Today, as I attended the funeral of an elderly friend from a former church, I found myself thinking about "Toy Story 3". Though I know the real heart of Art now resides in heaven, there is something poignant about seeing a life of 92 years condensed into an obituary on a piece of paper you hold during the service and then throw away. Parting is painful. That's why I cried at "Toy Story 3", though I seldom cry at funerals. There are three scenes in the movie that move me to tears. In the first, the little boy of the original movie, owner of the toys, has grown up and is ready to head off to college. His mother walks into his nearly empty room, wordlessly places her hand on her chest and just stands there. Her child is leaving. Her heart is breaking. Been there, done that. The parting is not permanent, but it is definitive. A line has been crossed, the parent/ child relationship has changed, for the better, but it has changed and change is painful. Tears.
In another scene, the toys are sliding down a conveyor belt toward an incinerator. When, despite all their efforts, they realize there is nothing they can do to save their lives, they reach out to hold hands/paws/appendages. If they cannot change their fate, they can at least face it together. Of course, in the movie the beloved toys are rescued at the last moment by conjoined triplet aliens, but their silent solidarity in the face of doom seems a beautiful analogy of the human condition. We can face the worst life has to offer, as long as we have a hand to hold. Tears.
At the end of the movie, the young man delivers his rescued toys to a girl who wants, and needs, them. One at a time, he introduces her to the toys and, before he leaves, he plays with each one, one last time--a gesture of respect to those he is leaving behind. Tears. I could draw all kinds of spiritual analogies from "Toy Story 3", but the important thing for Christians to remember when we face the painful parting of death, is that at the last moment, we are rescued by the most alien being in the universe, the coexistent, triune God/Man--Jesus Christ.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Hanging Out
I spent Wednesday afternoon with my niece and nephew hanging out at the pool at Meadow Lake. Hanging out, in my case, being an apt description. There was less Connie to contend with 10 years ago when I instituted the tradition of "Aunt Connie Day". At that time, my sister's family had just moved to Kalispell to start a business. It was the first time we had family nearby since early in our marriage. Especially wonderful was that her children were toddlers while my own kids were teenagers, aka tall toddlers. I knew how to make preschoolers happy because I liked the same things they did. But teenagers? Even when they were happy, they refused to let it show, on principle.
When Alex and Amanda were preschoolers, I would bring them home with me every Tuesday after Bible study, we would spend the afternoon having fun together, and their dad would pick them up on his way home from work. Once they were in school, we altered the schedule, I met them after school and we walked back to my house. Sometimes we would go to a matinee, sometimes, like last week, we went to the swimming pool. But there was also plenty of entertainment to be had closer to home, like our walks to the island or building forts in the living room. As they got older, we had to schedule Aunt Connie Day around piano lessons, dance and/or basketball. Now they are teenagers, with even more demands on their time and Aunt Connie Day has gone from a weekly tradition to an occasional suggestion.
This year has been particularly difficult to schedule because I have had two knee surgeries followed by business travel with Reed. It is April and we just had our first Aunt Connie Day of the school year. Even though Alex is in the grip of growth spurt dementia and only dimly aware of his own existence, I think they both had a good time. I know I did. Someday they will have neither time for, nor interest in, Aunt Connie Day, but food and gravity are doing their best to make sure some part of me will always be there to hang out.
When Alex and Amanda were preschoolers, I would bring them home with me every Tuesday after Bible study, we would spend the afternoon having fun together, and their dad would pick them up on his way home from work. Once they were in school, we altered the schedule, I met them after school and we walked back to my house. Sometimes we would go to a matinee, sometimes, like last week, we went to the swimming pool. But there was also plenty of entertainment to be had closer to home, like our walks to the island or building forts in the living room. As they got older, we had to schedule Aunt Connie Day around piano lessons, dance and/or basketball. Now they are teenagers, with even more demands on their time and Aunt Connie Day has gone from a weekly tradition to an occasional suggestion.
