Love Him or Hate Him

    Whether you love or hate Donald Trump, there are things I believe most Americans would agree on if politics were not an issue. Most citizens expect the right to due process--to know, face and question our accusers. We would probably not feel we should forfeit that right due to a job change, such as becoming president. And I think most of us prefer to believe that if we were accused of doing something illegal that was, for example, recorded in a phone call, that the actual words of the transcript and actions that followed, would carry more weight than the perceptions of our coworkers. Especially if we are their boss. . . and they think someone else should have got the job . . . and they want to get us fired.
    You may notice some vague similarities between this hypothetical situation and the endlessly impending impeachment the Democrats are intent on for two main reasons, besides hating Trump. That goes without saying. The first one reminds me of that scene where the Wizard of Oz tells Dorothy and company to "ignore the man behind curtain". It is hard to convince people who are enjoying the benefits of a good economy and improved national security that they are poor and oppressed. Every good magician uses misdirection. In this case, impeachment is the pretty assistant they want us to keep our eyes on, but the trick is taking too long and the audience is starting to leave. The second reason is that, despite having a huge pool of Democratic candidates to choose from, they have nobody likely to win an election against Trump. Or against the Energizer Bunny. Or Sponge Bob. It is one thing to tell people to ignore the man behind the greater America curtain, and it is another thing to give them someone else to look at. So far most of the candidates who have bobbed to the top of the pool are memorable for doing or saying something stupid.
     Even though I believe Donald Trump has an oversized ego and undersized moral compass, I also believe God has chosen him to lead our country. And I believe, moral compass notwithstanding, he has done what our leaders have needed to do for a long time--support Israel, stop funding U.N. nations who oppose us, quit apologizing like battered women to countries who want to kill us, stop making taxpayers sponsor killing the unborn, honor our Christian heritage, military, etc.
     Whether you love or hate Donald Trump, removing legal rights from the President is a dangerous precedent to set for those of us lucky enough not to hold that office. Since, as impeachers claim, the President is not above the law, then neither is he beneath it. His right to due process is long overdo. And we ignore rights at our peril, because reaping what you sow is God's quid pro quo.

A Million Thanks

     Acceptable manners have changed a lot in my lifetime. My Grandpa never went out in public without his straw fedora hat. Conversely, he never wore one inside the house. Now men wear hats everywhere. Even my 92 year old Dad now leaves his cap on in restaurants. The men of my household leave their hats on during dinner, although the spare sons who lived with us didn't. But for them, eating at a dinner table was a rare and almost sacred experience. When the woman cutting my son's hair asked how he styled it, he said, "With a hat." When she asked how he wore it with his hat off, he said, "I'm asleep. It doesn't matter." From the old TV shows I have watched women, too, wore hats in public, but keeping them on inside, even/especially in church was good manners. There are a few churches that still require women to wear head coverings although the cultural significance these had in Biblical times has been unknown for centuries in the U.S. And it is still etiquette in England to wear hats for formal occasions like weddings. Hat rental shops still hold sway in the U.K.
     But this post is not about hats. It is about how acceptable manners have changed, except in the area mentioned in the title--Thanks. The lone hold out against the evolving etiquette of our time is the humble thank you note. Even though we can now communicate by phone, text and email, it seems the only acceptable way to thank someone for a gift or service must involve a piece of paper and a stamp. Hipster households might be hard pressed to locate a stamp much less know where it goes on an envelope. Why have polite requirements for showing gratitude remained stationery? I don't know, but our local paper's advice column has complaint letters almost weekly from disgruntled "thank-less" givers. Don't get me wrong, gratitude is important, it is the expectation that everyone must do it the same way they did in Napolean's time that gets under my skin. Why can't the same people who insist we address both members of gay couples as husbands and lesbian couples as wives, get over snail mail? Is the USPS secretly bribing the manners police?  The fact that manner's guru Emily's last name was "Post" would be more than enough evidence of collusion to impeach her if she had ever become president . . . and was not deceased.
     So I guess this is my complaint letter about complaint letters--politeness is not measured by postage. If there are a million things to be thankful for, perhaps courtesy can condone more than one way to express it.

From Heaven to Birth

    I wanted to write a poem about Christmas, but the concept is both too familiar and too grand for me. Instead, I have written this prayer:

Lord,

There is nothing new for me to say about Christmas. I have no words different or better than those of the prose and poems and hymns of others. I have only amazement that the Son of God chose to enter humanity through the door of Christmas, to remain forever in human flesh. Amazed that in inscrutable grace you chose conception in the womb of a young woman whose only qualification for the job was willingness to obey the Lord she loved. I am amazed that you chose to be born, not in a palace, nor even the simplicity of a peasant hut, but in a stable, surrounded by animals. I'm amazed that you chose as your first worshipers the unwashed outcasts of the working world--shepherds. That of all the people on the earth, they were chosen to see and hear the praise of angels. And if angels praised this event which made no change at all in their status before God, what should I do whose salvation depends upon it?

All I can do is read the accounts, sing the carols, and echo the praises of those who believed before me. And to marvel in the miracle of a Savior who chose to be Emmanuel, God with us. The door from heaven to birth that you opened at Christmas, remains open for all you have inexplicably chosen for spiritual birth. Even I, who am often unwilling to obey, and love many things more than you. And would be totally unwilling to become a helpless babe again, or be born in a stable, or reach out to unwashed outcasts. All I have to offer is amazement and wholly inadequate praise.

Things I Wish I Knew Before

I wish I knew my yeast was too old before I made homemade, low-rise rolls for Thanksgiving dinner.

I wish I knew spray-on root color has the same texture as regular spray paint, that never completely dries, before I applied it.

I wish I knew the Diet Coke I had with my dinner would cost $4 before I ordered it.

I wish I knew that you can't (or at least I can't)  match the pattern of ombre yarn when you add a second skein, before I started the baby blanket.

But most of all--
I wish I knew that keeping the heated seat on for most of a 10 hour drive can result in discomfort much like a mild sun burn, before our trip to Seattle.

How to Become a Pessimist in 10 Easy Steps

1. Notice when your negative predictions come true, but not when they don't. After all, you can't keep track of everything.
2. Tell worst case scenarios to people who are already discouraged. Consider it a reality check.
3. Deflect encouragement from others. They probably don't mean it.
4. Call your negativity realism. All pessimists put "Realist" on their name tags.
5. Forget God's past faithfulness. Focus on an unknown future
6. . . . and on politics. That's always uplifting.
7. Fill your mind with us vs. them news talk or sermons. It feels good to have your opinions validated.
8. Remember all past injustices done to you. It is not a sin to have a good memory.
9. Justify your own past offenses. God's grace has got those covered.
10. Share negative things about others. It's not gossip if it's true.

I Wish I Was My Husband's Cell Phone

    Sometimes I envy my husband's cell phone, not because it is an I-phone versus my Samsung, but because:

•      He has not looked at me with that much intensity since our honeymoon.
•      He is always attentive to its call.
•      He enjoys stroking it.
•      He recognizes when it needs recharged.
•      He feels lost without it.

     However, there are also reasons I would not want to be my husband's cell phone, such as:

•      Close examination would reveal how much I have changed since our honeymoon.
•      In order to be constantly attentive, he would have to be constantly under foot.
•      I do not always enjoy being stroked, and especially being swiped. 
•      My husband and I do not get recharged in the same way.
•      Every wife, at times, wants her husband to get lost.

