A Cozy of November

     My November blogs consisted of titles with no words under them.  Although this was a time saver for myself and for those few who actually read my blog, it seemed a little terse, even for me, the word miser.  November, like February, is a rather dreary month in Montana, a place holder for the holidays to come. Until Thanksgiving November is just the cover band for the main attraction--Christmas.  The grass is dormant, but not yet covered with snow, the trees are bare, naked against the cold, the cold is uncomfortable, but not brisk enough to be challenging.  Yet there is a certain coziness to November.
     It is a month for baking and book reading. I can remain inside without guilt because there are few outdoor chores requiring my attention. It is too early to worry about decorating, gifts, and goodies. November demands little more of us than food and gratitude--to our veterans, to our God.  Our language has many words for groups of things:  a herd of bison, a convocation of eagles, so I have coined a word for a collection of November days--a cozy of November.

November has its place to keep

when autumn beauty's gone to sleep,

enters bleak, but leaves well fed 

and Christmas wonder lies ahead.

The First Thanksgiving

     I have been too busy since Thanksgiving to post about Thanksgiving, so today is the day. By the first Thanksgiving I am not referring to the pilgrim/Indian kind.  This was the first Thanksgiving I can remember spending at my childhood home in Missoula that was not shadowed by my mother's mental illness. She was not there to sit at the table, there were no strange noises coming from her bedroom, I didn't even have to dread the duty visit to her dementia facility on the way out of town.  Our daughter and her husband drove over from Helena, my sister's family came from Kalispell.  We ate.  We took pictures.  We laughed. I have wondered since my mother's death in June if the Ghost of Christmas Past would pay me its annual holiday visit--the remnants of sorrow from childhood Christmases long forgotten. The Shadow. 
     The Ghost has come, but it came much later this year. It did not even make it to our Thanksgiving dinner. That is why this Thanksgiving was so different for me. Perhaps it will be the first of many.

Eternity is Too Short

     Due to an overzealous security program on my new laptop--I call this one Dimples--I have been unable to connect with my own blog.  No doubt some reader was praying for respite.  This was followed by an underzealous security program that let moving banner ads of men's biceps cover the top of my blog. Neither the strict nor the kinder, gentler security program could prevent pop ups for, ironically, Norton Internet Security. Could it be that ads that cling to the screen like a three headed leech are not good for business?  Buying it would be like inviting a stalker to dinner.  But all this is just the preamble to my main amble and title to this piece--Eternity is Too short.
     Eternity is too short to spend even the first hundred years looking for familiar hymnbooks, or the King James Bible, or the piano/organ only section. The familiar comforts of our own brand of Christianity should be left behind with the books and the buildings and our bodies. There is nothing wrong with having a comfort zone, but while it comforts, it also confines. One of the glories of heaven will be unity with believers of all eras, ages, nations and denominations. We will speak, sing and pray in ways we cannot comprehend now.  I get a small English-only version of that in Bible Study Fellowship and it makes me hunger for more.
     A visiting missionary once told us about explaining our mansions in heaven at his church in Africa. An older woman spoke up, "It would have to have a tin roof, Pastor." That was the finest home she could imagine.  It is hard to imagine bigger than our comfort zone. When Reed travels for work, we have the opportunity to visit many different churches. I make a conscious effort to lay down the invisible scoreboard where I compare their church to my church and just enjoy the preaching and fellowship. I have not yet been disappointed. God is doing something global, eternal and beautiful and we can, by our own prejudices, make it narrow, divisive and judgmental.  I would like to practice that heavenly perspective now because eternity is just too short.

Sleepless in Kalispell

     Due to 1) my last minute decision to add a second spaghetti dish to last night's linguine with clams 2) needing to have Will's dinner ready by 6 in order for him to make his shift at the hospital and 3)  my insistence that a friend who showed up at dinnertime eat with us, I forgot to take my evening meds.  The critical one being the nortriptyline I take for migraine prophylaxis (isn't that a fun word?--sounds like a Jewish custom, but means preventative).  It is one of those medications whose dosage must be increased or decreased gradually--no sudden starts or stops.  It is supposed to be taken at bedtime because  one of the side effects is drowsiness.  I take it at dinnertime because taking it before bedtime makes me have nightmares.  That warning is listed in the section below Unusual and Rare reactions, the section that says--Connie Lamb Only:  nightmares.
     Usually I can tell when I miss a dose because I am not sleepy at my usual bedtime.  Last night I was so post-prandially pooped that I fell asleep anyway, but my eyelids sproinged open at 3:30 and my brain didn't figure out the problem for another hour. That caused an unwelcome, three hour siest-a-resistance.  Normally, I pray (I also pray abnormally) when that happens, but even my long prayer list got depleted before I got drowsy.
     However, there are blessings even in insomnia. For instance, it gave me an opportunity to appreciate our cozy couch, the warmth of the gas fireplace, my spacious home, not to mention 24/7 intimate access to the Creator of the universe.  Eventually I did fall asleep, but resting in God bests sleeping in bed anytime.

