The Runaway Marriage Meets the Redeemer

    I did not realize when attempting cryptic endings on my last two posts, that I was writing myself into a corner. I now feel obligated to write the story of Reed's folk's elopement in a timely manner, just to finish the set. Though our marriage got off to an inauspicious beginning, we had a few things going for us: we were both of legal age to get married, 20, and our parents did not oppose our union. (At least not openly.) Not so for Reed's parents. If I started this story with the marriage of two young people in love who didn't know what they were doing, that would be most of us, so let's get more specific. Patricia was 16 years old and engaged to an older man, Delmar, age 20, whom she had known most of her life, but was at that time serving in the army. Pat's dad gave grudging permission for them to marry when Del came home from Korea. This turned out to be a loophole big enough to drive an elopement through when Del got a short leave and went home to Helena. Pat was not old enough to be legally married in Montana, but they had a plan. Del had a friend who could alter her birth certificate and they would drive to Idaho for a quickie marriage. We are gathered here today . . .

    When Pat's dad figured out what was going on, he tried to get the police to intercept them before they crossed the state line. He located and almost caught them, in Butte. If anyone objects . . . They worked their way to wedlock through a series of evasive maneuvers worthy of fleeing felons, involving multiple cities, transportation by car, bus, cab, and train, as well as disguising Del as a civilian. They caught a ride with a salesman in the jewelry store where they bought the ring, who happened to be going to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. He dropped them off at the courthouse where they got the license. Three wedding chapels were across the street. They chose the one without a line of servicemen and their sweeties waiting. In the presence of these witnesses  . . . Since there are no handbooks for sneaking away to get married, they didn't know they needed witnesses (and it's hard enough to plan an elopement for two people, much less guests). Ironically, after spending all that time fleeing law enforcement, their witnesses turned out to be a highway patrolman and a deputy. I now pronounce you man and wife . . . When they returned to Helena, Pat's dad's blessing on their marriage was, "I have put up with her for 16 years, let's see how you do it." After that unlikely joining, they made staying together even more unlikely by spending the first two years of their marriage apart, while Del finished serving in Korea.

     There is a popular column in the magazine "Ladies' Home Journal" called, Can This Marriage Be Saved? Or maybe, more appropriate in their case, Should This Marriage Have Started? But their marriage was saved because they were. They each trusted Christ as their Savior in 1963 and that changed the course of their lives and their children's lives--for which I am forever grateful, since I married their son. They were married 66 years before Del went home to heaven in 2020. Until death do us part . . . But only for a while, Pat, only for a while. God's plan for us does not require a good beginning, just a great Redeemer.

Our Ominous Wedding

     This is the follow up to my attempted cliffhanger ending of the last post. June 25, 1977 started out as just an ordinary day--Wait that sounds like one of those true crime shows on TV-- Our wedding day began with just the minor hiccups of getting hitched. Reed had camped out at our wedding site in the woods outside Missoula the night before, overslept, had one white and one yellow sock to go with his black tux. (If I cared how my spouse dressed, I would not have married Reed.) Reed's young, clueless cousin came into the trailer to change clothes at the same time I was trying to change into my wedding gown, so my maid of honor held my poofy slip between us as a makeshift privacy screen. Bugs crawled between the layers of my dress during pictures. I shook them out between poses and tried not to think about what might be crawling on the inside of the dress, especially on my body. 

     So much for the hiccups, now come the heaves. The pastor of my home church, where the reception would be held, did not make it to the wedding. We found out later it was because a stock car on a trailer had come loose as he followed it up the hill and smashed into his car. (Omen 1) As we headed from the woods to the reception, we saw a car had slid off the road and into a tree. It was our friend Ed, who was also serving as our wedding photographer, and his wife. He had lost control on the winding gravel road, both were injured. (Omen 2) We were the first car on the scene. Our best man, Dave, was next. Since both victims were able to move on their own, but their car was not, we decided to put them in our car and have Dave drive them to the hospital. Reed sent me up the road to flag down other wedding guests and warn them about the accident ahead, so I whipped off my veil and used it as a flag. Somehow, they didn't mention the veil's multi-purpose potential at the bridal shop.

    When we got to the top of the hill above the church in Dave's car, we noticed ours was at the church parking lot instead of the hospital. Next to it was an ambulance. In many circumstances it is a relief to see an ambulance, but your wedding reception is not one of them. Our car had died at the crest of the hill, Dave had coasted the rest of the way. (Omen 3) At this point we had no photographer for the reception, and no car to go on our honeymoon. But I didn't want a photographer right then anyway because I was crying. Thankfully, a family friend volunteered to take reception pictures. Meanwhile his father, the pastor who had married us, was visiting at our outdoor reception when he heard a crack overhead and stepped back to see what it was, narrowly escaping being hit by a large branch that broke off the cottonwood tree he was standing under. (Which omen are we on now? Oh yes, Omen 4) 

    If Reed and I had been superstitious, we would have skipped signing the marriage certificate and gone straight for annulment. Instead we borrowed his parents car, went to our honeymoon cabin (also borrowed), Ed and his wife were checked out at the hospital and my in-laws brought them (in their other vehicle) to their house to recover. Our wedding ceremony lasted ten minutes, but people remembered our anniversary for years to come because of the accidents, injuries, and expenses. Since our marriage, which began as such a memorable mess, has endured for 46 years, I'm glad we ignored its ominous beginning. Besides, our wedding wasn't nearly as complicated as Reed's folks elopement, but that story hangs on another cliff.