     
     





   

Connie's Condensed Christmas

     My husband and I have now traveled to Seattle three times in six weeks. Before the third, and I desperately hope, final installment of contract work here, I realized that we would be getting home two days before Christmas. That meant I had one week to:

•  finish shopping for and wrap gifts
•  mail a package to my brother's family in Alaska
•  have Missoula gifts ready for daughter to deliver
•  decorate the house
•  buy food for both Christmas Eve fondue and Christmas dinner 
•  deliver gifts to our pastors, two of whom will be gone when we get back
•  make peppermint bark for staff at the pharmacy where I take blood pressures weekly
•  make and decorate sugar cookies
•  deliver cards and visit with friends in care facilities                                                  

     I am an annoyingly organized person. I was one of those students who had all their end of semester homework done early, as in, I had no one to hang out with finals week because everyone else was studying. But being gone for a week right before Christmas was an organizational stretch even for me. I had to decide which elements of our Christmas traditions were most essential. When the kids were at home, I fixed six kinds of cookies, three kinds of candy, Chex mix and egg nog for the holidays. Now that it is just Reed and I and Tracy, who has stopped eating sugar, we decided to pare it down to three essentials--sugar cookies, rosettes and almond bark. Rosettes are the best of both worlds--fried and cookies, but they don't keep well (which I didn't know until the kids left home), so I'll make those after we get back. Almond bark will only take minutes to make. But cutting out and especially, frosting, sugar cookies takes time. I had drafted my daughter for that duty, but she had to cancel at the last minute. Fortunately, Tracy was planning to repair the car of a widow from our church and, because she can't drive at night, he was going to her house to pick it up. I told him to invite her to come with him to our house for food, fellowship and frosting. After all these years of decorating them the same way, it was wonderful to have fresh ideas to go with the fresh cookies.
     My home decorating theme was twofold--minimalist and safe. Safe for, and from, my two year old granddaughter. I hung wreaths where she couldn't reach them and unbreakable ornaments where she could. Reed and Tracy strung lights on the fence, but not on the house. Thankfully, someone bought an "As seen on TV" Star Shower light projector for a gift exchange years ago, and we wound up with it. It's much easier to turn on lights than string them. Reed and I were willing to forego a real tree and use our quick and easy fiber optic ones this year, but Trace both wanted, and was willing to water, a real tree.We had neither the time nor the inclination to go out and cut one, the latter due to disastrous attempts at this when our children were young. Since those culminated with buying one at a tree lot anyway, we decided to just skip to the end. So we bought a tree. It was the right price, height and circumference, however, the branches are so spindly, I can only hang "lite" ornaments on it. Fortunately, the lights are lite.
     It is an interesting challenge to separate the trappings from the truth of Christmas. Traditions add to the beauty and anticipation of the season, but all we really need for Christmas is Christ. All any of us ever need is Jesus.
    
    

Homeless Haven

    If I were homeless, I would much rather be in Seattle than Montana. Seattle's winter low temperatures are Montana's highs. But beyond that, Seattle has a reputation as a homeless haven. The homeless camp in public parks and in upscale neighborhoods. The waterfront has more beggars than fish. The needle exchange program designed to protect drug addicts from contaminated syringes has exposed thousands of non-drug users to disease from carelessly discarded needles. Not to mention the contamination from urine and feces in public areas and, frequently, public restrooms. Which is why I'd rather hang out in a hotel than sightsee in Seattle.
     I think most of us support community services that give the poor a hand up when they find themselves homeless through circumstances like medical bills, broken automobiles, broken homes or job loss. Although there are many jobs available for those willing to work. People in those circumstances are homeless by necessity. The problem is those that are homeless by choice. Some would rather sleep outside on a frigid Montana night, than comply with the curfew or sobriety requirements of a shelter. I recently learned of a mentally ill young man who left the warmth and safety of a shelter because they would not let him smoke at the time he wanted to. Instead, he was hanging around our community services building waiting for someone to find him a place to live. He exercised his right to leave with no intention of taking responsibility for finding new housing. Mentally ill people do not make good decisions. Neither do addicts. So, much of the money allocated to help people get back on their feet, goes to those who have limited ability to, or no intention of, doing so. Homelessness is becoming a crisis. Cities that used to be tourist meccas have become unsafe and unsanitary.
     There is no easy fix to this problem. Those who abuse the free services in one city can simply move to another. Eventually, there will be a taxpayer uprising. Property owners in places like Seattle are going to be reluctant to pay high taxes in neighborhoods overrun by squatters. Communities will run out of resources. Police are already refusing to risk death entering homeless encampments. Meanwhile, even though it will hurt some who genuinely want to change their circumstances, we need to cut back on providing tiny houses, tents and sleeping bags, the kind of perks that promote a haven. Because those who choose to make our hometown their homeless camp, claim their haven at the cost of ours.

10 Signs You Have Stayed in a Hotel Too Long.

    

1. You know which rooms to choose to get the most sun.
2. You nickname one of the elevators, in this case, "Old Squeaky".
3. You bring clothes you don't even plan to wear because, at the hotel, you'll actually iron them.
4. You no longer need the TV channel guide.
5. You have a favorite stall in the lobby rest room.
6. Ditto for parking spots.
7.   "      "    tables in the breakfast area.
8. You track days of the week by the breakfast selection, especially "bacon" days.
9. Your computer auto fills the room number for internet access. 
10. You have time to write a ridiculous number of blog posts--like this.

And Molech Smiles

     I did not want to write this particular poem. There is no reason such dark thoughts should come to me while sitting in the sunny, comfort of a corporate aircraft lounge, knitting a baby blanket. Knitting a baby blanket. Maybe that was why. Abortion in America displays the tragic dichotomy between what we know about unborn babies and how we treat them. And it reveals the darkness of human nature remains unchanged, regardless of the idol, apart from God's light.

                                                And Molech Smiles

                                            Long before the time of Christ,

                                         babies were sometimes sacrificed.

                                         Rolled on Molech's waiting arms

                                         into the idol's fiery tomb

                                         for a better crop, a bigger herd,

                                         future success by blood insured,

                                           or a father's whim to kill his child.

                                                    And Molech smiled.

                                            There were other ways

                                          in those barbarous days,

                                          babies died inside a womb

                                          ripped open by a warrior's sword.

                                          One less enemy to fight.

                                          But all in war is justified.

                                            One less mother, one less child.

                                                    And Molech smiled.

                                             We know the truth in modern times, 

                                           scan the unborn, so abortion finds

                                           its tiny target. Deaths the fiercest savage

                                           might scarcely comprehend.

                                           Dissected by a healer's hands

                                           with a smaller sword, of cleaner steel,

                                              we claim the right to kill our child.

                                                       And Molech smiles.

Recalculating

     I was born needing a GPS. It's amazing I found my way of the womb. I had trouble finding my way home on my first day of school. We lived a block and a half away. Before GPS, when I drove in a big city, I would study maps and driving would be my test. Oh, how I hate story problems. Then I would make notes with turn-by-turn directions. (At least driving is an open book test.) But no matter how detailed I tried to be, I would forget something. I found the right exit, but when I needed to decide whether to turn right or left at the intersecting street, I inevitably chose the wrong direction. That was not a big problem in a city like Boise because there were lots of lots (parking) where I could turn around and head the right way. However, in places like Portland, where exits lead to different bridges, and towns, I did not even attempt driving.
     But I had one advantage--I learned to drive in Missoula. Big cities have more cars and they move faster, but none of them are laid out with street names that end and reappear at random intervals and directions like they do in my hometown. Missoula's traffic planners appear to have sent a rat through a maze with a marker tied to its tail and used that as a template. In some cities, streets are named for states, types of trees, even alphabetical. Names that fit together in some logical order. Notable exceptions to the logic method are Dallas where, whether from kindness or greed, streets are named in honor/memory of the rich and famous, and Atlanta where all downtown streets are named Peachtree, but differentiated by St, Ave, Blvd, Ln, Ct, Cir, etc. Your GPS cannot sort that out for you.
     I think GPS is one of the greatest inventions of my lifetime because it not only helps me find the right exit, but gives me plenty of warning before I get there, and then tells me which way to turn at the end. My favorite GPS function is "Recalculating" because even if I miss my turn, it finds me another way to get where I'm going. I wish life had a Recalculating option. Then when I did or said something stupid, a non-judgmental voice would tell me what to do to get back to where I need to be. Amazingly, God's will has, from human perspective, a recalculating function. God is not so unforgiving as to give us only one chance to get things right. He is always willing to help us find our way.

