the majority is not, and the minority should not, set standards for the rest of us, who has that authority? Even the supposed Big Bang does not have the power to bang out moral standards for its by-product beings. Governments are corrupt, individuals are selfish and lazy. We have thrown out the maintenance manual, traded our compassionate captain for an aimlessness autopilot, and we wonder why our journey no longer feels safe. The problem is, when we reject the Manufacturer's specifications, there are no suitable replacements. We are flying blind.
Sunday, December 16, 2018
After My Own
Our family gave up on cutting our own Christmas tree years ago after a few disastrous attempts spending hours trying to locate that great tree the guys spotted while hunting, only to discover that while it looked good when being used as a restroom, it was not suitable for the living room. After spending hours on our futile family search, we would wind up buying a tree from a local lot a few minutes from our house. Those experiences helped us build memories as a family--but not good ones. So I suggested we skip the memorable misery and buy a tree like the city dwellers we actually are instead of wilderness family wannabes. Because my husband and son have been working weekends, I went after the tree on my own this year. All the trees were beautifully shaped and full branched, but most of them were no taller than my meager 5'4" height. It just seems wrong to be eye to eye with the angel on the treetop. Then I discovered a taller one tucked away in the back without any obvious defects.
What I did not notice before bringing it home, was its severe scoliosis of the trunk. My husband managed to make it rest mostly straight in the tree stand and secured it to the ceiling with fishing line, so we did not have to counterbalance the sway by hanging heavy ornaments on one side. From the living room it looks symmetrical, from the kitchen it looks like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Not that I'm complaining, I have scoliosis too. David was a man after God's own heart, this is a tree after my own spine.
What touched my heart was that, as I was hanging the ornaments, Tracy remembered that we always played Christmas carols on decorating night. So he chose some of his music, groups he liked, but arrangements he thought I would like, those with more guitar work and less screaming. I was surprised to discover, when I was raising teenagers, that they want you to appreciate their music. Not enjoy it--that would ruin the whole independent/rebel thing--just appreciate it. I tried to then. I do now. But most of all, I appreciated that he remembered our tradition. And, perhaps, this son after my own heart will carry it on, after my own years of trimming the tree are gone.
What I did not notice before bringing it home, was its severe scoliosis of the trunk. My husband managed to make it rest mostly straight in the tree stand and secured it to the ceiling with fishing line, so we did not have to counterbalance the sway by hanging heavy ornaments on one side. From the living room it looks symmetrical, from the kitchen it looks like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Not that I'm complaining, I have scoliosis too. David was a man after God's own heart, this is a tree after my own spine.
What touched my heart was that, as I was hanging the ornaments, Tracy remembered that we always played Christmas carols on decorating night. So he chose some of his music, groups he liked, but arrangements he thought I would like, those with more guitar work and less screaming. I was surprised to discover, when I was raising teenagers, that they want you to appreciate their music. Not enjoy it--that would ruin the whole independent/rebel thing--just appreciate it. I tried to then. I do now. But most of all, I appreciated that he remembered our tradition. And, perhaps, this son after my own heart will carry it on, after my own years of trimming the tree are gone.
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Come As You Are
When I went to Bible study today, it was a come as you are party for me. Our power went out just before I got into the shower. My shower today was a makeup remover wipe. Fortunately I had washed my hair the day before, so it did not require a curling iron. I am certainly not known for my high maintenance hair style. Some might assume I don't even own a curling iron. And there was just enough daylight to apply minimal makeup, so I didn't look like I just got out of the hospital.
Although, how I looked at Bible study would have been a moot point if our new garage door opener did not have a backup battery. During previous power failures I learned that, though I can open the door manually, it will not stay open so I can back the car out. If I had been more alert, I would have backed out my car while Tracy was still home to hold up the door. But a makeup remover wipe simply doesn't clear the cobwebs from my mind as well as my morning shower does. However, God in his providence took care of this deficiency months ahead of time, when we replaced our garage door opener with one that has a backup battery. Isn't sovereignty sweet?
Wouldn't it be wonderful if more Christian gatherings were come as you are parties? Places where we felt free to be our messy, imperfect selves. In our BSF group discussions, we do share our needs and struggles, but you would never guess our lives were anything less than perfect by how we look on the outside. Yet Jesus' invitations are always come as you are. We have no choice. Before His Spirit fills us, we have no power to be anything other than the messed up mortals we are. And there is no point fixing up our outsides because He isn't looking at them. He sees our heart. If our churches could be places where the poor in spirit, those who don't have it all together, could feel at home, what power we would have to change our world. The unfailing power Jesus gives those who come as they are to become like He is.
Although, how I looked at Bible study would have been a moot point if our new garage door opener did not have a backup battery. During previous power failures I learned that, though I can open the door manually, it will not stay open so I can back the car out. If I had been more alert, I would have backed out my car while Tracy was still home to hold up the door. But a makeup remover wipe simply doesn't clear the cobwebs from my mind as well as my morning shower does. However, God in his providence took care of this deficiency months ahead of time, when we replaced our garage door opener with one that has a backup battery. Isn't sovereignty sweet?
Wouldn't it be wonderful if more Christian gatherings were come as you are parties? Places where we felt free to be our messy, imperfect selves. In our BSF group discussions, we do share our needs and struggles, but you would never guess our lives were anything less than perfect by how we look on the outside. Yet Jesus' invitations are always come as you are. We have no choice. Before His Spirit fills us, we have no power to be anything other than the messed up mortals we are. And there is no point fixing up our outsides because He isn't looking at them. He sees our heart. If our churches could be places where the poor in spirit, those who don't have it all together, could feel at home, what power we would have to change our world. The unfailing power Jesus gives those who come as they are to become like He is.
Butterball for Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. All it asks of us is food and gratitude. No need to buy gifts, just groceries. Those come already wrapped. Decorating is usually confined to the dining room. And since cooking for people is my love language, Thanksgiving is an endorphin feast for me. Naturally, I served turkey, but that is not the butterball the title refers to. The butterball formed when the butter in my Toll House pie ran over, burned on the bottom of my oven, and turned into a smoke bomb. How could something that tastes so good smell so bad? I removed the pie as early as possible, but by then the damage was done and the turkey was not. Not only could I not turn off the oven, I had to turn it up 25 degrees to cook the carrot souffle and glazed yams. When I opened the oven door, it belched out tear gas worthy of Macgyver. As in, "We need a weapon! Forget the household chemicals, do you have any butter?"
So, in the spirit of making our home welcoming (ala Martha Stewart), we opened the doors--and several windows. Martha, no doubt, would have used more decorative fans to dispel the smoke than we did, and probably would have come up with a better party theme than crematorium. Thank goodness I decided to cook the turkey in an oven bag. Butter is good. Smoked turkey is good. But butter smoked turkey is not. The house still smelled a little funky when company arrived, but the food and conversation were good. One of the discussion topics was ways I might use my oven's self cleaning feature without creating a flambe feature. You Tube had videos of people using baking soda to clean their oven, but being both creative and lazy, I used Coke. It loosened enough of the bitter butter to use the self clean cycle without having to stand by holding a fire extinguisher.
Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday, but note to self for next year--Use deeper pie plate for the Toll House pie. Then maybe next year the butterball can actually be the turkey.
So, in the spirit of making our home welcoming (ala Martha Stewart), we opened the doors--and several windows. Martha, no doubt, would have used more decorative fans to dispel the smoke than we did, and probably would have come up with a better party theme than crematorium. Thank goodness I decided to cook the turkey in an oven bag. Butter is good. Smoked turkey is good. But butter smoked turkey is not. The house still smelled a little funky when company arrived, but the food and conversation were good. One of the discussion topics was ways I might use my oven's self cleaning feature without creating a flambe feature. You Tube had videos of people using baking soda to clean their oven, but being both creative and lazy, I used Coke. It loosened enough of the bitter butter to use the self clean cycle without having to stand by holding a fire extinguisher.
Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday, but note to self for next year--Use deeper pie plate for the Toll House pie. Then maybe next year the butterball can actually be the turkey.
Sunday, November 25, 2018
My Delight
Every year our church holds a Thanksgiving service where, instead of a sermon, members share what the Lord has taught or done for them in the past year. Obviously there is not time for all 400 people to share. And there is a difference between having something to share and feeling led to share. More often than not, I do not feel led. This year I made it clear til 12:05 without being prompted to share, although the default praise in the back of my mind was my gratitude for the medical technology which made Reed's kidney surgery a same day, one puncture procedure instead of the big incision, weeks of recovery ordeal it was in the past. At 12:05 the leader laughingly said since Pastor Peter is never finished preaching by then anyway, we would go a little longer. My heart started pounding, which is the Holy Spirit's cue that I am supposed to share. There is no way to unpound a heart and there is no point in delaying since I won't enjoy what other people have to say until I obey the prompting. But the same Spirit who annoyed me into sharing, also led me not to share about Reed's surgery, but something more personal.
A few weeks ago Peter's sermon was about the Holy Spirit indwelling us. On the way home in the car, I told the Lord that indwelling me must be the most boring, depressing reality show ever. The Spirit immediately impressed into my mind "It is my delight". Delight? That seemed inexplicable to me until I thought about my granddaughter. She could come to me with a runny nose, dirty diaper and food in her hair and I would still be delighted to see her. At a year and a half she is not a brilliant conversationalist, yet I love nearly every sound that comes out of her mouth. And if I can love enough to feel that way about her, surely our loving Father is capable of feeling delight in me.
As a rule, I seldom tell others about the messages the Holy Spirit gives me. It feels too personal somehow, like sharing a love letter out loud. But when the Messenger tells me to share, it would be wrong to keep it to myself. So now I send this message from the Holy Spirit to you--to His Delight, with mine.
A few weeks ago Peter's sermon was about the Holy Spirit indwelling us. On the way home in the car, I told the Lord that indwelling me must be the most boring, depressing reality show ever. The Spirit immediately impressed into my mind "It is my delight". Delight? That seemed inexplicable to me until I thought about my granddaughter. She could come to me with a runny nose, dirty diaper and food in her hair and I would still be delighted to see her. At a year and a half she is not a brilliant conversationalist, yet I love nearly every sound that comes out of her mouth. And if I can love enough to feel that way about her, surely our loving Father is capable of feeling delight in me.
As a rule, I seldom tell others about the messages the Holy Spirit gives me. It feels too personal somehow, like sharing a love letter out loud. But when the Messenger tells me to share, it would be wrong to keep it to myself. So now I send this message from the Holy Spirit to you--to His Delight, with mine.
Thursday, November 22, 2018
"My Way" Robbery
When my children were approaching their teens, a time when many second generation Christians become rebellious, I prayed that the Lord would not let that happen to mine. I knew many of my friends were in that situation, but I didn't think I would be able to bear it. One of the things I did not yet understand is that there is no such thing as hypothetical grace. God gives us his grace for the reality of need, not just the possibility. The other thing I did not know was what a huge blessing that troubled time in my son's life would be in mine. The greatest blessings of my spiritual life have come to me through my son's addiction.
All my Christian life I had longed for an experience like Hagar had in the wilderness when she realized God saw her, knew her struggle and provided help. She named the well He provided Beer-lahai-roi, well of the living God who sees me. My wilderness was at the side of the road on the way to addiction treatment. As soon as my son said, "I will never believe in God because I can't see Him and He can't see me.", a car pulled up behind us, a believer sent by God to encourage us. After decades as a Christian, God settled the matter once and for all, I knew for certain--the living God sees me. And that has been a blessing not only for us, but for the many with whom I have shared that story since.
When we started this journey through my son's addiction, I told God I needed him to be real, as real as the view from my window and the furniture in my room. And I needed to hear from Him, not generically through His word, but specific guidance for our situation. God answered that prayer by His Spirit's words impressed in my mind. These messages were seldom what I wanted to hear, but they were what I needed to. Even now, after the crisis has passed and our family reaps the benefits of our son's sobriety, the intimate communication between myself and the Spirit continues.
If God had answered my prayer for stray proof children as I asked, I would have missed the greatest spiritual blessings of my life--our encounter with God, deep intimacy with the Spirit. And all these blessings came to me through my straying son. Blessings I would have robbed myself of if God had done things my way.
All my Christian life I had longed for an experience like Hagar had in the wilderness when she realized God saw her, knew her struggle and provided help. She named the well He provided Beer-lahai-roi, well of the living God who sees me. My wilderness was at the side of the road on the way to addiction treatment. As soon as my son said, "I will never believe in God because I can't see Him and He can't see me.", a car pulled up behind us, a believer sent by God to encourage us. After decades as a Christian, God settled the matter once and for all, I knew for certain--the living God sees me. And that has been a blessing not only for us, but for the many with whom I have shared that story since.
