Anybody Got a Match?

     I took up smoking again this summer. I didn't want to, it's just that smoke is all there was to breathe for a while and I am powerfully addicted to breathing. The Northwest had a rather dry winter, very dry spring and hot, early summer, so it is no surprise that there were lots of forest fires also. That is a natural consequence of dry weather in forested areas. The part I am angry about is the natural consequence that can be helped. For decades now our national forests have been managed, not by the people who live among them, nor even by the government agencies paid to do so, but by environmentalist litigation. Their perpetual protests of virtually every timber sale are the reason our forests are piled high with combustible deadfall. Those who claim to love trees have protected our forests into fuel filled infernos waiting for a match. Talk about tough love.
     Since many environmentalists live in big cities far removed from the property they are trying to protect, I would like to pass along my observations:

• It is hard to hug a tree when it is on fire. 
• On TV "Orange is the New Black"; after forest fires, black is the new green. You might need to change the name of your movement.
• Forest fires have done more damage to both animal and human habitat than logging, even clearcutting, ever did.
• Protesting salvaging of burned, but usable, timber impedes those rejuvenating benefits of fire you talk about.
• Didn't you people used to stand for clean air?
• It is easy to have convictions when it is not your skin in the game. Learn how to fight fires, come breathe our smoke, post a bond if you want to protest.
• Saving the planet is God's job, not yours. Try not be one of the things he has to save it from.

       We recently had a big fire in Evergreen that started on the property of apparent hoarders. They lost everything. Sounds like they should have. One of the things they hoarded, besides appliances, is wood. A homeless guy living on the property was careless with a cigarette on an unwatered lot full of old wood. He is charged with the legal version of criminal stupidity. That situation made me contemplate the crime of arson. Is it considered arson to cover an area with accelerant and wait for someone else to ignite it? I live most summers with the results of environmental arson, although I'm sure they will blame it on their beloved scapegoat--global warming. Humans may distinguish whether the fire is lightning or man caused, but I don't think the forest much cares who provides the match.

10 Signs You Are About to Say Something Stupid

1.  It is the first thing that pops into your head.  Before you brain is engaged.
2. You begin with the words, "I just have to get this out."  Meaning I will feel better afterward, too bad about you.
3. Any words following "I know I shouldn't say this, but. . ."  Not only are you about to say something stupid, but you are admitting it is deliberate.
4. You begin by saying,  "So that you may pray more fully. . ."  This is about GOSSIP, not prayer.
5. Ditto for "I'm just the kind of person who speaks their mind", admitting stupidity is your preferred lifestyle.
6. Anything following the words, "This is probably none of my business".  You are right, stop there.
7. "If you want my opinion/advice. . ."  Wait til they ask, they probably won't.
8. You are a lawyer/addict/politician and your lips are moving. Admittedly, there are exceptions.
9. What follows the phrase, "I don't consider myself a racist" usually removes any doubt.
10. Rambling more than two sentences past "I don't know what to say" will prove your were right.

Strange Choice

    In our much loved Patrick McManus books, his family names their dog Stranger in hope that it was only passing through. Alas, that was not the case so they shortened his name to Strange, which was a more apt description anyway. According to McManus, Strange was a canine collection of bad habits wrapped in fur.
    Which brings us to our dog, Keely. After our long-term Lab, Garth, died we wanted to get another dog. Keely, who was being "rehomed" by my son's girlfriend, met our two criteria of not shedding and being free. Keely does not have a lot of bad habits, but makes the most of the ones he has, the worst of which is passive-aggressive pooping. Despite numerous potty breaks, we could not leave Keely alone in the house without worrying that he would leave a little surprise for us. Since we kenneled him when we went out, he began to save those surprises for when we were sleeping. Eventually Reed decided not to prolong the anticipation and began a morning poop patrol. If my morning wake up call was the sound of a dog in distress, I knew what had happened.
     The week I began praying about taking Keely to the pound, he pooped in the house three times. I thought we had our answer. Unfortunately, there have been no answered prayer incidents for weeks now and we are feeling more and more guilty about the impending "pounding". Keely seems to sense this and is being even more needy and pathetic than usual.  To be fair I should balance Keely's faults with some of his good traits. His poop is hard. That makes it much easier to clean up but no less unwelcome. What else? Oh yeah, he doesn't shed and he was free. He is also quiet. He is so quiet, he has more in common with a couch pillow than a canine. He does not play. He goes out in the yard as infrequently, and briefly, as possible. His only physical activity is the happy dance he does before his twice daily feeding. We were hoping these months of having Tracy's exuberant Odin around would help Keely become more dog like, but it has not worked. And now that Odin has a new companion to play with, we no longer need Keely around to keep Odin company.
      Reed and I are leaving for a short vacation and one way or another need to make arrangements for Keely. So now we have to make the "strange choice", deciding once and for all if this dog is only passing through or make a long term commitment to our canine curmudgeon. Though he acts like a stodgy old man, Keely is only three, and at 20 pounds, should have a lot of dog years left to go. Go being the key word.