It Didn't End Well for Aquiel

     If my grandchildren ever ask me to tell them a story about when their mom and dad were young, I will definitely share this one because it illustrates what the Bible says about sin. We used to have an aquarium. My mother-in-law offered us one she had used it for a Sunday school class but didn't want  at home. We had aquariums when I was growing up, so I knew it is kind of relaxing to watch fish swim. We set it up and the kids named each goldfish, mostly after TV characters. But it was my daughter, Britten, who came up with the most original goldfish name--Aquiel. Aquiel was a fast swimmer. Speed is not usually a prerequisite for life in an aquarium. It's not like they have far to go. But Aquiel did not seem to know that, and swam as if training for the fish Olympics. One night, before we went to bed, we noticed her zipping faster and faster from glass wall to glass wall. Aquiel was amazing.

     The next morning, we found Aquiel dead on the floor. As it turns out, Aquiel was not racing around the aquarium just for fun. She had a plan. (If it was a she, hard to tell with goldfish.) An escape plan. Aquiel had been practicing building speed so that one night she could escape the confines of the aquarium and jump for her freedom. But the freedom she worked so hard for only led to her death. The aquarium hadn't just confined her, it kept her safe. The parable is obvious. The aquarium is like our lives when we follow God's ways. Sin promises us that escaping from God will free us, but the Bible tells us sin leads to death. It certainly did for Aquiel.

 

Fast, foolish Aquiel. 

                                                      She found her freedom,

   but it didn't end well.

A Tale of Two Listeners

     I help with our church Awana program on Wednesday nights. I am a listener. My job is to listen to the girls recite their memory verses.  For that I only need to attend the last half hour of Awana. But the last two weeks I filled in for a missing leader, so I was there for the teaching time also. The long time lecturer gave a couple engaging personal stories about wisdom before he spoke about the Bible's wisdom books--Job, Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes and Song of Solomon. I had heard him speak before, and noticed he has a tendency to teach concepts and ask questions that are either over the student's heads or so vague that, even I, struggle to follow. When I was not busy redirecting an ADHD girl in my row who was not just wiggling but seemed to be pantomiming a debutante putting on makeup, I found myself only half listening. I was thinking of telling the problem child to channel her excess energy into counting chairs in the choir loft--like I was.
     Later, while the girls were playing games in the gym, I visited with Natalie, the leader I usually assist. She was so excited about the wonderful lecture we had just heard. She asked if there was any chance it had been recorded (no), because he had condensed an important principle into just a few words, but she couldn't remember the specifics. Natalie told me she had been praying to hear the teaching through the ears of a child, as if it were all new, and every lecture seemed to speak directly to her. Meanwhile I, the listener, had tuned out after the illustrations.
     I know we were at the same lecture, she sat in the row behind me. But only one of us had listening ears, and it was not me--the one who has "Listener" printed on my name tag. This is my confession and, unfortunately true, Tale of Two Listeners. It would make an engaging personal story if I ever need to explain the concept of irony.

Treasure Within a Treasure

      My daughter is expecting a new little one in May. I had hoped to be able to write a poem for this grandchild as I did for big sister, Brie, and Will & Emily's, Jules. Today the idea came together. I don't think my daughter likes rhyming poems, but perhaps she'll appreciate this one.

     

Treasure Within a Treasure

Where are you my well loved child?

Treasure within a treasure.

Deep within your daughter’s womb

Almost too small to measure.

What do you do there in the dark?

How do you spend your hours?

Growing and changing cell by cell,

designed by God’s own powers.

What do you think of while you wait,

when the whole world’s unseen?

My world is in your daughter’s womb,

that is what fills my dreams.

When will I see my grandchild’s face?

Who tells you when to go?

I do not choose the time or place.

That is for God to know.

I will wait patiently then, babe,

dreaming of you with pleasure

safe in the womb of my firstborn,

treasure within a treasure.

And One in Heaven

     When people ask me how many grandchildren I have, I am now saying two and a half. Two beautiful granddaughters and a grandbaby in the early stages of production. But the truth is I have four--two born, one on the way, and one in heaven. My first grandchild, the one I call Peanut, miscarried at three months. But that is not the kind of reply you give to a casual question about grandchildren. Three is my equivalent of "fine" when someone asks how you are, but don't really want to know.
     But there are those few that do want to know. You recognize them because they share the healing grief/joy of having children or grandchildren in heaven. It is sad to have little ones you never got to meet, but it is sadder to have no one to share that with. Those little rosebuds that died before they bloomed wait in heaven for us and we will have all eternity to spend together. They are growing up in the most joyful, perfect place possible. We miss them now, but only for now--the ones in heaven.

Three Murderers and a Bible

     How many murderers did it take to write the Bible?  By my reckoning, three. Moses wrote the Pentateuch, the first five books of the Old Testament, the foundation of our faith. David wrote most of the Psalms--the Bible's hymnal, the default source of comfort for believers through the ages. Paul wrote most of the New Testament epistles, the church's instruction manuals. Not that being a murderer is a prerequisite to Bible authorship, but neither is it a hindrance.
     Moses was not held responsible for the lives of those who died in the plagues, drowned in the Red Sea, or he defeated in battle. But he killed an Egyptian who was beating an Israelite, and for that, even his fellow Jews, considered him a murderer. David killed many men in battle, but the death that made him a murderer was not even committed by his own hand. He murdered his mistress' husband, Uriah, by arranging for him to be killed in battle. Murder by remote. Treachery was the drone warfare of the ancient world. And then there is Paul, whose ritually clean Pharisee hands were complicit in the murder of Christians he persecuted. I wonder how many people in the churches he started and ministered to, lost a loved one because of Paul.
     Why does it matter that three of the forty men who wrote the Bible committed murder? Because we let the guilt of our past sins limit our service to God, and God is bigger than that. He does not condone our sin, but He uses, even that, for His own purposes. Even to do something as magnificent as writing the Bible.

"Caper"nick

    I am starting to have kinder feelings toward Colin Kaepernick, the NFL player who took a stand against police bias towards hyphenated Americans, by taking a knee during the national anthem. That would be like . . . I struggle for an analogy because the action has absolutely nothing to do with the cause. I guess it would be like the French overturning and burning cars to protest . . . everything. But for all Colin's misdirected principles, at the end of the anthem, he stood up and played football. In contrast to that, we have a group of anti-Trumpers who have taken a knee for, by football reckoning, three quarters of the game. Not only that, but we are forced to buy the tickets that pay them, whether  we want to attend their investigation/impeachment games or not. I am pretty sure even Democrats would like them to spend a little time doing the job for which they were actually elected or appointed.
    Kaepernick was disappointed to discover that disrespecting the country that gave him his opportunity and the patriots that paid his salary, resulted in losing his job. The fact that this surprised him, indicates that standing on his knee was more of an opinion than a conviction. Those with convictions know there will be consequences. Unfortunately, the political world doesn't run by the rules of a regular workplace. Those making a career of protesting Trump have job security that negates the need to prove their point, tell the truth, or do their actual work. And those kind of condoned capers can bring our nation to its knees.