This year has been particularly difficult to schedule because I have had two knee surgeries followed by business travel with Reed. It is April and we just had our first Aunt Connie Day of the school year. Even though Alex is in the grip of growth spurt dementia and only dimly aware of his own existence, I think they both had a good time. I know I did. Someday they will have neither time for, nor interest in, Aunt Connie Day, but food and gravity are doing their best to make sure some part of me will always be there to hang out.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Paradox
One of the many fun songs in "Pirates of Penzance", which I attended last weekend, is about a paradox. In the opera, the paradox was that the main character, born on leap year, was at the same time 21 years old and a little boy of 5. Paradox means a seemingly contradictory statement. I believe one of the great paradoxes of our time is our right to privacy vs. our compulsion to post. To paraphrase the saying about the right to remain silent--we have the right to privacy, what we lack is the capacity. The right to privacy has grown into a politically correct monster, especially in the health care field in which I work. Older hospital volunteers tell me that the names and conditions of hospital patients used to be published in the newspaper. Now hospital staff can neither confirm nor deny that an individual is even a patient there. I feel like a voyeur when I try to find out the room number of someone I want to visit. For a time, at my home health care office, staff members were required to turn client files face down on their desks even though everyone who worked there knew who the clients were. And they are no longer called clients, the current p.c. buzzword is "consumer", which I refuse to use because I resent being equated with food. Nursing homes used to post lists of resident's birthday months, now it is a secret, as if identity thieves could benefit by claiming to be Bill Smith, born in November.
Most of us could paper the walls with privacy statements--and that is the only way we would bother to read them. I want to know what my credit card and doctor's office are doing with my personal information, I do not care that the lawn service knows my address. People who are reluctant to list their address in the phone book, will publicly air their dirty laundry from their cell phone.
Rather than refraining to post embarrassing Facebook photos and faux pas, the legal system is considering blocking employers from accessing this public/private information. Right to privacy, which has been declared constitutional (the constitution writer's must have considered it too private to include) has even been used to condone atrocities like abortion and sexual deviance. Privacy is not a right, and in the information age it is a rare privilege--a paradox the public can like or decline to share.
Most of us could paper the walls with privacy statements--and that is the only way we would bother to read them. I want to know what my credit card and doctor's office are doing with my personal information, I do not care that the lawn service knows my address. People who are reluctant to list their address in the phone book, will publicly air their dirty laundry from their cell phone.
Rather than refraining to post embarrassing Facebook photos and faux pas, the legal system is considering blocking employers from accessing this public/private information. Right to privacy, which has been declared constitutional (the constitution writer's must have considered it too private to include) has even been used to condone atrocities like abortion and sexual deviance. Privacy is not a right, and in the information age it is a rare privilege--a paradox the public can like or decline to share.
Missing a Step
At the three month follow up of my knee replacement, the orthopedist responded to my impatience with my glacially slow recovery by saying, "Slow and steady wins the race." Race? I couldn't win a race with a stump. I am definitely missing a step. I exhausted my personal leave time at work so was "termed", aka voluntary resignation. I cannot even return to my beloved Sykes' people to take blood pressures, a job which I could do while comatose, until I have medical clearance to fulfill all my home care tasks and reapply for the position I held for 14 years. Right now, if I had to escort an 80 year old on an errand, she would have to slow down for me. Yesterday I went to the bank, noticed cookies, and realized I had totally forgotten about free cookie Friday. I used to plan my banking around cookie Fridays. I have lost touch with what is truly important. I miss my familiar routine. I miss my life.
I even miss the thyroid induced poetry that intruded into my life, welcome as a fart in an elevator. I have little inspiration for blogging (not that that stops me), much less for writing poetry. I have had enough time with my own thoughts to realize that I am so boring, drying paint wouldn't even watch me. I am a schedule person. I miss my schedule. I am unsure of my purpose but, to be honest, I have been unsure ever since my children left home. I achieved the calling of raising (and surviving) my children, all I have had since then is a schedule. Now, I don't even have that.
At the hotel, I had the knee rehab (kneehab?) intensive schedule. Now that I am home, I don't have the nice equipment with which to exercise, but have the distraction of house chores that need to be done. I don't do them, but knowing that I should distracts me. Fortunately, my inspiration for spring cleaning fades when the sun does. I know I'm missing the benefit of this opportunity to do things my regular schedule doesn't allow, but free time is just not as precious as stolen time. That is what's missing from my life, the sense of playing hookey from a busy schedule.
I even miss the thyroid induced poetry that intruded into my life, welcome as a fart in an elevator. I have little inspiration for blogging (not that that stops me), much less for writing poetry. I have had enough time with my own thoughts to realize that I am so boring, drying paint wouldn't even watch me. I am a schedule person. I miss my schedule. I am unsure of my purpose but, to be honest, I have been unsure ever since my children left home. I achieved the calling of raising (and surviving) my children, all I have had since then is a schedule. Now, I don't even have that.