Linked Out

    Last week I distractedly clicked on a Facebook link I thought had been shared by a friend. It showed a despondent looking picture of President Obama. I figured if something made Obama sad, it would probably make me happy.  It turned out to be one of those sponsored links promising, in this case, tips for surviving the upcoming economic disaster.  I do not doubt that there will be a collapse of American economy. It would be foolish to believe our nation will be the only one in history that hasn't destroyed itself by printing more money to pay its debts. Economies are governed by natural laws just like everything else in the universe. I passed the time alternating between sorting through boxes and being irritated while the speaker droned on promising survival tips but providing only example after example of his premise. However, I was unwilling to shut it off because it would mean the hour I spent waiting for the tips had been totally wasted.  As expected, he did not disclose his specific method of preserving resources in a collapsed economy. Those are in a free newsletter, which no doubt leads to a program which is not free. In other words, part of his wealth preservation formula is to fleece people on the internet.  But he did hint that the secret was to invest in hard assets such as silver, gold and land.
     By divine coincidence we have been studying Matthew 6 in BSF this week, so I was uniquely prepared to recognize that the analyst's method was a prime example of what Jesus said not to do.  Mt. 6: 19, 20a says, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break through and steal. But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven. . "  Prepping for doomsday has become a cultural phenomenon that even Christians have become caught up in, and the internet is an ideal forum to spread and support it.  To spin the old soda jingle, "I'm a prepper, he's a prepper. . .Wouldn't you like to be a prepper too?"  It sounds prudent, even like good stewardship.
    The problem is that God is apparently not a prepper and doesn't want us to be a prepper too. God does not need to be, He is as much in control on "doomsday" as any other day. In my last couple studies of Matthew, I noticed that Jesus spends half the book warning the residents of Jerusalem about the coming siege.  He does not tell them what to pack, he tells them not to pack and, more importantly, when to leave.  Jesus wants to save their lives, not their stuff.  I try hard to be a good steward of the blessings God has given me both as an act of obedience and because, most often, the means God provides to take care of our old age is our young age.  There is nothing wrong with gathering emergency supplies as long as we remember that, as  Christians, we would be obligated to share them with our saved and unsaved neighbors should they be needed.  Some preppers are prepared to defend their possessions at gunpoint.  I have not yet found a verse to back up that sentiment. Besides, in desperate times, what you need is food and hard assets don't taste very good.
     Back to Matthew 6--God has not promised us silver, gold and land, what he has promised are food and clothes. Since God knows what we need and has promised to provide it, Jesus encourages us not to worry--actually, he commands us not to worry. Moth and rust may not be as much a threat to our current assets as thieves, scams and economic collapse, but 100 percent of the time, the penalty for our earthly withdrawal is 100 percent of our assets. Paul Harvey used to preface some of his news with, "So you don't run out of things to worry about. ." and thanks, in part, to the internet we will not have that problem. To spin another jingle, "Silly Christians, prepping's for pagans".

My Mind is Made Up

     Today I had fun finishing the phrase my mind is made up.

My mind is made up:  but I wish it was real.
                                 and I made yours up for you.
                                 and so is my face.
                                 does that mean it's fiction?
                                 so, am I supposed to kiss it?
                                 like constitutional right to health care.
                                 like "reality" TV.
                                 like polite TSA agents.
                                 like global warming data.
                                 like Olympic sport categories.
                                 like lawyers that only want to help you.
                                 unfortunately, my body is real.
                                 now if only I could make up my weight.
                                 so why can't I make up my I.Q.?
                                 you'd think my imagination could do better than this.


     There are more I could add but I think I'll quit here.  I haven't quite made up my mind.
    

I Am 57, After All

   I am fairly certain that I'm a woman of a certain age, but what I want to know is if I'm old enough to be excused.  When do I get to blame my faults, failing memory and figure flaws on my age?  Is 57 old enough to blame for my lost figure, looks and car keys? Can I hold my age responsible that I gained weight, wrinkles and age spots?  I don't mind the ravages of time as much as the implication that it is my fault I got ravaged.  If I just worked out more, ate healthier, bought better cosmetics etc. I, too, could look like the aging models in the magazine ads.  Never mind that at my youthful best I didn't look like those models at their aged worst, it is my fault if I look my age.
    I workout. I lift weights--me.  I do resistance exercise, it's called gravity.  I'm not a couch potato. I'm a potato that's down on the floor exercising. Still, the best I can manage is to be firm under my fat.  I try to eat healthy.  I actually like fruits, vegetables and whole grains.  However, I do not follow the ever changing food and fitness fads.  I have lived too long to believe that ordinary foods are toxic or that some newly discovered food or exercise will transform my body.
   And frankly I can't afford beauty. I have indulged in facials that removed the red from my skin and the green from my wallet. While they tightened my facial muscles, they loosened the ones gripping my credit card.  For those who can't afford, or spell, an aesthetician, a less expensive alternative is to buy expensive beauty products and apply them yourself.  But this is only slightly less expensive.  There are now hundreds of anti-aging products created just for those of us in the boomerange, designed to erase the traces of both time and our bank accounts. Besides, there is no point having my face write checks that my body can't cash, and vice versa. I have seen some of these lifted, tucked and tightened women and they look, at best, unnatural and, at worst, like mummies.  Excuse me if that sounds inappropriate, but I am 57 after all.