Fit Bit Fit

     If someone were to ask me to prove that Americans are health obsessed, with apologies to those who wear them, my answer would be "Fit Bit". The fact that people who are not in compromised health feel the need to continually track their activities, heart rate, calories burned, sleep, etc. seems to indicate one of Americans' main goals in life is to make that life longer and healthier. While there is nothing sinful in those desires, Christians seem to be have lost sight of the temporary nature of human life. Our time on this earth is limited. Fit Bit and kale notwithstanding, the Bible says our lifespan is appointed by God before we are even born Ps. 139:16 "Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." And when Jesus said in Mt. 6:27  "Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?" (NIV), it was not because Fit Bit hadn't been invented yet.
     Just as Christians are called to be good stewards of the planet God provided for us, we should also be good stewards of our bodies, especially as it relates to sin, as in sexual sins, gluttony and laziness. But God has not promised us long, healthy years on Earth, that promise is for heaven. The persecution and martyrdom of Old Testament prophets and New Testament disciples illustrates God's servants are not in it for the health plan.
     A friend of mine recently broke her wrist hiking. From her Facebook posts, hiking is the passion of her retirement years. But it seems to me that it uses a lot of time and energy for little spiritual benefit. Admittedly, walking is not my thing. After I have walked for a while, my ADD knee forgets what it is supposed to be doing, and starts letting me down--literally. I tend to exercise and/or knit while watching TV in the evening so the time won't be totally wasted. Still I can't imagine that when I settle accounts with God over my use of time, that He will be impressed with how much effort I put into maintaining a body destined for dust. So I thank God every morning for my strong, healthy body, but I do not plan my day around it, and I certainly do not want to plan my life around it. Not when I could be wasting time writing rants like this. Fit Bit, for me, is just not a good fit.

I Always Wondered, the Sequel

    My sister, Robyn, friend, Diane and I have a tradition of going to a particular craft show together every November. This year, we had barely started looking around before I noticed someone looking at me. It was MacKenzie, my granddaughter for the three years Tracy was engaged to her mother, Amanda. I saw Amanda urging her daughter forward, probably because she didn't remember me well. Four years is a much longer time to a nine year old than it is to me. I always wondered what I'd do if I saw MacKenzie again, now I know. I hugged her, probably too tight, and said, "I missed you so much." I told her how big she'd grown, but I did not look too closely, because my eyes were threatening to overflow. So I spoke only a little, hugged her mom and went on my way.
     Letting go of MacKenzie was one of the hardest things I have ever done. The summer before they broke up, I watched MacKenzie two days a week while her mother worked. After she started pre-kindergarden, I picked her up from school once a week and took her to dance lessons. Tracy and Amanda had a troubled relationship before she got pregnant. Losing their baby finished it off. We lost our first grandchild, and then we lost MacKenzie. Eventually I was able to move her school picture, a craft she had made for us, and the sonogram of "Peanut"  from the top of the nightstand to the bottom drawer, and months later to the cedar chest.
     I wrote my sorrow into posts and poems. I asked God for the strength to let her go. And it worked because this year, when her picture popped up on my Facebook Memories feed, I did not even cry. Seeing her in her dance clothes posing on our hearth with the jack-o-lantern we had carved together, evoked a warm memory instead of pain. As with Andy in the previous blog, I was relieved to find I didn't say anything to make Amanda feel guilt or pain, or dishonor the Lord I am supposed to represent. So I suppose I can trust Him if someday I see Lance, the homeless young man God allowed me to have as a son for two years. I always wondered what I'd do.
   

I Always Wondered What I'd Do

     I always wondered what I'd do if I saw Andy again. As it turned out, I said, "I thought you looked familiar. You stole our car." Technically, he didn't steal it. He just bought it and didn't pay for it. But because there was a verbal agreement between us, the lack of payment was not police business. Perhaps I should backtrack. Andy was the first of the homeless boys Tracy invited to stay with us. He was 17, had lots of family in the area, and no one who wanted him. His parents had split up and found new significant others who decided Andy and his brother were insignificant, so the parents set their teenage sons adrift in the world. One of conditions for staying in our home was having a job and paying something toward expenses and Andy was not ready for that. So I asked him to contact his mother in New York and see if he could stay there. She eventually sent him bus fare, but later he returned. He left as an overweight teenager and returned as a slender meth addict. Tracy wanted to help him out. Andy needed a vehicle and we had an old Eagle for sale for $1200. We had no intention of taking payments or giving him the title until he gave us some money, but Tracy assumed we would be willing because we knew Andy. He promised to pay $75 a week (from the job it turned out he had lost a couple days earlier). Tracy gave him the title. We didn't see a payment, the Eagle, or Andy again. Until last Saturday.
    We recently had another car for sale. This one in even worse shape than the Eagle and priced accordingly, $300. Reed called from the airport to say a buyer was coming for the Mazda. I was surprised he hadn't warned me the buyer was Andy, or even that they were willing to sell the car to him but, as it turns out, they didn't know either until they saw him in our driveway. Reed and Tracy had little to say while they readied the car. I visited with Andy's girlfriend and her daughters. Andy has four daughters but those were not his. He looked too good to be on meth and he told me daily AA meetings were a condition of seeing his daughters. Much to my own surprise, I gave him a hug before he left and told him I was glad he was doing better. Although I was also glad when I found out he had had two cars stolen from him recently. What I forgot to tell Andy was that I had prayed for him all these years.
     I had just prayed that morning that the dented, transmission impaired Mazda would somehow be a blessing to somebody. Very few people would be desperate enough to consider that particular $300 car a blessing. For hours after he left I kept double checking with God about His bizarre answer to my prayer. One thing is for sure, we were not going to feel bad if the Eagle expired shortly after the sale. I always wondered what I would do if I saw Andy again and was relieved to find out the few words I spoke were kind and that I reflected, in a small way, the God who has faithfully forgiven me. And I was able to see a partial answer to my prayers in Andy's sobriety. The following Saturday, God answered the same question in another, more painful, situation.

Historic Hysterics

   Today is Kalispell's first "sticking" snow of the season--sticking, defined as snow that accumulates rather than disappears when it hits the pavement. From the hubbub the weather forcasters/guessers made a month ago, one would believe snow is unheard of in Montana. Last month we were inundated with warnings about a HISTORIC snow storm. These days everything is sensationalized--political news, perceived insults, even weather, but I still find it annoying. After all the historic hysterics, the storm did not even hit here, though it left feet of snow around Glacier Park and east of the mountains. Admittedly, so much snow is unusual for September, even in Montana, so terms like unseasonable, early, record setting are appropriate. But historic? Historic is for things like Lake McDonald Lodge, the flood of 1964, the eruption of Mt. St. Helens, not preseason snow.
    I believe the weatherpeople used the term "historic" just to make a fairly dull, and often inaccurate, part of the news draw attention. Especially from the national weather channels who would otherwise scarcely notice a snowstorm in Montana. The solution to news channels sensationalizing the mundane, is not for the weather channel to jump on the bandwagon. It is bad enough when a forecast of normal winter weather is now deemed an "advisory". A storm (also normal winter weather) is announced as an "alert". A blizzard that wouldn't even have cancelled school when I was growing up (and most kids walked to school), is now "emergency travel only".  This is the reason many people don't take evacuation orders seriously before a __________________ (insert weather disaster here). The inevitable result of histrionic inundation is historic indifference.

Mary, Did You Know?

