Bi(ble)ographies

     When I talked to someone recently about a biography I read on Johnny Cash, a famously flawed lover of God, she told me about a woman who thought the best biography of a believer was when they came to the Lord and followed faithfully forever after. It made me think how incredibly short the Bible would be if God's criteria was the same. Of the Old Testament saints whose life stories are mentioned in detail, we would have only Joseph and Daniel. (And we probably wouldn't have those if we had more detail.) Jesus's disciples would be brief footnote in the Gospels. Most of the Epistles were written to address problems in the churches, so neither book of Corinthians would make the cut, nor Galatians, Colossians, Titus. Definitely not Philemon, Hebrews, James, 2 Peter and Jude. And there would be two, instead of seven, churches addressed in Revelation.

    Eliminating the sinful saints would make the Bible much faster and easier to read, but not very helpful. Reading about perfect people is convicting, but not encouraging to imperfect people, which is all of us. And, as most parents know, we reveal more about ourselves and our values to our children when we are in the midst of conflict than in a hundred happy moments. I have been studying some of Paul's epistles lately and, frankly, he sounds kind of "(e)piss(tl)ed off" to me. He is loving and instructive, but he is also firmly addressing a problem. If the early churches weren't so messed up, we would have no scripture to guide us when ours are. So I am thankful the Bible is not about happily ever after believers. We can choose which, if any, biographies we want to read. But the bios God chose for his Book are, for the most part, famously flawed followers of God. One more reason to be thankful the canon was completed before Connie came along.

Things I Don't Need to Pray

    Some time ago I realized that during my private prayer time and with our ladies group, sometimes I pray like a pagan, like I must persuade God to love my loved ones. As if the spiritual things I desire for them had never occurred to Him. That led me to think of the some of the ways God has already promised to be faithful. Pagan people thought they had to plead and bribe their gods with offerings in order for the seasons to change, crops to grow, prevent calamities, etc. It is a privilege to pray, and Covid limitations have given me more time for it privately, if not with my women warriors. But, there are also many things I don't need to pray about:

•   The sun to rise in morning, moon and the stars to appear at night  (Gen. 8:22)
  
•   For Spring to follow Winter, Autumn to follow Summer                (see above verse)
  
•   For seeds to grow into plants and bear produce                               (ditto)
•   For God not to destroy the world with a flood                                 (back 1 verse, Gen. 8:21)
  
•   For Israel to gain and keep God's favor                                            (Jer. 31:35,36)
  
•   For God to desire the salvation and spiritual growth of my loved ones.   (1 Tim. 2:4)
  

      One of the benefits of prayer is that it cements circumstances and requests in my mind so I will recognize and praise God for the answers. But sometimes I find myself praying as if I'm providing new information, like Ananias telling the Lord about Paul's reputation. (Acts 9:13, 14) I would feel like an idiot praying for the sun to come up or the seasons to change or the next three items on the above list, but that last one I struggle with. If God is faithful to those other matters that matter to the world, He will also be faithful to the people who matter to me. I have made some prayer progress, I've stopped giving the Lord of the Universe suggestions about how to answer my prayers. So perhaps I will someday stop my FYI prayers and trying to make God care about the people I do. In other words, I do not need to pray:

• For God to be God
  

"Ode"ing Odin

     We lost Tracy's dog, Odin, in early January and I have been meaning to write this ever since. Tracy got Odin, a Husky mix (mostly Mix) from a grocery store. It used to be common to see people giving away puppies at stores, that's how we got our Lab, Garth, many years ago. But now people seem to think every mutt is worth 400 bucks and free puppies are as rare as pet lice. That's why it was so baffling that someone abandoned two puppies in a shopping cart at a Columbia Falls grocery store. Tracy's then girlfriend made it her mission to re-home dogs, so she got the Husky for Tracy. Trace named him Odin. For those who haven't studied Norse mythology or attended any of the "Thor" movies, Odin is Thor's father and king of the gods. Rather a presumptuous name for a small tan puppy, but it turned out to be appropriate because they both had a bad left eye. I don't know how the king of the gods got his owie, but one of our cats scratched Odin's eye when he was a puppy and, though he didn't lose his vision, his eye didn't have the reflective lens you see in animals eyes at night. Odin, the comic book character, wore a classy eye patch. Odin, the dog, just had a goofy eye. In a triple coincidence, Tracy also had a droopy left eye until we had it surgically corrected in his teens.
     Odin was a frequent visitor in our home from the time Tracy got him until 2016 when they both became full time residents. Shortly before that time, Tracy got another dog, whom he named Baldr, another Norse god, not as well known because, in mythology, he is killed by his brother, Loki, before he could get a movie deal. Odin decided early on that the place to sleep in our house was under our bed. He slept under Reed's side, Baldr slept under mine. Baldr is now 95 lbs and has to work hard to wedge himself under our bed but dogs, like old men, are set in their ways.
     Despite the annoyance of the extra hair and dust, which meant extra house cleaning until I learned how to hide or ignore it, we loved having the dogs around. I do not miss Odin barking uncontrollably any time someone came to our door (even those of us who lived there), or passed on the street in front of our house, or behind our back fence, or randomly; but it was also comforting to know no one could sneak into our house. Just going outside was an adventure for Odin and entertainment for me. He and Baldr would wrestle, stalk and chase each other several times a day. Odin was as excited about food as Baldr was indifferent. Somewhat surprising, because he ate too fast to taste it.
    Sleeping. Playing. Eating. Un-eating. That about covers a dog's life. And we would have been happy to continue that way for many years, but around Christmas, we noticed a large growth hanging from Odin's neck. The first vet thought it was benign, but it rapidly progressed to swallowing and breathing problems. The after hours vet found cancer, one that usually responds well to treatment. But not for Odin. At one end, his neck was outstretched so he could take short gasps of air, at the other end, his tail wagged when we petted him. But I knew as I touched him that I was saying goodbye. The price of love is the pain of loss. We paid that price January 5th, and times like this, when I think of his death. But when I think of his life--that's joy plus interest.
     Odin's resting place is in a pasture on our daughter's property overlooking the valley. His memorial stone is at our house, along with his collar which reads, "Odin King of the Dogs". Maybe our Odin was not king of the gods. But as King of the Dogs--he came pretty close.
    

Masks vs. Logic vs. Love

    The main problem I am having with the mask mandate or, in our state, directive--although only a lawyer would know the difference--is not the loss of personal rights, it is the lack of logic. Christians are nowhere commanded to stand up for our rights, we are actually called to surrender them. We are, however, to stand for the rights of the oppressed and powerless, like the unborn. God can and does call some Christians to stand against slavery, form a new nation, go to war against an oppressor, etc. but our desire to fight for our individual rights is from our sinful, not sanctified, nature. We are born tiny tyrants.
    It would be wonderful if decisions about our welfare in this time of crisis were directed by the emerging data, but data is often faulty. As in facilities whose test results come in 100% positive, or individuals who signed up for, but left before, the actual test, being notified they have Covid. And then there are political and financial incentives for physicians to declare Corona virus cause of death without medical proof. Also, both maskers and anti-maskers skew or cherry pick data so their conclusion supports their original supposition. That is human nature.
      So there is data and there is logic. I love logic. Logic is what helped me determine as a young girl which of the things my schizophrenic mother said were true and which were delusions. So here is my problem with masks:

• If wearing masks makes the difference in the spread of the pandemic, then logically, what the masks are made of, and how they fit, matters.
• If we are supposed to save the effective masks, like N95 or other OSHA approved, for the front line workers (as we should), then logically the ones they want us to wear are ineffective. If they tried to force our work force to use the suffocatingly safe masks reserved for health care and first responders, no one would cooperate.