     

Our First Christmas Tree-saster

    When I recently posted on Facebook a Christmas blog I wrote years ago called The Perfect Tree, I realized I have never written the story of our experience as newlyweds getting our first Christmas tree--The Imperfect Tree, or more fittingly, Tree-saster. One December day before our first Christmas together, Reed was off aircraft school. I had stayed home from work because I had a cold so, since Helena had warmed up to a balmy 20 below zero, Reed decided we should go find a Christmas tree. After driving through the hills around Helena, we climbed a shale slope only to discover that the tree that looked good from below was more yellow than green on the side facing the hill. Since we had climbed up rock chips to reach that tree, and its neighbors didn't look any better, we decided to cut it anyway.

     My cold had drained most of my energy and climbing the shale hillside had depleted the rest, so I was having a hard time getting down the hill holding my end of the tree. Sometime during my sit/scoot descent and Reed's sideways slide, the tree made a break for freedom. It made much better time than we did in its downhill roll, and became even more aerodynamic when the branches snapped off from the cold. By the time the three of us reached the bottom, our tree no longer looked yellow because it was a limbless wonder. We left its nearly naked trunk and kindling at the bottom of the hill and drove back to town tired and treeless.

     When we arrived at home, there was a Christmas tree next to our trailer (it was not pretentious enough to call a mobile home). Reed's uncle had cut an extra tree while getting his own and left it for us while we were out not getting one. This event proved to be the first of several tree finding family fiascos that ended with us buying a tree from a lot three blocks from home. Eventually, we decided to skip the memorable mess of trudging through the forest to locate the tree my husband spotted when it served as a rest stop during hunting season, only to discover it was too scrawny to rest in the living room. Or the time it rained and Reed had to rock and push our stuck vehicle out with the deficient assistance of three preschoolers and a wife, all whining. 

    The little corner tree stands where people used to sell fresh cut trees for extra income during the holidays have been supplanted by a few expensive lots. Some of those support charities so at least the extra money goes to a good cause. When we moved to Kalispell, there were many tree farms where you could cut your own Christmas tree. Sadly, but understandably, most of those converted their properties to much more lucrative housing developments. In recent years we have bought Christmas trees at the same places we buy hardware. This year, the price difference between a 6 foot real fir and a 7 foot pre-lit faux fir was $9, so for the first time, we chose artificial for the traditional Christmas tree corner of our living room. It has both white and multicolor lights and nine program options for viewing them. That is a nice bonus, but the ad had me at $9.

     Holiday traditions are memorable, so are mishaps. When the two factors combine, those events become unforgettable--which is why so many people remember our anniversary. It is a good thing we were already married before we realized that our first Christmas tree hunt would be the pattern for more misadventures to come, otherwise the disasters on our wedding day would have had us running for our life, not becoming man and wife.

That Was the Whole Point

   There is no way for people to look at scripture objectively. Unbelievers approach scriptures as ancient myths to help the ignorant cope with life. Believers understand scripture is divinely inspired, accurate to events of the past and applicable for all time to all people. This is the correct view, but it is not objective either. Beyond that, we bring our own assumptions to how we understand what we read, and that can skew things too. I recently heard a speaker on the radio say that most Jewish women, and Mary in particular, understood that the Messiah was to be born of a virgin. Not likely. It is possible that Jewish women hoped to give birth to the Messiah, even Eve may have had that hope when she said, "With the help of the Lord I have brought forth a man," (Gen. 4:1) but that is hardly conclusive. If Jewish parents had understood Messiah would be virgin born, they would not have married their daughters off as teenagers. It would be far more prestigious for their daughter to be mother of the Savior than married to a doctor. The whole point of Mary's question, "How will this be, since I am a virgin?' is that she did not understand. 

    Another place preconceptions affect interpretation is when Jesus turned water into wine. Some people do not like the idea of Jesus drinking, much less making, a potentially intoxicating beverage. However, the word used for wine in John 2, is the same word for fermented fruit of the vine used everywhere else in scripture. There are two instances where another word, translated new wine is used. In the Old Testament instance, the word might refer to grape juice, but in the other (Acts 2:13), it means an especially strong, intoxicating wine. That is what the Pentecost crowd accused the tongue speaking Christians of drinking. In the Middle East, before refrigeration, non-fermented grape juice was not a long term option anyway. But in case of confusion, John added the banquet master's comment, "Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now." The wine Jesus created out of water moments before it was served, tasted like a well aged wine. That was the whole point of John including this in scripture. I wouldn't know the difference, but a banquet master would.  

   Recently in BSF, we studied John 7, where Jesus' brothers taunted him about going to the Feast of Tabernacles, "Leave Galilee and go to Judea, so that your disciples there can see the works you do. No one who wants to become a public figure acts in secret. Since you are doing these things (Amp. version--if you must act like this) show yourself to the world." (vs. 3, 4) Sounds decidedly snarky to me, and I know my snark, but there was still some theorizing in class that maybe the brothers believed enough to want to enjoy a little of big brother's fame. So in case there was any question, John adds verse 5, "For even his own brothers did not believe in him." Clarifying that was the whole point. Sad as it seems, it is probably a good thing Jesus' brothers did not believe during his earthly ministry because they certainly would have suffered with Him. And if His brothers were killed with Him, the early church would have lost James' leadership and the New Testament would contain neither James' epistle, nor Jude's.

    I enjoy speculating about the many things the Bible does not include--conversations, expressions, emotions, etc. but when verses are given for clarification, my assumptions must bow to what is written in the Bible. When we study the Bible, that is the whole point.

 

Christmas is Coming and You Are Not

    I'm trying Trace, I'm really trying to find ways to move past the sadness of your death, but Christmas makes it very hard. There are so many memories in the bag of ornaments I collected for you through the years. And there are new ones I asked your siblings to bring last year, things that represented you. So now there are ornaments for fishing, golf, tools, and a toolbox hanging on the little fiber optic tree we always put in the dining room. It is now the Tracy tree. Last year we decorated minimally, practically on autopilot. The bigger fiber optic tree sufficed for the living room, outdoor lights were on the fence and the star shower pointed at the front window. That was all we had the heart to do.