     The title is not referring to the song we hear at Christmas, although I think it is beautiful and has, as I write this, burrowed itself deep into my brain. What I wonder about Mary is if she knew her children would come to faith. She knew Jesus was the Savior of the world and her personal Savior. But Mary had other children that she loved. They each had to choose to accept Jesus as their Savior just as we do now. We know from Mark 6:3 that Jesus had four brothers--James, Joseph, Jude and Simon and an unknown, unnamed number of sisters. We also know from John 7:5 that during Jesus' earthly ministry, even his own brothers did not believe in Him. They were not even there to support Mary at the crucifixion, or Jesus would have given the care of his mother to one of them instead of his disciple, John. (John 19:26). Since James and Jude wrote books of the New Testament, and James was an early leader in the Jerusalem church, we know they believed. But Joseph and Simon are not mentioned. I wondered if they ever came to faith. And then I read Acts 1:14, "They all joined together constantly in prayer, along with the women and Mary the mother of Jesus, and with his brothers." Stuck casually in the list of those who gathered in prayer to await the coming of the Holy Spirit is the answer to my question and, I'm sure, Mary's prayers--her sons believed.
     I think that if Mary had her way, her sons would have believed while Jesus was still on earth. It must have broken her heart to see them mocking, instead of supporting, Him. Even in the unsaved world, there is an expectation that brothers will stick together. She must have wondered, when the miracles and her own faith could not convince them, if anything would. I could not imagine the God who had chosen Mary to bear His Son would let her bear the pain of not knowing all her children would be with her in heaven. I knew that fear for my own prodigal until God showed me He was pursuing my son in our unforgettable experience on the road to Rimrock, in the post I call "Stone Pillar". That settled the question for me, God cannot fail to capture those He pursues.
     As my newborn granddaughter proves, physical birth can now be scheduled and induced, but spiritual birth happens only in God's timing. Not Mary's. Not mine. The when is not for me to know.

Ripples

     Recently our family flock was blessed by the arrival of another granddaughter. It made me think about the way love seems to expand in ripples. When I was young, I loved my parents and (perhaps, to a lesser degree) my siblings. The family I grew up in was my epicenter of love. My love for them did not lessen, but I knew there was a love greater than a child's for her family, and I found that in Reed. Not all at once. Not a great romantic splash. Just the irresistible pull of a man who loved me unwaveringly. I could not imagine a love greater than I had for my husband. Then I had a baby, and it took love to a whole new level. I loved my husband as much as ever, but I loved my daughter with a fierceness that amazed me. I would die for her. I would kill to protect her. The two sons that followed did not diminish that wave of love, but I was no longer surprised by it. I couldn't imagine loving anyone more than I loved my children. Then I became a grandmother, the ripple spread. Love had expanded again. Love for my children was the lens that magnified love for my grandchildren. Now I cannot imagine loving anyone more than I love my granddaughters. But someday, if I become a great-grandmother, I will probably find love has expanded another ripple.
     But these are human loves, where does the love of God come in? God provided the water that forms the ripples. God threw the stone that placed me in a loving family. God's loving guidance drew me to my soulmate. God's unconditional love was the pattern for raising my children. God's abundant love blessed me with grandchildren. God's limitless love spreads those ripples to many others besides my family. And God's eternal love will one day carry me home.
   So rest in that love baby Julie, those waves will rock you all of your life.

Lecture Detector

     I am looking forward to many teachable moments with my grandchildren as they get older, times when they ask questions and I can share how Jesus transforms my life. But I am worried about lapsing from teaching to preaching. I heard one brave speaker on the radio say he gave his children permission to call him out if he preached more than 90 seconds--which he noticed was the point at which they stopped listening anyway. I did not need to tell my children. They came equipped with lecture detectors. If I did not notice they were no longer listening, I could not fail to notice the eye rolling, which was so pronounced, I thought they might dislodge an eyeball. (Admittedly, the thought gave me a little pleasure.) But my grandchildren might be more polite than my children, I sincerely hope they are, so I am thinking of making a Lecture Detector Checklist. 

   1. Am I the only one talking? Even if I'm not lecturing, I'm monopolizing the conversation. People who are interested, join in--if I let them.
   2. Am I saying you more than I'm saying me or we? Especially if you is followed by should. It is infinitely better to share how I learned to apply God's Word in my real life situations than how I think they should in theirs theoretically.
   3. Check the body language. Does the other person look bored? at their phone? at the exit? Eyeballs rolling on the floor? Are their arms crossed? (When my husband's arms are crossed, they function like the deflector shields on "Star Trek", I might as well stop talking.)
   4. Am I listening to learn more about them or gather material for my next sermon? I did this to my children and, sometimes, still do to my husband. Also, am I listening just enough to springboard back to what I was saying? (See monopolizing above.)
   5. Am I asking questions to understand their viewpoint or to defend mine? Ouch! (See long suffering husband above.)

    Of course, not lecturing is easy when my grandchildren are two, and yet to be born. "No, no Brie!" is about as long a conversation as she can take in. My wisdom, such as it is, will not benefit them if it is not in a form they can take in. If wisdom from above is spoken in love, it should not set off their Lecture Detectors.

Sponsored, In Part, By . . .

     I attended a wonderful ladies retreat this weekend and deeply enjoyed the intimate fellowship with other women from my church. I love reading books but find, when people open up, their stories are far more fascinating than anything I have found between the covers of a book. After all, life stories are written by God. But what I have been thinking about today, is something that the speaker shared briefly about helping the poor, like the ones you see standing next to the road with a cardboard sign. She said she often gives them a gift card to a fast food restaurant along with a tract. I have considered that. I take feeding people very seriously. If Kim Jong Un came to my door asking for food, I would probably feed him--especially if he had fatal food allergies or I had rat poison on hand.
    But Family Week at Rimrock reinforced that addicts can sell anything to fuel their addictions. In one example, a mother would visit her daughter, buy her bags of groceries so there would be something in the house to eat, and as soon as her mother left, the daughter would sell the groceries to buy drugs and alcohol. Even though I have no control over what someone does with a fast food gift card, giving them one would essentially be aiding and abetting their addiction--sponsoring their sin.
     But how about the poor that are not addicts? (Although, almost all are if you count smoking.) The problem I have with those is that, from the street corners where they are holding "Anything Helps" signs, in every direction you look there are businesses displaying "Help Wanted" signs. From outward appearances, many of those begging for a living are perfectly capable of working for a living. Most have all their limbs and the ability to stand for long periods of time, even in inclement weather. And although I often see mentally ill people on the streets, they are seldom the ones begging. Some of these are capable of performing jobs, but not getting or keeping them because they lack the social skills necessary for the workplace. Thankfully, there are community resources available in our county. And some mentally ill, as well as an increasing number of physically disabled people, are working the fast food jobs so many healthy young people are unwilling to. These job opportunities are one positive benefit of millennial malingering.
     One of our friends has a neighbor who was an electrician. When he became unemployed during the financial collapse of '08, he tried his hand at pan handling. It was so much easier and more lucrative than working, he took it up as a career. He even commuted to Missoula in his nice pickup, because the "free thinkers" there were more generous toward "free drinkers". So, even if giving to beggars is not sponsoring their sin of addiction, it is sponsoring their sin of laziness. Working to support yourself is not just God's command to Christians, it is His expectation for all people. I will have enough of my own laziness to answer to God for, without adding strangers to the list. And I certainly don't want the back of those, "Anything Helps" signs to read, "Sponsored, in part, by Connie Lamb".
   