     There is, however, some data to suggest that how sick people become with Corona virus depends on how much they were exposed to it. If that is true, then logically, it would be worth the inconvenience of wearing masks if it meant a lighter case of Covid.
     So I surrender logic and wear a mask, though it does have a slightly snarky message "Feel better?", but I do not complain to the poor employee who drew door duty on behalf of their business. Logically, they are not the problem. Believers draw the daily duty of acting on behalf of their Savior and grumbling is the worst possible representation of the business He is in. Logic sheds light, but it can't hold a candle to love.

Partners

     I am not a cowboy, nor have I played one on TV, but I have watched my fair share of Westerns, whether I wanted to or not. "Quigley Down Under" and "Open Range" are my favorites. I even read the occasional book in Western genre voluntarily. That still doesn't explain why I wrote this cowboy type love poem. I blame that on the poetry "Muse-quito" I mentioned in my last post. All I wanted to write in was a crossword puzzle.

Partners

I knew when I signed on with the Lamb outfit

that the fella I would be partnered with was only green broke,

but I took the job anyway.

I was sorta a hand between brands at the time

and didn’t cotton to the idea of riding alone.

Some can do it, but it’s wearisome

and even dangerous.

It was hard work and the wages weren’t much,

but I was used to that. I’m a fair hand at fixing grub,

if I do say so myself, so we always ate good.

And, most of the time, we made ourselves

a snug place to sleep at night.

Although, some of the storms we got caught in

were real gully washers.

Outside of the occasional head butting

all partners do, we got along pretty well.

Still do actually. I settled in there at the
Double L and never got the itch to move on.

I may not have him all the way saddle broke,

but I’ll stay where I’m at,

a good partner can be hard to find.

Resting Places

          Whichever Muse inspires poetry must have latched on like a mosquito lately, with the same level of commitment, and annoyance. I thought this might happen when we go to Grand Junction next week because travel seems to give me verbal diarrhea, but we haven't even left yet. Keep reading my blog though, there's good stuff in here somewhere.

Resting Places

Our yard is full of resting places—

Old Annie cat, our first pet,

is buried on the north end of the house

simply because it was the only ground

soft enough to dig in January.

Nineteen and a half,

not bad for a cat.

Long lived Annie.

Wally, our first dog, was old

when we bought this house,

too old to even explore

much of the property.

He is buried near the shop

much too close, we later realized,

to the drain field for the septic.

Our beloved cat Cisco,

always having an adventure,

if only in his own mind,

rests beneath his favorite bush

in the backyard. If his death was unexpected,

anesthesia gone wrong,

his burial, at least, was fitting.

Garth, our faithful Lab,

rests near the fence.

Wiser this time, we buried him

where we knew there were no utilities.

Fifteen years is a long life

for a Lab mix,

but it was not long enough.

And now our much loved

main cat, Maynard, rests

beneath the apple tree

in the front yard, his launching place

for many adventures and hunts.

The grass over his grave is recovering

and our hearts will--in time.

For their bodies

our minds,

and our memories—

resting places.

________________

(Sola, our emergency back up cat,
had the misfortune of dying
while we were out of town.
We had her cremated
and do not have her ashes,
so she has no resting place
only this honorary mention.)

Brie and Grandma Togedder

     My granddaughter, Gabrielle, and I have had weekly get togethers since she was an infant. Brie is now 3, so we have fallen into a routine of things we do at Grandma's house. This week we had a family birthday dinner for my husband and Brie, of course, was there. When I told her it was nice that she was playing on the slide with sock monkey, she said, "No Grandma, Brie and Grandma togedder." I explained that I was busy with the dinner, but we could play together in a couple days. But I have been thinking ever since about how quickly the time will come when she has better playmates than Grandma and many interests beyond her family. I want to hold on as tightly as I can to what we have now because soon, very soon, she will leave behind the days of "Brie and Grandma togedder." But I will not. I will lock them in my heart and memory like the treasure they are.
   Longfellow wrote a wonderful poem about this called "The Children's Hour". I have memorized the last two verses and will share them here:

I have you fast in my fortress,
   And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
   In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
   Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
   And moulder in dust away!