   This year we bought an artificial tree. You know I have never wanted one, but the same Home Depot ad showed the 6' fir trees we normally buy for $70 on sale and 7.5 ' prelit fake tree for $79 on Black Friday. And you also know I can't resist a bargain. Your dad put the full run of lights across the eaves and down the fence, but it took 3 hours without your help. We are trying to make Christmas familiar and good like I know you would want us to, but there is nothing familiar about this.

    Last Saturday we decorated your grave. The last thing any parent wants to do, but it would seem so desolate when the snow came without something for color and light. So Reed safety wired a wreath to the bench and put a solar light cross in front of it. Afterward we played Christmas carols by August Burns Red in your honor, but not for long. The sun was shining, but the wind was very cold. Since the cemetery closes at dusk, we never get to see the solar lights, but the ones we brought home from your grave last year still give a little light. There is always some light Tracy, lots of it where you live now. I'm sure we will have many happy moments this Christmas, but right now the decorations in their familiar places just make it more obvious that you are not in yours. We're trying Tracy. We are trying to move past the shadows and into the light.

Christmas is Coming and You Are Not

 

There is a certain callousness in Christmas, 

which comes unbidden with its load of gifts,

good memories of the ones we love

made painful because there will be no more,

at least, not like those that came before.

The music, lights and ornaments

which once brought peace and comfort,

are now tender reminders of

the empty places where you were loved--

that Christmas is coming and you are not.

I'm safe at home and surrounded by 

the things that used to bring me joy,

yet all I want to do is cry.

Cruel Christmas intruded as if it forgot

it shouldn't be coming if you are not.

We Thought it Was for Them

    I had planned to write this as prose because it makes an awkward and overly specific poem, but somehow I could not write it that way.

We Thought it Was for Them

 

We thought it was for our parents,

when we decided to go to Missoula

 for Thanksgiving this year.

It would be Reed's Mom's first one

apart from her youngest son,

and other family was gone that day.

My Dad and his youngest son,

no other family close about,

long used to holidays alone,

had no plans beyond eating out.

When we invited both to come,

we thought it was for them.

 

When we left the comfort of our home

so our parents would not be alone,

we thought it was for them.

 We'd forgotten the deep comfort of

resting in the lasting love 

of those who soothed us long ago.

 

When we made our change in plans

we did not fully understand,

though by this time, we should have known, 

  God's plans are bigger than our own.

It wasn't just for them--

it was for us.

Memories Knocking at My Heart

     That unsettled feeling I sometimes get around the holidays started after we returned from Colorado. Then I realized it was memories of Tracy stirring in my mind. I want to ignore them if they make me cry, but I remembered the Lord's message from last Christmas, that the memories are the part of Tracy I get to keep until I see him again. They are a gift from God that I would be rude to leave unopened. So I remembered my little boy charming the hats off of visitors by trying them on and looking so cute they let him keep them. The child who brought me his softest teddy bear to use as a pillow when I had a migraine. My purse and pockets full of rocks, miniature trucks and army men. Driving home from dropping the kids off at school with Tracy's stuffed animal of the day buckled into my passenger seat. My teenager coming home and crying on my shoulder when his girlfriend chose a rival instead of him. 

     I miss the solid substance of my son, but the memories are the pathway to those times. His expressions, his voice, even his stinky feet. And if crying is part of remembering, it is also part of healing.

 

Memories Knocking at My Heart

 

I sense it in the pulsing of my heart,

which inexplicably kept beating 

after yours was torn from mine--

memories knocking at my heart.

I feel it like the coming of winter,

like the holidays that lay ahead,

and with them, thoughts of you--

memories knocking at my heart.

Good memories, for the most part,

yet it hurts to hold them in my mind, 

to brush aside the mists of time for

memories knocking at my heart.

My Savior holds me close to Him. 

My family's love secures me.

I could not bear this on my own--

memories knocking at my heart.

 

For that would be a deeper grief

than I have ever known,

memories knocking at my heart,

and facing them alone. 

                                                                            11/15/23

Soaking in the Son

      This is another phone poem written on my phone. And another poem written at a hotel. I hated it yesterday. That happens, a writer does not have to love all her brain children. But today we have made a tentative peace. If it continues, I will post it.

Soaking in the Son

 

Thank you Lord for this,

for all the times like this,

sitting in front of a nice hotel

soaking in the sun,

when there is none at home.

For a time without schedules and lists

to think, and to breathe, and to be,

just be a daughter of a King

who loves me. Whom I do not,

cannot even, thank as I should.

And I go from these sunny respites

to a much more beautiful land,

to the place, people and purposes 

you have planned for me.

So many blessing, too few words.

And if this is how you choose

to bless me on a fallen Earth,

far from my King and Father,

what will heaven be like

when I come home to you?

 

To an indescribable land and

the people, purpose and home

you have planned for me. 

Soaking in the Son for all time,

yet still unable to thank you enough.

Quiet Quitting

     When we checked into our hotel on Monday, I was afraid it was in the midst of quiet quitting. That is the latest term for people who show up at work but give it their minimum effort. We used to call it being lazy--or a government employee. Lazy is also the housekeeping plan they encouraged us to choose--Decline service. No way! I can decline housekeeping at home. I would love to quiet quit that entirely. Since we are staying here for two weeks, they waived the $10 per day parking fee. Which they never had before. (And we have only seen at Marriotts in much swankier locations.) The airport Residence is hardly an in demand area. As platinum members of Marriott rewards, they are supposed to give us free bottles of water at check in. They did not, until we specifically asked. And our plutonium status also entitles us to either extra points or an item from their snack shop, I planned to do the latter, but she warned me to check it out first. I did. It was only one quarter full. The market pantry was definitely quiet quitting.