Not the Sharpest Knife in the Drawer

     For many years I looked forward to hunting season, not because I hunt. I don't. I don't even particularly like wild meat. I looked forward to hunting season because it was the only time I could count on getting my knives sharpened. A sharp knife is not only handy for hunting, but essential for butchering, so while Reed was sharpening his knives, he would sharpen mine. Will gave me a couple types of knife sharpeners when he lived at home but, though I followed the directions, I didn't seem to get the point.
     When Reed brought home an electric knife sharpener from Cabela's, I hoped it would be user friendly enough for even me. How different could it be from a kitchen appliance? And the desire to have sharp knives whenever I wanted was keenly felt. I could not get as good an edge on a blade as Reed does with it, but at least I could make the sharp side cut better than the dull side. This time Will wanted to borrow my sharpener. He recently returned it so, while it was sitting on the counter, I skimmed the quick start guide and determined it was set up to sharpen scissors. My kitchen shears were getting dull, so I sharpened those along with five other pairs of scissors. But when I tried to open a bag of frozen vegetables for dinner, my newly sharpened kitchen shears could not cut through the plastic bag.
     As it turns out, I was one space off in the directions grid. I was "sharpening" shears using the wrong guide installed the wrong way and, probably, the wrong sanding belt. I had just dulled six pairs of scissors. It didn't strike me until much later that an intelligent person would have tested the sharpness of the first pair before moving on to five more. The next day, Reed managed to make them functional again without making any of the cutting remarks he was entitled to. I guess the only thing I should put to the grindstone is my nose. When it comes to honing, I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
              .

Unintended Consequences

     This is the first summer in recent years in which Kalispell had a non-smoking section. I could go outside, see blue sky, and breathe clean air, even in August. This is in spite of, not thanks to, environmental groups who have protested every timber sale for decades. But instead of losing millions of trees to logging, we lost millions of acres of trees to forest fires. The unintended consequences of protecting forests from human management were disastrous fires that not only burned the trees and animals activists wanted to protect, but later caused landslides that destroyed homes and polluted rivers, killing even more creatures. Although groups still sue to stop timber sales, I'm sure their member's enthusiasm cooled when many of the houses that burned were their own. The methods they now teach those who live in the woods to mitigate the danger of forest fires is what used to be called--logging. And the protect by neglect movement is gradually burning out.
     But there are worse consequences than forest fires. For most of my six decades, American culture has been protesting the validity of objective truth or standards, not to mention the God who established them. We want the right to determine for ourselves what is right and wrong. The unintended consequence of doing what is right in our own eyes is that some people have really dirty lenses. They see nothing wrong with things as abhorrent as pedophilia and mass murder. After a shooting, there is a national outcry--How could anyone do that? We already have the answer, but we don't want to hear it. Without objective standards, or a God to answer to, the shooter's viewpoint is as valid as anyone else's.
    Human culture is subject to the same principles as the natural world--intentional or unintentional, all actions have consequences.Whether we are choking on smoke or gunpowder, something precious and irretrievable is going up in flames.

A Blessing From Grandma

    I just realized I almost passed up an opportunity for an easy blog post and a way to get double mileage out of a poem I wrote for my soon-to-be granddaughter. I did not want to post it until after Emily's baby shower, which was silly since only one person there reads my blog, but made sense to me at the time. Now it makes sense to break my blogging dry spell with a poem I wrote in a writing monsoon.

A Blessing from Grandma              

Jesus, give this little lamb

The strength to grow and play and run

And many long years in the sun.

Savior, guard this little one

From hate and hurt and sorrow.

Give hope for each tomorrow.

Jesus, help this little child

To dream, and learn, and read

And follow where you lead.

Comforter, when this girl

Is happy, let her praise the Lord,

Is troubled, calm her with your Word.

Shepherd, seek her tender soul,

If she should go astray,

And help her find her way.

Lamb of God, who loves His sheep,

bless this Lamb, when she has grown,

With a family of her own.

6/11/19

Push, Pull, or Drag

     My blog has been nagging me to get back to word work, so I will develop this idea that came to me weeks ago through my Bible study in John. In years past, some of the local car lots would advertise a "push, pull or drag" sale.  Meaning your trade-in, even if it wouldn't start, would go a long way toward buying a new vehicle. We never took advantage of these offers, although we have had many cars in push, pull or drag condition, because if we had the money for a nicer car, we would not have been driving those junkers.
     I think we women sometimes use this approach for our loved ones' spiritual growth. We think if we can just push, pull, drag or nag them to the right service, video, book etc., they will emerge a nicer, newer model. While it is definitely God's will for our loved ones to come to Christ and grow in the Lord, He has elected the time and the method as well as the individual. Jesus' interactions with people are almost disappointing in terms of pressing for a commitment. Jesus led his conversations with people to the heart of the matter--their heart. He let them realize their need, but He did not give an altar call, hum "Just as I Am" or manipulate their emotions. He trusted the Holy Spirit to finish what He had begun.
    I know from personal experience that the Spirit is fully capable of pushing, pulling or dragging us to Christ. Yes, I was convicted by those altar calls at church, but I was convinced by the Spirit's voice hammering at me when I was alone with my thoughts in the comfort of my home, and the discomfort of my lost condition.
     Evangelism Jesus style is not nearly as satisfying to us wives and mothers as the push, pull, drag method, but ultimately we want more for our loved ones than outward compliance to Christian behaviors. We want inward, spiritual renewal, and only the Spirit can drive them to that place. We can pray for them, but we are unlikely to be the instrument God uses to change them. So I try to let my life and my words display my confidence in God to finish what He started in their lives. And then I pray for the Holy Spirit to push, pull, drag, even waterboard, them back to the Lord who loves them.  God managed to run the universe without my help before I came along, He will somehow muddle through after I am gone, so I might as well trust Him now to do what I cannot for those I love. No push. No pull. And it's a drag.

Why Doesn't It Work?

     I have often wondered about decisions that were entered into slowly and prayerfully but still do not seem to work out. Reed and I had many friends at Bible college who got married after knowing each other well, praying for direction, having premarital counseling, and with their family's approval. A few years later we found out many of them had divorced. We had taken those same steps, so I had to wonder why it didn't work? What did they do wrong? Would that happen to us?
    And then there were friends from our church, seemingly, a happily married couple. He was offered a new job. He and his wife prayed about it, went out of state to interview with the owner, felt that it was definitely God's will. A few months later, he had an affair with a coworker and divorced his wife. Obviously infidelity was not a job requirement, but why would God direct them to take a job that would destroy their marriage?
     Then there is the missionary couple who, at God's direction, adopted a baby while they were on the mission field, raised him with their children. He loved the Lord and served him as a child, but when he grew up, he walked away from his family and his God and has fallen into all kinds of sin. We all know, or have lived, similar stories. Health, businesses, and churches fail. People who are loved and very much needed die. Prayers seem to go unanswered. What happened?
     These events are not the end of the story. The couples who divorced moved on, some remarried, some prodigals came back to the Lord, some are still coming. People regain their health or income, people find other churches. God comforts the grieving. But these events still make us feel vulnerable. What good does it do to follow God's direction if it still leads to a bad road? The only answer I can find is that this life is not the one with guarantees. Heaven is where we are promised no pain, no sorrow, no tears.  And even if God's direction doesn't lead where we want it to, it is still the best map we have to work with.
    So we read God's Word, pray, seek wise counsel, look for confirming circumstances, and make the best decisions we can. Because wanting everything to go right will keep us from doing anything at all, and that is not an option.
    