When we started this journey through my son's addiction, I told God I needed him to be real, as real as the view from my window and the furniture in my room. And I needed to hear from Him, not generically through His word, but specific guidance for our situation. God answered that prayer by His Spirit's words impressed in my mind. These messages were seldom what I wanted to hear, but they were what I needed to. Even now, after the crisis has passed and our family reaps the benefits of our son's sobriety, the intimate communication between myself and the Spirit continues.
If God had answered my prayer for stray proof children as I asked, I would have missed the greatest spiritual blessings of my life--our encounter with God, deep intimacy with the Spirit. And all these blessings came to me through my straying son. Blessings I would have robbed myself of if God had done things my way.
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Run to the Battle
In my many times reading I Samuel 17, the very familiar story of David and Goliath, I had never really noticed verse 48, until this week. "As the Philistine moved closer to attack him, David ran quickly toward the battle line to meet him." It has caused me to reevaluate my prayer time with our mothers of prodigals prayer group. I have pictured in my mind, standing next to Jesus between our prodigals and the forces of evil coming against them. I knew I had no strength of my own to protect them, but I wanted to be standing in prayer next to Jesus as He fought for them. Now I am rethinking that idea, maybe Jesus is not standing braced for Satan's attack. Maybe He is running to the battle line, and in order to be next to Him, I need to be running too. Exactly how that works out in my prayer life, I am just beginning to explore.
The important factor in applying any verse is how it fits with scripture as a whole. I believe running into battle is Christlike because the God who saved us is anything but passive. He provided our redemption. He chose us before He even created the Earth. He seeks us. He calls us. He gives us the faith to believe. And He is the one who keeps us safely in his hand until He takes us to heaven. God is not waiting to see if we want to take Him up on his offer of salvation. He makes it happen through thousands of seemingly random circumstances.
Jesus' earthly ministry demonstrated his willingness to battle the Jewish leadership. In John's gospel especially, Jesus goes out of His way to heal on the Sabbath, knowing it would provoke the Pharisees. He didn't tell those in need to come back tomorrow. He didn't wait for someone to ask Him about the Sabbath so He could secretly slam the Scribes. Our gentle, but just, Savior sometimes ran headlong into danger.
The important factor in applying any verse is how it fits with scripture as a whole. I believe running into battle is Christlike because the God who saved us is anything but passive. He provided our redemption. He chose us before He even created the Earth. He seeks us. He calls us. He gives us the faith to believe. And He is the one who keeps us safely in his hand until He takes us to heaven. God is not waiting to see if we want to take Him up on his offer of salvation. He makes it happen through thousands of seemingly random circumstances.
Jesus' earthly ministry demonstrated his willingness to battle the Jewish leadership. In John's gospel especially, Jesus goes out of His way to heal on the Sabbath, knowing it would provoke the Pharisees. He didn't tell those in need to come back tomorrow. He didn't wait for someone to ask Him about the Sabbath so He could secretly slam the Scribes. Our gentle, but just, Savior sometimes ran headlong into danger.
The Devil defies us,
as he does our King
God's Word is our stone
and prayer is our sling.
The battle continues,
though the war has been won.
To stand with our Savior,
His people must run.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Voting Loud
I have my own theory about why voters are turning out in record numbers for this year's mid-term elections. Both parties have gotten into a lazy habit of labeling their opponents instead of listening, reacting, instead of reasoning. In logic it resembles the "straw man" fallacy where, instead of arguing with your opponent's actual position, you argue with one you yourself have substituted. Although our modern version is even lazier, we simply build the straw man and throw rocks at it. Apparently the glue that holds these labels on is made from the brain cells of those attaching them. Early in his campaign, Donald Trump, for no apparent reason, was labeled a racist. There were probably millions of racist labels left over from the Obama years, when anyone who opposed Obama's election or policies was called racist. I'm all for recycling, but reusing presumptions that were never valid in the first place is like making a casserole out of spoiled leftovers.
I said all that to say this, I think voters are turning out to send a clear message--we are not racists. We like what our president is doing for our country. Most presidents don't even attempt to keep their campaign promises until their second term. Trump has torn through them like a to do list. I had "yuge" doubts about Trump, but great admiration for those he chose to advise him. Proverbs 13:20 says, "He who walks with wise men will become wise." But it is hard to express support for anyone with a "racist" label stuck over your mouth, so now, in the privacy of the voting booth, we are making ourselves heard. This election, we are voting loud.
I said all that to say this, I think voters are turning out to send a clear message--we are not racists. We like what our president is doing for our country. Most presidents don't even attempt to keep their campaign promises until their second term. Trump has torn through them like a to do list. I had "yuge" doubts about Trump, but great admiration for those he chose to advise him. Proverbs 13:20 says, "He who walks with wise men will become wise." But it is hard to express support for anyone with a "racist" label stuck over your mouth, so now, in the privacy of the voting booth, we are making ourselves heard. This election, we are voting loud.
Wednesday, October 10, 2018
We Live In Strange Times
By today's standards, our parents could have been charged with abuse for spanking us and neglect for letting us run around unsupervised, and yet we did not need free meals at school because our parents provided for us. We didn't need supplemental lunches in the summer because our moms had lunch for us at home when we came in from running around unsupervised. We live in strange times. Not that I want to see children go hungry. I take feeding people very seriously. If you come within a quarter mile of my house, expect to be offered food. My problem is that free lunches only address a small part of the need. What these kids need are parents to provide food and a place to live and supervision and, most of all, love. A meal is a poor substitute for a mom.
Even in my childhood, a few moms worked. My best friend in grade school was in gymnastics, flute lessons, tap dance, horseback riding, and Bluebirds to keep her busy between school and when her mom got off work. The concern of that time was latch key children, those who came home from school to an empty house. Now, even moms who do not work, may not be home because their friends, pleasures, or addictions, are higher priority than their children. Even with the after school programs most schools offer, many students don't have a permanent home to go to afterwards. They and their moms (dad is seldom in the picture) couch surf from place to place, scrounge for food, have phones for friends.
As I said, we live in strange times. I wish today's kids had a dad at home to spank them when they need it, and a mom at home to listen to the adventures they had while running around unsupervised. Because now that those things are considered crimes, sexual abuse and violent, even fatal, child abuse and neglect are more prevalent than ever. Strange.
Even in my childhood, a few moms worked. My best friend in grade school was in gymnastics, flute lessons, tap dance, horseback riding, and Bluebirds to keep her busy between school and when her mom got off work. The concern of that time was latch key children, those who came home from school to an empty house. Now, even moms who do not work, may not be home because their friends, pleasures, or addictions, are higher priority than their children. Even with the after school programs most schools offer, many students don't have a permanent home to go to afterwards. They and their moms (dad is seldom in the picture) couch surf from place to place, scrounge for food, have phones for friends.
As I said, we live in strange times. I wish today's kids had a dad at home to spank them when they need it, and a mom at home to listen to the adventures they had while running around unsupervised. Because now that those things are considered crimes, sexual abuse and violent, even fatal, child abuse and neglect are more prevalent than ever. Strange.
Friday, October 5, 2018
Whee!
Whee!
Today my granddaughter and I “whee’d” the leaves,
such as they are in the front yard.
Most of which are from our half-dead birch tree.
And most of those blow into the yard
of the empty house across the street,
to no one’s disappointment.
So we gathered small fistfuls of yellow leaves
and tossed them in the air
as we sat in the sun warmed grass.
Grandma and Brie share a much missed moment
and a word that captures its spirit—
and a word that captures its spirit—
“Whee!”
Thursday, October 4, 2018
Why I'm not Worried About the Mid-term Elections
I am not worried about the mid-term elections because God has never required cooperative vessels to fulfill His purposes. If He did, the Exodus story would have gone like this:
Moses: The Lord commands you to let my people go!
Pharaoh: No!
Lord: Well okay then, I'll just wait until a more open minded Pharaoh is on the throne.
Oops, wait, that's not what happened. God's plan was to deliver Israel from Egypt 400 years, to the day, from when they came in. He did not need Pharaoh to have a change of heart. Pharaoh never did have a change of heart. God just made the consequences of defying Him more unpleasant than letting millions of slaves have permanent time off.
But Pharaoh was a political leader and an unbeliever, surely God needs His own people to cooperate. If that was true, the calling of Moses might have sounded like this:
Lord: I am calling you to lead my people out of Egypt.
Moses: Not qualified. Thanks for thinking of me, but no.
Lord: Would you mind taking a message to Aaron?
God did not give Moses the pass or play option. He had chosen Moses and would not allow a substitution, as if God's will was like basketball. God provided Himself as Moses' divine helper and Aaron as his human helper, but God didn't need permission from Moses to use him any more than He needed it from the bush.
Of course, the best example of an uncooperative believer is Jonah. Jonah had serious stinkin' thinkin' and, if the revival in Nineveh was a church ministry, we would blacklist Jonah from even handing out the programs. But God did not reassign the job to someone more willing, nor did He perform a divine version of a Vulcan mind meld to make him willing. Once again, God just made the consequences of disobedience so unpleasant that Jonah decided to visit Nineveh after all.
I used to tell my children, "You can do God's will the easy way or you can do God's will the hard way, but you WILL do God's will." So, though I am disgusted with the attempt to assassinate the moral reputation of Supreme Court pick Kavanaugh, and I am sick to death of lying political ads, I am not afraid that God will somehow lose control of our country if the election does not go favorably. If God's will was dependent on man's, man would be sovereign. I will vote for those who best represent Christian values because bad political leaders have the power to make life difficult for us, but they do not have the power to make life difficult for God. God is sovereign and, although not running unopposed, I refuse to live as if He was being voted out of office.
Moses: The Lord commands you to let my people go!
Pharaoh: No!
Lord: Well okay then, I'll just wait until a more open minded Pharaoh is on the throne.
Oops, wait, that's not what happened. God's plan was to deliver Israel from Egypt 400 years, to the day, from when they came in. He did not need Pharaoh to have a change of heart. Pharaoh never did have a change of heart. God just made the consequences of defying Him more unpleasant than letting millions of slaves have permanent time off.
But Pharaoh was a political leader and an unbeliever, surely God needs His own people to cooperate. If that was true, the calling of Moses might have sounded like this:
Lord: I am calling you to lead my people out of Egypt.
Moses: Not qualified. Thanks for thinking of me, but no.
Lord: Would you mind taking a message to Aaron?
God did not give Moses the pass or play option. He had chosen Moses and would not allow a substitution, as if God's will was like basketball. God provided Himself as Moses' divine helper and Aaron as his human helper, but God didn't need permission from Moses to use him any more than He needed it from the bush.
Of course, the best example of an uncooperative believer is Jonah. Jonah had serious stinkin' thinkin' and, if the revival in Nineveh was a church ministry, we would blacklist Jonah from even handing out the programs. But God did not reassign the job to someone more willing, nor did He perform a divine version of a Vulcan mind meld to make him willing. Once again, God just made the consequences of disobedience so unpleasant that Jonah decided to visit Nineveh after all.
I used to tell my children, "You can do God's will the easy way or you can do God's will the hard way, but you WILL do God's will." So, though I am disgusted with the attempt to assassinate the moral reputation of Supreme Court pick Kavanaugh, and I am sick to death of lying political ads, I am not afraid that God will somehow lose control of our country if the election does not go favorably. If God's will was dependent on man's, man would be sovereign. I will vote for those who best represent Christian values because bad political leaders have the power to make life difficult for us, but they do not have the power to make life difficult for God. God is sovereign and, although not running unopposed, I refuse to live as if He was being voted out of office.
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
Me Too, Maurice
The Me Too in the title does not mean I was sexually assaulted by someone named Maurice. Especially since the Maurice I am referring to is Maurice Chevalier, the French actor. Although, being French, and an actor, I wouldn't put it past him. He has been dead for decades and we did not run in the same circles even when he was alive. What I am me too-ing is his song from the musical "Gigi", I'm Glad I'm Not Young Anymore. True, I miss the looks, muscles and eyesight that growing old has taken from me. But I would miss more the spiritual beauty, strength and perception, that growing old in Christ have given to me.
I'm glad I'm not young anymore because when I was a young Christian, my prayers were puny. Morning prayers were often a recitation of my day planner with "Bless" tacked on for good measure. They were equal parts talking to God, worrying, and hoping for the best. I didn't really believe God would respond to my prayers, because when He did answer them, I regarded it as a bizarre coincidence. I would spend hours devising ways God could give me what I wanted and would shoot my ideas up to Him as if God had, or needed, a suggestion box. I trusted God to satisfy my needs, but thought I was on my own for my wants. But the main reason my prayer life was so poor is because my view of God was so small. I approached God like Oliver Twist begging for more gruel. It never occurred to me that God delights to give gifts that delight His children, just as I love doing that for mine.