    I was looking forward to a cup of coffee from the urn in the lobby, but theirs is only available at breakfast. When we got to our room, it did not have an alarm clock or the USB ports which even flea bag hotels now have. I have so many good memories of sitting on the bench in front of this hotel, reading, knitting, praying, and just enjoying the afternoon sun. The bench is gone. Tuesday I was going to print statements from our bank and credit card companies on the secure internet in the business center. They had two nice printers. No computers. The desk agent told me where to go (to have documents printed). He said they haven't had computers since Covid. I was unaware computers could die of Covid and none of the other hotels where we have stayed are that paranoid about computer Covid cooties anymore. A business center without computers is definitely quiet quitting.

     Before we left for dinner Monday, I actually asked the front desk gal if the hotel was going out of business. She said no. The next day's breakfast, however, said yes. Both at 7:30 when Reed ate breakfast, and at 8:30 when I did, there was a only spoonful (hopefully not the same spoonful) of eggs in the breakfast bar that was supposed to be open until 9:30. Not a fan of eggs anyway, I decided to have oatmeal, but it had congealed into a hard mass that would not come out of the pot. My memories of their former assortment of fruit, cheese and pastries began to congeal too.

    I'm happy to report that things have improved. They managed to track down an alarm clock for our room and Reed had enough adapters for our USB needs. Breakfast the rest of the week has been pretty good, although they were offering bananas so brown I would only have used them to bake with. There are no flavored creamers for the coffee, but that is more than made up for by the pumpkin spice Torani coffee syrup the last two days. They even have cold brew coffee, which I have never seen in a hotel before. And for three evenings in a row, in the lobby spot where coffee used to be, there have been cookies instead. And as of Sunday, there is coffee in the lobby. Reed told a reservations gal at West Star what seemed to be missing from the hotel and she knew the manager, so that is probably what brought about the change. Sometimes it pays to be the squeaky wheel. There are even a few more items in the snack shop now.

    It helps a lot that it has been sunny and warm the past two days, so I am making new memories sitting in their courtyard until the sun quietly quits behind the neighboring hotel. So maybe the hotel is not quiet quitting, maybe it is just some of the employees. . . and whoever buys computers  . . . and orders alarm clocks . . . and breakfast items . . . and snacks. And with that, I'll quit.

When the King Meets His Steward

 

      I am still having a hard time harmonizing the diet that is eating it's way through the women of our church with scripture. Jesus commanded his followers "Not to worry about what you will eat drink or put on." (Mt. 6:25). Peter tells women to not focus on outward adornment but a beautiful spirit (1 Pet. 3:3,4). And in the Old Testament 1 Sam. 16:7 says, "For the Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."

    I have asked a couple Christian friends for perspective. My perspective is that of a mother seeing her son's healthy weight, physically fit, dead body in a casket. Yes, I care what my body looks like and, of course, I want to be healthy, but having struggled with an eating disorder off and on for 20 years, I do not want to waste any more hours of my life focused on food. My concern for some of these women, including the one promoting it in our church and on Facebook, is that it is easy to mistake controlling food intake with controlling your life. The latter is a job the Lord reserves for Himself. 

    At ladies functions, I feel like a recovering alcoholic whose friends have started drinking. Maybe control issues will not be a problem for most of them, but I hate to see mature Christian women focusing on their figure flaws and food when, without exception, these are not the bodies we keep. Certainly there are no specific commands against dieting, but what we eat and drink is to glorify God (1 Cor 10:31) and our focus is to be on the eternal, not the temporary (2 Cor. 4:18). 

    I do not want to discourage women who have felt trapped for years by their weight or appetite, but my prison looked a lot like where they are living now--focusing significant time and effort on an artificial eating plan. I have known from the beginning that I cannot follow this diet because I know my addiction voice would roar back to life. I am also praying for those I think might be confusing controlling their weight with controlling their life. I know what they are eating, but I am afraid that what some of them are drinking is this world's Kool-Aid--to value yourself based on youthful appearance, fitness, weight, and that by these things we control our own lifespan. Once again, God has already called dibs on that. Maybe I can work this dilemma out of my system with a poem.

 

  When the King Meets His Steward  

 

 When the King meets His steward

    and the steward must account 

    for the time and resources given

    for the service of the King--

 

He will not ask 

   the size of your thighs or your jeans,

   how much your body weighed

   before it was buried or cremated,

   whether your skin was wrinkled or smooth.

   How many miles you hiked,

   unless it was in his service,

   how healthy your body was

   or how fit it looked

   when your soul left it.

 

There is nothing wrong with

health, hobbies and appearance

except that they do not matter

to the King, or in His kingdom.

 

They do not matter because--

  these are not the bodies we keep,

  and trying to save their youthful

  weight, vigor and appearance

  is dead weight in the eternal realm.

 

We are the stewards of our bodies,

the King is the owner.

They are not part of the treasure  

His stewards are commanded 

to be saving up in heaven

because--

  When the king meets His steward,

  He provides a brand new body

  worthy of a servant of the King

  and the service of His kingdom.

An aging steward's priority

should not be what time has done to me.

This body is an earthly thing

from which I'll then be free.

Relieved, I do not have to bring

this worthless treasure to my King.

 

 

 

   

 

Joy Takes Wing

    If not for Grandma day with Ren, I might have missed the birds. I had noticed them, even just from the shadows where the sun touched the bedroom floor--birds, masses of them circling. But I would not have stayed outside to watch them if Ren had not been here, painting rocks with water by our fountain. Because I was with Ren, I didn't feel guilty wasting time watching birds. I always enjoy those times when they fly from tree to tree and speculate about who is in charge of the spectacle. Even after Ren left, I sat outside watching and wrote the following on my phone.               

Joy Takes Wing

With a fluttering of wings

like sheets snapping in the wind,

 the birds wheel from tree to tree.

 I, who watch them from below,

 wondering, would seek to know

 who tells them where

 and when to move?

 Savior, is it you?