7 to 2

     In 1857, the Supreme Court decided that Dred Scott, whether he resided in a slave state or free, was not entitled to the rights and protections of citizenship because he was black. In other words, blacks were not fully human. The vote was 7 to 2. This black mark on our nation was lifted in 1868 when the decision was overturned by the Emancipation Proclamation. In 1973, (though justified through the questionable constitutional right to privacy) the Supreme Court decided that babies who resided inside their mothers are not entitled to the rights and protections of citizenship. In other words, unborn babies are not fully human. The vote was 7 to 2. Sadly, 46 years later, this blood stain on our nation has yet to be blotted out. I wonder what it would have been like to be alive when Dred Scott was repealed, to see that wrong righted. Obviously, neither the Emancipation Proclamation nor amendments to the Bill of Rights changed American attitudes or treatment of black people. That would take a century. Blacks were still treated as inferior, but they could no longer be treated as property.
     Repealing Roe vs. Wade, whether attitudes change or not, would end the legalized murder of unborn babies for being unwanted property of their mothers. Much of the credit for changing public opinion goes to the radical pro-abortion agenda in states such as New York and Virginia. Even without the indisputable evidence of medical science, most people know it's wrong to kill a baby on his birth day. And, thanks to our pro-life President's appointments, this Supreme Court may be more willing to overturn this travesty than those of previous decades. I would like to be alive to see Roe repealed, to see one of so many wrongs righted. And I am beginning to have a glimmer of hope. There is no way to give life back to the 60,000,000 who have been murdered, that stain will never come out, but the bloody floodgates could finally close.
    There will probably be no constitutional amendment restoring rights to the unborn because those are difficult to pass even at the state level. And, unless there is a round of sudden death among the Supreme Court justices, Roe v Wade will not be overturned 7 to 2. Our Constitution says our Creator has given us certain inalienable rights, but privacy is not among them, and certainly not the right to privately commit murder. I can even cite precedent--Cain vs Abel.

It's Washington

     We are staying in Gig Harbor which is, of course, in Washington state. Washington is already known as a "nanny state", one that assumes its residents are too inept to look out for themselves, so it has many laws that are considered unnecessary in more "ept" environments. One of the things I discovered I am protected from in Washington, is benefiting from my Kroger prescription plan. Even though there are many Fred Meyer pharmacies here, and Fred Meyer is clearly Kroger, they are not allowed to give the Kroger prescription discount, although they can give a Good Rx rate. The pharmacist's explanation--It's Washington. Meaning--don't expect logic. So I paid more for a one month supply of medication than I would for a three month supply at home. The main reason I use Smith's Pharmacy in Kalispell is that I can fill prescriptions at any Kroger pharmacy when we travel. Why Washington feels the need to protect its people from less expensive prescriptions most likely has a monetary, not medical, motivation.
     When a tourist runs into one of the nonsensical regulations, the resident's standard explanation is--it's Washington. At least they allow you to pump your own gas here. Oregon assumes its inhabitants are incapable of such a complex activity. Last night, we found out you are not allowed to take a glass container outside a building because--it's Washington. In Port Orchard, where we used to stay, the long arm of the state is not considered sufficient to protect pedestrians. At the main street crossings, you are expected to take a flag from the stands by the traffic signals and hold it as you cross the street. Apparently the laws about pedestrians having absolute right of way and the flashing lights to warn motorists are insufficient. You need to carry a flag. I was always tempted to march across the street performing a drill routine like the Sparkettes did in my high school, but I'd rather take my chances against a car than die of embarrassment holding a flag.
     One of the problems with a nanny state, is that lulling a populace into accepting illogical laws gives lobbyists more leeway to get the legislature to pass them. Thankfully, we have the state of Idaho and our rugged individualism between nanny and Montana. But unchallenged idiocy, whether from D.C. or p.c. state government, deserves a better response than--It's Washington.  
    

The Back Story

     We had a hymn sing at church a few weeks ago. The song leader was organized and the pianist was excellent, but we did not get to sing everybody's favorite. There just was not time. So there certainly would not be time for people to share why they chose a particular hymn and/or what it means to them--the back story. One man briefly shared about being in the service, in Asia, and desperately lonely, but he comforted himself by singing over and over "What a Friend We Have in Jesus", his request. Not only is there a back story to our own requests, but also to the choices of others. When someone asked for "The Old Rugged Cross", I remembered the first time I heard it, my great grandma's funeral. I thought it was wondrous. Mormons, at least back when I was in the church, were not trying to be as mainstream as they are today. We seldom sang about Jesus, much less the Gospel contained in a hymn like that.
      I had an emergency-back-up hymn chosen (Come Thou Fount), because the song leader threatened to make us lead if our selection was unfamiliar, but my first choice was "What Wondrous Love Is This". To my relief, the song leader remembered it from way back when he was in eighth grade. I first heard it, sung by a children's choir, at my friend Donna's funeral. She died suddenly of hepatitis when we were both 15, from human perspective, because her doctor was an idiot who did not recognize her obvious symptoms until she was beyond treatment. But the main reason she died so young, is that a Sovereign God had appointed her time. And He used her death to move me beyond a head knowledge about Jesus, to a heart cry for a Savior. Since death was no longer something that just happened to old people, I needed to know happens when we die. Donna's death was a giant step on my journey to life.
    Even I, a word miser, could not condense enough to share my story at the hymn sing. We could sing hymns or tell our stories, but we could not do both. Still I wish there was some time and place this side of eternity to share, not just the hymns, but our histories, because those are written, not just about Him, but by Him.

What Brie Will Be

     It has taken me two years to write this poem about my granddaughter. Slow, even for me. But I have used our time together gathering data. It may look like I'm having fun and being silly, but it is also serious research. Now that our second is on her way, and I am trying to write a blessing poem for her, I realize I now have enough data for an accurate poem about Gabrielle--Brie.

What Brie Will Be

I do not know what Brie will be--

Your looks and personality

Are more than just the products of

Your mother and your father’s love,

Much less the strange influence of

A grandmother like me.

But you have opened up my world

 The same way that your mother could

By helping me to see again

Creation, like it just began,

Adventures waiting close at hand

Like flags to be unfurled.

The swing set where you like to ride,

Our secret fort beneath the slide,

The joy of catching bubbles,

Of tickling and cuddles,

When hugs erase your troubles,

And mine are set aside.

With you as guide to childhood’s joys,

My grown up world is background noise.

There’s nothing I would rather do

Than spend my time playing with you.

Our playmate days are fast and few

Til you move on to other toys.

But still, I cannot wait to see

God use your personality

To fit the sovereign plans,

Shaped by His loving hands.

For He uniquely understands

What Brie will be.

6/12/19

Night, Night Monkey

    I waited many years to have a playmate/grandchild. Since she is not yet two, our play has mostly been me helping Brie learn how to use her baby toys, like how to move the buttons on her pop-up toy or turn the dial on the toy radio (which I'll explain to her when she can understand the concept of antiques) But my favorite game so far is "Night, night monkey".  When she was pregnant, Britten gave me a stuffed monkey that played a recording of Brie's prenatal heartbeat. Hearing the heartbeat of my unborn grandchild, holding a toy about the same size as a newborn baby, was the placeholder until the real deal granddaughter came along. When I found out my daughter-in-law, Emily, was pregnant, I retrieved the monkey from my closet shelf and displayed it on my dresser, a reminder to pray and dream once again. Since Friday's ultrasound, it is wearing the pink ribbon Britten had on it when she gave it to me. Emily is having a girl in October. Since my sister and I are both October babies, we think this is excellent.
    Because the monkey represented Brie before she was born, it seems only fair that she should get to play with it now. After all, I had a long turn. But the monkey is closely guarded lest the dogs assume it is their toy. If the dogs found it lying around, the heartbeat would be silenced in no time. Their toys have short and tragic lives. At first, we wrapped Monkey in a scarf just to make her look pretty. From there it morphed in the wordless way of playmates, into covering the monkey with the scarf/blanket and laying her down for night night.  When the heartbeat goes off, Brie says, "Monkey!" in the same scolding, but patient voice my daughter uses when Brie is being uncooperative. I am not showing her how to play with something, we are pretending together. It is only a taste of adventures to come, and it is a sweet taste.

   We share a time that I can keep

deep in my heart where memories sleep--

Night, Night Monkey.