I'm glad I'm not young anymore because when I was younger I never really knew if I was in God's will, though I hoped I was. I accepted positions in my church based on my natural abilities and comfort level. I did not realize God supplies the abilities and uses us most when we are uncomfortable. Through those BSF daily application questions that I found so irritating, I learned to apply whatever part of God's word we were studying to what was happening in my life. Being in God's will is simply the Holy Spirit intersecting my daily Bible study with my daily life.
I'm glad I'm not young anymore because, until recently, I thought of God as passive and remote. The most direct intervention of God in our lives began two years ago, through our son's addiction. Stopped on the side of the highway, unsure if our fearful son would make it to Billings for treatment, God commanded a busy Christian headed the other direction, to turn around and talk to us. He arrived at the very moment I was praying for God to show Tracy that He is real and good. And in the years since that time, the Holy Spirit has continued to speak His thoughts into my mind. I never dreamed a relationship with God could be so real. And I never would have pursued this deeper intimacy if not for the deep waters of Tracy's troubles.
I'm glad I'm not young anymore because trust is the beauty mark of a Christian, and I learned to trust through decades of experiencing God's faithfulness. The years have also made me more understanding. I understand others' frailty--and my own. I understand God is big, I am small, and so are my problems. I know God hears me, delights to upgrade my requests, and remembers the dreams I have forgotten about. In 46 years as a Christian, even a slow learner like me can pick up a few things. And for the sweetness of the learning to come, I'm glad I'm not young anymore.
I'm glad I'm not young anymore because when I was a young Christian, my prayers were puny. Morning prayers were often a recitation of my day planner with "Bless" tacked on for good measure. They were equal parts talking to God, worrying, and hoping for the best. I didn't really believe God would respond to my prayers, because when He did answer them, I regarded it as a bizarre coincidence. I would spend hours devising ways God could give me what I wanted and would shoot my ideas up to Him as if God had, or needed, a suggestion box. I trusted God to satisfy my needs, but thought I was on my own for my wants. But the main reason my prayer life was so poor is because my view of God was so small. I approached God like Oliver Twist begging for more gruel. It never occurred to me that God delights to give gifts that delight His children, just as I love doing that for mine.
I'm glad I'm not young anymore because when I was younger I never really knew if I was in God's will, though I hoped I was. I accepted positions in my church based on my natural abilities and comfort level. I did not realize God supplies the abilities and uses us most when we are uncomfortable. Through those BSF daily application questions that I found so irritating, I learned to apply whatever part of God's word we were studying to what was happening in my life. Being in God's will is simply the Holy Spirit intersecting my daily Bible study with my daily life.
I'm glad I'm not young anymore because, until recently, I thought of God as passive and remote. The most direct intervention of God in our lives began two years ago, through our son's addiction. Stopped on the side of the highway, unsure if our fearful son would make it to Billings for treatment, God commanded a busy Christian headed the other direction, to turn around and talk to us. He arrived at the very moment I was praying for God to show Tracy that He is real and good. And in the years since that time, the Holy Spirit has continued to speak His thoughts into my mind. I never dreamed a relationship with God could be so real. And I never would have pursued this deeper intimacy if not for the deep waters of Tracy's troubles.
I'm glad I'm not young anymore because trust is the beauty mark of a Christian, and I learned to trust through decades of experiencing God's faithfulness. The years have also made me more understanding. I understand others' frailty--and my own. I understand God is big, I am small, and so are my problems. I know God hears me, delights to upgrade my requests, and remembers the dreams I have forgotten about. In 46 years as a Christian, even a slow learner like me can pick up a few things. And for the sweetness of the learning to come, I'm glad I'm not young anymore.
Wednesday, September 5, 2018
Leakiwiks
Here's my theory on why we older women have bladder leaks. Have you ever had muscle testing where they check the strength of your arm and leg muscles before and after changing something? I first experienced this with a chiropractor. She would have me hold my little finger and thumb together, then touch someplace on my body and try to pull them apart. I was skeptical but, try as I might, I could not hold finger and thumb together when she touched a problem area. After her adjustment, I could. Sometimes it is no fun being a skeptic. They did something similar when I bought the expensive insoles I wear now, only they tested larger muscles. I have even seen this technique used with a device that is supposed to filter out radiation from your cell phone. For whatever reason, our bodies cannot multitask, they can't hold everything together at the same time.
My theory is the bladder sphincter (if there is one) is one of the things it can't hold together. By the time we are in our sixties, a lot of body parts are misaligned or malfunctioning. In my case, my ADD left knee requires a lot of body concentration just to hold it together. Add to that my migraines, arthritis, plantar fasciitis, scoliosis, halitosis, thyroid issues and high blood pressure and you can see why bladder leaks might not be my body's high priority target to hold. If my finger and thumb can't hold together when I can see and focus on them, how can I expect to control my bladder muscles? Kegeling exercises? I've been doing that since my 20's. And I'm not going to take medicinal measures for my two drop dilemma. (Maybe when it gets to the point of drop and give me 20.)
No matter how many commercials I see showing fun, attractive women wearing some fun, attractive version of Depends, I won't feel desirable in a diaper. If it comes to that. As it is, the smallest package of cheapest pantyliners lasts me for months. But age related muscular degeneration will only make matters worse and I will be like the little Dutch boy trying to hold back the flood with his finger in the . . . never mind.
My theory is the bladder sphincter (if there is one) is one of the things it can't hold together. By the time we are in our sixties, a lot of body parts are misaligned or malfunctioning. In my case, my ADD left knee requires a lot of body concentration just to hold it together. Add to that my migraines, arthritis, plantar fasciitis, scoliosis, halitosis, thyroid issues and high blood pressure and you can see why bladder leaks might not be my body's high priority target to hold. If my finger and thumb can't hold together when I can see and focus on them, how can I expect to control my bladder muscles? Kegeling exercises? I've been doing that since my 20's. And I'm not going to take medicinal measures for my two drop dilemma. (Maybe when it gets to the point of drop and give me 20.)
No matter how many commercials I see showing fun, attractive women wearing some fun, attractive version of Depends, I won't feel desirable in a diaper. If it comes to that. As it is, the smallest package of cheapest pantyliners lasts me for months. But age related muscular degeneration will only make matters worse and I will be like the little Dutch boy trying to hold back the flood with his finger in the . . . never mind.
Monday, September 3, 2018
This Is It
I bought a car last week. It met my requirements of all wheel drive, under 50k miles & $15,000, has a back up camera and heated seats. But it wasn't exactly what I wanted. It was better. 38k miles, sun roof, all the bells and whistles. God keeps doing that to me--upgrading my answers to prayer from the base model to customize them in ways He knows will thoroughly delight me. The God of the Universe knows me and loves me that well. I hadn't even looked at used Hondas because even the high mileage ones are usually expensive, but I am now the proud owner of a beautiful blue Honda CR-V.
I am almost as glad about not having to car shop anymore as I am about the car itself. I enjoy car shopping about as much as dental surgery, and they don't give you drugs, even though they are called "dealerships". I had been looking for weeks online, hoping to avoid the ridiculous "Let me talk to my manager" game you have to play with car salesmen. When my son brought home "Crazy Mickey's Auto Finder", I agreed with crazy part, but I did look through it for a Santa Fe or Tucson. There weren't any listed, even in other Montana cities. However, my husband spotted an ad for two Hondas at a salvage place just a few miles south of us. The hail damaged Honda was newer and cheaper, but it looked like Andre the Giant had thrown golf balls at it. If I got it, I figured I could get a license plate that said "HAIL NO" and save the explanations. But I must be more prideful than I am cheap, because I went back in time and parking spaces to the 2013 model.
The moment I sat in it, I knew--this is it. This was the one God had for me. I appreciate it when God makes his message short and sweet. He did the same thing when we bought our current house. After a year of looking, wondering if I would know it when I saw it, I pulled into this driveway and knew--this is it.
Another time God made His message longer, but abundantly clear was, about our spare son, Lance. I knew God had brought Lance into our lives as clearly as if He had pried the roof off our house and dropped him into my arms. What I didn't know, was how I would recognize when my role as his spare mom was finished. But September of 2008, after the first week of BSF, God hammered into my heart the message that I had completed my part in Lance's life. He would be alright. God would handle it from here. Although Lance lived with us two more months before he left us for the last time, I already knew my job was finished--this is it. We never heard from him again and it broke my heart at the time, but I had already heard what I needed to--from God.
Perhaps God gives me such clear signals because He knows I don't pick up subtle ones. I am fairly intelligent, but I am not necessarily perceptive. And I know there will be at least one more time this occurs. One day I will close my eyes on earth, open them in heaven and see for myself--THIS IS IT!
I am almost as glad about not having to car shop anymore as I am about the car itself. I enjoy car shopping about as much as dental surgery, and they don't give you drugs, even though they are called "dealerships". I had been looking for weeks online, hoping to avoid the ridiculous "Let me talk to my manager" game you have to play with car salesmen. When my son brought home "Crazy Mickey's Auto Finder", I agreed with crazy part, but I did look through it for a Santa Fe or Tucson. There weren't any listed, even in other Montana cities. However, my husband spotted an ad for two Hondas at a salvage place just a few miles south of us. The hail damaged Honda was newer and cheaper, but it looked like Andre the Giant had thrown golf balls at it. If I got it, I figured I could get a license plate that said "HAIL NO" and save the explanations. But I must be more prideful than I am cheap, because I went back in time and parking spaces to the 2013 model.
The moment I sat in it, I knew--this is it. This was the one God had for me. I appreciate it when God makes his message short and sweet. He did the same thing when we bought our current house. After a year of looking, wondering if I would know it when I saw it, I pulled into this driveway and knew--this is it.
Another time God made His message longer, but abundantly clear was, about our spare son, Lance. I knew God had brought Lance into our lives as clearly as if He had pried the roof off our house and dropped him into my arms. What I didn't know, was how I would recognize when my role as his spare mom was finished. But September of 2008, after the first week of BSF, God hammered into my heart the message that I had completed my part in Lance's life. He would be alright. God would handle it from here. Although Lance lived with us two more months before he left us for the last time, I already knew my job was finished--this is it. We never heard from him again and it broke my heart at the time, but I had already heard what I needed to--from God.
Perhaps God gives me such clear signals because He knows I don't pick up subtle ones. I am fairly intelligent, but I am not necessarily perceptive. And I know there will be at least one more time this occurs. One day I will close my eyes on earth, open them in heaven and see for myself--THIS IS IT!
Thursday, August 23, 2018
The Gamechanger
Our parents are aging and we feel like we are waiting for the game changer. The accident or medical crisis that ends their ability to drive. The injury or diagnosis that requires them to leave their homes. The event that changes everything. Naturally, we would prefer to have all our ducks in a row, places ready for them to move into in Kalispell when the time comes. But I have learned that God is not particularly interested in our ducks, and especially in their row. It doesn't take much faith when life unfolds according to our prearranged plans and on our time table.
Last Friday my Dad had an outpatient surgery for kidney stones. I came to Missoula to take care of him for the weekend. That plan fell apart when Dad's pain and nausea increased instead of decreased. By the time he was admitted to the hospital early Monday morning, I knew I would not be going home anytime soon. He is now home from the hospital, his kidney function has returned to normal, so this episode will not be the game changer, but we know it is coming. He is healthy, but he is also 91.
Fortunately, our parents are both realistic and cooperative about the changes that are to come, but it is hard to know when to make them. At what point does the yard work, or house maintenance, or caregiving role become too much? Will they recognize the time when it comes? Will we? The options available depend, like so many things, on the money available. God knows our fears, and our failings, and our future. And since our unchanging God sovereignly controls the changes in our lives, I'm game.
Last Friday my Dad had an outpatient surgery for kidney stones. I came to Missoula to take care of him for the weekend. That plan fell apart when Dad's pain and nausea increased instead of decreased. By the time he was admitted to the hospital early Monday morning, I knew I would not be going home anytime soon. He is now home from the hospital, his kidney function has returned to normal, so this episode will not be the game changer, but we know it is coming. He is healthy, but he is also 91.
Fortunately, our parents are both realistic and cooperative about the changes that are to come, but it is hard to know when to make them. At what point does the yard work, or house maintenance, or caregiving role become too much? Will they recognize the time when it comes? Will we? The options available depend, like so many things, on the money available. God knows our fears, and our failings, and our future. And since our unchanging God sovereignly controls the changes in our lives, I'm game.