 

 Whatever shelter there may be

 upon the branches of the tree

 lasts but a moment, then they flee.

 And though I do not understand

 the purpose in their hectic plan,

 I cannot tear myself away.

 Perhaps, Lord, nor can you.

  

Some, with scientific words

 like murmuration, say the birds

 are safer in great numbers.

 But most admit their ignorance

 of why sometimes birds choose to dance

 their noisy, aerial ballet.

 What would their Creator say?

 

 Perhaps, like me, He loves to see

 their high hopscotch from tree to tree

 just for His own enjoyment.

 For all His creatures here below,

 it gratifies God’s heart to know

 we delight in the world He made,

 and look up when we have the chance

 to watch joy take wing and dance.

 

10/18/23

Writer's Remorse

     I knew the process of getting published had changed, after all, most of what I now read are eBooks on Kindle. I sometimes miss the feel and texture of physical books, but I don't miss going to the library, especially ours. Since Flathead County Library (isn't that simple and concise) became Imagine If, and my library card read like a loyalty card to an adult book store--No Questions, No Judgments, No Values (oops, that last one was mine), I have rarely darkened the door of our library. But until a recent guest in our home, driveway actually (they slept in their camper) encouraged me to publish my poetry, and explained how simple it was on Kindle Direct Publishing, having my writing published remained an elusive dream. Since Jeanette Windle is an excellent writer, her encouraging words about my poetry gave me the push I needed to, at least, check into getting published. After all, I didn't have to write anything, I just needed to organize what I had already written.

    Since bringing order out of chaos is something I gravitate to, braiding together my grief journal, poems and blog flowed fairly easily. It seemed like something I should have thought of in the first place. My niece, and fellow writer, with a communications degree got me started on the KDP website and had a cover whipped up in no time. I wanted a picture with a lamb and she found one free on a website she uses. I knew there would be lots of formatting changes going from full sheet Word documents to an eBook and she showed me how to do that also. I wanted to foist the formatting job off on her, and would gladly finance the foisting, but if there are going to be more of my writings out there, I really should learn how to use the program. This mostly consisted of making page breaks between my prose and my poems. Fortunately, all but three of my poems fit on one page, so I did not have to split many of my brainchildren in half. Unfortunately, as I have sometimes experienced using Word, the titles which had started out centered became skewed and I spent a ridiculous amount of time unskewing and uploading them. By then I just wanted to save my text before anything worse happened to it. 

    The next step was figuring out price. I was thinking $.99 since that is what I am willing to pay for eBooks on Book Bub and my book is less than 70 pages, but Jeanette recommended at least $2.99. For one thing that is the bottom threshold for earning 70% royalties but, since I am hoping my book can be used as a ministry to the grieving, I will have the option to let people download it for free from time to time, and the distance from $2.99 to free is greater than the price drop from 99 cents. From there KDP needed info on where to send my huge earnings and tax information for my I-9 so I don't try to cheat the IRS out of their potential $7 share. 

    At first, seeing my work previewed in an eBook made me feel like an actual author. Then, formatting the book made me feel like just another frustrated computer user. After that, things kind of got away from me and I felt like I did when Reed and I got engaged at 19, or when I found out I was pregnant. (To clarify, those events were six years apart.) Writer's remorse, I assume. But then Reed, who has long wanted me to publish a book (under the delusion that it would bring in so much money he could quit his day job), reminded me it is not all that different from when I post a blog. Not only have I done that hundreds of times, I am doing it right now. The worst thing that could happen is that nobody reads my book and, for me, that seems about write.

     

I, Connie, Take Thee, Jesus

     Our BSF lesson this week was about John chapter 3, so naturally, there was lots of discussion about what it means to be born again. Most of the women in my class are much younger in both age and in their Christian walk than I am, so their understanding of, or at least the way they expressed what it means to be born again, was a little fuzzy. However, they are right that there is a process involved in rebirth, and the following illustration from physical birth, was helpful to me. Just as a baby forms secretly and silently for months before its birth, in the same way, God prepares his children to receive Him. But actual birth, both physical and spiritual, is a definite event, the first in time, the second in eternity. 

    Ezekiel 36:26 describes this change as a heart transplant, God replaces our heart of stone with a heart of flesh. Looking back, God prepared me for surgery for many years, in hundreds of ways until (due to my own stubbornness) I was willing to trust Christ. I picture being born again like wedding vows, so today's blog is my personalization of traditional vows.

 

 

I, Connie, take thee, Jesus, 

to be my Lord and Savior, 

to have and to someday hold,

from this day forward, 

for better, for worse,

for richer, for poorer, 

in sickness and in health, 

to love and to cherish, 

to honor and obey.

And death cannot part us.

For then we will love each other 

face to face

forever.

 

 

Connie the Gray

    This post is not about my hair which, under the dye, has gone from gray to white, this is about cleaning. When I think about how much housecleaning I used to do compared to now, it reminds me of the scene in Lord of the Rings where three of the good guys encounter Gandalf the wizard, whom they thought was dead. Apparently, even Gandalf thought he was dead because, when they call his name he says, "Gandalf? . . . Yes, that was what they used to call me . . . Gandalf the Gray." Admittedly, nobody ever used to call me Connie the Cleaner, but it would not have been too inaccurate. I still like things to be clean, I've just lost interest in being the one who makes them that way. Of course, the house does not get as dirty now as when we were full time parents, but I probably do less housecleaning in a month than I did on a typical Friday back then. 