Easter Expanded

     As I was trying to arrange our family Easter celebration this year, I was frustrated that my grown kids were making attending Easter dinner contingent on a roofing project also planned for that weekend. Admittedly, it was the only weekend in the near future that would work out for all our kids to help. And they were volunteering all of the labor and part of the cost. And the beneficiary was my friend, not theirs. But Easter celebrates the most significant thing that has happened in the universe since creation--the payment for our sin accomplished by Christ's death, and the defeat of sin and death accomplished by His resurrection. Celebrating of the root of Christianity versus shingling the roof of a modular. Which is more important?
     It all worked out because the weather was rainy the days before Easter when the tear off needed to be done. Also, I had begged them to delay because I saw no way to keep my husband out of the action, and he was fighting his diverticulitis, which flares up when he is overtired. Praise the Lord for providential poor weather.
    But the Lord spoke to me while I was at our church service pondering the miracle of Easter, "It was just as certain before it happened." Yes, the accomplishment of our salvation is worth celebrating, but the date we do that is not so important. Salvation was certain from the moment God formed the plan. After all, Christ told his disciples He had overcome the world before the crucifixion (John 16:33). God was not waiting around to see if Christ would really be crucified or hoping He would be able to raise from the dead. He knew. And now I know--our salvation is not secure because of what happened at Easter. It rests secure, as it has since the beginning of time, in our Savior's hands.      

Eat My Dust

     The title has nothing to do with my driving speed. I'm referring to my house. Our yard is basically silt with grass on top. Easy to dig in. No rocks to slow the dogs' excavation efforts. This year we went directly from snow covered to dusty. One day we're scooping poop out of the snow at our annual winter's end Soggy Doggy Doo Do, the next day the dogs are kicking up dust clouds as they run around the yard. This would not be so bad if both dogs had short hair like the Husky mix, Odin, but Baldr, the Malamute, is essentially an enormous powder puff and dust clings to his fur like Democrats to Russia collusion. My air purifier has as little chance of clearing the air as a "Me Too" accused. Pardon my waxing political.
     Banning Baldr from the house would be cutting off my nose to spite my face. As the poet said--Tis better to be loved with dust, than never to be loved at all. (And because I altered the wording, that is neither a quote nor plagiarism.)  So the dust devil duo are here to stay and dust is taking over my house. Buying a Norwex dust mitt was mostly a symbolic gesture. Housecleaning makes me want to punch something. The dust mites win. I concede defeat. I may use a tablecloth to hide the dust on the dining room table, but I get my revenge. I eat it.

Thanks for Coming

     My granddaughter is nearly two and growing more verbal, so I have been waiting to find out my Grandma name. So far it seems to be "Tum", and I think I have finally figured out why. When my daughter comes to pick her up at the end of  "grandma" day, she tells Brie, "Thank Grandma for watching you". Then I say, "Thanks for coming." This week Brie answered, "Bye, bye, Tum". Since she sometimes mixes up "c" and "t"--Cat is cat, but corn is torn, I think she is trying to say "come".
     I thought of that during communion yesterday. As I reflected on the reality of Christ's death on the cross for me, the richness of his resurrection, the rejoicing at His soon return, the best I could think of to say to Him was, "Thanks for coming."

But Then I Remembered

     As this health crisis with my niece has reminded me, I am thankful to live in a time and place of good medical treatment. In years past Amanda would have died, if not from the lupus, from the MAS that was destroying her blood cells.

•   But then I remembered, I would not have known about Amanda's disease before irradiation and thyroid supplements because I would have died ten years ago from Grave's Disease.

•   And then I remembered, Amanda would not have been born at all before Caesarean surgery because her mom would have died in childbirth with Alex.

•   But then I remembered, Robyn would have died or been severely handicapped before the blood transfusions she had at birth were available, because she had the same blood incompatibility our brother Roddy did.

       Our nation is in a time of anything goes immorality, constitutionally sanctioned murder of the most innocent among us yet, ironically, seeks legal protection from any perceived insult, including conflicting points of view.

•   But then I remember it is also a time of life saving medical technology. 
•   And then I remember God's plan is not limited by time or culture and this is the time He has chosen for Amanda to live, so she could live, and I could live to see it.

Holy Spirit Junior Strikes Again

     I have been struggling recently with critical thoughts. Since I have had victory in that area for some time, I wondered what had changed. Particularly, what had changed in me? Yesterday the Lord let me know in the gentle way He convicts me--although, He seems to find it necessary to repeat it several times, as if I'm a slow learner. I had retaken my role as my husband's Holy Spirit Jr. Part of the conviction came through that day's Family Life Today reading about "booing" your husband instead of cheering him on. The rest of it came through my Bible study in Proverbs. Wouldn't you know it would be chapter 31? Verse 11 says, "Her husband has full confidence in her." How could my husband have full confidence in me when I keep reminding him I don't have confidence in him? Verse 12 hammered the point home, "She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life." I had transformed our home from the haven God intended, to a home version of the principal's office.
    So where did I go wrong? Las Vegas. But what happened in Vegas didn't stay in Vegas. While we were there, we live streamed Sunday's sermon from our home church. Through that message from Proverbs, my husband was convicted about something I had hoped for a long time that he would change. So far, so good. The Spirit initiated his decision but, unconsciously, my flesh decided to nag him the rest of the way to the goal, even though Proverbs also has much to say about nagging. Holy Spirit Jr., my favorite part time job.
     So whenever my husband did not follow through with his new priority, I would be silent or sullen. When he talked, I found myself listening for openings to drop little hints about what more he should be doing. Then the Lord gave me the aforementioned spiritual spanking, and I realized how much I would resent it if Reed "listened" to me that same way. I was not treating him with the grace and patience God continually shows me. I was doing him harm, not good. And I was booing him. When I gave up trying to be the Holy Spirit's little helper and confessed it to God and Reed, it was like a weight lifted off. I was free to just enjoy his company as we share the blessings and burdens of life together.
    Why do I think that the lecture loved ones to the Lord strategy that would never work with my children, is still appropriate for my husband? I'm sure he must wonder how he got to be so lucky. The same God to whom I've entrusted my children, and many others, will be faithful to grow my husband just as He has me. In His time. With His words. In His way. NOT MY WAY! After 42 years of marriage, one would think I could figure that out, even if I am a slow learner. It is the Spirit's job to convict people of sin, He has been doing it since Eden, and He is very good at His job. And when I stop trying to be the Holy Spirit, the critical spirit goes away.

Beauty for Ashes

 

     We mostly missed out on the Mt. St. Helens explosion. We lived in Denver in 1980, out of reach of the early darkness and inches of ash the Northwest experienced. But the volcano is only an hour away from Portland, where Reed is working this week, so we spent Sunday at Mt. St. Helens National Park. Most of the sites for tourists are blocked by snow, but the visitor center is still open. One of the displays lets you drag your finger forward through the decades to show how life gradually returned to a landscape scarred by destruction and ashes. I thought of the following verse:

          Isaiah 61:3      To console those who mourn in Zion,
                                  to give them beauty for ashes,
                                  the oil of joy for mourning,
                                  the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness,
                                  that they may be called trees of righteousness,
                                  the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.

     Life did not return with drama like the explosion that destroyed it. Creatures that survived because they live underground, gradually crept out. Plants took root, even if they had to grow new ones to do it. Life returned slowly, one day at a time. It is a good illustration of spiritual life. When we see a loved one living in destruction, we want a Damascus road change. We want it to happen right now, if not yesterday. We want the ashes swept out and sturdy trees of righteousness growing in their place, but that didn't even happen to Paul after the original Damascus road. Paul spent three years being taught by Jesus and ten years serving in the church at Antioch before God called him into missionary service. To endure the imprisonments, beatings, shipwrecks etc. Paul needed deeply rooted faith. What we humans keep forgetting is--God is not in a hurry. Spiritual renewal, like nature's cycle, comes in its appointed time. Barely noticeable, beneath the ashes, God is planting beauty.