What Harm Can it Do?

      When our children left home and were no longer around to observe and imitate (that's the scary part) our table manners, my husband started putting his elbow up on the the table at dinner.  It's just the two of us, I thought, what harm can it do?  Lots. It turns out bad habits are like holiday pounds--easy to put on and hard to lose. Now his elbow is practically glued to the table no matter where we are or who we are with. Depending on what we are eating, he will even contort his right arm into unnatural positions so he can cut his food while his left arm is in the way. My husband has seemingly lost the ability to sit upright at the table unarmed. The camel does not just have its nose in the tent. It is eating the tent.
     That is why I am now so vigilant about other bad habits developing, like his recent tendency to leave candy wrappers and empty bottles in the living room instead of the garbage can. This time I am not asking what harm can it do. I already know, and it involves me becoming a maid. The same goes for his new habit of leaving his dirty dishes on the counter above the dishwasher instead of inside it. Despite his intentions to put them away later, I recognize this as a slippery, dishwasher-soap coated, slope leading to more work for me.
     I am not sure why many years of good habits are suddenly falling away. I know that my own habitual housecleaning standards have certainly gotten lax through the years, but that means less work for me, whereas my husband's bad habits mean more work for me. I fear manners patrol will turn me into Emily Post's nasty little watchdog, but I do not fear that as much as becoming my husband's housemaid. And if I save my manners memos for when it's just the two of us, when no one is around to observe and imitate my behavior, what harm can it do?

I Dentify

     I love irony, I especially love it when social engineers have to slide down the slippery slope they created. The same hands that were applauding the debut of Caitlyn (formerly Bruce) Jenner are now wringing over Rachel (formerly African-American) Dolezal.  It is ironic that while we are watching shows like "CSI" and "Bones" where they can determine the sex of a victim from a charred, ancient bone fragment, our p.c. pioneers say sex is determined by the preference, not the biology of the individual. It is ironic that the fuzzy science of climate change is accepted without question but the science of fetal development is ignored. The same wash of hormones that create the baby's sex organs also hardwire the brain and body development to that sex. The gender police want separate restrooms for the sexually undecided, boys in the girls locker room, and girls on the football team. So why not apply the same rules to ethnicity?
     Rachel Dolezal is making big waves in the news for being discredited as president of the Spokane NAACP, which in her case means Not Actually A Colored Person. While it may not be necessary to be African-American to hold that position, honesty is a basic requirement even at the Dollar Tree and Rachel is not qualified in that area either. In this case, her white parents decided to come out of the closet with pictures of their blond, straight-haired daughter. Though originally unsure about who her parents are or what her skin color is, Rachel has now claimed that she identifies as African-American. In gender issues, identifying trumps reality. But if ethnicity becomes a matter of choice, how will liberals know who the mistreated minorities are? How will cops use racial profiling if skin color is insignificant? Who will we entrap in the welfare system?
     My mother did not identify as a paranoid schizophrenic, she believed she held secrets of such importance that those at the center of the conspiracy were willing to kill to silence her. The lesson I learned from growing up in that environment is that reality is important. Too bad Rachel did not have the advantage of my upbringing. If reality does not matter, those McDonald's workers don't need to picket for higher wages, they just need to identify as something more lucrative--like aerospace engineers. Rachel, I have decided to identify as a minority member too, millionaires are in the minority.
    