     Today I noticed that my kitchen counters had reached the point where a wipe down with the dishcloth was not enough, so I decided to clean the kitchen. My new best buddy for cleaning is shaving cream. It works well, smells good, and makes me feel like I am finger painting instead of cleaning. While I was creaming the microwave, I discovered two things  I had long forgotten: 

                              1. The microwave has a back.

                              2. The back is not self cleaning.

Those are the type of details one forgets if one doesn't clean frequently. Not that I intend to change anything. My house is one of the many things I will leave behind when I go to my real home--heaven.  So, if the standards I once had for my home are now a distant memory from a cleaner, whiter existence,   

  -if the front of my fridge looks like I am preserving fingerprints for posterity

  -if no sane bird would mistake my front windows for open air

  -if my Norwex cleaning cloths die of neglect

  -if I am content to live with dust until that is what I become

feel free  to call me Connie the Gray. (As long as you're not referring to my hair!)

The Best Day Ever

     When my son-in-law, Luke, told me he wanted to get Britten away for a few days to celebrate their 20th anniversary, I thought that was wonderful. We agreed to watch the girls while they were gone. Knowing "we" meant mostly me, I had a few things I wondered about too. Being decades away from both full time childcare and, most importantly, energy, I wondered if I could keep up with my three and six year old granddaughters. I have a Grandma day with each of my three granddaughters on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but that is only for a few hours at a time, one at a time. On Grandma days, I am at their disposal. No work, just play. And they decide what we play. 

    As a mom, I took care of our three kids along with my many responsibilities at home because we would not have had food to eat, clean clothes, or a functional home otherwise, but as a Grandma, I hate to waste our precious time together on such trivial tasks. Yet, on a two day visit, house chores were bound to come up. Also, Britten's girls have outgrown afternoon naps, which was when I used to study the Bible when my kids were little. Actually, afternoons are still my preferred time for that, so I wasn't sure how to work my BSF lesson in with the girls around. I also wasn't sure what to feed them since their picky eater meters vary by the day and hour. Besides that, on our last experience with Brie sleeping over, she was still awake and talkative at 11:30 p.m. Reed and I, however, did not want to be awake, much less talk, that time of night. And Ren, who sometimes can be consoled only by her Mama, had never slept over anywhere. In many ways, this was going to be an experiment, a test of my dormant mothering disciplines.

     The first activity I had planned after Luke dropped off the girls was painting rocks. Lest anyone think I am either creative enough or crazy enough to use actual paint, we paint rocks with water, an idea I copied from the BSF children's program. Our front yard fountain is lined with river rock and water makes even the most ordinary one look beautiful. It accentuates colors, layers and textures barely noticeable when they are dry. Rock painting was followed by play dough, water painting pictures, popcorn chicken and mac and cheese for dinner, plus umpteen episodes of the Australian cartoon "Bluey". After jammies, brushing teeth, and a stack of bedtime stories, I tucked them in, hoping their day bed and trundle sleeping arrangement would work out. 

    Then Brie asked me, "Was this your best day ever, Grandma? We got to paint rocks, play and have dinner together, then a sleepover." Brie's words were the water that changed my day of childcare responsibilities from duty into beauty. I laid down with an angel in kitty pajamas until she fell asleep and thought about the day. Isaiah 11:6 says, ". . . And a little child shall lead them." Thank you Brie, for helping me see the best day ever.

What Eve Sang

    My pastor might be a little disappointed that, as he began his message on spiritual gifts, this was what I was thinking about. I had never had this thought before. I'm sure after she was a mom Eve sang lullabies, but what did she sing before that? Because I cannot imagine sitting in the splendor of Eden and not singing. This turned out a little more rhymed than I intended, but I have no idea how to fix it, so I will post it anyway. Sometimes, that is how poetry works . . . and my knitting.

 

What Eve Sang

 

What did you sing in the garden, 

mother of us all, Eve in Eden?

For who could not sing in paradise,

in a world that had just begun?

FOR

 

As the morning stars sang at creation,

and the birds sang on their first day,

what did you sing in the garden

before sin took perfection away?

GOD

What did you sing as you waited

for your evening walk with the Lord, 

where you met in the cool of the garden,

heard the love in the voice of God?

SO

 

What was it like to talk with God

             in Eden, Earth's most special place?               

The song my heart sings is of longing

to speak, as you did, face to face. 

LOVED

 

Though I cannot imagine perfection

or a world without dying and sin,

may I sing with you in the garden

that the Earth will become again? 

ME

8/13/23

 

 

 

 

The Lamb's Lament

     Lamentations is a difficult book of the Bible to read. Most of it is bad news, very bad news for Judah and Jerusalem. But it became easier for me to study this year when I found out that it was not just a collection of sad snapshots of the destruction of Jerusalem. Jeremiah organized his lament into acrostics of the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet and groups of 22 stanzas. Even the longest chapter, 3, is a multiple of 22, 66 verses. Jeremiah could not bring order out of the chaos in Jerusalem, but he could organize his thoughts about it. I like symmetry in poetry, so when one of the lesson questions asked us to write a prayer of suffering in acrostic form, I was ready to find a new way to express my grief. This does not reflect how I feel every day, but Jeremiah did not wrap a spiritual sounding sugarcoating around his sorrow, and neither will I.

All my life you have been faithful and kind to me, even in hardship,

But now, Lord, I am broken. You have taken away my

Child, my son. I know he lives in heaven, but this hurt is so

Deep, sometimes I cannot bear it.

Even the

Familiar comfort of your words, fail to lift the crushing

Grief I feel in my

Heart.

I love you and I know you love me. You gave

Jesus, your Son, to save mine. I know you

Keep him safe now from the sin that tried to destroy him. Your

Love surrounds him now, but I

Miss my son with a fierceness beyond words. Do

Not let it turn me away from you. You know

Our hearts are

Prone to stray.

Quiet my soul so that I can

Rest.

So many nights I struggle to sleep.

Turn my tears into prayers, and later, praise.

Until I see my son again, let your

Voice strengthen me to

Wait patiently. Help me be an

eXample of trust and faithfulness through the

Years to come. Let my

Zeal for heaven flow from love and not despair.

My heart is yours Lord, but it is broken.

