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.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
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.
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