At the hotel, I had the knee rehab (kneehab?) intensive schedule. Now that I am home, I don't have the nice equipment with which to exercise, but have the distraction of house chores that need to be done. I don't do them, but knowing that I should distracts me. Fortunately, my inspiration for spring cleaning fades when the sun does. I know I'm missing the benefit of this opportunity to do things my regular schedule doesn't allow, but free time is just not as precious as stolen time. That is what's missing from my life, the sense of playing hookey from a busy schedule.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Pruning
I am not a gardener. I have no interest in sponsoring a vegetable and flower buffet for the dozens of deer in our neighborhood. I'm not even a yard person, although I occasionally remember to water the lawn, usually about the time Reed comes home from work and asks me about it. Reed is the one who perpetuates the vicious watering/mowing cycle. The one yard task I like to do is pruning. I like to bring order out of chaos, to smooth the tangled branches of the two apple trees we inherited when we bought our house from people who actually cared about landscaping.
I even took a pruning seminar at a local nursery, and not just for the free cookies. I found out that pruning 101 is very simple. Branches should be pruned if they are blocking the sun from reaching the fruit, sapping the energy of the more productive branches, or are simply in the way of the lawn mower. For some reason I always feel compelled to explain to the branches why I am removing them, as if I owe them an apology. That is one of the many differences between me and God. When God prunes our lives, He does not feel compelled to explain why.
Pruning is painful, but it is not punitive. I am not punishing the branches for being in the way, or the tree for having too many branches. I am simply trying to make it less burdened and more productive. So is God. He prunes out the things that get in the way of the work He is trying to accomplish through our lives, the distractions that are sapping our energy, and any entanglement that blocks our view of the Son. If I, who have not mastered even the first elements of gardening, can prune a tree and make it more productive, what will happen if I trust my Master, who created the very first garden, to prune me?
I even took a pruning seminar at a local nursery, and not just for the free cookies. I found out that pruning 101 is very simple. Branches should be pruned if they are blocking the sun from reaching the fruit, sapping the energy of the more productive branches, or are simply in the way of the lawn mower. For some reason I always feel compelled to explain to the branches why I am removing them, as if I owe them an apology. That is one of the many differences between me and God. When God prunes our lives, He does not feel compelled to explain why.
Pruning is painful, but it is not punitive. I am not punishing the branches for being in the way, or the tree for having too many branches. I am simply trying to make it less burdened and more productive. So is God. He prunes out the things that get in the way of the work He is trying to accomplish through our lives, the distractions that are sapping our energy, and any entanglement that blocks our view of the Son. If I, who have not mastered even the first elements of gardening, can prune a tree and make it more productive, what will happen if I trust my Master, who created the very first garden, to prune me?
Thursday, March 7, 2013
CPR
In recent news is the story of an 87 year old woman who collapsed at an assisted living facility and the seemingly heartless nurse who refused to perform CPR despite urging from the 911 operator to save her life. The operator even encouraged flagging down people off the streets to perform CPR and save her. The reality is that even if CPR were performed immediately by a highly trained individual, the chances of successfully resuscitating an 87 year old woman were about the same as that the woman would revive and become Angelina Jolie. The success rate of CPR in that age group is around three percent. The family said she would not have wanted life saving measures, the problem was there was no "Do Not Resuscitate" order on file.
Televised medical series have propagated two opposing myths. One is that a high percentage of people revive after CPR, no worse for wear. No fractured sternum. No cracked ribs. Not even lasting effects from the trauma that necessitated CPR. That is because on television putting a main character in peril boosts drama and ratings, but killing off a main character is bad for ratings. In real life CPR is painful and the victim, even if revived, is unlikely to survive to leave the hospital. That 87 year old's ribs would have snapped like matchsticks. I once had a hospital patient in her 50's who collapsed on a golf course, was resuscitated, and spent the next five days burning with a 105 fever while her heart caught up with the fact that the rest of her had died on the golf course. The only good thing about her "survival" is that her out-of state family had time to come and see her before she officially died.
The other myth is that medical technology is able to keep people alive artificially, indefinitely. Even Christians can get caught up in the idea that their time of death is either up to them or the doctor. There is a third option, the one where God is in control. Psalm 139 says "All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." We do not change that with oat bran. Americans are wealthy enough to be bombarded with health options and information, and lifestyle and health choices can factor into our divine appointment with death, but they do not determine it. Maybe what our culture needs is not CPR, but RPC--Recognition of Providential Control.