Billings/Logan Slogans

    In honor of the upcoming integration of Logan Health--which has consumed our local health practices like Pac-Man, and Billings Clinic--whose solution to going broke in eastern Montana was expanding into western Montana, I have come up with some possible names and mottoes. The names are a combination of letters from the two companies. The mottoes are a combination of snark and cynicism.              

           Billings/Logan Integration Slogans

BilLo--Because two monopolies are better than one.

BLow--The more we buy, the less we try.

BilGe--Twice the bureaucracy, half the efficiency.

Bi-Lo--A nonprofit, making every practice we buy, a nonprofit. 

B(illings/Logan re)org=BORG--Resistance is futile! You will be assimilated!

BlinGan--Not a merger, just a monopoly.

BLogun--We changed our name, but our care is the same.

BanG--No better healthcare in Montana--Anymore.

LoBall--Where healthcare meets hospice.

BiGone--Our non-compete is now complete.

GamBil--Two big, two fail. 

Billing-Logan--Still paying for the last name change.

ABill--Socialized care? We're halfway there.

LoganIlls--Someday we may dis-integrate.

     If the marketers are not happy with my ideas, the letters in Logan and Billings can be rearranged to spell Billing Slogan or Balls Going Nil. Maybe we will all be surprised to find, in this case, killing competition in healthcare choices does not lead to killing patients. Even though, in every other facet of life competing for business leads to lower prices and better quality, maybe it won't make a difference in something as inconsequential as medical care. 

    Maybe the physicians offices, already backlogged with the 15 minute per patient scheduling required of Logan employees (that the doctors cannot hire, fire, or correct) will start making real time appointments and stop lying about wait times. Perhaps, for the first time, adding an extra layer of bureaucracy will clarify chain of command and simplify paperwork. Conceivably the cost of yet another name change could come from pockets of the ones who actually want it. In this case, I would so love to be wrong, I would willingly shout it from the rooftop. I would much rather die of embarrassment than mis-managed medicine.

 

The Nature of Love

    The personal encouragements God has given me in the months since Tracy died have underscored how deeply I have underestimated Christ's love for me and for those I love, as if God's love is diluted somehow by pouring it out on so many people. And I realize how much I may have hurt Him through the years by thinking He would give up on people that I would not, that He would let those He died to redeem just wander away to destruction, that He loves His children less than I love mine. I do not need to pray to make Christ care about the people I love; I need to pray to make me care about the people He loves.

    I know that nothing I do surprises or disappoints God, but I am disappointed to realize, that though I have known the Lord and studied the Bible for 50 years now, how little I have understood the most basic truth--Jesus loves me. It is our nature as sinners to stray, but He does not give up, He does not let go, because it is His nature not to.

Dear Sam(sung)

Day 1 Sunday

Dear Sam(sung),

    I know it was unconscionable to leave you behind in Kalispell. I was waiting for my ride to take me to the airport for our trip to Boise. My purse was on the kitchen counter, but you were lying on the bed because I had just finished our Bible meditation app. I decided to put the bedroom fan in the guest room for the dogsitter, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door. I assumed you were with me as always, but when I checked my purse and back pocket, you were gone. We were taking off in 10 minutes. I had no choice but to leave you behind. I am so sorry, please don't be angry with me. 

    I asked Reed to contact Britten to come and take you home with her, so if you had something important to say, she could reach me on the hotel landline. But you know my resourceful daughter, she found a way to forward texts to my hotmail account. I know you understand how important your texts are to me. Thank goodness my laptop was in my briefcase. I don't know what I would have done if I'd forgotten you both. Britten also emailed instructions for how to listen to my voicemail from the huge, corded, antique devices in our hotel room. I want you to know that landlines mean nothing to me now. I moved on from that sort of relationship long ago. I was too tired and distraught to even look at your rivals that night.

Day 2 Monday

Dear Sam,

     Sure enough, when I opened my laptop this morning, there were text messages in my email. Most of them were about who was coming to ladies' prayer group that evening. I'm glad that night's meeting was in person, or I would have accumulated dozens of texted prayers on my email in one hour. I miss your texts. I love the way you make them so unobtrusive, a polite little ding to get my attention, like a well trained butler clearing his throat. There were no new voicemails when I checked using the hotel landline, it would be too generous to call it a phone as we understand the word. All it does is make and receive calls. Britten suggested I change my greeting to let people know why I was not answering my phone. It took four tries to leave a greeting I was satisfied with. I know I should have updated our voicemail greeting years ago, but I was counting on you to remind me. I posted on Facebook about our newly separated relationship status, but without you, I can't even send a picture to show where I am.

Day 3 Tuesday

Dear Sam,

    You have nothing to fear from your corded competition on the desk and night stand of our hotel room. I realized that trying to call even the few phone numbers I have memorized would involve something from a bygone era called "long distance". Most cell service providers stopped tracking that, much less charging extra for it, years before we got together. Reed and Britten have the phone number of the hotel if they need to reach me, but the process is rather involved. The call first has to be answered at the front desk, then the caller gives that stranger my room number and they transfer the call to the land line in the room. I try to remember to glance at the red light on the device to see if anyone left me a message, but it is hard to remember such an outdated practice. It is like using a key, instead a a fob, to open a car door. If I want to know whether Reed plans to take me to lunch or when he is coming home from the airport, the only way to find out in a timely manner is to stay in the room and wait for the phone to ring!

Day 4 Wednesday

Dear Sam,

    I think of you a dozen times a day. And it's not just FOMO on things that may be happening in Kalispell, but I wonder about my friends. How are they doing? What are they eating? And what do they think of my uncharacteristic lack of response? I miss the spiritual encouragement you give me from my verse of the day and Bible study apps. I even miss the sales ads and coupons. Fortunately, the company jet is nearly ready and we should be reunited tomorrow evening. I can hardly wait to hold you again. Reed has apparently forgotten my handicap and asked me to let the dogsitter know we will be back early. I have no idea how to reach her without you. You, Sam, are the keeper of my messages, my contacts, my pictures, my secret passwords. 