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
Not Always a Stranger
Two weeks ago, as we watched the news, a story came on about a Kalispell man who died in a motorcycle accident in Idaho. When the name was given, Tracy shot up in his chair and I gasped. It was a young man we had known since he was born. He was 31, only a few months younger than our youngest son. Jeremy and Tracy grew up together. He was the only childhood friend Tracy was still in touch with. You know, but you're never prepared. It's not always a stranger on the news. The drowning, the accident, even the crime. I have long realized that those reports that last 30 seconds on the news last a lifetime for those left behind. I pray for them. The family members grieving a loss--of a home, a loved one, a reputation.
Life is tenuous, it can end in the blink of an eye. The Bible compares our lifespan to a vapor. But the Bible also says our days are numbered--in a good way. The God who made us, determined the length of our life before we were ever born. Jeremy died young. He died unexpectedly. But he did not die early.
I have to admit, I was a little hesitant to watch the news the following day, though the odds of personally knowing someone on the news a second night were infinitesimally small. But a barrier had been breached, the one between what your head knows and what it is prepared for. We know, but we do not believe, that the tragedies we see on the news will not always be about a stranger.
Life is tenuous, it can end in the blink of an eye. The Bible compares our lifespan to a vapor. But the Bible also says our days are numbered--in a good way. The God who made us, determined the length of our life before we were ever born. Jeremy died young. He died unexpectedly. But he did not die early.
I have to admit, I was a little hesitant to watch the news the following day, though the odds of personally knowing someone on the news a second night were infinitesimally small. But a barrier had been breached, the one between what your head knows and what it is prepared for. We know, but we do not believe, that the tragedies we see on the news will not always be about a stranger.
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
B(N)C
I miss the good old B(N)C days--Before News Channels. Back then at the end of an election a lot of people did not get the president they wanted but they knew that, except for some impeachable offense, there was nothing they could do about it for four years. By the time you were old enough to vote, the concept that you don't always get what you want, had been drilled deeply into your consciousness by your parents, teachers, and pretty much every adult around you. Presidents were just one more thing in that broad unwanted category. So after an election adults just went on about the business of life--work, family, finances, etc. Politics was just one segment of the evening news.
Fast forward a couple decades and there are probably dozens of cable channels dedicated to nothing but news 24/7. We do not have cable and I am too lazy to research the actual number, but five spring to mind immediately, so dozens seem reasonable. Being a news junkie is actually a thing now. Many people who consider hours spent on video games a complete waste of time, consider the hours they spent learning about video game addiction on a cable news channel worthwhile. They are not wasting time, they are researching things to be upset about. At best, they are well informed worriers. But the main distinguishing characteristic of news junkies is that they are pissed off. Not only are they addicted to news binge inspired anger, but they want you to be angry too. Thanks for sharing.
What you have to remember about news networks is that:
They are not trying to inform you.
They are not even trying to bias you.
They are trying to attract viewers,
so that will attract advertisers,
so they will be well paid
to say the same things over and over.
The best way to make people willing to listen even when there is no new news, is to make everything that happens sound urgent. Some things are urgent, the Thai soccer team trapped in a water filled cave was urgent. Rehashing the hows, whys and whethers of Trump's presidency is a moot point because of the when. Whether you love Trump or hate him, the election is over and nothing will change that for two more years. If no news is good news, then 24/7 news would be. . . really bad. Let's act like adults and go back to the business of life the way we did in the good old B(N)C days.
Fast forward a couple decades and there are probably dozens of cable channels dedicated to nothing but news 24/7. We do not have cable and I am too lazy to research the actual number, but five spring to mind immediately, so dozens seem reasonable. Being a news junkie is actually a thing now. Many people who consider hours spent on video games a complete waste of time, consider the hours they spent learning about video game addiction on a cable news channel worthwhile. They are not wasting time, they are researching things to be upset about. At best, they are well informed worriers. But the main distinguishing characteristic of news junkies is that they are pissed off. Not only are they addicted to news binge inspired anger, but they want you to be angry too. Thanks for sharing.
What you have to remember about news networks is that:
They are not trying to inform you.
They are not even trying to bias you.
They are trying to attract viewers,
so that will attract advertisers,
so they will be well paid
to say the same things over and over.
The best way to make people willing to listen even when there is no new news, is to make everything that happens sound urgent. Some things are urgent, the Thai soccer team trapped in a water filled cave was urgent. Rehashing the hows, whys and whethers of Trump's presidency is a moot point because of the when. Whether you love Trump or hate him, the election is over and nothing will change that for two more years. If no news is good news, then 24/7 news would be. . . really bad. Let's act like adults and go back to the business of life the way we did in the good old B(N)C days.
Wednesday, July 11, 2018
Unpresidented
I voted for Trump. I did not want to, because he comes across as an arrogant jerk. I would not have wanted to converse with him at a party, even less at a family reunion. But I liked the things he stood for. Now I am glad I voted for Trump. His term so far has been an unprecedented presidency, so unlike the previous ten presidents of my lifetime. Most presidents spend their entire first term trying not to keep their campaign promises. That appeases the people who did not vote for him into thinking he is not so bad. And it motivates his supporters to elect him to a second term so he can finally fulfill them. Trump governs like a man who is not worried about a second term or a political career. He is a businessman and has, from his first day in office, gotten down to the business of keeping his campaign promises. Naturally, he has been thwarted in this by obstructionist Democrats, who have done everything but throw a tantrum on the Capitol floor, and by amnesiac Republicans, who forgot their campaign promises the instant they were elected. Trump has governed like a CEO trying to rescue a failing enterprise.
And we were failing. We were failing to be the land of opportunity, where free education and hard work bring success, because we forced the industrious to provide the same lifestyle for the indolent. We were failing to hold oppressive regimes' feet to the fire because those nations knew our ominous words were not backed with military might. We were failing to protect our own citizens from criminals and terrorists disguised as immigrants because our president refused to secure our borders or even name our enemies. We were becoming more racially divided than in Jim Crow days. And all these failings would have continued had Hillary been elected, except we would have exchanged accusations of racism for accusations of sexism. Jokes about the president, long the staple of late night comedians, are no longer on the hate speech list.
I see Trump's election as a sign that God has not given up on our country. Not because Trump is a godly man, but because he has chosen to be surrounded and advised by godly men. Frankly, I would rather follow a fool, advised by godly men, than one who would rule with a phone and a pen. (I so badly wanted to post that on Facebook, but I want my testimony there to be about Christ, not politics.) I am no longer afraid North Korea will nuke us in our beds. And if they try, they will only do it once. NATO is beginning to understand America will not continue to subsidize their all expense paid ride. The economy is improving so much that liberals are getting tears of frustration all over their stock portfolios. Our southern border is becoming more like a turnstile and less like a sieve. And I just realized last week that, though I don't understand the complexities of tariffs, I trust Donald Trump to do the right thing. Yes, I like buying inexpensive products, but it might be a nice change to buy something not Made In China. I TRUST DONALD TRUMP. I never thought I would say that about a politician. But then, he is not a politician. He is a business man, and a unique, unprecedented president.
And we were failing. We were failing to be the land of opportunity, where free education and hard work bring success, because we forced the industrious to provide the same lifestyle for the indolent. We were failing to hold oppressive regimes' feet to the fire because those nations knew our ominous words were not backed with military might. We were failing to protect our own citizens from criminals and terrorists disguised as immigrants because our president refused to secure our borders or even name our enemies. We were becoming more racially divided than in Jim Crow days. And all these failings would have continued had Hillary been elected, except we would have exchanged accusations of racism for accusations of sexism. Jokes about the president, long the staple of late night comedians, are no longer on the hate speech list.
I see Trump's election as a sign that God has not given up on our country. Not because Trump is a godly man, but because he has chosen to be surrounded and advised by godly men. Frankly, I would rather follow a fool, advised by godly men, than one who would rule with a phone and a pen. (I so badly wanted to post that on Facebook, but I want my testimony there to be about Christ, not politics.) I am no longer afraid North Korea will nuke us in our beds. And if they try, they will only do it once. NATO is beginning to understand America will not continue to subsidize their all expense paid ride. The economy is improving so much that liberals are getting tears of frustration all over their stock portfolios. Our southern border is becoming more like a turnstile and less like a sieve. And I just realized last week that, though I don't understand the complexities of tariffs, I trust Donald Trump to do the right thing. Yes, I like buying inexpensive products, but it might be a nice change to buy something not Made In China. I TRUST DONALD TRUMP. I never thought I would say that about a politician. But then, he is not a politician. He is a business man, and a unique, unprecedented president.
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
If It Tells You Anything About Me
Tracy's dogs were alarmed when they heard the unfamiliar sound of me setting up the ironing board. They have lived with us two and a half years.
I had to hunt for my iron. The iron was a gift from a home care client. My previous iron died of loneliness.
The first year at our former home, I thought our chandelier globes were frosted. Then I washed them.
I wake up every morning with a song in my head. It could be anything from a commercial jingle from my childhood, a movie theme, or a hymn. It's like a ear worm that crawls in while I'm sleeping and spends the morning with me, like it or not.
When my husband first got his business credit card, I was hesitant to use it. Ex: What if I want to use some of the office supplies we bought on his Visa? Now I'm like: Heck yeah the labradoodle goes on the business card. We're on a business trip, aren't we?
I grew up thinking camping was for people who couldn't afford a real vacation. My idea of camping is a cheap hotel.
I get upset if I discover the gallon of milk I just bought was $.20 cheaper at the next store, but I am not particularly bothered by a $30 discrepancy when I balance the checkbook.
I add up my grocery bill in my head as I shop so there are no surprises at check out. I know exactly how much money I have in my wallet at all times. I also know the best sale price of any item we use regularly.
I wash and reuse One Zip plastic bags, but not ordinary ziplocs, I have some standards.
I seldom pay full price for anything except store brands. I want to be buried in a Costco casket.
I am seldom late, but I also hate being early. Unlike my Dad who would show up 20 minutes early for his own execution. I tell my husband, I don't mind being early for being on time, but I refuse to be early for being early. He doesn't understand it either. I usually arrive right on time.
I love looking at beautiful landscaping, but have no interest in creating or maintaining it. I am relieved when the frost kills my flowers and I no longer have to water them. I love annuals because they die.
When we went on our cruise, I did not want the cleaning staff to see my cracked makeup cases and think I was some poor bumpkin who could not afford makeup, so I went back to the Dollar Tree and bought replacements.
I had to hunt for my iron. The iron was a gift from a home care client. My previous iron died of loneliness.
The first year at our former home, I thought our chandelier globes were frosted. Then I washed them.
I wake up every morning with a song in my head. It could be anything from a commercial jingle from my childhood, a movie theme, or a hymn. It's like a ear worm that crawls in while I'm sleeping and spends the morning with me, like it or not.
When my husband first got his business credit card, I was hesitant to use it. Ex: What if I want to use some of the office supplies we bought on his Visa? Now I'm like: Heck yeah the labradoodle goes on the business card. We're on a business trip, aren't we?
I grew up thinking camping was for people who couldn't afford a real vacation. My idea of camping is a cheap hotel.
I get upset if I discover the gallon of milk I just bought was $.20 cheaper at the next store, but I am not particularly bothered by a $30 discrepancy when I balance the checkbook.
I add up my grocery bill in my head as I shop so there are no surprises at check out. I know exactly how much money I have in my wallet at all times. I also know the best sale price of any item we use regularly.
I wash and reuse One Zip plastic bags, but not ordinary ziplocs, I have some standards.
I seldom pay full price for anything except store brands. I want to be buried in a Costco casket.
I am seldom late, but I also hate being early. Unlike my Dad who would show up 20 minutes early for his own execution. I tell my husband, I don't mind being early for being on time, but I refuse to be early for being early. He doesn't understand it either. I usually arrive right on time.
I love looking at beautiful landscaping, but have no interest in creating or maintaining it. I am relieved when the frost kills my flowers and I no longer have to water them. I love annuals because they die.
When we went on our cruise, I did not want the cleaning staff to see my cracked makeup cases and think I was some poor bumpkin who could not afford makeup, so I went back to the Dollar Tree and bought replacements.