Televised medical series have propagated two opposing myths. One is that a high percentage of people revive after CPR, no worse for wear. No fractured sternum. No cracked ribs. Not even lasting effects from the trauma that necessitated CPR. That is because on television putting a main character in peril boosts drama and ratings, but killing off a main character is bad for ratings. In real life CPR is painful and the victim, even if revived, is unlikely to survive to leave the hospital. That 87 year old's ribs would have snapped like matchsticks. I once had a hospital patient in her 50's who collapsed on a golf course, was resuscitated, and spent the next five days burning with a 105 fever while her heart caught up with the fact that the rest of her had died on the golf course. The only good thing about her "survival" is that her out-of state family had time to come and see her before she officially died.
The other myth is that medical technology is able to keep people alive artificially, indefinitely. Even Christians can get caught up in the idea that their time of death is either up to them or the doctor. There is a third option, the one where God is in control. Psalm 139 says "All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." We do not change that with oat bran. Americans are wealthy enough to be bombarded with health options and information, and lifestyle and health choices can factor into our divine appointment with death, but they do not determine it. Maybe what our culture needs is not CPR, but RPC--Recognition of Providential Control.
Fickle Faith
In this week's Bible study we read Genesis 27, the chapter in which Isaac tries to trick Rebekah and Jacob by giving Esau the blessing God had promised to Jacob, then Rebekah and Jacob trick Isaac into thinking Jacob is Esau. When the deception is revealed, Esau wants kill Jacob. This ancient story has all the makings of a modern soap opera, and the surreal twists and scheming of, so called, "reality" shows. The essence of the story is fickle faith. Isaac believes in the promises, but thinks he can control who inherits them. Rebekah and Jacob believe the promises, but not that God can give them to Jacob without their "help". I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if they hadn't interfered. I assume that the reason Rebekah didn't just admit to Isaac that she had overheard and remind him of God's prophecy, is that he had become an unreasonable old geezer. I also assume the reason Jacob didn't object to the wrongness of the scheme was because deception had become an accepted part of the family dynamic.
What Isaac seemed to have forgotten from his Moriah moment and Rebekah from her problem pregnancy prayer, is that God is perfectly capable of speaking for Himself. He could have told Isaac no. Isn't that just like us? When I was a young wife, I believed God could save my eternal soul from hell but wasn't sure He could help us pay the electric bill. Which one of those is harder? I used to advise God on ways He could answer my prayers--just in case He was out of ideas. I also had suggestions for how God could bring about a friend's salvation or a family member's spiritual growth. It is easy to think that if the people we care about could just attend my church or Bible study, if they could just hear this sermon or read this article, then they would know and grow in the Lord. The Lord may lead us to invite to any or all of the above, but it is important to recognize that compliance with those outward things is not the same as responding to the Spirit.
The day I realized I am not the Holy Spirit was probably the happiest day of my husband's married life. The reason I stopped giving God pointers in how to answer my prayers was the slow dawning realization that He had never used any of my suggestions. He answered those prayers for salvation and spiritual growth through means I would never have thought of. My fickle faith believed he would answer, but not without my help, often in the form of lectures. God has appointed both the ends and the means. It is a blessing to be part of the means of God's working in someone's life, but insisting that I am the means is just unbelief dressed in church clothes--fickle faith in finery.
What Isaac seemed to have forgotten from his Moriah moment and Rebekah from her problem pregnancy prayer, is that God is perfectly capable of speaking for Himself. He could have told Isaac no. Isn't that just like us? When I was a young wife, I believed God could save my eternal soul from hell but wasn't sure He could help us pay the electric bill. Which one of those is harder? I used to advise God on ways He could answer my prayers--just in case He was out of ideas. I also had suggestions for how God could bring about a friend's salvation or a family member's spiritual growth. It is easy to think that if the people we care about could just attend my church or Bible study, if they could just hear this sermon or read this article, then they would know and grow in the Lord. The Lord may lead us to invite to any or all of the above, but it is important to recognize that compliance with those outward things is not the same as responding to the Spirit.
The day I realized I am not the Holy Spirit was probably the happiest day of my husband's married life. The reason I stopped giving God pointers in how to answer my prayers was the slow dawning realization that He had never used any of my suggestions. He answered those prayers for salvation and spiritual growth through means I would never have thought of. My fickle faith believed he would answer, but not without my help, often in the form of lectures. God has appointed both the ends and the means. It is a blessing to be part of the means of God's working in someone's life, but insisting that I am the means is just unbelief dressed in church clothes--fickle faith in finery.
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