Ancient Phoenicians

     This is my third trip to Phoenix but my first time to actually enter the lair of ancient Phoenicians--the RV park.  Actually it is more of a gated community filled with mostly "park models", 10 x 30'  mobile homes, and sprinkled with the giant RVs typical of retirees with limited driving ability.  It is also like a day care because there are lots of toys: swimming pools, playgrounds with shuffleboard and tennis courts, even a giant sandbox where the boys can build villages for model trains.  And for the girls there is a beauty salon and spa.  There is also "preschool" available in the community center where savvy seniors can study everything from quilting to jewelry making to woodworking. 
     The community center is also used for a church on Sundays, card parties and various performances throughout the week.  I figure the reason for all the entertainment is so people won't notice they are living in tiny cages, like birds.  In order to access all these fine facilities, the wrinkled residents ride golf carts or bicycles.  What I did not find in the canned community was anywhere to get away from the gray headed league. A place to have a league of my own, unspotted by the age spots of others. It is one of my retirement goals to become a snowbird but I don't want to live in a coop, paying high fees to live stacked together like bacon in a pan.
     I want to spend part of the winter where my "pearly whites" (in western Montana winters that means legs, not teeth) can be exposed to the kiss of the sun without becoming red like a giant hickey.  I want to see green plants and tanned bodies, not concrete walls and canned hobbies.  I want to use what is left of the talents and time God gave me to work for Him; in the service of God, there is no retirement plan.  Excess recess reduces fruitfulness.  Frankly, it doesn't seem like a good idea to stop investing in heaven right before you cash in.  Otherwise, you might have no more impact on the world we live in than the ancient Phoenicians.

Cheap Shoes

     Most of my adult life has been lived in cheap shoes.  Not my childhood though, when I was a girl a trip to the shoe store was a magical thing.  You sat in a chair and the shoe salesman sat on the stool in front of you, measured your foot, brought you shoes and laced them up.  All you had to do was walk around.  If I got to wear the shoes home from the store, I was convinced everyone on the sidewalk was looking at them so I  goose stepped shamelessly so they could see better.  Fortunately, I outgrew the need for expensive, narrow width shoes, unfortunately, shoe stores outgrew the need for the kind of service that had made it so special.  These days you find your own shoe, dig your size out of the stacks of boxes and hunt for a place to sit and try it on; the salesperson will then take your money.  The magic is gone.
     When I started buying my own shoes they were inexpensive, but it didn't matter.  Anything that fit worked fine, slip ons, flip flops, no support--no problem.  Then, inexplicably, my feet got old.  Cheap shoes made them hurt.  Eventually even looking at pictures of strappy, unsupporting sandals made them hurt.  After my left foot had been hurting for months I was forced to see a podiatrist who diagnosed plantar fascitis, apparently it is caused by having and using feet for a number of years, in other words, getting old.  The doctor gave me an arch support, it wasn't too much of a nuisance except in sandals, but I discovered I didn't need it if I bought more expensive shoes.
     That was the beginning of the end.  Expensive shoes, expensive meds, falling arches, falling. . .everything else.  The same calm, quiet conditions I used to require in order to fall asleep, I now require in the bathroom.  It takes me two days to rest up from a two day trip. I can't sit still through a two hour concert, especially if I'm on bleachers.  Shouldn't a bonus butt be better on bleachers?  My knees don't do downhill.  My blood pressure is headed uphill.  I used to moisturize my feet with any old lotion, now it takes industrial strength shea butter.  I suppose the next thing to fail me will be my $7 at home hair dye kits and I'll have to go gray or to the beauty shop.
     One of the blessings of an empty nest is not having an empty bank account, which is good because that money will be needed for the expensive things my aging body requires.  Would I want to be young again?  No, I enjoy the wisdom and experience the years have given me.  But I wouldn't mind a body that would be satisfied with simple requirements like cheap shoes.
   

Connie Ltd.