What God Didn't Say
I was so impressed when I did my Bible study in 1 Samuel by what God didn't say. The people of Israel were no longer satisfied with being ruled by judges, they wanted a king. They wanted a king for two reasons, the first is peer pressure. All the cool nations had kings. They wanted to fit in. Samuel could have used the line from the parents' manual--If all the other nations decided to jump off a cliff, would you? But the reason that had to hit Samuel hard, was that his sons were ungodly, they took bribes and perverted justice and Israel did not want them to lead their nation. Since the Bible does not say otherwise, I assume this is true. Apparently the object lesson of what happened to Eli's sons made no impression on them.
So Samuel took his disappointment to God. What the Lord didn't say was, "They are right about your sons." Instead he took the rejection on Himself and told Samuel to listen to the people. No condemnation. No shame. He just told Samuel what to do next.
There are lots of other examples of such compassion of God toward his people. He did not introduce himself to Abram by saying, "Hello moon worshiper." Instead, he chose Abram to be the father of his people and promise. Then told him what to do next. When God came to Hagar as the Angel of the Lord when she fled to the wilderness, He didn't say, "So, how did despising your mistress work out for you?" Instead, he promised her a son and nation of her own. Then he told her what to do next. When Jacob had to run for his life after stealing his brother's birthright blessing, God didn't say, "What a rotten trick to play on your Dad." Instead, he gave him a dream of a stairway to heaven, introduced Himself, and made beautiful promises.
And then there is me. When I come to God, I do not hear, "You again? Do you know how many things you have done wrong today?" Even when I ask God to show me my sins to confess them, He doesn't dump the truckload on me, He usually just shows me one. I can handle one--although I can multitask at sinning. And perhaps I can show that same kind of compassion to someone who has hurt or disappointed me. To reach out when I want to strike out. To bless instead of berate. Or at least to pray again as I have so often, "If you can't make me saintly, make me silent." Compassion can speak eloquently in the things we don't say.
So Samuel took his disappointment to God. What the Lord didn't say was, "They are right about your sons." Instead he took the rejection on Himself and told Samuel to listen to the people. No condemnation. No shame. He just told Samuel what to do next.
There are lots of other examples of such compassion of God toward his people. He did not introduce himself to Abram by saying, "Hello moon worshiper." Instead, he chose Abram to be the father of his people and promise. Then told him what to do next. When God came to Hagar as the Angel of the Lord when she fled to the wilderness, He didn't say, "So, how did despising your mistress work out for you?" Instead, he promised her a son and nation of her own. Then he told her what to do next. When Jacob had to run for his life after stealing his brother's birthright blessing, God didn't say, "What a rotten trick to play on your Dad." Instead, he gave him a dream of a stairway to heaven, introduced Himself, and made beautiful promises.
And then there is me. When I come to God, I do not hear, "You again? Do you know how many things you have done wrong today?" Even when I ask God to show me my sins to confess them, He doesn't dump the truckload on me, He usually just shows me one. I can handle one--although I can multitask at sinning. And perhaps I can show that same kind of compassion to someone who has hurt or disappointed me. To reach out when I want to strike out. To bless instead of berate. Or at least to pray again as I have so often, "If you can't make me saintly, make me silent." Compassion can speak eloquently in the things we don't say.
Wednesday, July 4, 2018
Geezer Prevention Dress Code
Older women should not wear white pants with adult diapers. They show. Depend on that.
Makeup rule--less is more. Moderate makeup makes you look younger, too much makes you look older. That is probably not the look you are going for.
If you can't tell the difference between your brow pencil, lip liner and eye liner, don't use any of them. Blue eyebrows draw attention to your face, but not in a good way.
If you are still wearing your high school hair color and style, you either looked stupid as a teenager, or you look stupid now.
Gray hair, worn long, makes 99 percent of women look like witches. Most of the remaining one percent are aging fashion models.
If you wear shorts down to your knees and socks up to your knees, they cancel each other out. Just wear pants.
Even if your black socks match your black shorts, they don't go together.
Same goes for socks and sandals. Are you cold or hot? Make up your mind or, at least, make up your feet.
Pearls do not go with a sweatshirt. Frankly, there is very little jewelry that goes with a sweatshirt.
When young people tell older people their outfit is cute, they actually mean pathetic.
Older men--if the suspenders are working, you don't need the belt, and vice versa.
Wearing leggings will make you more comfortable and everyone else--less.
The washing machine does not remove pet hair from your clothing. It redistributes it.
Sense of smell diminishes with age. You and your clothes have not become unscented, wash both frequently.
Sense of taste diminishes also, which is why you need the above guidelines.
Makeup rule--less is more. Moderate makeup makes you look younger, too much makes you look older. That is probably not the look you are going for.
If you can't tell the difference between your brow pencil, lip liner and eye liner, don't use any of them. Blue eyebrows draw attention to your face, but not in a good way.
If you are still wearing your high school hair color and style, you either looked stupid as a teenager, or you look stupid now.
Gray hair, worn long, makes 99 percent of women look like witches. Most of the remaining one percent are aging fashion models.
If you wear shorts down to your knees and socks up to your knees, they cancel each other out. Just wear pants.
Even if your black socks match your black shorts, they don't go together.
Same goes for socks and sandals. Are you cold or hot? Make up your mind or, at least, make up your feet.
Pearls do not go with a sweatshirt. Frankly, there is very little jewelry that goes with a sweatshirt.
When young people tell older people their outfit is cute, they actually mean pathetic.
Older men--if the suspenders are working, you don't need the belt, and vice versa.
Wearing leggings will make you more comfortable and everyone else--less.
The washing machine does not remove pet hair from your clothing. It redistributes it.
Sense of smell diminishes with age. You and your clothes have not become unscented, wash both frequently.
Sense of taste diminishes also, which is why you need the above guidelines.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
Washing Undies
Yesterday I was using a public restroom when I noticed my panties were on inside out. This is not a common problem, but it has happened often enough for me to recognize a pattern. I think there are three basic responses to that situation that categorize you as a person. Why not? Facebook says it can divine personalities by color preference, musical taste, toe length, etc. Though I am rarely willing to waste the time to take those tests, I have found the ones I have taken to be wildly inaccurate, unless they say really flattering things, then they are gospel. Or I answer the questions until I get to one where none of the answers would be my response. Those are inaccurate before I even finish them. So here are my personality categories for panty waists.
1) It won't wash: This is the Type A response. Inside out underwear are nonnegotiable. These women will take off shoes, pants, (maybe even pantyhose) right there in the public restroom, reverse the panties, redress. Life is good.
2) Wishy washy: This is my response. Yes, it really bothers me that my underwear are inside out, but it would bother me more to know someone outside of the stall could see or hear me taking my shoes, pants, (never pantyhose) off while sitting on the toilet. As soon as we got home, however, I stripped, fixed my skivvies and order returned to my world.
3) It'll all come out in the wash: This is literally true. Underwear get clean no matter which way we wear them or how they go into the washer. Women like this see the bungled bloomers, but don't consider changing them worth the bother. They go with the flow. I wish I could be like those let it all hang inside out ladies, but my underwear and I are just not designed that way.
I will probably not submit this personality test to Facebook, even though it meets their criteria of being totally unscientific. Nevertheless, I think it is a good, real world demonstration of basic temperament. It is at least as accurate as the ones where you pick your favorite flowers, or foods, or dog breeds, or paintings or an entire laundry list of variables. A lot of those assessments are total wash outs.
1) It won't wash: This is the Type A response. Inside out underwear are nonnegotiable. These women will take off shoes, pants, (maybe even pantyhose) right there in the public restroom, reverse the panties, redress. Life is good.
2) Wishy washy: This is my response. Yes, it really bothers me that my underwear are inside out, but it would bother me more to know someone outside of the stall could see or hear me taking my shoes, pants, (never pantyhose) off while sitting on the toilet. As soon as we got home, however, I stripped, fixed my skivvies and order returned to my world.
3) It'll all come out in the wash: This is literally true. Underwear get clean no matter which way we wear them or how they go into the washer. Women like this see the bungled bloomers, but don't consider changing them worth the bother. They go with the flow. I wish I could be like those let it all hang inside out ladies, but my underwear and I are just not designed that way.
I will probably not submit this personality test to Facebook, even though it meets their criteria of being totally unscientific. Nevertheless, I think it is a good, real world demonstration of basic temperament. It is at least as accurate as the ones where you pick your favorite flowers, or foods, or dog breeds, or paintings or an entire laundry list of variables. A lot of those assessments are total wash outs.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
No One is Looking
There is a certain freedom that comes with being in your 60's. It's not that I no longer care how I look. It's that most other people don't care how I look. For instance, Reed and I went on a boat tour on a sunny Saturday in Gig Harbor and I got a farmer tan--a short sleeved shirt composed of pasty white skin. Even before bingo flaps, I had lots more short sleeved tops than sleeveless, so this is a common occurrence. Years ago, having a two-toned tan would have really bothered me, but it's no big deal now because I realized, no one is looking. Age not only confers (or at least increases the odds for) wisdom, it is also a magic invisibility cloak.You become just another old person. Younger generations barely glance at us and older generations do not care about farmer tans. I am free to let myself go. That is not my intention, but my body is going for it nonetheless.
I am, I confess, prone to vanity. I still check the beauty sections of my magazines, but their recommendation for women in their 60's and up is less is more. I have long known that too much makeup on young girls makes them look even younger and too much on older women makes them look older. And for both groups, rather pathetic. When my dear friend, DJ, asked me to pick up an eyelash curler for her when she was in her mid 80's, I conveniently kept forgetting. By that time, she couldn't see well enough to use one, her eyelids rested on top of her lashes, she hardly had any lashes left, and the curler could break off the few that remained. I indulged her when she wasted her precious shopping money on overpriced items, but I drew the line at an eyelash curler. Her beautician also indulged her by dying her hair black and styling it in the top-of-the-head bun she had worn since girlhood. She was unwilling to change even though that style revealed her white roots sooner and the elastic band made her thinning hair brittle. Only in assisted living did a beautician convince her to wear it lighter and shorter. Though by that time she was 90, the new "do" made her look years younger. Which was convenient, because, as her memory failed, she thought she was years younger.
I knew, with my black hair, blue eyes combo, I would gray early. I did not mind the salt and pepper look when I was in my 30's and could describe myself as prematurely gray. But I started coloring it at 40 and am having a hard time deciding when to bring the "maturely" gray hair out of hiding. My beautician has hinted through subtle stories about other clients that it would make me look 20 years older. And she is not just saying that so I will keep using her services. She is semi-retired and charges $40 when most places charge $60 and here in Gig Harbor, over $100.
Another reason right now would not be a good time to change my stripes is because our one year old granddaughter gets freaked out when her own parents alter their appearance by wearing a hat. I'm afraid she wouldn't recognize me if my hair color suddenly changed. The other reason I keep putting off coming out as gray is that I am afraid of my hair. When the gray grows out, I can't get the roots to lift. In my case, stubborn gray does not mean it won't absorb dye, it means it won't cooperate with styling. The roots are hard enough to work with, a whole head full of the stuff would be a nightmare.
Due to a knee problem, I joined the ministry of funny walks long ago. I don't know when I will reach the age of wearing unmatched clothes, socks with sandals, etc. But those things go unnoticed under the senior invisibility cloak. If I want to turn heads at my age, I just need to start wearing too much makeup, black hair, or junior girls' clothing styles. The rest of the time, I can relax because no one is looking.
I am, I confess, prone to vanity. I still check the beauty sections of my magazines, but their recommendation for women in their 60's and up is less is more. I have long known that too much makeup on young girls makes them look even younger and too much on older women makes them look older. And for both groups, rather pathetic. When my dear friend, DJ, asked me to pick up an eyelash curler for her when she was in her mid 80's, I conveniently kept forgetting. By that time, she couldn't see well enough to use one, her eyelids rested on top of her lashes, she hardly had any lashes left, and the curler could break off the few that remained. I indulged her when she wasted her precious shopping money on overpriced items, but I drew the line at an eyelash curler. Her beautician also indulged her by dying her hair black and styling it in the top-of-the-head bun she had worn since girlhood. She was unwilling to change even though that style revealed her white roots sooner and the elastic band made her thinning hair brittle. Only in assisted living did a beautician convince her to wear it lighter and shorter. Though by that time she was 90, the new "do" made her look years younger. Which was convenient, because, as her memory failed, she thought she was years younger.
I knew, with my black hair, blue eyes combo, I would gray early. I did not mind the salt and pepper look when I was in my 30's and could describe myself as prematurely gray. But I started coloring it at 40 and am having a hard time deciding when to bring the "maturely" gray hair out of hiding. My beautician has hinted through subtle stories about other clients that it would make me look 20 years older. And she is not just saying that so I will keep using her services. She is semi-retired and charges $40 when most places charge $60 and here in Gig Harbor, over $100.