Sequences

     Since circumstances are the least reliable method of knowing God's will, I try not to use them for guidance. Circumstances are easy to manipulate and interpretation of their meaning is subjective. Still, I remember when I first trusted Christ and looked back at the hundreds of events God used to bring me to that point. I was amazed that God went to so much trouble to draw me to Himself. Individual circumstances may be misleading, but sometimes sequences of events can be significant. My mother used to say, "God sometimes does one thing to do another." She was partly right, but needed to increase another exponentially. God is the ultimate recycler, He wastes nothing. Especially for those who belong to him.
     A recent example of God using a sequence of events in my life is:  my neck and shoulders knotted up painfully + causing me to make one of my rare visits to the chiropractor + who also did acupressure to strengthen my knee = stronger knee. God knew it never would have occurred to me to go to the chiropractor for my knee problem by itself. Another vivid example is when we moved into this house. The day after we moved in, I got the stomach flu + causing me to send Will out to the  garage freezer for a popsicle + where Will noticed the freezer wasn't working = in time to save hundreds of dollars in food. We discovered that the outlet we had plugged the freezer into did not work but, thanks to my flu, we discovered it before the food thawed.
     These sequences are seldom as obvious as those above and sometimes the sequence is one bad thing after another with the benefit unrecognizable until much later, as in the story of Joseph. Such was our experience is getting to Kalispell. The company my husband worked for went bankrupt just a few months after we bought a house and two months before our baby was due + though all the other mechanics found jobs that paid as much or more, Reed's new job barely paid our bills + a job offer came from Kalispell = moving to where we really wanted to be--western Montana. We made enough on our house to have  a down payment for one in Kalispell, and we had Will at home so the bill was minimal, but there were a lot of tears and questions before all that good stuff happened. God did not just pry our fingers off our life in Billings, He dynamited them off.
     Now that I know that the trial sequences are detours to direct me toward greater blessing, I can relax on life's rough roads and sometimes even enjoy the view.

Signs of the Times

     The signs that I am growing old have been evident for some time now, the premature gray hair that I had in my thirties is neither gray nor premature anymore. Age spots and crepey skin have crept from my hands and are working their way down my arms to the bingo flaps that give new meaning to the seventies expression "hang loose". In the 1970's it was cool to hang loose, now, on the the long approach to my seventies, my body parts are hanging loose and cool is what I will be when I die. The signs that I am growing old are the size of billboards.     But what I'm really looking for are signs that I am growing up spiritually. It requires a magnifying glass, but I think I am seeing some.

•  I have stopped telling God how to answer my prayers. This happened, not because I figured out God is smarter than I, but the gradual realization that He had never used any of my ideas.
• I no longer ask God to tell me his will for someone else's life. Unless someone requests my advice (strangely, that seldom happens), I pray for God to reveal his will to them, not me. It is hard enough keeping track of God's will for my life, without trying to interpret what it might be for another person.
• This time, unlike two years ago, I am not whining about my unstable knee. I am not exactly thankful, but I'm not whining either.
• I AM thankful that the Lord changed my plan of having my right knee replaced this spring because that way I would not have had one good leg to stand on. I am also confident that whatever deficit remained in "Righty" has been taken corrected and noticed that "Lefty", which healed somewhat adducted (toed in) after my replacement, looks straighter.
• Another revelation through my rebellious knee was that, this time, I am not too proud to use crutches. Two years ago Reed had a hard time getting me to use a cane and even then I was wobbly. Perhaps that is more about old age than maturity, but I choose to believe it is the latter.
• I am not asking, much less demanding, that the Lord explain his purposes in allowing my trick knee one last (non)stand. It is a new knee, hopefully this is its last trick. But even if it is not, the Lord's purpose remains unchanged, it is for Christ's glory. I do not need to know what's in it for me.
• One thing that is in it for me, is good material to laugh at myself. If I have not got the hang of humility, at least I have humor to match my walk. Warped. With a little more arm swing, I could be an extra for "Planet of the Apes". As it is, I walk like an Orc. Though family members may not agree, I believe God gave me my sense of humor. It helped me thrive through a difficult childhood. I hope that gift will remain intact no matter what old age does to my body and brain.
• I have learned how to make a trust sandwich. I trust God. I trust God with our shaky economy, sinful culture, increasing Christian persecution, my children's future, aging parents, etc. I trust God.

     It is my prayer that as I decline in physical beauty, I will grow in spiritual beauty. A beauty that does not require a make up mirror to put on or a billboard for others to notice. Yes, I am growing old, but I am also, finally, growing up.