     In school I was always the youngest and next to smallest in my class, only because there was always one poor soul smaller than me.  I was also the next to last chosen for any team sports in gym class, not because of my size, but because I was hopelessly unathletic.  I was smart but not gifted.  I could sing in a way that didn't hurt people's ears but had limited range and ability.  I knew from first grade on that there was a popular group in school and I wasn't in it because I was neither pretty nor rich. Until we moved when I was in seventh grade, I had only one real friend.  I couldn't play an instrument, had no artistic talent but was fairly good at writing.  I was a devout Mormon and was taught that things we do in our preborn, spirit existence determine our situation in this world, so I concluded that the reason I was neither pretty, popular nor talented and lived in a dysfunctional home was something I did wrong before I was born and couldn't even remember.  So far this isn't very funny.
     The point is I wasn't chosen, not for sports, not for choir, not for parties.  That's why it is so incomprehensible to me that I was chosen by God, to be part of his family and belong to him forever.  The more I learn about the grace of God, the less I understand it.  I have known me intimately for 54 years and can't think of any reason that God would even notice, much less choose me before the foundation of the world.  It could have been pity, but there are many lives more pitiful than mine. 
     I am no longer a child and now see myself in a more gracious light, I consider myself average.  Average height, weight, intelligence, looks, singer, abilities.  I am content to be mediocre for the most part because the significance of my life does not come from how I compare to others.  My mediocre life has meaning because God chose to save me and even condescends to use me in part of His plan for the world.  The fact that I have limited resources to offer Him is no problem because His resources are unlimited.  Being chosen as homecoming queen is meaningless after high school, even being chosen as president makes but a little splash in the bucket of world affairs.  But I was chosen twice, first by God, then by my husband, that is good enough for me.

The Poor, and what to do about them

    We've all seen those people holding signs at the intersection "Need work/ brain surgery/ God bless you/ anything helps" etc.; my preferred method of dealing with them is to decide it's their own fault that they're poor and drive away.  Simple.  Efficient. Unbiblical.  God has given us many commands concerning the poor and that is not one of them.  Naturally, we don't want to donate our money so people can buy drugs and alcohol or gamble and, as Christians, we want to help with their real needs, not the poverty which may just be a symptom, but it is easy to use those pious sounding reasons to be selfish and thoughtless--which also comes naturally.
     Before Israel entered the promised land, God gave commands about caring for the poor AND THERE SHOULD'NT HAVE BEEN ANY.  Every family entering the country was given a house and land.  In the Promised Land Lottery, everybody won.  However then, as now, there were people who were unable or unwilling to work or incapable of managing the resources they have. When the Bible was written there was no government assistance and few charities available to the needy, but that doesn't excuse me from either my responsibility to obey or my right to be blessed.  And although obedience to God usually results in a higher standard of living, there is no commandment not to be poor.  God makes allowance for the poor and so should we.
     I have not yet figured out what to do about the poor, but I know we are commanded to care for those in need, that God blesses generosity, and that I am by nature a selfish cheapskate, although I prefer to call it "good with money".  Perhaps by showing compassion for the poor I will begin to understand God's inexplicable compassion for me.
  

Knock, Knock

      Knock, knock.  Who's there?  Not America's collective sense of humor.  It has been poisoned by political correctness. What in years past would clearly be seen as a joke, might now be interpreted as offensive, even hate speech. It is only a matter of time before those who interpret freedom of religion to mean freedom from religion, to decide that freedom from offensive humor means freedom from all humor. We are taking ourselves way too seriously.  There is a strange dichotomy in American culture today, in one group are people who can't wait to be offended, they are offended when someone prays in public or pledges allegiance to the flag or similar radical behavior.  They feel that these traditional values cast judgment on their own.  Some seek offense so they can someday cash in, a sort of lawsuit lottery.  Some are offended because it is in their nature, and those who expect to be insulted are seldom disappointed.
     The other group also can't wait to be offended; they place calls to shock radio hosts or appear on television programs knowing the guests are habitually ridiculed. To some it is worth the humiliation to have 15 minutes of fame.  The humiliation business has never been more popular, court tv, quasi-talent shows and insulting talk show hosts abound on both radio and television.  Some well paid comedians have made a whole career out of  being flagrantly offensive: old school, Don Rickles, new school, Ricky Gervais.  But regular humor that pokes fun at some foible of human nature is considered dangerous. Part of the problem is that many of these weaknesses are now classified as disorders and singling them out, a form of discrimination.  People are no longer short or bald, they are height impaired and follicly challenged.
     I think it's important that we, as Christians, don't get caught up in the "can't take a joke" mentality. Yes Alzheimer's is a sad disease, but that doesn't mean we can't joke about failing memory. If your loved one is facing Alzheimer's, humor may be your best coping tool. There are some wonderful, Christian attorneys, but lawyer jokes are still funny. Jokes about heaven or hell are jokes, not an assault on our theology.  If we can't conquer our obesity, we can at least lighten up, after all, fat people are supposed to be jolly.
      I didn't get my sense of humor from my happy home.  My mother is a schizophrenic.  It is a mostly no fun disease, but even that has some funny aspects.  For instance-the good thing about schizophrenics is that they always have someone to talk to. God gives people different gifts to help them cope, mine is humor.  And laughing at ourselves promotes humility.  God's people are to be characterized by not being quick tempered or easily offended, no matter what our culture practices.  If the joy of the Lord is our strength, laughter should be our aerobic workout.