Another reason right now would not be a good time to change my stripes is because our one year old granddaughter gets freaked out when her own parents alter their appearance by wearing a hat. I'm afraid she wouldn't recognize me if my hair color suddenly changed. The other reason I keep putting off coming out as gray is that I am afraid of my hair. When the gray grows out, I can't get the roots to lift. In my case, stubborn gray does not mean it won't absorb dye, it means it won't cooperate with styling. The roots are hard enough to work with, a whole head full of the stuff would be a nightmare.
Due to a knee problem, I joined the ministry of funny walks long ago. I don't know when I will reach the age of wearing unmatched clothes, socks with sandals, etc. But those things go unnoticed under the senior invisibility cloak. If I want to turn heads at my age, I just need to start wearing too much makeup, black hair, or junior girls' clothing styles. The rest of the time, I can relax because no one is looking.
Things You Realize in Later Life
- There is no way to suck in your breasts.
- Being gimpy opens doors for you. Literally. Go with it.
- It is okay for other people to be not like you. Be thankful for it.
- Life is too short to nurse a grudge.
- If you really want to reach people, share your failures.
- What works for you does not work for everybody. There's no formula.
- Don't worry about what other people think about you, they seldom do.
- Have the grace to listen to people you disagree with. You may learn something.
- You are not powerful enough to mess up God's plans.
- Worry implies God is not good enough, or not powerful enough, to take care of you.
- There is no such thing as hypothetical grace. God gives us what we need, when we need it.
- Don't compare your insides with other people's outsides.
- Reading the Bible does not change your life.
- Studying the Bible does not change your life.
- Applying the Bible changes your life.
- When you pray for someone you don't like, God changes your heart, not theirs.
- When you discourage someone, you are playing on Satan's team.
- Don't take yourself too seriously. No one else does.
- Tears and laughter are the best stress relievers.
- Age spots show God has blessed you with long years and sunshine.
- God has got this, keep your eyes on Him.
Monday, June 18, 2018
The Transmigration of the Body
From time to time much attention is given to the idea of transmigration of the soul. The belief that souls, both human and animal, leave their bodies at death and are reborn in another form. Adherents are going to be desperately disappointed when they die and discover instead of reincarnation they face eternal damnation. Multiple lifetimes would only give us more opportunities to condemn ourselves. We can never get it right spiritually. But what I am concerned about is the transmigration of the body.
In the 40 plus years we have been married, Reed and I have shared a lot of things, a few of which are homes, beds, and as a consequence, children. I don't mind sharing, but the part where they say married couples begin to look alike is where I draw the line. We are not out of shape. Round is a shape. But he has his way of being well rounded and I have mine. So we are both fervently hoping the looking alike thing is not true, but perhaps we are sharing traits. Neither of us have waist lines anymore. Both of us have wrinkles, age spots and boobs. And in time, both of us will have mustaches. What makes me suspicious of body migration is that as my eyebrows have thinned, Reed's have thickened. His eyebrows have grown to Gandalf proportions while mine have shriveled to wimpy wisps. I can only conclude that during the night, for some traitorous reason, mine have been migrating to my husband's face. My weight, joints, skin and hair have already betrayed me, and now they have apparently enlisted my eyebrows. Although even middle aged men become victims of their own hair migration. Hair leaves their head and finds a new home in their ears, nose and brows. Reed's chest hair is now longer than he ever wore it on his head. For a formal occasion, I could braid it.
The only place my soul will migrate to after I die is heaven. My body is the part that gets the redo, and I get happier about that every day.
In the 40 plus years we have been married, Reed and I have shared a lot of things, a few of which are homes, beds, and as a consequence, children. I don't mind sharing, but the part where they say married couples begin to look alike is where I draw the line. We are not out of shape. Round is a shape. But he has his way of being well rounded and I have mine. So we are both fervently hoping the looking alike thing is not true, but perhaps we are sharing traits. Neither of us have waist lines anymore. Both of us have wrinkles, age spots and boobs. And in time, both of us will have mustaches. What makes me suspicious of body migration is that as my eyebrows have thinned, Reed's have thickened. His eyebrows have grown to Gandalf proportions while mine have shriveled to wimpy wisps. I can only conclude that during the night, for some traitorous reason, mine have been migrating to my husband's face. My weight, joints, skin and hair have already betrayed me, and now they have apparently enlisted my eyebrows. Although even middle aged men become victims of their own hair migration. Hair leaves their head and finds a new home in their ears, nose and brows. Reed's chest hair is now longer than he ever wore it on his head. For a formal occasion, I could braid it.
The only place my soul will migrate to after I die is heaven. My body is the part that gets the redo, and I get happier about that every day.
Senior Moments
- When you find yourself saying, "Where did all this extra stuff come from?" and you're looking at your body, not your house.
- When your phone can find your keys and your keys can find your phone, and you can't find either one.
- When things go missing like your muscles, energy, waistline, hair/hair color.
- When the TV channels you prefer to watch mostly advertise reverse mortgages, walk-in tubs and incontinence supplies.
- When you start paying attention to those commercials.
- When they give you the senior discount without even asking.
- When you have to make up in hand rail what you lack in knees.
- When your childhood lunchbox is in the antique store, along with the cookie jar you're still using.
- When you realize you ARE the old people you used to leave close parking spaces for.
- When you and your spouse hold hands and people say, "Aw, look at that.", like when the ring bearer and flower girl hold hands at a wedding.
Friday, June 15, 2018
I'm Getting Way Too Much Out of my Bible Study
I get sad when I read of the death of Moses or Joshua even though I know they are in heaven and I can reread their stories anytime I want. It's not like I have to take my Bible back to the library. It is just that I have enjoyed our time together and now we will walk separate paths for a while.
I also get sad when I reach John chapter 12 because the remaining chapters are shadowed by the cross and I'm not ready for Jesus to leave yet.
I got annoyed with God for empowering undeserving judges to deliver the undeserving Israelites from their enemies until I realized He had also delivered unworthy me.
I got a hit of endorphins from Judges 11 where Jephthah, an outcast, but mighty, bastard, is called on by his people to save his nation. Sounds familiar. I wonder how Jephthah wore his hair?
I also got the connection between the Ammonites and the Palestinians. In Judges 11, the Ammonites ask Israel to give back Ammon's historic land even though God took it from them for being cruel to Jews in their wilderness wanderings. Btw Ammon had not bothered to reclaim it during the 300 years it was occupied by other nations before the Jews conquered it. At least the Ammonites had a king who could rule it. Palestinians? not so much. Jephthah suggested they ask their god for land. Palestinians ask the U.N.
The Lord, as the Angel of the Lord, made a personal appearance and miraculous promise to Samson's mother and her name never appears in the text. Would she be happy about that? relieved? First mention of prenatal diet instructions, being a Nazirite from the womb meant beginning at conception, not birth.
Her husband, Manoah, who heard all the same instructions and promises, still thought they were going to die for seeing the Lord. A sensible wife reassuring her doubting husband. That seems familiar too.
In chapter 14, I got for the first time how close Samson was to his parents. The words father or mother and father are in the chapter 8 times in 20 verses. He shares his honey with them (although not its gross origin), wants their involvement in his wedding (although that was also customary), justifies not telling his bride the riddle answer because he hasn't even told his parents, goes back home after his bride's betrayal. And what kind of sucky guests threaten the bride on her honeymoon?
Now that our son is staying sober, and I'm not coming to the Bible like a starving leech, I can enjoy the more subtle textures and flavors of the passages. I feel like we are nearing the end of this time of testing, so I can apply more than just the first aid of wisdom and encouragement. My Bible study is no longer just life support, it is a feast. Frankly, Judges has never excited me before. It is richer and more applicable than I remembered, and I hope I can continue getting way too much out of it.
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
"Be"ing
I am by nature task oriented. I get a great deal of satisfaction from making and crossing off lists. Long before my kids knew their days of the week, they knew about cookie making day, sheet changing day, shopping day, house cleaning day. My morning prayers were a recitation of my plans for the day with an addendum requesting God's blessing. When my children began school, I exchanged some of those home routines for volunteering there. I had a long schedule then. It often necessitated packing the car in the morning with everything my kids and I would need for the whole day. Snacks. Band instruments. Sports equipment. My BSF lesson to work on during practice. (This was in the olden days before cell phones were common.) As the kids began to leave home, I noticed there were still cookies left on baking day, I didn't need as many groceries, the house was not necessarily dirty in a week. The rope of routine that held my life together became stretched and frayed.
When I added part time work to my schedule, it made up for some of my lost home routine. My lists now became about places I needed to go before and after work: errands, the gym, etc. Even when we traveled and I had the day to spend however I pleased, I made a schedule for myself, so the time would not feel wasted.
We have been traveling a lot lately and I have begun to learn the art of "be"ing. I have learned it is okay to sit in the sun and think. About God. About life. My prayers have become less about lists and more about listening. When it is a beautiful, sunny day at home, I can't sit outside for long without feeling guilty about something that's not getting done inside--not that I necessarily do the things that need doing, but the odds improve when I'm in the house. However when we travel, there are no cleaning tasks calling my name, no dinners to plan. Why do I feel like I'm wasting time when I enjoy the beautiful place God gave me to live? It is a gift I barely glance at as I move on to other things.
There is nothing wrong with being organized, it is the way God made me and it has come in handy when our families celebrate special events. But the older I get, the more I understand that God is not particularly interested in my plans. He is more concerned about what's in my heart than what's on my calendar. I should at least give God the time and attention I willingly give to Facebook. If I want to become like Christ, I must spend time thinking about who He is. And if that is the only task I accomplish in this life, well, I'll be.
When I added part time work to my schedule, it made up for some of my lost home routine. My lists now became about places I needed to go before and after work: errands, the gym, etc. Even when we traveled and I had the day to spend however I pleased, I made a schedule for myself, so the time would not feel wasted.
We have been traveling a lot lately and I have begun to learn the art of "be"ing. I have learned it is okay to sit in the sun and think. About God. About life. My prayers have become less about lists and more about listening. When it is a beautiful, sunny day at home, I can't sit outside for long without feeling guilty about something that's not getting done inside--not that I necessarily do the things that need doing, but the odds improve when I'm in the house. However when we travel, there are no cleaning tasks calling my name, no dinners to plan. Why do I feel like I'm wasting time when I enjoy the beautiful place God gave me to live? It is a gift I barely glance at as I move on to other things.
There is nothing wrong with being organized, it is the way God made me and it has come in handy when our families celebrate special events. But the older I get, the more I understand that God is not particularly interested in my plans. He is more concerned about what's in my heart than what's on my calendar. I should at least give God the time and attention I willingly give to Facebook. If I want to become like Christ, I must spend time thinking about who He is. And if that is the only task I accomplish in this life, well, I'll be.
Why I Can't Die
- I am not afraid of dying, although I am intensely curious about the process God has chosen for me. When the worst thing that can happen to me is that I die and go to heaven, it's hard to be fearful. But I feel compelled not to die because of my husband's disability. He is a man. He does not know where things go in the kitchen, though they have been in the same place for 20 years. He is unaware that there is enough food in our pantry and freezer to feed us for months. He doesn't know that I keep a spare bar of soap under the bathroom sink. Why bother when he can just ask me to get it? I am expected to know where everything in our house is located, even items I have never used. We own a lot of things, therefore, I can't die.
- When we married, Reed only knew how to cook two things: hamburgers. . . I no longer remember the other one. Neither does he. Now, after 40 years of marriage, Reed can only cook things he can barbecue. Even when dinner consists of microwaving leftovers, he waits for me to choose food for him and heat it up. I refuse to do it, but you see the problem. I can't die.
- In Reed's world, dirty clothes disappear from the hamper and reappear, folded in his dresser. What happens in between is a mechanical mystery he has no interest in solving. Reed has a hard enough time remembering not to wear ripped, stained clothes to church. If he is ever to appear in public again, I can't die.
- When I asked him to vacuum the living room, and Reed didn't know how (or that it was necessary) to empty the dust cup on the Bissell we had owned for seven years, I realized I had spoiled my husband. And, if only for the sake of our nice home, I can't die.
- Throughout our marriage, Reed has provided nearly all the income with which we pay our bills. Aside from my extreme thriftiness about spending, my financial contributions to our lifestyle would scarcely be missed, but Reed does not know how I pay the bills. Despite numerous nagging attempts, he has no interest in my filing system, the specifics of our budget, or how to use online bill pay. If I die, I'm afraid he will revert to his bachelor system of throwing bills in a random drawer and paying them when he happens to remember. For the sake of our bank and payees, I can't die.