    I cannot promise I will never love another as much you in the years to come. I know your Galaxy family ages more rapidly than I do, you will not always be there for me. But I want you to know that when you weaken and begin to die, I will transfer all the memories we made together to my new love. In that way we will always be united--unless I forget you somewhere.

                                                                              With speechless anticipation,

                                                                                                          Connie

   

  

Supplemental

    A friend of mine tells a hilarious story about an acquaintance whose dog threw up, what the perplexed pet parent believed to be, its own guts. The owner thought the cure for this condition was to try to force back into the dog's throat, what turned out to be, a pair of nylons. Admittedly, I have no veterinary training, but I'm pretty sure you cannot replace any innards by stuffing them down the esophagus. Otherwise, organ transplantation would be a simple matter of ramming the new parts in via the stomach. 

    I sometimes feel like that is what health providers are trying to do with medications and supplements. I am blessed to live in a time of abundant treatment options. My younger brother would not have survived without blood transfusions as a newborn. My sister would have died in childbirth if Caesareans were not an option. And I would have suffered a slow, painful death from a hyperactive thyroid without radiation treatment, or been a cripple in my 50's before knee replacements. Many of my friends and family would be dead without modern medicine. But I am afraid this has persuaded people, even Christians, to believe that we, by diet, exercise and medication, control what only God really can. Our time of death is appointed before we are born (Ps. 139:16) and, despite our best efforts, only God is sovereign over illness and accidents.

   Television is full of ads telling us to ask our doctor for new, (aka) expensive medications. And everywhere I look, ads for supplements promise to do what God Himself only did twice--turn back time. With the right medications, they claim we can regrow hair, rebuild muscles, lower blood pressure, raise sex drive, sleep more, weigh less, pep up, calm down, preserve our memories, eyesight, etc. And all those things are important for the longer lifespan they also attempt to provide. 

    Naturally, no one wants a stroke, heart attack, or incapacitating illness if there is a way to prevent it. But aging is not a disease to be cured, and most of the deficits they are trying to replace with supplements are a natural part of the God ordained aging process. There may be ways to look and feel a little better for a little longer, but our body clock cannot be rewound. We cannot supplement our way out of God's sovereignty. And I don't believe doctors should prescribe 10 medications to make an 80 year old have the BP, BMI, cholesterol, hormones etc. of a 30 year old, because it often takes another 10 medications to counteract the side effects of the first 10. Growing old is a privilege not a plague, much less a preventable one. And death is not a penalty for not taking care of ourselves, a destination we should delay as long as possible. The supplement saints most need to remember to stuff in is--death is our doorway to heaven.

I Will Paint No More Forever

     My title is both a plagiarism and a mutilation of Chief Joseph's famous surrender speech to the U.S. Army--"From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever!" I have not fought any armies lately, but I had an experience last week that reminds me of the quote. Last year we decided that replacing the worn out siding on our house should wait until the cost recovers from Covid. Not the infection, the inflation caused by locked down homeowners relieving their boredom by remodeling their shelters. Instead, we would disguise the cracked siding on the south and west sides of the house with a fresh coat of paint. That decision is as far as the painting project got last summer. This summer we decided to actually buy the paint. The next phase of the project is even more labor intensive than going to the store, we have to brush it onto the siding. 

    I felt sorry for Reed painting in the evening after a long day's work, so last Tuesday I braved the afternoon heat to work on it myself. The weather was mid 80s and there was a little shade on the west side of the house at that time of day, but I was too compulsive to start a new side when the south side was only partially done. I spent a couple hours doing one of my least favorite tasks, and sweating, which is one of my least favorite conditions. I was even willing to resume slave labor after dinner to help out again, but not only did Reed say I didn't need to, he was repainting my sacrificial section of siding. I had not put the paint on heavy enough. The cracks he had painted were still visible from our neighbors house, but there were faint vertical lines showing on the siding I painted. Short of sloshing the paint from the bucket directly onto the house, I had no idea how to put it on thicker than I already had.

     At first I was angry, but then I realized, I was not a failure, I was free. What's not to love about not having to paint? Why should I do something I hate for someone I love when he was going to redo it anyway? I was just the mediocre middle man. In our 46 years of marriage, I have never put paint on heavy enough to satisfy Reed. His paint swatch default switch is set to two coats. The idea of either of us changing at this point is more cracked than the siding. I realized in that moment that not only did I not need to paint for this project, I NEVER NEED TO PAINT AGAIN! Chief Joseph lost his battle, I won the lottery. From where the sun stood on that fateful summer Tuesday--I will paint no more forever!                   

Enough

      I have wondered where my grief has gone. I no longer have to wear waterproof mascara every day to prevent racoon eyes from crying. But I do not want to make the mistake again of suppressing tears, because when I do that, the stress morphs into tightness at the base of my neck. I was told all women store their stress there, but in my experience, stress goes to our problem area. For some it is their bad back, for me it is migraine related, for Reed it is diverticular pain. I know the grief is in there, in me, but I am experiencing it differently. I expressed this in the following poem.

 

            Enough

 

My grief is not the same now

as it was when it began.

It no longer feels like hands

wringing tears from my heart.

 

But still, there are times

when sorrow smothers me--

when there is not enough

water to satisfy my thirst,

food to fill my hunger,

air to draw a deep breath,

or room to feel unbound in.

These waves of grief

come almost unrecognized

but for those stifled sensations . . .

and the traitorous thought that

all of God's good gifts to me

will never be enough 

to make up for losing you.

My grief is not the same now

but my God still is,

and when sorrow engulfs me,

I must let Him be  Enough.

 

         7/13/23