Winter of my Discontent

     I don't understand much Shakespeare, but I know that "the winter of my discontent" is a line from one of his plays, that I understand.  I have been privileged to live in Montana nearly all of my life, but I am not a winter person.  This is unfortunate because Montana is into winter in a big way.  Kalispell has made the problem worse; it is cloudy during many seasons, but the white skies are particularly depressing in the winter. There is also a cumulative effect, I don't begin each winter with a clean slate, there is leftover discontent from previous years, like rollover phone minutes but in a negative way. The winter blues have now been upgraded with an official title: Seasonal Affective Disorder.  The title doesn't make it any easier to bear, but it gives you an official sounding reason to complain, "I have S.A.D." sounds less whiny than , "I am sad."
     After decades in Kalispell I have learned ways to help myself: spend some time outside, even if I don't want to, let in as much light as possible during the day, close the shades as soon as it begins to get dark, turn on lots of lights, exercise, occasional visits to a tanning booth.  But my favorite coping technique is the geographical cure--leave.  Frankly, once New Year's Day is over, I am done with winter.  Montana, unfortunately, will not be done for four more months.  This year I began getting restless after New Year's dinner was over, when we officially ended the holiday season by letting my nephew blow up the gingerbread house with firecrackers.  Happily, we were leaving the next day--for Seattle, but at least there were green plants to look at.
     Somewhere in my family tree there must be a real tree because my branch of the blood line seems to be contaminated with chlorophyll.  I get energy from the sun.  This lasting feeling of warm contentment is a sensation I privately call "sungasms".  God understands my frailties.  I am a bundle of frailties wrapped, loosely, in skin.  Shakespeare has a quote about that too, "frailty, thy name is woman", but that is just ridiculous.
     This winter God has arranged Reed's work schedule so that we will be gone most of the dreary months.  I am able to travel with Reed because I work just a few hours a week in home health care and there are 50 employees who can replace me when I'm out of town.  Because I have both a wonderful God and husband, I have had the rare blessing throughout most of my marriage of being able to work outside my home without having to work outside my home.   My goal for retirement is to be a snowbird, but until then I will deal with the restlessness one winter at a time. Spring will come again and the winter of my discontent will end much like all our struggles will--with a glimpse of the Son.

Earth--as is

     God is in the business of beauty.  This planet could have fulfilled all its life sustaining functions just as well in a no frills version, but God made it unnecessarily beautiful.  There is a kind of beauty in big cities, even among so many man made things, but for those privileged to live surrounded by the beauty of nature, it is obvious that God enjoys making things beautiful.  And the beauty we see is that of a sin cursed, flood ravaged world.  The upheaval of the flood gave us majestic mountains, sculpted plains, impossible rock formations and, of course, rainbows.  If the "not to original specifications", "as is" earth is still so magnificent, what must the original have looked like?
     Another example of God's love for beauty is the Tabernacle He had built to his specifications.  Although for many years God demanded worship only on altars of natural stone, since man made efforts always went awry, He eventually allowed Israel to build a tabernacle.  Although plain metals and materials might have sufficed for function, God commanded it to be built with gold, precious stones and elaborate, colorful fabrics.  Not only did He demand beauty and artistry, but He divinely enabled the craftsmen who made it, just as He always empowers those He calls to serve.
     If God can take something as destructive as the flood to make something as ugly as sin into something as beautiful as the earth, He is welcome to use what He chooses to make something beautiful out of me.  I am proud to be Connie--"as is".