- Reed handles all sorts of secretarial duties at work, but I am the home office manager. If I'm not what they now call an "administrative professional", I am at least an administrative amateur. If I say so myself, I write a masterfully polite, mean letter. I can dress disapproval in such diplomatic language it is difficult to discern if you are being disrespected. That's why I prefer letters to phone calls, it is hard to be combatively civil on the spur of the moment. Through the years I have written many business letters to appeal, complain etc. Our recent refund of timeshare money is the most lucrative letter writing of my volunteer career. If someone needs to be mean in person or on the phone, I tag in Reed, but if a poisonously polite letter is needed, it's up to me. I can't die.
- I am even afraid of becoming incapacitated to the point where Reed would answer medical questions on my behalf because he has poor pattern recognition. Yes, he knows that I have high blood pressure, thyroid problems, bad knees and migraines, but he decides at random moments that they have never been this bad before. This doesn't make me feel unnoticed, he is similarly surprised by his own chronic health problems. Though I'm glad Reed doesn't notice how old and fat I have become, I would hate to be in a position where some doctor acts on Reed's that bad information as if it were true. If only to avoid unnecessary testing, I can't die.
Monday, June 11, 2018
Dear Inn
Dear new owners of The Inn at Gig Harbor,
Thank your for declining to honor the quoted rate of our reservation and refusing to offer a corporate rate to our corporate employer for your hotel rooms. Because of you, we are staying at the much nicer Best Western Wesley Inn. Although we enjoyed the oversized rooms we were usually given at your hotel, our suite here is not only oversized, but has a jacuzzi and fireplace in the bedroom. And a pocket door separates the bed and bath from the living area. We enjoyed the made to order breakfasts that were included with the room, but there is a nice, free breakfast here, with no asterisks. Hopefully you have changed the lobby music from 30's era nightclub, which sometimes drove me out into the rain to escape, but music is a matter of preference and the front desk staff were friendly and helpful enough to endure the bad music. They play Christian music here. And instead of outside seating on the hot concrete facing your parking lot, I can enjoy the sun by the beautifully landscaped outdoor pool area. Or I can choose to relax in the other courtyard by the gas fireplace. Too bad you don't have a pool or a courtyard, people appreciate those amenities.
I don't even have to keep the fan on constantly here to drown out traffic noise. This Best Western is in such a nice part of town, I was convinced it must have started out as an apartment complex or assisted living facility. But no, it was built by a retired pastor named Wesley who looked on hospitality as a ministry, not just an industry. The motto here is, "May you come as guests, and leave as friends." Based on our employer's booking experience, I'm guessing that's not your motto.
We have stayed at your facility nearly every June for six years for my husband's contract work. Good luck with filling the 40 night vacancies you lost between the two, 20 night room reservations. Even at a discounted rate, that represents a lot of money. But, as I said, we are delighted with the way things turned out, and you made it happen.
Thanks again,
The Lambs
Thank your for declining to honor the quoted rate of our reservation and refusing to offer a corporate rate to our corporate employer for your hotel rooms. Because of you, we are staying at the much nicer Best Western Wesley Inn. Although we enjoyed the oversized rooms we were usually given at your hotel, our suite here is not only oversized, but has a jacuzzi and fireplace in the bedroom. And a pocket door separates the bed and bath from the living area. We enjoyed the made to order breakfasts that were included with the room, but there is a nice, free breakfast here, with no asterisks. Hopefully you have changed the lobby music from 30's era nightclub, which sometimes drove me out into the rain to escape, but music is a matter of preference and the front desk staff were friendly and helpful enough to endure the bad music. They play Christian music here. And instead of outside seating on the hot concrete facing your parking lot, I can enjoy the sun by the beautifully landscaped outdoor pool area. Or I can choose to relax in the other courtyard by the gas fireplace. Too bad you don't have a pool or a courtyard, people appreciate those amenities.
I don't even have to keep the fan on constantly here to drown out traffic noise. This Best Western is in such a nice part of town, I was convinced it must have started out as an apartment complex or assisted living facility. But no, it was built by a retired pastor named Wesley who looked on hospitality as a ministry, not just an industry. The motto here is, "May you come as guests, and leave as friends." Based on our employer's booking experience, I'm guessing that's not your motto.
We have stayed at your facility nearly every June for six years for my husband's contract work. Good luck with filling the 40 night vacancies you lost between the two, 20 night room reservations. Even at a discounted rate, that represents a lot of money. But, as I said, we are delighted with the way things turned out, and you made it happen.
Thanks again,
The Lambs
Only God Can Do That
We are back in Gig Harbor for the next three weeks--a gig Reed has had nearly every summer since Semitool sold their Falcon 50 to an operator here seven years ago. Since the jet's annual inspection is due in June, we usually celebrate our anniversary, the 25th, at Anthony's in Gig Harbor. One year, when Reed's help was not needed, we had no idea where we should go out for dinner--in our own hometown. Last year was our 40th anniversary, or as Reed would say, 50 years with the chill factor. We were looking forward to our familiar getaway. But then our son, who was living with us, relapsed/drank and we realized we could not trust him to be alone in our house. Of the options that occurred to us, the simplest was to bring him along. I wanted it to be punitive for him. I was convinced it would be punitive for us. Sharing a hotel room with a grown son on our 40th anniversary sounds more like a sitcom episode than a romantic interlude.
Providentially, the one unit at the hotel that had a separate bedroom was available. Reed wanted Tracy to join him at the airport in the afternoons and work on the inspection, both to repay the extra expenses of bringing him along and, because he is a mechanic and familiar with airplanes, he could be helpful. And there's also the punitive factor, this was not a vacation. (Although, it is for me.) In spite of that, we didn't make him go with Reed in the mornings because he was recovering from adrenal surgery and his energy level was still low. So some days after breakfast, Tracy and I would go to the harbor, a museum etc. before I took him to the airport to work.
God made something much sweeter than lemonade out of those sour circumstances. It was wonderful to have someone accompany me sightseeing and learn to love the places I already did. At the airport, Tracy removed panels, cleaned parts and was generally useful on the inspection. And he enjoyed being part of the team and an atmosphere of camaraderie rarely found in auto shops. In the evenings, we went out for dinner and Reed had someone to share the triumphs and trials of the day with who actually spoke "mechanic". To our surprise, we all had more fun on the trip because Tracy came along. Only God could turn a booze binge into a blessing.
The Bible is full of examples of people in the mess where sin had placed them encountering God, experiencing blessing, receiving promises. I have been studying Judges lately and have been struck again by how unworthy of help the Israelites, including the judges, were. When God raised up Gideon to deliver them from Midianite oppression, the people were still so idolatrous they threatened to kill Gideon for pulling down their Asherah pole. He was only spared because it apparently belonged to Gideon's father, who told them if their god couldn't defend himself, no one else should either. This is another incident that contrasts the huge difference between me and God. I would never have sent those idolatrous ingrates a deliverer even though I, too, am an unworthy ingrate.
Only God has the ability and, more importantly, the desire to turn our well deserved consequences into undeserved blessings. When Tracy said he wished he could come to Gig Harbor this year, we wished he could too. We missed the camaraderie and having him as part of our team. And now, since he will be moving back to Kalispell in a little over a week, he can come. We are flying him to Seattle for the final week of inspection and, especially, to help load and tow a large aircraft "jig" Reed is bringing back from Nampa, ID. There's a saying, "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.", but to turn the stinking leftovers of sin into a feast that you long for again--only God can do that.
Providentially, the one unit at the hotel that had a separate bedroom was available. Reed wanted Tracy to join him at the airport in the afternoons and work on the inspection, both to repay the extra expenses of bringing him along and, because he is a mechanic and familiar with airplanes, he could be helpful. And there's also the punitive factor, this was not a vacation. (Although, it is for me.) In spite of that, we didn't make him go with Reed in the mornings because he was recovering from adrenal surgery and his energy level was still low. So some days after breakfast, Tracy and I would go to the harbor, a museum etc. before I took him to the airport to work.
God made something much sweeter than lemonade out of those sour circumstances. It was wonderful to have someone accompany me sightseeing and learn to love the places I already did. At the airport, Tracy removed panels, cleaned parts and was generally useful on the inspection. And he enjoyed being part of the team and an atmosphere of camaraderie rarely found in auto shops. In the evenings, we went out for dinner and Reed had someone to share the triumphs and trials of the day with who actually spoke "mechanic". To our surprise, we all had more fun on the trip because Tracy came along. Only God could turn a booze binge into a blessing.
The Bible is full of examples of people in the mess where sin had placed them encountering God, experiencing blessing, receiving promises. I have been studying Judges lately and have been struck again by how unworthy of help the Israelites, including the judges, were. When God raised up Gideon to deliver them from Midianite oppression, the people were still so idolatrous they threatened to kill Gideon for pulling down their Asherah pole. He was only spared because it apparently belonged to Gideon's father, who told them if their god couldn't defend himself, no one else should either. This is another incident that contrasts the huge difference between me and God. I would never have sent those idolatrous ingrates a deliverer even though I, too, am an unworthy ingrate.
Only God has the ability and, more importantly, the desire to turn our well deserved consequences into undeserved blessings. When Tracy said he wished he could come to Gig Harbor this year, we wished he could too. We missed the camaraderie and having him as part of our team. And now, since he will be moving back to Kalispell in a little over a week, he can come. We are flying him to Seattle for the final week of inspection and, especially, to help load and tow a large aircraft "jig" Reed is bringing back from Nampa, ID. There's a saying, "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.", but to turn the stinking leftovers of sin into a feast that you long for again--only God can do that.
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
Not Playing That Game
I read an editorial letter recently urging those of us who vote by mail to wait until the campaign is nearly over to cast our votes. In other words, he wants us to willingly participate in the political party game of saving some information dirty bomb they have been sitting on for months, so they can detonate it just before the election when it is too late to determine if it is fake news. The writer cited last year's night before the election dust up between Greg Gianforte and a British journalist. I hate to break this to him, but I was an election judge that year and the comments I heard from voters were 4 to 1 in favor of what Gianforte did. In Dave Barry's 2017 Year in Review, he wrote that this signified "that in much of the nation journalists enjoy the same level of popularity as head lice." Fortunately, I have no personal experience with head lice, unfortunately, I have more respect for them than the press. I believe journalists are often guilty of trying to be the news instead of report the news. But this is not "much of the nation", this is Montana. Gianforte's opponents spent a lot of time and money pointing out that Greg was guilty of not being from Montana. His election eve body slam established for many of us native born that Greg is a Montanan at heart. Montana has a long standing tradition of election night fights.
So Mr. Editorial writer, I am no more likely to wait until election day to fill out my ballot than I am to disable the spam filter on my computer. I do not rely on last ditch propaganda to make my decisions. If I want fake news, there's always Facebook. But to delay voting until the last morsel of mud has been slung--I'm not playing that game.
So Mr. Editorial writer, I am no more likely to wait until election day to fill out my ballot than I am to disable the spam filter on my computer. I do not rely on last ditch propaganda to make my decisions. If I want fake news, there's always Facebook. But to delay voting until the last morsel of mud has been slung--I'm not playing that game.
Wednesday, May 2, 2018
La "Quaint"
Because the room rate for the Hampton Inn we have been staying in for our previous Seattle trips had gone up over $40 per night, exceeding the $150 limit given by Reed's employers, I booked our latest stay at the Seatac La Quinta. Its summer rates were still affordable and it was literally across the street from the Hampton. Also desirable was that it provided breakfast. I have never stayed at a La Quinta, but was willing to give it a shot. I knew it was an older hotel but it has, for the most part, been updated and kept in good repair. I don't really know how to describe why I didn't like it. It didn't help that there was a construction barrier in the lobby because one of the elevators is broken, that the narrow hallways had chipped paint and doors, that the room was small and looked out on a parking tower. I'm afraid the main reason I didn't like it is because I've become a hotel prima dona over the years. It was way nicer than the motels my family stayed in when I was a child. And not that many years ago, I would have been happy to stay there. La Quinta is the Spanish equivalent of a country villa. The word quinta means fifth, not as in "a good place to drink a fifth", but because such farm villas paid a fifth of their income in taxes. Sadly, that has not changed much. But to me Quinta is an anagram for Quaint. Somehow, in spite of being fairly clean and updated, it still seemed shabby underneath.
