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.

Beforewords

Before it was NOROVIRUS! we called it stomach flu and it wasn't CONTAGIOUS!, it was just going around. But then, we weren't on cruise ships where it is a  national newsworthy problem.

HAND SANITIZER used to be called soap and, no surprise, hand washing is still the best germicide.

Before it was GLOBAL WARMING/CLIMATE CHANGE! we called it weather, and only the laughably superstitious thought we could control it.

Before it was a FETUS, we called it a baby. And we knew, even without ultrasound, that no one gave birth to a BLOB OF TISSUE or PRODUCT OF CONCEPTION.

What we now call SOCIAL ENGINEERING, used to be called propaganda and it was a bad thing.

GAY SEX was called perversion. Gay used to mean light hearted and happy.

MARRIAGE was one man and one woman vowing to stay together for life. If homosexuals want to redefine marriage, they should at least come up with their own word and stop stealing ours.

     Instead of pounding the populace with political correctness until we accept new meanings for familiar words, those who want to change our culture should just make something up. After all, they did that with morals.

   

Free to Do So

   
      Today is Memorial Day which, despite advertising, is not about home improvement projects, or  camping, or picnics, or a day off of work. It is a day to honor those who have died in defense of our country. I would like to dedicate this blog to that purpose.

 Those who feel the U.S.A had lost its greatness are free to do so.
 Those who think America uses its military might to oppress, rather than free from oppression, are free to do so.
 Those who believe our enemies, like bees, won't bother us unless we bother them, are free to do so.
 Those who argue that our nation prospered despite the faith and patriotic fervor of our founding fathers, instead of because of it, are free to do so.
  Those who consider the light of freedom no longer worth protecting, much less sharing, with the world, are free to do so.

  But they are free to do so because of those who believe that our nation and freedom are worth living for, and fighting for and, if necessary, dying for. And those are who we recognize today. In their honor I post the following poem:

 Today I am Free

Today I am free

to remember or forget

soldiers whose names I do not know,

who died in battles long ago

and those who perish yet,

in middle eastern sands

or other distant lands.

Today I am free

to berate or celebrate

the U.S.A. with all its flaws,

unfair taxes, unjust laws,

who excludes the God who made her great.

I fight government’s grasping touch

because I have so much.

Today I am free

to honor or condemn;

to sit in safety and abhor

the very thought of death and war,

or proudly be American

like those who bought my liberty.

Today I am free.

Taking Steps

     I am taking steps to make my uncooperative left knee stable, steps like doing every knee exercise I can think of plus twice weekly physical therapy, but I have been taking those steps for weeks now. The first step I want to mention is called the Sponge Bob. After the initial sore, but stable, phase where I could get around slowly but surely with a cane, my knee began to feel like a sponge. That spongy feeling caused my leg to bob down every time I used it, hence the name. Since I did not feel normal people were ready to learn the Sponge Bob, I used crutches in public.
     The next step was the Australian Crawl, where I swam my way around the kitchen with one arm reaching out to the counter at all times. In the rest of the house, where there were no handholds, I used one crutch. I learned to do lots of things clutching a crutch--one crutch vacuuming, one crutch laundry hauling, unloading groceries, etc. The One Crutch Clomp resembles the Peg Leg Lumber but includes making your armpit sore. In public I used two crutches. No need to show off how buff my armpit had become.
    When my leg no longer needed a crutch to keep it from collapsing, I circumnavigated the house using the Spiderman Swing. This dance not only involves using handholds but getting enough momentum to propel you from handhold to handhold, as if you were on erratic monkey bars. Between swings I could support myself if my knee was fairly bent. This position adds a dramatic dip to the choreography.
     Throughout this time, whenever I was in a grocery store I practiced the Cartwheel. This is not the cartwheel in which gymnasts start from a standing position and wheel the body sideways, landing first on the hands and then on the feet. What I mean by Cartwheel is walking by supporting myself with a shopping cart. I have been going up and down every aisle of our local grocery stores and have become a semi-pro on which stores have the most therapeutic shopping carts. Costco has big, sturdy carts, but the center of gravity is so high it makes my knee less stable. Also, most Costco shoppers are too hard core to make way for a cripple taking a shopping cart for a Sunday drive. On the other hand, the grocery carts at Smiths are a perfect fit. It is as if they were manufactured with a middle aged, 5'4" woman with a bum knee in mind.  I am getting faster at dancing the Cartwheel.
     The stage I am at now, and what I hope is my final step before walking in a normal, upright position, is the One-Legged Aboriginal Shuffle. In this dance I walk normally with my right leg and, with the left leg slightly bent, take a short step that faintly pounds the floor in a manner similar to the two-legged version that is traditional among the aborigines of Australia. This position gives me good stability for short distances and, instead of dipping down, I get to pop up straight whenever I reach a handhold.
     Since I was put through these same paces after my knee replacement two years ago, I know the day will come when I can step forward with my leg straight and walk without having to focus on the activity as if I was doing quantum physics. When that day comes, the only unstable body part I will have to deal with--is my mind.