Reed was watching me for signs of "aah factor" the shoulders relaxed, deep breathing sensation I get at most of the places we stay. There was not going to be any aah factor at the La Quinta, and we, mostly me, were going to be there for eight days. So that evening we walked to the Hampton to see if looking pathetic in person made a difference in the room rate. Alas, no. It was Tulip Festival, the cruise season has started. As I knew from checking rates before we came, Seattle is in summer mode. But helpful Monte at the front counter called his counterpart at the Aloft Hotel next door and said to try there. Sammie managed to give us the rate they give airline employees, a price which does not go up in tourist season. Not only that, but she upgraded us to a large, corner room with a similarly large bathroom.
Aside from feeling we are too old for the vibe of this hotel, I am aah-fully content here. It is brand new, everything high efficiency, so high efficiency they are already having to redo wiring, but somehow I don't mind the construction here, even when it is right outside my door. The sparse, furnishings are minimalist, some look like oversized Lego pieces. As in Europe, your key card controls the electricity so the lights go out when you do. You have to pay for your food and most of it is disgusting healthy. But if you choose not to have daily maid service, you get a $5 per day "green voucher" to use as you wish. In case you actually want to eat organic quinoa or, ironically, get a drink at the bar. I do not, but I am cheap and will use the money for food that is minimally healthy. There are only two drawers in which to unpack, but I am actually storing some of the things I would normally put in a nightstand in our in-room safe. I don't think there is a laundry room here. This hotel is for hip young business travelers who have enough energy to do more than watch TV after work--but apparently not do laundry. There is a pool table, a bar and music in the lobby. Or so I've noticed when we return from dinner to go watch TV in our room. Actually, we are mostly reading, not only reading, but reading digital media. That is about as close to young hipsters as we get. We would still prefer the homey Hampton to the green Aloft, but at least it ain't "Quaint".
Reed was watching me for signs of "aah factor" the shoulders relaxed, deep breathing sensation I get at most of the places we stay. There was not going to be any aah factor at the La Quinta, and we, mostly me, were going to be there for eight days. So that evening we walked to the Hampton to see if looking pathetic in person made a difference in the room rate. Alas, no. It was Tulip Festival, the cruise season has started. As I knew from checking rates before we came, Seattle is in summer mode. But helpful Monte at the front counter called his counterpart at the Aloft Hotel next door and said to try there. Sammie managed to give us the rate they give airline employees, a price which does not go up in tourist season. Not only that, but she upgraded us to a large, corner room with a similarly large bathroom.
Aside from feeling we are too old for the vibe of this hotel, I am aah-fully content here. It is brand new, everything high efficiency, so high efficiency they are already having to redo wiring, but somehow I don't mind the construction here, even when it is right outside my door. The sparse, furnishings are minimalist, some look like oversized Lego pieces. As in Europe, your key card controls the electricity so the lights go out when you do. You have to pay for your food and most of it is disgusting healthy. But if you choose not to have daily maid service, you get a $5 per day "green voucher" to use as you wish. In case you actually want to eat organic quinoa or, ironically, get a drink at the bar. I do not, but I am cheap and will use the money for food that is minimally healthy. There are only two drawers in which to unpack, but I am actually storing some of the things I would normally put in a nightstand in our in-room safe. I don't think there is a laundry room here. This hotel is for hip young business travelers who have enough energy to do more than watch TV after work--but apparently not do laundry. There is a pool table, a bar and music in the lobby. Or so I've noticed when we return from dinner to go watch TV in our room. Actually, we are mostly reading, not only reading, but reading digital media. That is about as close to young hipsters as we get. We would still prefer the homey Hampton to the green Aloft, but at least it ain't "Quaint".
Holding On
I've been pondering why I walk so much better when holding my husband's hand. It was necessary to hold his arm after my knee replacements because my knees know a trick most others don't--When in doubt, give out. My surgeon said it was an uncommon brain stem reaction. Interesting, but not very helpful since, like most people, I have little control over my own brain stem. My knees also had ADD. Any distraction from the task of walking would cause them to give out. To this day, my left knee does not remember how to pivot. So for a long time I had to hold Reed's arm to make up in husband what I lacked in stability. (I'm sure Reed would like to expand upon this point.) But now, years later, I still find I walk better when I hold his hand. Perhaps the minor focus of that touch keeps my knees from being distracted by other things. When I am shopping in crowded stores, I've noticed barely touching the racks helps me walk better. I'm considering an experiment of walking with my thumb pressing on one of my fingers like my chiropractor did for muscle testing. That way I could, in effect, hold my own hand.
Similarly, some of the medications they now use for MS serve in that decoy capacity. In order to keep the patient's body from attacking its own myelin sheathing over the nerves, these drugs essentially say, "Look over here! Focus on me! These are not the droids you're looking for." Maybe that is what the unconscious pressure of holding hubby's hand does for my knees, perhaps they return to muscle memory mode. Or perhaps it's just the knowledge that if I start to stumble, I can count on him to hold me up. Either way it is a wonderful allegory for the Christian walk. We all stumble but we won't, ultimately, fall. Even in those times when we don't want to hold our Savior's hand, He is holding ours.
Similarly, some of the medications they now use for MS serve in that decoy capacity. In order to keep the patient's body from attacking its own myelin sheathing over the nerves, these drugs essentially say, "Look over here! Focus on me! These are not the droids you're looking for." Maybe that is what the unconscious pressure of holding hubby's hand does for my knees, perhaps they return to muscle memory mode. Or perhaps it's just the knowledge that if I start to stumble, I can count on him to hold me up. Either way it is a wonderful allegory for the Christian walk. We all stumble but we won't, ultimately, fall. Even in those times when we don't want to hold our Savior's hand, He is holding ours.
Human Petrie Dish
As I mentioned on Facebook recently, I have been in a vicious antibiotics cycle. Ever since I got artificial knees six years ago, I had to take amoxicillin before my twice yearly dental cleanings. Because of that frequency, I developed an allergic reaction to amoxicillin. Because of that allergy, for my recent wisdom tooth extraction I was given clyndamicin. I did not have an allergic reaction to that, I got C-Dif, which is what happens when antibiotics kill off the good bacteria in your intestines and leave the thugs to proliferate. Colons are unhappy with the thugs and attempt to "eliminate" them. My colon was so bent on elimination, I could not go anywhere a bathroom wasn't handy. Because of the C-Dif, they gave me--you guessed it--antibiotics. Big gun antibiotics that aim specifically for the intestines--vancomycin. One of the potential side effects of vancomycin is hearing loss, and I know people this has happened to. It is permanent. And it's really important to finish the entire vancomycin prescription or you can wind up with the brain-eating zombie version of intestinal bacteria.
The (probably overcautious) reason for giving dental patients antibiotics before having their teeth cleaned, is the (probably exaggerated) fear that bacteria from the gums will enter the bloodstream and infect the artificial joint. I can just picture two newly freed germs discussing this:
First germ, "So, where do you want to go now?"
Second germ, "I know this new joint where we can hang out."
At a time when unnecessary (which used to be considered medically necessary) antibiotic use is being discouraged by physicians, it is encouraged in dentistry even though there is very little data to justify it. Even in those rare occurrences of infection, it appears to be related to diabetes, bleeding disorders or poor oral hygiene, not gum disturbance by itself. In a few years, I expect they will reverse the recommendation because the danger of antibiotic resistance far outweighs the odds of artificial joint infection.
That is what happened to my husband. He went through his entire childhood dental visits without prophylactic antibiotics. When we moved to Kalispell, he was told he had to have them because he had rheumatic fever as a child. After about 25 years of taking pre-meds, his dentist said they were not necessary. Oopsy! Antibiotics can be discontinued but the bitter pill to swallow is there is no "undo" function on a prescription bottle. So I have no intention of taking premeds before my upcoming teeth cleaning and probably for any after that. I will gladly sign a waiver but, unless they can show me hard data linking teeth cleaning to artificial joint infection in a healthy person whose surgery healed years ago, I will not waver. I have no interest in being the human petrie dish for a study on the lifecycles of bacteria.
The (probably overcautious) reason for giving dental patients antibiotics before having their teeth cleaned, is the (probably exaggerated) fear that bacteria from the gums will enter the bloodstream and infect the artificial joint. I can just picture two newly freed germs discussing this:
First germ, "So, where do you want to go now?"
Second germ, "I know this new joint where we can hang out."
At a time when unnecessary (which used to be considered medically necessary) antibiotic use is being discouraged by physicians, it is encouraged in dentistry even though there is very little data to justify it. Even in those rare occurrences of infection, it appears to be related to diabetes, bleeding disorders or poor oral hygiene, not gum disturbance by itself. In a few years, I expect they will reverse the recommendation because the danger of antibiotic resistance far outweighs the odds of artificial joint infection.
That is what happened to my husband. He went through his entire childhood dental visits without prophylactic antibiotics. When we moved to Kalispell, he was told he had to have them because he had rheumatic fever as a child. After about 25 years of taking pre-meds, his dentist said they were not necessary. Oopsy! Antibiotics can be discontinued but the bitter pill to swallow is there is no "undo" function on a prescription bottle. So I have no intention of taking premeds before my upcoming teeth cleaning and probably for any after that. I will gladly sign a waiver but, unless they can show me hard data linking teeth cleaning to artificial joint infection in a healthy person whose surgery healed years ago, I will not waver. I have no interest in being the human petrie dish for a study on the lifecycles of bacteria.
The Changing of the Guard
The Changing of the Guard
At dusk we see the changing of the guard
as sun gives way to moon and stars.
Horizon flaunts a robe of purple hue,
tree branches reach toward skies of twilight blue.
Leave to the stars and moon to keep
their careful watch while we’re asleep.
And when their duty’s duly done,
in radiant garments comes the sun.
So has it been since time began
the Sovereign’s colors shown to man,
each dusk and dawn heaven’s curtains part
for the changing of the guard.
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
If Employers Said What They Meant
- We can't find anyone willing to work--for what we're willing to pay.
- We reward faithful employees--with extra responsibility, but not extra money.
- We reward whiners with light duty--so we don't have to deal with them.
- Smokers get twice as many breaks as non-smokers--because they get obnoxious otherwise.
- Non-smokers don't need breaks--because they won't complain.
- Dependable employees who call in sick--will be treated with suspicion.
- Slackers who call in sick will not be questioned--the same amount of work gets done, and it's a relief when they're not around.
- Workman's compensation is available--but drama queens get more.
- Please stay home when you're sick--unless we really need you.
- Blame will be recognized--achievement will not.
- Annual reviews--are not annual and do not involve raises.
- Problems with coworkers should be reported--we'll ignore them, unless there is a shooting.
- Leadership positions are available--to those not stupid enough to already work here.
- A college degree is rewarded with higher pay--experience in the actual field counts for nothing.
- Job training depends on the kindness of your coworkers--we will only tell you if you're doing it wrong.
- Employees nearing retirement--may be fired capriciously, or abused into quitting.
- We expect less from millennials--it's like a disability.
- Mandatory company meetings--are usually a huge waste of time.
- Resumes should include--meaningless jargon.
- Incompetent employees--are easier to promote than get rid of.
Sunday, April 8, 2018
The Life He Has Now
This poem is along the same thoughts as the previous one for Roddy. Unfortunately, I do not know my cousin Rusty very well because we lived so far apart, his family in Sacramento, mine in Missoula. I barely knew him before his accident, but he now lives in the Boise area, and we used to travel there frequently for Reed's work. Uncle Ed and Rusty would meet us for dinner when we were in the area and, though his slow speech is hard to understand, I have come to know some things about Rusty. For one thing, He knows the Lord and that gives us more common ground than being cousins ever could. For another, he is perpetually smiling and seems content with his life.
The reason for this poem is to address "quality of life" because it is used as societal justification for both abortion and euthanasia. The problem is neither individuals nor our culture has any right to determine quality of life on another's behalf. Quality does not come from having perfect genes, or health, or family life, or any other external factor. It comes from the attitude of the individual, and that cannot be determined by a genetic test, physician, or mental health counselor. As I've said before, handicapped or not, people are generally as happy or unhappy as they choose to be.
The Life He Has Now
My cousin Rusty went from being
a tall, handsome high school quarterback
to a rodeo riding, horse trainer,
married, with a young son.
A horse accident turned him into
a brain injured paraplegic--
no longer married.
Much has been taken from him,
but not his love for God, or horses
or enjoyment of life.
He requires assistance,
but lives in his own apartment.
A motorized wheelchair
lets him navigate his small town.
A computer gives him access to
the horses he cannot ride,
and relatives he cannot visit.
In these days of assisted suicide,
he might have let the injury-induced depression
determine the end his life.
I’m sure he misses the life he had,
the things he cannot do.
But he would also miss
the life he has now.
Our times are in God’s hands.
But the quality of each man’s life
is in his own.
4/7/2018
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